Page 2 of All That Glitters

“I was in the plane again, going down, everyone screaming. We were falling.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to explain. Tears continue to trickle down my cheeks, and I swipe my forearm across my face.

“Fuck, Empire.”

A single, explosive curse, and in my next breath, Marcus hauls me out from under the covers and cradles me on his lap, against his chest.

His heartbeat is steady, strong.

“I’m right here. Do you understand? Stop sounding so fucking ashamed for having nightmares. They’re a natural part of this grieving business.” He huffs. “So I hear.”

His scent does what it always has for me, trailing up through my nostrils until it burns the inside of my lungs, lemongrass and sweat. Marcus is a combination of the two, and it works fantastically well for him.

Muscular arms keep me contained, not budging an inch. As if I’d go anywhere. As if there is somewhere else I’d rather be.

“Cry if you need,” he replies eventually.

“Crying gets me nowhere.” I’ve cried too many times to count. “It makes me feel weak.”

There were days, in the beginning, I wondered if I was strong enough to get out of bed. We were all adjusting to the new normal. Me to a life where Mom and Dad weren’t there to guide me through the choppy waters of fame, and Marcus with the loss of his top clients and the gain of one reluctant ward.

Hollywood’s sweetheart, that’s what the press used to call me.

Marcus used to say they’d change the nickname in a heartbeat if they knew the real me, the one who complains when the sun is too hot or the ocean too cold. Now, my complaints have narrowed down to one thing: I’m alone.

I want my old life back.

“The nightmares are worse since the press leaked the photos, aren’t they?” Marcus groans when I start shivering. “Those publicity whores shoved pictures in your face. It’s only been a couple days.”

He knows. Without me having to clarify or explain, he knows. Usually, I’d make a joke about how that kind of wisdom comes with age, since he’s over forty. Instead, my lips zip on their own.

The fight’s gone out of him, but he still carries tension in his muscles. I crack a blurry eye open to stare at the velvety gold skin of his arm.

“It’s okay to have nightmares,” he continues in a whisper. He skims his fingers along the line of my arm from bicep to elbow and back again, a soothing gesture.

“Not for me,” I whisper back.

“Especially for you. We’re not in public right now, Empire. Grieve. Cry. Lord knows anyone else in your position would be throwing a tantrum. I guess you’ve been pretty mild in comparison. You haven’t sent me out there to do damage control.”

He’s holding me like a damn baby, and I don’t care. I can’t bring myself to move or even think about telling him I’m fine. Those two words are always a lie, aren’t they?

I’m fine.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be fucking fine again.

“Are you sure it’s not too much trouble for you to have to handle a spoiled brat like me?” I throw his own words from yesterday back at him, the ones he likes to repeat every so often to remind me he’d never wanted this responsibility. “Even if I’m not throwing public tantrums?”

“I said I had no use for you,” he corrects gruffly. “There’s a difference.”

It hadn’t been an argument in any traditional sense. No one raised their voices, but the sneer he’d given me, the way the look in his eyes cut me down to an inch tall… Is this our version of sweeping it all under the rug?

“What changed your mind?” I ask.

Neither one of us move for the longest time.

I curl my hand into a fist against his chest, my cheek pressed to his skin, inhaling, exhaling, memorizing the scent of him until the combination softens the knots in my belly. Until I almost feel ready to act like a confident woman again rather than a terrified child.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he answers at last.

I lift my head, pulling back to look into his eyes. They’re as dark as the night outside with his thick brows furrowed down, and I search his gaze, but I have no idea what I’m looking for.

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