Page 12 of Sinful Desires
My heart couldn’t take it. I couldn’t let myself think about Luke without wanting to throw myself off the nearest bridge.
I hadn’t stayed long enough for Mom to kill the silence with gossip—who was sleeping with who, or whatever New York’s latest scandal was. And my sister?
She’d be waiting to ask me for yet another boy bander’s number, her voice sweet as if I’d forgotten how many times she’d already asked.
No.
I couldn’t bear it. So, I’d left. Quietly, unnoticed, and without a single look back.
In the rearview mirror, I saw the cut on my cheek, a tiny trail of blood already staining the skin.
Now I found myself in some random pharmacy five minutes from home, searching for whatever would knock me out for twelve straight hours and numb the pain in my cheek?…?and my soul.
It wasn’t the first time my father’s hand had struck me, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
The lady returned with two small boxes, slid them into a plastic bag, and handed it over. Her eyes burned into my cheek.
One. Tw?—
“Would you mind taking a picture and signing an autograph, Miss Harper? My granddaughter is absolutelyobsessedwith you?…”
I let out a long breath, plastering on a smile that didn’t even come close to my eyes. It was muscle memory now: smile, sign, survive.
I took off my sunglasses and slaved away, hoping I could make it out of there before anyone else decided I was their chance to feel important while my own world fell apart.
Chapter
Five
“Never throughout history has a man who lived a life of ease left a name worth remembering.”
?Theodore Roosevelt
Scarlett
24 years old
Two years ago
“Tell us about that night, Miss Harper.”
The lights in the press room were hotter than they had any right to be. It felt like I was being slowly roasted. Sweat made a quiet appearance down my spine. Dozens of journalists sat in rows, pens ready, recorders blinking red like tiny bombs.
And once again, I was the flavor of the month. I adjusted the mic with one hand. Let the other rest on the table like I was calm.
I wasn’t. But the trick was making sure they never knew that.
“You’ll have to narrow it down, sweetheart,” I said with a practiced smile. “I’ve had a lot of nights people like to ask about.”
A few laughed. Most didn’t.
This was forRiver Island Girl, album three. The one I’d nearly choked on before I let it live.
They didn’t want music. They wanted ruin. Something jagged to headline.
I crossed one leg over the other. “If you want to know if the album came from pain, yes. If you’re hoping I’ll lay it out for you, no.”
Click. Tap. Someone raised a hand.
