Page 35 of Out of the Blue

I shut off my phone and toss it on top of my pile of clothes. Assholes. No way would we get rid of Maurice, even if he did lose his eyesight. Which he’s not. Stupid fucking tabloids.

I punch my pillow and grab Cordy around her waist, pulling her in tight to me. We’ll deal with all of this tomorrow. In her sleep, her pink tongue peeks out of her mouth and runs over her lips.

The remnants of my heart do a little dance.

Chapter 12 - Cordelia

Iwake in a strange bed. Nothing new since going on tour with TLR. This morning, however, is different from all the rest, as a man’s body is wrapped around mine.

Trent Washington.

Whose father is Braxton Hunte. Didn’t see that one coming.

I study his face in his sleep. His warm, light brown skin and short dreadlocks don’t resemble his father’s at all. Even with their blond overtones. He’s also much taller than his dad, topping six feet. Their mad musical skills are on par, though. Or will be when Trent gains some more confidence.

His poor mother. I can’t imagine having to keep such a secret from her child. The toll it must’ve taken on her. Yet, she did a great job raising him as witnessed by the bond with his band. And he’s quite sweet. Yes. She did a fantastic job with him.

And now he hates her. Hates his father, too.Welcome to my fucked-up club.

I review the Google Alert showing a new article about Maurice. Who is feeding the piece of shit tabloid all this fake news? I move, and amber eyes pop open.

Ones I’ve definitely seen before, and not just on the man in bed with me. They’re Braxton’s eyes. Shit.

“More shut-eye,” he mumbles.

I kiss his cheek. “Need to use the bathroom.”

He grumbles something unintelligible and I slip out from under the blankets, wanting to give him another kiss but refusing to let it happen. When I’m upright, I grab my clothes—including my cell phone—and cross the room to the bathroom. Inside, I wash up and get dressed. Then I pull up the article and read it once more.

The lying, hurtful piece sticks with me.

Turning on the fan so as not to allow our conversation to reach Trent’s ears, I call Apex. “Hi, Rita.”

“Cordelia. So good to hear your voice.”

Despite everything that’s gone down, I smile. “Yours, too. Hey, I’m calling becauseFirst Rumorsposted another hit job on TLR, this time about their keyboardist, Maurice. Anyone talking about it over there?”

“Girl, you have no idea. Mr. Griffith was called into a meeting first thing. He asked me to stick around and take notes. The meeting just ended, and I have to be honest with you—they’re getting worried about the bad press. Expect a call from Mr. Hewitt at any moment.”

Crap. “I understand. I have no idea who is tipping them off.”

“Apex wants the story buried.”

“I hear you. But I know it’s all lies. Yes, Maurice does wear glasses, and he has a non-life threatening condition right now giving him a red eye, but he’s not going blind.”

“Good to hear.”

Ideas about how to counteract the story start to form. Some more outrageous than the others, but maybe that’s what the situation calls for. “I’ll work on burying the story like Apex wants.”

Rita fills me in on the office gossip, to which I listen with only half an ear. I wasn’t there for too long and didn’t get to know many of my co-workers. But she needs to let off steam, so I let her. It’s the least I can do for this kind woman.

Before we hang up, I asked to be transferred to Mr. Hewitt. Might as well beat him to the punch. I present my general idea of how to bury the story, and he gives me some suggestions. With a promise to get back to him with a more formal proposal, I wander back into the bedroom, where Trent’s still sleeping. Instead of bothering him, I go to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee to brew. After I take a sip, my nose crinkles. Man, it’s awful. I throw it down the drain and grab my purse. Stealing his key card, I slip out to the hallway, toward the coffee shop I glimpsed in the lobby.

With a vanilla latte, a regular cup of Joe, and a slice of decadent flan in my hands, I return to Trent’s suite and sit in the kitchen area. Why did I come back here instead of going to my own room? Because I want to be sure the lead singer of TLR is okay, I tell myself. No other reason.

Not like he rocked my world the other night. Or the first night we met.

Well, he did open up about his truths to me and no one else. Not even to his best friend Dwight. He selected me to share such a deep, hurtful fact that goes right to the very core of his being. And I like helping him. Being there for him.

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