Chapter Twelve
“Lyric!”
“Ms. Adair!”
“Cash! Cash!”
“Over here!”
“This way! Lyric!”
“Can we get a photo of you two together?”
“You’re stunning!”
“Perfect! Can you just turn . . . ?”
Cameras clicked, photographers shouting over one another, desperate for the perfect picture of Hollywood’s new it couple.
It was dizzying—the noise, the crowd, the sheer number of faces she’d only ever seen on TV now standing mere feet away. Poppy
stood back, out of the way, soaking it all in and trying to blend into the background as much as possible and still—
“Over here! What’s your name? Can you turn for me?”
She froze like a deer in the headlights. For some reason they were—they were talking to her.
“Just smile,” Rosaline whispered, appearing at her side.
She glanced down at the badge dangling from around her neck, making sure she hadn’t dropped it. “Can’t they see my credentials?
I’m not—”
“You’re beautiful, Poppy,” Rosaline murmured, head tipped down, lips barely moving. “Who wouldn’t want pictures of you?” She glanced up at Poppy through her long, dark lashes and gave her a coy smile. “Bet they’d die for the pictures you’ve promised to send me.”
Poppy shuddered softly, breath leaving her body. She swayed on her heels and Rosaline’s fingertips pressed into the small
of her back, steadying her, keeping her from stumbling in front of what had to be at least a hundred cameras from outlets
all over the country.
“Rude,” she murmured. “Now I’m going to look like a tomato in every picture.”
Rosaline snickered. “A very cute tomato. Now, smile.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Poppy said in a sudden, unexpected burst of cheekiness.
Rosaline’s eyes widened and a sharp, too loud laugh popped out of her mouth. She shook her head, grinning. “You, Poppy Peterson,
are playing with fire.”
With that, she stepped away, striding gracefully down the carpet like it was a runway. Photographers called out to her by
name, but she paid them no mind, simply keeping a sort of reserved smile on her face as she followed Lyric, stopping when
she stopped, moving when she moved in a dance she had perfected.
Poppy smiled and—no, that was too much teeth. Looking like a rosy little hothouse tomato was one thing; the last thing she
wanted was to be likened to a deranged clown. What was that thing Tyra Banks always said? Smile with your eyes? A top model
she was not, but she did her best to follow that advice as she hurried after Cash.
For the most part, the two posed for photos together, separating at times for Lyric to step into the spotlight that, tonight, was rightfully hers.
Aside from the occasional eye-roll-worthy cajoling request from a photographer for them to give us a kiss, come on, so far, the night was off to a promising start.
Even those requests, as annoying as they were, could’ve been worse, but
Rosaline still glared, appearing to take mental note of the outlets responsible.
Poppy almost pitied them. Almost.
In seemingly no time at all, they reached the final batch of photographers. Lyric was posing alone, Cash standing off to the
side talking to the husband of an R & B singer currently topping the charts. Rosaline had her gaze trained on the sea of photographers,
flashing occasionally to Lyric.
Poppy hung back, smile flagging, feet already throbbing, the perils of purchasing a pair of shoes the day before an event
and not breaking them in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, turning slightly in the direction they’d just
come from when—what the fuck was she—there was no way she was seeing . . .
Maybe ten, twelve yards away, only slightly tucked away by a gauzy white partition that separated the photography area from
the publicist arrivals waiting tent, stood a white woman wearing the same sort of publicity credentials Poppy had on. She
was slipping off her modest kitten heels and reaching up for the halter tie of her unremarkable, unembellished black dress.
Poppy whipped her head around. Was no one seeing this? All of the photographers were so focused on the talent, on getting
the perfect shot, that no one but her, playing wallflower, seemed to notice. She quickly turned back to the absolute bizarre
spectacle playing out just in time to witness the dress hit the carpet and—okay, that was a lot of skin.
This was only her second big red carpet, so by no means would she claim to be well-versed in the goings on of what happened behind the scenes at these things, but she was 99.
9 percent sure this wasn’t normal. Unless it was some kind of performance piece?
Art? A Jackass-style revival she didn’t know about?
Guerrilla marketing, for what? No clue. A new album, maybe? Or maybe it was—
No.
Poppy’s jaw dropped.
The woman, whoever the hell she was, turned just enough that Poppy could make out the giant tattoo on her stomach.
A giant tattoo of Lyric’s face.
A full-color, giant tattoo of Lyric’s face circled with an even larger heart with script beneath it reading, Until death do us part.
Growing up in Portland, Poppy had been around her fair share of weird. From naked bike rides to the giant pumpkin regatta to the Freakybuttrue Peculiarium, Portland was known for weird. But this? This had to take the cake, topping her list of most strange spectacles Poppy had ever seen.
The woman was still tucked far enough away that none of the photographers could see her, and everyone on the carpet was either
busy posing or focused on their clients. All of the event staff was congregated at either end of the carpet, nowhere near
where she was. They say look to the helpers . . .
Rosaline might not know what was happening any more than Poppy, but she’d know what to do about—
Shit.
The naked woman with Lyric’s face tattooed on her stomach stepped out of her puddled dress and took off at a sprint down the
carpet, headed straight for Lyric.
There was no time to think. Like a middle linebacker rushing a running back who made it past the defensive line, Poppy charged, hurling herself at the streaker.
She tucked her head and dove, catching the woman around the waist and dragging her to the carpet, where they landed in a pile of limbs, Poppy’s face smushed against the lifelike tattoo of Lyric on the woman’s stomach.
Of course now, everyone was paying attention, cameras flashing wildly as the woman under Poppy shrieked and thrashed.
“Lyric!” the woman wailed. “Noooo! I have to see Lyric! Lyric!”
Poppy held her down as best she could—Jesus, this girl was strong. Or on something? PCP? Were bath salts still a thing? Poppy
grabbed wherever she could and—wow, that was definitely not an arm.
Spontaneous naked wrestling was not on the curriculum back when she was getting her bachelor’s in Public Relations at UO.
Not unless they counted expect the unexpected because there was no way anyone could’ve expected this, least of all Poppy.
Her own strength was beginning to flag when arms wrapped around her middle from behind and picked her up, lifting her off
the woman. She let herself be dragged backward toward the security tent as no fewer than five guards descended on the streaker.
“I love you, Lyric,” the streaker sobbed through snotty tears, still naked as the day she was born, while security hauled
her away in a different direction. “Just give me a chance and I swear I can make you so happy.”
“Holy shit, Poppy.” Cash—oh thank God, it was Cash who’d pulled her off the streaker—hugged her. “What the fuck was that?”
She pushed away from his chest, still trying to catch her breath. “I don’t—I don’t know I just—”
Rosaline stormed through the tent flaps, fury in her eyes.
“Are you insane?” Rosaline hissed, closing the distance between them. “What were you thinking?”
“I—”
“You’re not a fucking security guard, Poppy,” Rosaline snapped.
Poppy cringed. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Screw security guard.” Cash laughed. “She was more like a linebacker out there. Should I start calling you Ray Lewis?”
“This isn’t funny, Curran,” Rosaline snapped.
He crossed his arms, smile slipping into a scowl to rival hers. “You think I don’t know that? Some stalker fanatic creep just
tried to rush my girlfriend and I watched my best friend tackle her. Security hauled my girlfriend to a tent on the opposite
side of the carpet and who the fuck knows when I’ll be able to go see her because it looks like they put the whole theater
on lockdown.” He jerked his chin at the front of the tent where several event security guards stood blocking the entrance.
“If I can’t find some tiny shred of humor in this entirely fucked-up situation, I’m gonna go ballistic.”
Rosaline pursed her lips. “It was a nice tackle.”
“Good form, right?”
“I think Poppy lied when she told me she was bad at powder puff.”
Cash shook his head. “No, no, she really was terrible.”
“Oh my god,” Poppy said, voice faint. “I think I have a concussion.”
She’d never seen Cash snap into action so fast off the field, grabbing her face in his hands and staring intently into her
eyes. “What day is it?”
She slapped his hands away. “I’m kidding. I just feel like I’m experiencing some sort of, I don’t know, collective delusion.
You two, talking about my latent football talent? Really?”
He frowned. “That’s not a day, Pop-Tart.”
Rosaline sighed. “Seriously, Poppy? What in god’s name possessed you to do that?”
She’d honestly love to know the same. “I don’t know.
I was standing there, and suddenly, this woman starts stripping.
Part of me thought I was seeing things. Then I spot this ginormous tattoo of Lyric on her stomach and there was no one close by to help and there’s no protocol for this kind of thing, okay?
Then she takes off at a dead run and I just—” She shook her head. “I didn’t think, okay? I just—”
“Performed the greatest tackle to ever take place on a red carpet?” Cash chimed in.