Page 7 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
There’s nothing else we can do.
I turn to Sophie. She’s still breathing hard. It’s hot and humid as fuck under this scrap of wool. Our faces are inches apart. Her lips open softly. Her breath is sweet. Her stare is direct.
“Do you have any idea why this is happening?”
“Do you?” I counter. “Have you received any death threats?”
“Not recently. Nothing credible, anyway.”
But the fact she receives them at all fucking bothers me. Why would anyone want to hurt Sophie?
“Can you think of a reason someone would have anything against you?”
“Except angry moms who chastise me for not singing wholesome music anymore or stalkers berating me for swinging my hips and singing about sex because they’re convinced I belong to them, no.”
What a creepy world she lives in. I can’t imagine people feeling so entitled or delusional that, despite being strangers, they genuinely believe they can control an artist. But I’m not shocked. There are a lot of unhinged loons out there.
“But no specific threats recently?”
“Unless David knows something I don’t…” She shakes her head.
Sophie brings up an interesting point, and I’ll get to him later, but for now I just nod. “Did you have another appearance scheduled tonight?”
“No. I’m on a break until the album drops next month.”
Good. She’s less likely to be missed, so that gives us more time to get to the bottom of this.
Then she bites her lip, mouth pressing into a grim line that tells me she’s fighting tears. “I’m afraid.”
She’s right to be.
I squeeze her hand. “Ever been shot at?”
“No.” And the look on her face tells me she can’t imagine why anyone would want her dead.
“You’ve never been a threat, so this kind of malice makes no sense to you.”
She nods. “I’ve only tried to make the world a happier place with my songs.”
At that, she falls apart. It’s not unexpected. She feels betrayed by violence coming from people she tried to entertain. Plus, the adrenaline crash is a bitch.
Against me, her whole body trembles. I press her closer and wrap an arm around her. I don’t say anything. Empty assurances are pointless. I can’t promise her I can get her out of this mess in one piece; I can only promise to try my damnedest.
We stay that way for so long we begin to sweat together. Neither of us cares. She lays her head on my chest. Her bent knee creeps onto my leg. It seems automatic to take her bare thigh in my grip and pull her closer. The slow motion of the buggy rolls our bodies rhythmically against each other. She probably feels every inch of my reaction to having her so close. I’m harder than I ever fucking remember. Sophie is lost in her own fear, and I’m a heel for even noticing how beautiful she is, much less entertaining thoughts of sex. But I can’t help wanting her. It’s agonizing.
I grit my teeth and suffer in silence.
Finally, Dustin slows the horse-drawn wagon. “There’s a group of cops ahead. What do you want me to do?”
“Stay under the blanket,” I murmur to Sophie, then cautiously peek out.
Just like he said, we’re a hundred feet from the barricades originally set for the parade. They’re not allowing any vehicles in or out. Fuck.
“Get us as close as you can without attracting attention. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Okay.”
Moments later, the cart rolls to a stop. It’s nothing Dustin says or does, but it’s obvious he’s panicked. “They’re staring.”
