Page 55 of Enticing the Enforcer
“That’s what it is,” she said, chugging down fluids. “The show is my game, this is my recovery.” And she’s right. It’s the same discipline, just dressed in sequins instead of pads.
As I wait for her upstairs in the suite, I’m still not ready to let go of the Jake thing. I know all about her ex. Semi-famous musician with a cult following of girls who quote his lyrics likescripture. He and Ingrid were on and off for years, tossing lines about each other into their songs, playing coy with the press. It was a circus, the kind I’ve been happy to avoid with puck bunnies and quick hookups that never made it past the next morning. The last breakup? Tabloid gold. They stayed quiet, but the whispers said she’d been gutted. Her latest album only added fuel to the fire, with her anger seemingly threaded into betrayal, heartbreak sharpened into anthems.
That’s what sticks in my head now. Not jealousy, but this ugly feeling in my gut. Did he hurt her? Did he think he could break her and try to walk back into her life again? Because she looked shaken to see him tonight. Not wistful or longing, but shaken, like an enemy slithering into her territory. I want to know why.
I want to make sure I never make her look that way.
My fingers clench around the knife in my hand, and I toss it on the cleaned plate.
The sound of the bathroom door opening pulls me out of the spiral. She’s fresh-faced now, makeup gone, hair damp from a shower, a little tank and shorts hugging her body. Her heels are wrapped with bandages, and she’s moving slower than she did on stage.
She slides into bed beside me, tired but beautiful, and I can’t stop myself. I crawl across the sheets, take her foot in my hands, and press my mouth to the injured spots one by one. Tiny, reverent kisses where the skin is raw. She watches me with wide, soft eyes, chest rising and falling like she can’t quite catch her breath.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, my voice low.
Her lashes flutter. “You mean the foot fetish you’re revealing to me right now?”
“I don’t have a foot fetish. I have an Ingrid Flockton fetish.” I take a gentle bite out of her ankle and she squirms. “Is this your way of avoiding the topic?”
She sighs. “No. You’re right. We should probably talk about him.”
I nod but clarify, “Understand something: I don’t give a shit about your exes. My body count is too high to even attempt to calculate, and I’m not even going to pretend to justify the last four years. You’re a grown woman–a sexy, strong, powerhouse of a woman,” I rub my thumb over the arch of her foot, “and living, fucking, stumbling through relationships is part of it. You deserve that as much as anyone else, despite the spotlight, despite the pressure.” I take a deep breath, forcing the weight of what I mean into the space between us. “But what I do care about is why that asshole got you tied up in knots tonight.”
Her eyes flick away, teeth catching her bottom lip. She hesitates, like maybe she’d rather swallow the words than let them out.
“Be honest with me,” I press, voice gentle but firm. “I can take it, and I’ll keep your secrets.”
For a long beat, all I hear is her breath. Then finally, she sighs, curling her knees up toward her chest, arms wrapped tight around them. It’s a defensive posture, one I’ve never seen her take before and I realize that this part of Ingrid is even more sacred than the one she shared with me last night.
“Jake and I…” She shakes her head, staring at some invisible spot on the wall. “We were fire. The kind that either burns hot or leaves nothing but ashes. Guess which one we got.”
I stay quiet, letting her pick her way through it.
“In the beginning, I never thought he’d be into a girl like me,” she says softly. “Not ‘Ingrid Flockton the pop star,’ but he was interested, andinteresting.Not just another guy in a boy band our PR agents wanted to tie together for publicity. He wanted to talk about poetry and art, about philosophy and craft. He showed me a life I hadn’t experienced yet. We’d sit on his shitty balcony in Silver Lake, drinking cheap whiskey out of mugs, andhe’d play chords on his guitar until the sun came up. He used to write lyrics on the backs of receipts and napkins and leave them in my pockets, like little love notes. I’d write the next line, develop a bridge, and sneak it back under his pillow. We felt like a yin-and-yang, two opposite forces, bound as one.” She looks away. “I thought that meant something. I thought it meant he believed in me even if he couldn’t say it out loud.”
Her voice drops lower. “But the more my career grew, the more he dug into his ‘principals.’” She uses air quotes. “He’d sneer at rehearsals, call my songs ‘bubblegum bullshit.’ If I wore sequins, he’d call me attention seeking. If I sold out a stadium, he’d say I was pandering. And I started… I don’t know, folding myself smaller.” Her blue eyes meet mine. “Like literally smaller. I’d wear flats so I wouldn’t tower over him. Holding back in interviews so I didn’t sound too proud. Take separate exits so the press wouldn’t see us together. I let him make me less, just so he wouldn’t feel threatened.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks. I want to find the prick and put him through the boards, make him choke on his own pathetic insecurity.
She draws in another breath, shaky this time. “The night it ended he accused me of choosing fame over him, again, but this time it was about going on this tour. The shows had sold out inminutes. The servers crashed. It was a complete nightmare, but also incredibly rewarding. I had a big idea, and I was determined to do anything to see it through. His reaction was an epic meltdown and he claimed I belonged to the machine, not to him. Then he threw one of my Grammys—” she cuts herself off, wincing. “Anyway. I walked out, and I swore I wouldn’t look back. But he has this way of showing up when I least expect it and getting under my skin, even now. Like tonight.”
Her arms tighten around herself, and all I see is the girl who once believed she had to dim her light just to keep a man. I shiftcloser, uncurling her from that ball, wrapping my arms around her so she can’t retreat into herself. “Angel,” I say, pressing my lips to her temple, “don’t you ever make yourself small for me. Or for anyone. I want the whole damn you–the sequins, the glitter, the big-ass stages, the voice that owns the world. If he couldn’t handle that, that’s on him. Not you.”
Her eyes shine when she finally looks up at me. “You really mean that?”
“More than I’ve ever meant anything,” I say, my thumb brushing over her cheek. “And if he ever tries to make you feel less again, I’ll remind you who the fuck you are.”
“Why do you call me that?” she asks, tilting her head back.
I frown. “Call you what?”
“Angel.” She runs her hand down my forearm. “Everyone else thinks of it like a flock of birds–whatever. The fans think they own the wings. They made it into a brand. But you say it different. Why?”
Now it’s my turn to feel exposed, even if it doesn’t compare to what she just shared. “Junior year I took this art history class–”
Her brows jump, and she cranes her neck to look at me like she misheard. “Stop. You took an art history class?”
I roll my eyes. “It was mandatory. I thought I’d sleep through it and beg one of the girls in the class to partner up with me on the project, but it was actually pretty interesting. One thing we studied was the use of angels in art.” I pause, watching her lips part slightly, her breath catching like she already knows where I’m going. “They were never just soft and pretty, Ingrid. Not the way people think. They were rare. Messengers. Warnings. Gifts. They carried power, sometimes terrifying power, and they were a glimpse of something divine–something untouchable. Not meant for ordinary people to hold on to.”
