Page 60 of We Own the Stars

“It’s alright,” he says before running his hands through his hair, pushing the tangled blond web away from his eyes. My throat hitches. I want to be the one to run my fingers through his hair, dammit. Me. “I get it. You needed an outlet. I’m happy to provide one to you, if that’s what you want. If you want to keep everything quiet. It would make things less complicated.”

“It would make you akin to a prostitute,” I say, again more harshly than I wanted it to sound. No fucking filter on my mouth, I swear. Wincing, I add, “I mean … if we had sex with you still on my payroll. It’s unethical.”

“It sure is,” he says, chuckling and shaking his head like I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out. “And yet there’s nothing I would love more than to see you smile day in, day out, no matter the cost.”

We stare at each other in the dying light of the sun’s rays for a long moment, in complete silence.

Finally, I sit up and cup his face between my palms. “Fuck it,” I say, and lean in to kiss him deeply. Our mouths meet in a frantic burst of passion. Our bodies melt into one another like they belong together.

They do, I tell myself. They do. We belong together, and no one is going to tell me otherwise.

32XAVIAN

Emily and I fall into a comfortable domestic routine within the apartment. Our own private bubble. Aiken continues to take marks, so we don’t see him around as often, which is a good thing, because being cooped up at home with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is almost too good to be true. It’s only been a week, but Emily and I fit together like an old married couple, as corny as that is.

So far, we’ve watched about ten movies (she picked eight of those) and made out for an added total of six hours. I’m just guessing on that last one, but it definitely felt like six hours’ worth of kissing to me. My jaw is sore.

Once Friday morning rolls around, the muscles in my body are starting to get too tense for comfort, so I roll out of bed and open my dresser to pull out my gym clothes. Emily has been sleeping in my bed all week, but we haven’t had sex. I’ve wanted to. Oh, god, have I wanted to. But this isn’t the right time. I can tell she’s still hurting, and it’s the sort of pain only a decent therapist will be able to help her unpack. That stings, of course, because there’s nothing I’d love to do more than help her in a way that’s actually meaningful. Kisses and movies are great, but they’re not a decent substitute for professional help.

I throw on my gym clothes and grab my duffel bag before planting a swift peck on the top of Emily’s head, taking care not to wake her. Then I head down three flights of stairs to the quiet streets of Toronto. The city isn’t awake yet. Hell, the birds are barely even awake. As I look up at the sky and draw in a deep breath, I’m overcome with a sense of peace I haven’t felt since I was a scrappy kid with a head full of dreams and nonsense. Before I got picked up for Terraball. Definitely long before I became a bounty hunter, that’s for sure.

It's autumn in Toronto, and in the warm sunlight, the trees are a symphony of rust and gold, waving a friendly farewell before they flutter down to the streets. I need to take Emily on a walk later. Margot called at the start of the week with strict instructions not to let her leave the apartment until things die down, but I checked the media. Things aren’t going to die down anytime soon. Who knew that trying to murder a pop star would keep you in the news cycle longer than twenty-four hours? Amazing.

There’s no way Emily can stay cooped up in that apartment for more than a week.

I could listen to Margot and hold her hostage. Show her some more movies, feed her organic bullshit, cuddle her until she’s sick of it. Provide those sorts of distractions. But it wouldn’t be healthy—to hell with what her label wants her to do. Starving her and keeping her out of the sun is going to make her wilt. Kal needs a heavy dose of vitamin D. Besides, I want to show off my hometown a little, I guess.

I jog to the gym instead of taking the hoverbus. Jets and airbikes soar above me so close they nearly nick my scalp, a reminder that the city hasn’t changed a bit since I left it. When I reach the corner of Spadina and Wales and make my way toward Bellevue Square Park, my terminal beeps to life. With a gentle flick of my wrist, I bring up the call before I have a chance to see who it is.

“Good morning, Xavian,” Margot’s terse voice says as I jog toward the entrance of the park. “Out for your morning jog, I take it?”

I stop running to sit down on a nearby bench. “Yeah,” I exhale, and wipe some of the sweat from my brow. “What can I do for you, Margot?”

“How’s our girl holding up, first of all?” she asks.

“Good. She’s good.” Not a lie. She’s been great, actually, thanks to the many orgasms I’ve supplied her, but it’s not like I’m about to tell her manager that.

“Great. Love to hear it,” Margot says, but her voice still has an edge to it. “Unfortunately, I have some bad news. Kal’s next album was slated for next June, but thanks to the media circus and upcoming trial, the studio has decided to postpone it.”

I frown. Emily’s not going to like the sound of that. “Till when?”

“Indefinitely,” Margot says. We stare at each other for a long moment, then she swallows. “Yeah. I know. It’s going to upset her. She was really looking forward to that album.”

“Any particular reason why?” I ask.

Margot sighs. “Well, the execs finally gave her permission to write four songs. They haven’t let her do that in a while. Not since her first album. She’s been begging for ages.”

I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. Fuck. Poor Emily. Poor woman’s been dying for a creative outlet. To have it given to her only for it to be snatched away like that? An ache nestles deep within my chest. “I see,” I murmur. What else can I say?

“Indeed. Well, that’s all I wanted to tell you about this morning. Everything is moving at a glacial pace. Luckily, no one in their right mind is going to pay sixty million credits for bail on this guy,” Margot says. “So there’s that, at least.”

A kid on an airbike zooms over my head, laughing maniacally as he nearly takes a chunk of my hair off. Margot winces. I curse loudly enough for the kid to hear, but quickly turn my attention back to Margot.

“Sorry, people are being real assholes this morning,” I mutter as I rub the back of my head.

“I can see that. I’ll let you get back to it. Give Kallista my love,” she says, and before I can get in another word, she disappears from the screen.

I don’t get up from the bench right away. The information Margot just handed off to me is too heavy. It should have been Margot’s responsibility to break that news to Emily, so why did she just delegate that unsavory task to me? Part of me wants to call Margot back and dig into her about it, but the other part says that maybe it’s because she trusts me enough to break the news gently. Maybe the ball-busting manager is starting to warm up to me after all.

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