Page 3 of Heartbreaker

“Ready to go?” I mutter to Briar, leaning forward, preparing to stand up and get the hell out of here.

Away from the cameras and the uninspiring, selfish A-listers.

Away from the voice that seems to reach right into my chest and claws at my heart, my soul.

Away from the eyes that come to me as I hear?—

“And thank you to Royal Ewing, who wrote this beautiful song for me and helped me transform it into something extraordinary.”

I jerk, mid-rise from my seat, distantly tracking the gazes turning in my direction, the cameras doing a quick pivot, the attention…

Settling square onto me.

Panic dislodges the bewitching voice, digging deeper, slicing my insides to ribbons.

It’s hard to breathe, to think, to?—

Briar settles her hand on my leg.

“Smile,” she orders softly, leaning in and waving at the camera positioned what feels like all of three inches away from my face.

I do something thatmightapproximate a smile.

“This is for you,” Jade says and my gaze jerks back to the tiny, sparkle-covered woman. I see her lift the award in my direction for a moment before she smiles, waves, and turns to exit the stage, disappearing between the curtains as the music rises to a crescendo and the host steps toward the microphone to send the television broadcast to commercial.

“Get me the fuck out of here,” I hiss at Briar, already feeling the walls closing in, knowing that people are going to come socialize, going to come ask questions, going to come and try to maneuver favors out of me.

“On it,” she says.

And to her credit, she is.

Then again, Briar is one of the most capable people I know.

Certainly more so than a former rock star with a bum hand who’s a second away from having a panic attack over something I used to live for, revel in, demand?—

Attention.

It’s stifling now.

My lungs are struggling to draw in air.

Black intrudes on the edges of my vision.

“Royal!”

Briar grips my arm and hauls me up to my feet, stepping between the man—an agent who I want absolutely nothing to fucking do with—and myself, guiding me to the aisle and out of his slimy, grimy crosshairs.

“Hey, bud, long time no see,” says a man I recognize (as in a creep who’s trying to make a comeback but seems to be doing his level best to undermine his career with dumbass racist tweets). “Let’s chat, huh?”

“Never going to fucking happen,” Briar mutters, though her smile stays in place.

Something I track because I’m not looking at the crowd.

Because I’m not looking at the cameras.

My gaze is glued to Briar as she gets me out of the auditorium and into the wings of the theater.

“Stay there,” she whispers, tucking me into a shadowy alcove, my body almost completely hidden behind a billowing navy velvet curtain.

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