Page 4 of Grabbed By the Guard

Damn.

Another misstep as I turn the corner, heading for the front of the Dorado. This time, the heel snaps all the way, causing me to stumble and only right myself in time.

It’s late, but a lifetime in show biz has my instincts buzzing. I might not see the paps skulking around right now. Doesn’t matter. With as many high-profile residents as the Dorado has, odds are there’s usually a camera or two pointing this way. The last thing I need is some Page Six tidbit about one of the former members of Thr33peat hobbling home, visibly drunk, on her way to see the break-out star.

Do they care that I purposely gave up performing myself because I preferred managing? That I’m not going to see Whiskey Rose as an old friend, but because Sierra is my best friend and the little sister I never had? That the apartment is much my home as it is hers, and that with both of our love lifes a shitshow lately, the idea of just settling down with our fluffy-haired void is more and more promising these days?

Ugh.

I have to get inside and quick; hopefully before my photo gets snapped. Sierra doesn’t need the drama while she’s recovering from her recent scare in California, and I’m dying to change my outfit, throw my wild curls up into a bun, and get my hands on the mail bags.

One upside to the espresso shots? I’m not going to sleep anytime soon, and since I spent the drive back into the city determined to get my hands on Trevor’s letters before Sierra had to deal with it, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

But, first, these stupid heels?—

The skirt on my tight red dress is riding up as I crouch down, reaching for the snapped stiletto while trying not to whack myself with my bag. It’s the Prada Sierra bought me last Christmas, and while part of me wanted to brain Trevor over the head with it—and it’s big and heavy enough to do it—I would never harm one of my precious babies by using it on a worthless creep who doesn’t deserve it.

Considering how much Sierra splurged to buy it for me, it also doesn’t deserve to be set down on the middle of a Manhattan sidewalk—on the UWS or not. I totter on the good heel, struggling to balance without dropping my bag, and get the shoe off. Tucking the busted heel under my arm, I do the same to the other since walking with one three-inch heel on, one off, would only draw out the photogs looking for a tipsy B-list celeb.

One problem. Naive Billie didn’t bother with stockings earlier tonight when Trevor mentioned I should dress up nice for dinner. Assuming dinner would lead to sex since the weekend had been going okay up until that point, I didn’t want to waste time removing them later.

Of course, instead of sex, Trevor decided to accuse me of wanting to keep Whiskey all to myself once we were back at the rented house—and it took longer than it should’ve for me to realize he meant Sierra and not a bottle of booze. When I finally decided I’d had enough and I was leaving, I grabbed my suitcase, my purse, and my heels.

I regret that now as my bare feet settle on the chilly—and questionable—sidewalk. It’s November, so it’s not snow-covered or anything, but that only makes it worse that my feet are damp.

Ah, well. You can scrub your feet. A Prada tote? I wouldn’t dare.

I move faster without the heels. Before I know it, I’m nodding at the night-time doorman on duty in front of our building. Karl murmurs a greeting, careful not to use my name in case my picture was snapped and some young pap after my time might not recognize my face.

Then I remember that my trademark wild curls are all they need to know who I am…

I slip inside, heading right for the elevator. The apartment I share with Sierra—that is Sierra’s, but she’ll go off in a snit if I ever admit that that’s how I see it—is a classic six, one floor below the penthouse. During the day, a concierge will join me on the ride up so that I access my floor. Afterhours, so long as the doorman lets you in, you’re on your own.

As soon as I’m home, I exhale. Oh, the coffee still has me jittery, and I really, really don’t want to have this conversation with Sierra, but I’m home. Keeping my Prada bag on my shoulder, I toss my shoes along the hall. With Gladys and Maurice on vacation while Sierra’s tour is on pause, I don’t feel so guilty leaving them there for either our housekeeper or our house sitter to find.

I’ll look into getting my stiletto repaired tomorrow. And, seeing how the entire apartment is quiet and dark, I’m thinking about postponing my conversation with Sierra until then, too.

The idea of keeping the truth from her never occurs to me. She likes to tease that I’m honest to a fault, the real goody-goody from our time in Thr33peat, and maybe that’s true. I’m also loyal to my best friend—hell, my only friend—and, with her being two years younger than me—I’m very, very protective.

I also recognize that Sierra is thirty-one, and that she’s been independent for a long time. My parents were a lost cause by the time Thr33peat was my only shot at survival, with my dad doing time for possession and my mom the one who kept possessing after he was gone, but Sierra ended up emancipated from her momager before she was sixteen. To hide this from her wouldn’t only be dangerous, considering her history with obsessed fans turned dangerous stalkers, but it would also be patronizing.

Doesn’t mean that it can’t wait until morning. I still want to find the letters and see how bad they are. Now that my ‘manager’ brain is kicking in, I’m sure they’re bad—just as much as I’m sure that Sierra didn’t stumble across them yet in the, like, nine bags of fan mail I arranged for her to have as a distraction from her recent vocal rest.

She’s been so down lately, I thought she might need a reminder why the world loves Whiskey Rose as much as I adore my best friend. The team I put in charge of the fan mail is careful to pull out anything that might be a threat to her, but since I didn’t know about Trevor’s letters until he mentioned them, they have to still be in there. And while Sierra was a lot quieter this weekend than usual, texting me sporadically as if she was definitely distracted, I’m beginning to understand why… and I don’t think her going through her fan mail is as much of a concern anymore.

Peering down the hall, through the open study, I see that her bedroom door is closed. I’m in a foul mood, and I’m not sure if my reaction is to roll my eyes because my suspicion is right—or sigh again because it is.

Sierra is an open book, but if I’ve learned anything over the years as her roommate, it’s that a closed door means she needs privacy. If it was open, it’s an invitation for people to approach her. If it’s closed, stay out.

The staff are all on break while Sierra’s recovering. Even Roy—our longtime head of security—is staying off-site. I texted Sierra hours ago that I would be coming home a day earlier from my getaway and that we’d talk… and her door is closed.

The only reason it would be is if she has a guy sleeping over. And normally I wouldn’t care—my need to get laid is what got me so involved with Trevor Daniels in the first place—but Sierra… she’s too famous for one-night-stands.

I shudder out a breath of pure annoyance.

Jared Turner is in there, isn’t he?

Settling for rolling my eyes, I trudge toward the kitchen. Right now, with the night not even close to being over, I need an aspirin. Too much caffeine plus my anxiety going through the roof and I’ve got one hell of a headache brewing. I’ve got some aspirin in my bag, but I’ll need some water to swallow it down.

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