Page 55 of Opening Strain

I sit up, the blanket falling to my waist, exposing the necklace on my naked torso. I didn’t fuck Michelle last night, did I?

Realization sets in with a vengeance, reminding me of everything that occurred—resulting in my spending the night in Jenna’s house. How her mother left us before dessert. How Jenna moaned over the tiramisu. How the paparazzi attacked her when she was getting the car.

I fumble for my phone and pull up the expected email from our PR team. Shit. This has to be over two pages long. I skim the bolded headlines: Say you’re out in the Hamptons for some R&R. Do not mention your injury unless you want the press to be all over your rehab. Tell them how excited you are for the movie and tour.

It’s the final one that captures my attention: How do I want them to handleJenna?

HandleJenna?

The team gives me different options, if-then scenarios. If you want to distance yourself and the band from her, then we suggest going to a different clinic. If you want to protect her out of loyalty to Darren, then we understand and suggest you make a statement to the effect you’re spending time with her out of pity.

Pity?

I continue reading to the end, which causes me more concern than the tone of the entire thing. The PR team concludes by saying Jenna causes negative reactions among UC’s fans, so they prefer option one. If I’m in agreement, they give three alternate places to try. Other rehab clinics are listed, with their contact information.

My eyebrows shoot together. Jenna’s not something to “manage.” She’s a real human being who’s been through so much—if notmore—than the band. I’m certain she hasn’t confided in me a fraction of all she dealt with following Darren’s death. I’m not going to cause her more pain.

I reread the PR email’s last section, and anger boils up from within. I’m not leaving the poor woman to fend for herself like we did following Darren’s death. Back then, the band was in freefall. Now, it’s only me falling apart. I tap my thigh, which doesn’t hurt this morning. Yet. Give it time. Especially with the exercises Jenna has planned.

I write a terse email to the PR team, saying I’m not turning my back on Jenna. I’m also not here out of pity. Pity! For fuck’s sake.

Ditching their “professional” suggestions, I begin to brainstorm my own. Remembering Mom’s diatribe, I don’t want to tell the world how stupid I was to pull my groin. Lying low in the Hamptons seems plausible, but for the weather. Maybe I can say I wanted to enjoy the beach in winter? But my family’s from the Jersey shore. What if I reached out to Jeremy Davis? He took a positive spin in his article in theRecord Newsabout UC.

“Hey there,” Jenna intrudes on my musing. “Brought you some tea. I remember you prefer it to coffee.” She hands me a mug withthe tag for white tea hanging over the side and sits on the other end of the sofa, tugging on her robe to keep it closed.

My thoughts scatter. “Thanks.” I blow into the steaming hot mug.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. You looked deep in thought.”

Do I share what the PR team said? Maybe some of it, considering she’s implicated. “I was trying to work out a strategy to get the media off my back out here.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “Oh. They were, uh, intense last night.” She pulls out her phone. “Did they post any articles today?”

Shit. I didn’t have time to check what they wrote. “I didn’t look. They probably didn’t disclose much more than my general location.” Why didn’t I look at this before my emails? I can only imagine what they had to say—Jenna’s carrying my baby or we went off and got married. I rush toThe Gossip, a well-known sleazy tabloid. I’m not quick enough.

“Oh.” Jenna’s palm covers her face. “At least they spelled ‘Black Widow’ right.”

“What?”

She hands me her phone and my stomach plummets. This is much worse than I imagined. The headline screams, “Black Widow Picks Her Next Victim.” Beneath it, the article states I was out to dinner with Jenna Westfield, formerly Darren Hilliard’s girlfriend, who died a couple of years ago in an overdose. The implicit gist is Jenna’s killing members of UC, with me next on her target list.

“Jenna, oh my God. I’m going to kill those fuckers.” I drop her phone onto the coffee table.

She doesn’t shed a tear, merely rubs her thumb and pinky together. “Those reporters have no idea how their words hurt. They’re only trying to sell magazines. Or get clicks.”

I can’t let her handle this all by herself. I toss the blanket onto the floor and pull her body into mine. “Jenna, I’ll fix this.” I rub my hand up and down her back, her head cradled against my naked torso. “They’re going to be sorry they messed with me.”

Her breathing comes in short pants, but she doesn’t make any other sounds. I continue comforting her, even in this small way. “I need to come up with a story about why I’m out here. Something better than I came out to the Hamptons for some rest and relaxation.” But what?

“King and Angie.”

I look down at her, trying to make out what she’s suggesting. It’s difficult when she’s so close. I inhale her unique vanilla-floral scent. “Maybe the Huntes invited me out to Aroostook, is that what your suggesting?”

She doesn’t respond with words, but her blonde head bounces on my pecs.

I work through her suggestion. “Because they’re raising their profile out here?” Sounds lame.

Jenna pulls away—my necklace peeling away from her cheek—grey glossy eyes boring into me. “Maybe they were trying to get you to buy something out here, and are wining and dining you?”

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