Page 49 of Wild Eyes
“Yeah, so I only have a fraction of what I thought was mine. I never looked carefully at my contracts. My dad would promise me he’d checked them over and that everything was as it should be. Then he’d say something like, ‘This will be a great move for you, doll,’ and I’d sign. Blissfully unaware.”
I flinch at the memory before continuing. “I’ve spent my entire life working, missing out on so many things, and I have almost nothing to show for it. A fraction of what I should. I’ve been running myself ragged for the past decade to line their pockets. And now I get to watch them fight over the scraps like I’m an ATM instead of their daughter. So I’ve been grapplingwith that for weeks since I found out, trying to wrap my head around it. But myboyfriendbeing paid to date me was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
My laugh is watery this time. I sniff and look out over the lake, shaking my head at how pathetic my story sounds, even to my own ears.
The boyfriend debacle may have been the final nudge that pushed me over the edge. But the truth about what my parents have done is the real betrayal. The one that’s so painful, so hard to face, I’d almost rather pretend it never happened.
“I bet you’re wondering how I could be so gullible.”
“That’s not what I’m wondering.”
I suck in such a deep breath that my shoulders draw up to my ears and then droop. I reach for my wine. It feels like I need it after sharing more personal information than I have with a single soul in an exceptionally long time.
Who am I? Put a little fresh mountain air in me and I’m spilling my guts to the local horse trainer? All my PR prep has gone to shit.
“What are you wondering, then?” I finally ask.
West’s eyes flash for a second,and I suddenly don’t doubt he’s broken a few noses. His heavy gaze clears, and he covers with “Never mind.”
The sigh I let out is ragged—tired. I don’t have any fight left in me to push back. “Well, at any rate, I’m here to work with Ford because I need an album that’s all mine. Even if I can’t write the actual songs.”
“You can write the songs.”
West says it with a little shrug. With such unwavering certainty. I don’t even have it in me to tell him he’s wrong.
He’s still staring at me. Analyzing. Eyes scanning. “Is this part of what’s tripping you up in the media?”
I sag in my chair. Drink and nod.
My phone lights up on the table in front of me, drawing our attention.
It’s a Google alert, the one I still have set for my name because, clearly, I really am a masochist. Without thinking, I swipe it off the table and open the notification.
In Nose vs. Soccer ball, Skylar Stone Loses Again!
A lovely photo of me doubled over in pain while my nose gushes blood accompanies the stupid headline. That part I remember quite clearly. But West crouched before me, hands gently cupping my elbows, tattoos on display, looks a lot more intimate than I remember.
Most of his face is concealed beneath the brim of his hat, but I can see the grim line of his mouth. I can hear him saying, “Breathe through your mouth, Sky,” and feel his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the inside of my arm.
“Lovely,” I say before tossing my phone back on the table. The headline is far from the worst I’ve seen, but there’s an underlying sense of glee in the wording. It’s not funny or especially clever. It’s smug. “Sorry, you’re in the news now. Someone at the game today took a photo of my nose geyser.” I gesture at the phone. “I swear people get some kind of sick thrill out of humiliating me. They know my name will get them clicks so they grasp at straws and nitpick every little thing I do. They all use me to make money without my consent. Thrive on knocking me down just so they can lift themselves up.”
West picks it up, his hand practically swallowing it. His brows draw down low on his handsome face as he takes in the article.
The phone dings again, and I reach for it, but he moves it away from me. “I need to see that.”
“No,” he bites out. “You don’t.”
My heart rate accelerates, and my stomach takes that eternal plunge that has become a mainstay in my day-to-day life. Dreadlicks up my throat, and I swallow it down to keep the nausea at bay. My breathing goes ragged, and my vision goes a little blurry at the edges.
Oh god. Not now. Not in front of him.
“Sky.”
With that one word, West reaches across the table and takes my hand in his.
He catches my eye as he squeezes and releases in a slow and steady rhythm.
Slow and steady. That’s what this man represents. No chaos. No panic. He soothes me.
