Page 12 of Erik

I flinch. “Exactly.”

We burst out laughing so hard my eyes brim with tears.

When we simmer down to chuckling, he asks, “Any explanation as to why they haven’t shot that scene?”

I raise one shoulder up, lifting an eyebrow as well. “Nope. I asked a few times, but the assistant director dismissed me saying they were not ready for it.”

I resume washing the last forks and knives I’ve left at the bottom of the sink.

Hadley clears his throat. “With all the delay and hanging around the movie set, you’ve probably met your rock god a couple of times. That’d make up for the nuisance of waiting around. Right?”

I shake my head with such vigor a couple of curls escape the messy bun I piled on top of my head earlier. “Not one bit. I haven’t seen the guy yet.”

I want to confess something else that’s been bothering me, but I hesitate. Hadley is my best friend in the world yet will he think I’m weird if I tell him this?

After a deep inhale, I sigh, “Please, don’t laugh…”

“Oh, boy! You know I can’t ever promise you that.” He interrupts me, already laughing. “Plus, anyone who starts a sentence with that should expect the other part to laugh their heads off. You know that, don’t you?”

I fake punch his stomach but appreciate his goofy way of putting me at ease. “You, awesome fool, you.” Snort-laughing, I go on, “There’s no logical explanation for what I’ve been experiencing, or even concrete evidence, actually. You know that tingling sensation, the hair on your nape standing up, when someone is watching you?”

“Oh, sure, your spidey sense.”

“I’m positive that’s a made-up term one finds in comic books, but let’s go with that,” I hand him the last pieces of silverware still dripping with water. “Anyway, I’ve had that prickly feeling on multiple occasions while on set.” I knit my eyebrows, pressing my fingers to my forehead, trying to remember when it begun. I snap my fingers when a clear image pops up in my head. “First time I felt it was a little after Memorial Day. We had a longish lunch break that day, so I decided to practice guitar. When I finished playing a song, I thought I saw someone watching me from the corner of Erik’s trailer. When I focused my sight on the spot, there wasn’t anybody there. Similar incidents have happened almost every day since.” I pause, square my shoulders, and take the proverbial leap. “Here goes nothing. If you think I’m insane, so be it. I sometimes feel like Erik’s watching me, but avoiding direct contact, which is insane because he doesn’t know I exist.”

I press a palm to my throat. Maybe this way my heart will stop thumping against it. The mere thought someone might be watching me around the set makes me queasy. I don’t want to talk about it with Hadley, or anyone. He doesn’t know about the darkest parts of my past. That has been by design.

He counters, “Well, that’s not entirely true. You must remember that interaction between the two of you at their concert six years ago.”

“Nah, you were right then.” My heart cartwheels before flipping backward a couple of times like some Olympian gymnast. “Erik Crawford didn’t pick me out of a sea of eager fans because I was special. He picked a fan. Anyone would do.”

“Okay, there was that. But I meant afterward, in the parking lot.” He taps an index to his cheek. “What did he say to you again? I forgot.”

My heart performs a somersault worthy of a gold medal this time, and I swallow past a lump in my throat.

“Good try.” I scoff. “Anyway, I don’t remember anymore.”

He snort-laughs. “Okay, so you want me to believe you’ve forgotten whatever the man of your dreams whispered in your ear. The same man you’ve moved heaven and earth to be in his film just on a slim chance you’ll meet again. That’s how you want to play this, missy?”

Hadley’s on point there. I’ve never told him what Erik whispered to me that night on the way out of that freaking RV. The reasons I had then remain unchanged, so I won’t tell him now either.

I hold his probing stare, jutting my chin up.

He drops the carefree attitude, furling his brow. “I don’t get your fascination with this guy. Granted, his vocal range is phenomenal. I understand nobody becomes a multiplatinum artist at the tender age of nineteen if they aren’t beyond talented. Which all members of Muse of Darkness are, as well as so many other musicians, for that matter.”

When his pause stretches for too long, I stop putting away the glasses in the cupboard, swirl to stare at him, and raise my eyebrows. I smirk. “Your point?”

“He rubs me the wrong way. There, I said it.” He shrugs before going on, “Ten years of never-ending rock, smut, and drug scandals? To me, it feels like it’s just for show at this point. A way to get free publicity for the band. To be honest, I wouldn’t do that if I were them. People are growing tired of celebrities misbehaving and getting away with it. I mean, how many paparazzi must he send to the hospital before one sues the shit out of him? Or no one has done it because they’re in on the ruse.”

I tsk-tsk. “Paranoid much?” Closing the cupboard door, I cover the distance to where he stands leaning against the kitchen island. I press my palms against his cheeks. “I respectfully dissent, Your Honor. Erik’s behavior is neither a promo stunt nor a gimmick. It’s a cry for help. But nobody sees it that way. If I got one penny for each time I heard comments like yours, I’d be a billionaire now.”

“You are. Actually,weare billionaires,” he winks with a playful glint in his green eyes.

“Yeah, there’s that.” I wink back. “The silver lining on the whole delaying my scene situation is that it’s given me a lot of free time while on the set. One of the extras has been teaching me to play guitar.”

He slouches his shoulders. “Wait. What? The other day you joked about not having musical talent, but I’ve always thought you had some kind of training. Your parents were musicians, weren’t they?”

“Yes, that’s right. My mom was a violin virtuosa. She met my dad when she played with an orchestra in Damascus, and he was a visiting conductor. My Swedish Dad fell in love with Mom and her country.” I pause as I struggle to keep bile from shooting up my throat. I succeed, but its foul taste burns my insides. I add, “After we left Syria, I tried learning the violin, but I never got the hang of it. Too many memories, you know?”

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