Page 17 of Obsession on Repeat
"I don’t want to think that about him," she continued. "But it lines up. He disappears on you, things blow up, and suddenly your photo is everywhere."
"I need to hear him say it wasn’t him."
"Rory—"
I hung up. A text and a phone call to his number went unanswered.
It didn’t take long for me to locate where he was staying during his promotional tour. I was halfway down the block from the hotel, heart pounding and half-ready to scream, when a black SUV pulled up beside the curb. The passenger window rolled down.
"Rory Jones?"
I stopped walking.
The man behind the wheel wore expensive sunglasses and a perfect suit. He looked like someone who closed a lot of doors behind him before people realized they were trapped.
"I’m Eric." Like I should know who he was. "Sullivan’s manager."
"Good for you."
"We need to talk."
"I don’t think we do."
Sighing, he stepped out of the car, calm and practiced. He'd probably done this before with countless other women, other headlines, other messes. "He didn’t leak anything, but you and I both know that doesn’t matter.The story’s already out. The question now is what you want to do with it."
I narrowed my eyes. "What I want?"
"You’re not stupid. You’ve seen how fast this spreads. We can either control the narrative, or let it eat you alive. I can help you. Interviews, a quote here or there, some soft press to paint you as the cool, edgy underground artist who caught his attention."
"You think I care about the narrative?"
He didn’t blink. "You should. Because once they’ve decided what you are, it’s hard to rewrite it."
I shook my head. "You want me to brand my life so it’s easier for you to sell him."
"I want to protect him, and, by extension, you."
"No, you want to protect the version of him the public wants to see, one that makes you the most money. That doesn't include me."
I walked away.
I don’t know how long I sat in Venom’s back office, legs pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around them prayingI could fold myself small enough to disappear. There had been a storm of paparazzi, so many surrounding the entrance that it had taken two bouncers and a barrage of Danny’s threats to get through the door.
After an explosion of texts and social media alerts, I turned off my phone. Even now, it was lost in the depths of my bag, completely ignored.
The door creaked open behind me. I froze, back straightening. "If you’re here to offer me a publicity package, I swear—"
"It’s me." Sullivan stood in the doorway, hat pulled low, hoodie half-zipped. He looked nothing like the guy on the beach or the man on the magazine cover. "Eric told me what he said to you."
"How? Did he text you? ‘Hey, I offered to turn your emotional disaster into free PR. Any thoughts?’"
He flinched, but didn’t look away. "He shouldn’t have come to you. That wasn’t okay."
"Yeah, well," I muttered, "neither was disappearing."
"I didn’t disappear. I stepped back. You were panicking. I didn’t want to make it worse."
"You made it worse anyway."
