Page 210 of Enemies

“I can keep a secret. I can be loyal to you as much as to him.”

“Yeah. But you shouldn’t have to be.” He comes up behind me, and his gaze meets mine in the mirror.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Just tell me one thing—are you talking with the police?”

He nods. “I told them I’d give them all I know. It’s not much, but it’s compelling.”

The reason he knew he was buying Mischa’s drugs in a London club still eludes me, but I trust him.

“Fine. Has Harrison said anything about the investigation into your parents?”

“No. Why?”

Fuck. That means Harrison’s been shouldering this alone for the better part of a year. “He was looking into it last year, back when he was still trying to buy La Mer from Christian.”

I brush past Ash and grab my phone, cursing as I realize I forgot to recharge it after my call with Annie and Beck. “Hey, did you do something to piss off Beck? You seem to have made an impression on him on the yacht last year.”

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts, his mouth twisting. “I seem to make terrible impressions on all men.”

“That asshole on your team doesn’t deserve you. You’ll find someone who does.”

Ash smirks. “I want someone I don’t deserve. Like Harry found.”

My chest tightens as I head to the show.

I snap a picture in the limo and post it to social. New habits, but already ingrained.

My fan base has grown and evolved. I can show up at a venue and find hundreds of people, sometimes thousands, there to see me. It’s humbling.

Sometimes it’s numbing too.

It’s one of the things I wish I could’ve talked to Harrison about over the past year. My friends understand the fame, but it’s not the same as sharing it with the man who sees me, challenges me, like no other.

When I get to the club, there’s already a crowd.

I get the owner in a corner. “The drugs sold in your club. You have to speak out about them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I blink. “You told me the other day…”

But then I realize the truth. He won’t say a word. Harrison’s right.

By the time I take the stage, I’m already frustrated.

But I play my set, waiting to be swept up in it as I change from one track to the next. This club is twice the size of Debajo, and it’s nearly full. The crowd is loving me.

I should be loving this.

Pressed near the stage is a group in costume. A girl meets my gaze and dissolves into delighted screams. My attention pans to a guy dancing near her, who catches my eye and makes like he’s giving oral.

I turn away, needing a breather that’s impossible while on stage.

My thumb presses the tattoo on my wrist, the backs of my eyes burning.

Feel alive.

Be alive.

---