Page 18 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
“No. Like I said, my dad has written me off, my mom has moved on, and my half siblings are all too young.”
“Crazed fan?”
“I guess it’s always possible, but I can’t think of one. Usually, there are hallmarks—at least according to other celebs I’ve talked to. You know, they contact you, try to get your attention, make it personal, develop a relationship with you…”
“And resort to violence when they feel spurned, yeah. None of that?”
She shakes her head. “I got good advice early on to make fans feel important but to keep them at arm’s length. I do backstage meet-and-greets but rarely invite the same person twice. I almost never respond to people on social media except with a vague ‘thanks’ or ‘glad you enjoyed it.’ I never engage the haters or the crazies. And until today, I’ve never had a serious problem.”
“Sounds like you’ve done a good job. This shooter didn’t function like someone acting out of emotion. He was too organized. He had a plan, a backup, and an exit strategy, which is the hallmark of someone experienced. He may even be a professional.”
Sophie sucks in a breath. “A professional? Who would pay to have me killed?”
“Someone who feels you’ve done them wrong, who can’t afford to get their hands dirty, and who has the cash to throw at an assassin. That should narrow your list. Anyone who feels you’ve stabbed them financially?”
“Other than a change of agents a few years ago, I’ve been doing business with essentially the same people since I started. Same label, same producers…”
“How’s your relationship with David?”
“It’s great.”
“And your former agent? How did he or she take the split?”
“She was pissed, but after an initial outburst, she reined it in because she’s getting residuals from my older material, which still racks up airplay and downloads.”
Sophie has a point, but I’m not writing off either agent yet. “Former lovers?”
“There aren’t that many, and I still speak to all of them.” She wrinkles her nose. “In some ways, the music industry is like living in a small town.”
“Everyone knows everyone?”
“Mostly.”
I think back to the list of men who have been associated with Sophie in gossip rags, but their public personas come off like the sensitive coffeehouse sorts, not anyone dangerous. But I’m not judging a book by its cover. “Ever felt unsafe with any of them?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been involved with a noncelebrity?”
“Not really.”
“Not sexually?” I feel guilty for probing her sex life. It’s not strictly necessary…but it also can’t hurt to be thorough, right?
Fuck, I’m rationalizing and I know it.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“So you can’t think of a former ex who might want you dead?”
“None of those relationships were very serious. We’d meet at a music festival, pose for a few pictures at a party or a restaurant, and be seen together at an awards ceremony. I mean, sure, we tried to make a personal life work, but when you’re recording and on the road and constantly busy, trying to find time to be with your significant someone who has the same challenges is next to impossible.”
It both makes sense and sounds lonely. It also narrows my list of potential suspects. “What about your boyfriend? That British guy… Graham What’s-His-Name?”
“Normoth. No.” She bites her lip. When she releases it, the plumpest part of her mouth goes from pink to rosy red and tempts the fuck out of me.
She tempts the fuck out of me.
I shift in my chair, trying to get comfortable, but between her mouth and the way that cardigan keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing more of that see-through tank, thinking about anything except carrying her to bed, peeling off those skin-tight shorts, and burying myself inside her is a losing battle.
