Seduction by Song (15 page)

“Oh?” Maddie asks, perking up noticeably.

“It’s just—Romeo told me he didn’t do, um, what
we
did with just any girl,” I start.

Maddie croons and makes these baby sounds until I wave a hand to get her to shush.

“And it’s not that I don’t believe him—I totally do—but Dante said he should—.” I pause, trying to find a less crude way of saying it.

“Leave some ass for the rest of us next time?” Maddie suggests.

I blink at her. That was
exactly
what he’d said.

She must read surprise on my face because she pats my arm and smiles. “His voice carries. We all heard. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. He’s probably not talking about
groupies
or anything. He was probably making a joke about Romeo’s wife.”

I drop the fork in my hand, metal clattering harshly onto the plate in front of me. My eyes go so wide that I know I must look ridiculous, but I can’t bring myself to care one bit in light of this bombshell Maddie just dropped on me. “His
wife
?”

She blinks, like she has no idea why I’m surprised. It takes a few seconds before she gasps, clapping her hands over her mouth. “Oh my gosh, no! Not an
actual
wife. That was just an inside joke—I’m sorry.”

I stare as she shakes her head, dropping her hands again to reveal a grin.

“I forgot that you don’t follow Romeo’s life as much as I do,” she says, sounding genuinely apologetic, “and that you wouldn’t know about this joke. It
is
just a joke, Erin, please stop looking so terrified. There’s just these rumors on the net that he’s secretly married or something, but those are
obviously
false. I mean, how could a guy as famous as Romeo Ortiz be married and keep it a secret, right?”

Even with that explanation, which—I
guess
makes sense, I can’t get myself to relax. My hand shakes a little when I pick up the fork again, and I have to take several deep breaths before I can force a smile. “Oh.”

Maddie cringes. “I’m sorry. I totally ruined the mood, huh?”

“A little bit,” I tell her. I nudge her under the table, though, and smile a bit easier. “It’s okay. Just a joke, right?”

She nods, very quickly. “Uh-huh. Like, 95% certain it’s a joke.”

It’s my turn to cringe now. I
really
didn’t need to hear that it wasn’t
100%
not a joke, but I try not to overthink it. Romeo would have told me if he were married. It wasn’t some little thing like
hey, I drive a motorcycle
or
I have to admit, I don’t floss every night
that could be left until the third date. It wasn’t something Romeo would have lied to me about.

Even though I can’t convince myself of this—can’t convince myself with 100% certainty, that is—I try not to worry too much about a few rumors that probably aren’t true. “So who’s he rumored to be married to, then?”

“Oh,
loads
of people,” she says, laughing. “The most popular candidate is Louise Valdez, his band manager’s daughter. Like that would ever happen, am I right?”

I force myself to laugh, too, even though I feel my chest getting a bit tight with jealousy at just the thought of it.

“A bunch of other actresses, too, and—oh my
God
, get this. One magazine was saying he could be married to a
guy
, which, um, hel
lo
. Obviously not gay.”

The thought of that is so outlandish that I manage to relax a little and laugh a bit more naturally. If the rumors were so wild, then they had to be false. They
had
to be.

A quick flash of the memory of Romeo’s mouth on mine, whispering promises of
mine
and
together
, flares in my mind. I knew I could trust him.

I did trust him. I sigh and finally relax. Of
course
it was a joke. I was so silly for doubting Romeo so easily. I smile at Maddie and laugh along with her. It did seem just like the kind of stupid joke Dante would make after catching Romeo in bed with me—the guy was rude, but probably also a bit lonely. I almost felt bad for him and could understand why he would act out like that.

Maddie helps me with the dishes even though I insist I do them since he cooked. She heads out after another hour or so of vegging out on the couch with me, wanting to head to the mall to return a pair of shoes that didn’t fit just right. Just before she goes, I remember that I completely forgot to tell her and the others about Tampa tonight.

“Oh my God!” she shrills when I bring it up. “Yes, yes,
yes
! Of course we’ll go to tonight’s show. Two concerts in two days? This is the best week of my
life
.”

She hugs my tightly and tells me not to worry about telling the girls—she wants to break the news to them. I smile and just tell her not to be late. We could all carpool there together later that night.

“Gas is on me,” she promises. “It’s the least I could do.”

I try to protest and suggest we split it, but she’s having none of it. After blowing me her traditional send-off kiss, she disappears with a cheery, “
Ciao
!”

Left to my own devices, I pull my laptop up and try to do some work on my research paper. I can’t focus for even a minute, though, the memory of Romeo still burning hot in my mind. I find myself gravitating towards the net, clicking through my search history to find the “research” I had done on Romeo to understand what the fuss was all about.

I sigh, heavy and happy, as I scroll through some images. I didn’t understand why he was so popular with the girls before I met him—he was attractive, of course, but the blurry photos didn’t do him justice. Now that I knew how his muscles rippled under my hands and how his eyes twinkled with lust when he was hard, I knew
exactly
why he was so popular.

How did I get to be the lucky girl to have him all to myself?

Before I go back to my official schoolwork (which I promise myself I would do in just a minute here), I click over to the news tab of Google to see if there were any pictures from last night’s concert popping up around the web. Maybe there would even be one or two of me. I blush at the thought of being caught on camera with Romeo, but it isn’t a blush of shame—the thought of having been seen kissing him so passionately was thoroughly exciting to me.

Maybe I could even find one clear enough to use as my laptop screensaver.

What I found wasn’t a picture or two, though. What I found made my jaw drop.

The sight that greets me on the news is borderline
horrifying
.

Dozens and dozens of articles with timestamps of no more than twenty-four hours ago pop up on my screen. Each and every one of them features a thumbnail photograph of Romeo’s show last night, clearly depicting his mouth on mine.

Romeo’s New Girl: Could This Be Love?

The New Cinderella Story—A Kiss at Midnight

Fans Getting to Close? Get the full scoop here!

The headlines go on and on, every article mentioning the mysterious “Erin” that Romeo kissed so passionately. It seems like every single blogger on the net wants to know who I am, what my intentions are, and—my eyes go wide at one of the questions—what my cup size is.

Half a dozen articles congratulate me on being the new Ms. Ortiz while half of those wonder if I’m not the
old
Ms. Ortiz, finally revealed to the public in a stunning display of affection. (Most of the articles laugh this mention of Romeo’s secret wife off as a joke, so I guess Maddie’s inside joke really was a pretty popular joke—I should have been more thorough with my research.)

One article, the most recent one, asks
why is Romeo’s Erin evading email inquiries from the press?

I have to blink several times to make sure I read that right. I hadn’t been checking my email, of course, since I woke up. My hands begin to tremble again as I navigate to my inbox, dreading what might be waiting for me there.

How could they have gotten my email address?
I ask myself as the page loads. It was impossible. Perhaps they heard me tell Romeo my name on stage, but they couldn’t possibly know anything else about me.

When my inbox finally loads, I’m proven dead wrong.

Hundreds of unread emails are waiting for me and more flood in by the second. They’re all asking for interviews and photographs, for details and wedding dates. My head begins to spin. This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t famous—I wasn’t anyone. Why did any of these people care?

Unthinkingly, I click one email that stands out. I don’t recognize the name of the sender, but they don’t have the word
Magazine
or
Studio
attached to the end of their name and they haven’t included a subject.

The email is one single line:

If you touch him again, I’ll fucking kill you.

When I was a child, I would hide in my bedroom when my parents fought with my brother. I placed headphones over my ears and played my music way too loud to block out the sound of it. When the music wasn’t loud enough, I would sing to cover up the noise downstairs. Things were better these days, my father and brother having called a reluctant truce after my mother’s death. Those days weren’t all bad, either—at the very least, they gave me an appreciation of music that I would never lose.

Today, I find myself cowering in my bedroom just like I did as a child. I had left my laptop out in the living room, desperately wanting to erase the memory of those vile things people said about me online. Without music, I began to hum to myself. It took what felt like hours for me to calm down, for my hands and legs to stop shaking.

Then, the knock comes. I startle at the sound of it, a yelp escaping my lips. My legs lock up and I edge myself back into a corner, as though that would protect me from what was on the other side of my front door.

“Open up, Erin!” a familiar man’s voice shouts.

I breathe out a sigh of relief. It was only Logan, my brother. He—wasn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes (we’d never gotten along, not even after our mother succumbed to cancer), but at least he wasn’t a crazed fan or reporter trying to gouge my eyes out. I draw in a deep breath and try to make myself look presentable before marching myself over to the door.

When I pull it open, Logan is already frowning like I’ve done something wrong.

“Do you know how
horrible
it is to have a sister like you?” he asks, a snarl curling his lips.

The verbal attack is so sudden and unexpected that I step back as though he had hit me physically. I stare at him, eyes wide and jaw slack. “What the hell are you talking about, Logan?”

His shoulders bunch up with tension. He’s never used physical violence with me, but I was instantly afraid that this was the moment he would start. He sighs, finally, and slouches.

“The fuck do you think I’m talking about, Erin. You had me so
worried
.” He growls in frustration and fists his hands in his hair, tension returning to him in an instant. “What are you doing messing around with that guy?  Don’t you—hell, Erin. The guys at the garage have been
jeering
over you. You’re my baby sister. How do you think that makes me feel?”

I gasp. If the news had already reached Fort Lauderdale—I shudder, not wanting to think about what my father would say. The man was kind and nothing like his son, but I couldn’t bear the thought of possibly disappointing him.

“How the hell am I supposed to work and support Dad while I’m
worrying
about you like this,” Logan rambles on. “Do you even know how irresponsible that is?”

I fist my hands at my sides. I want to scream for him to shut up, for him to stop talking to me like that. I want to tell him that
he’s
the one that knocked up a teenager at prom, then refused to pay for her abortion on top of that. I want to throw him out of my apartment and lock him out of my life forever, but all I can do is hang my head and stare at my feet.

“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. The whole world seems to disagree, though. The news articles, the outraged fans, and even my own brother. Maybe they were right. Maybe I
had
done something wrong.

When I dare to peek up, I see disgust written all over Logan’s face. “I’m saying these things for your own good, Erin. I wouldn’t say any of this to someone I didn’t care about.”

I bite back bitter tears. He’s right, in a way. I know he doesn’t want to see me get hurt, but I’m not a
baby
anymore. He can’t expect to keep making these decisions for me.

“He—this guy, this kind of guy can’t be trusted,” Logan repeats. “He cares about fame and money and whores that throw themselves at him, and
nothing
else. You can’t just be another woman he fucks and—.”