Chapter 24
Ismeralda
I collapse onto the loveseat, my legs no longer able to hold me, sobbing into one of the decorative pillows. How did I misread Gabe so badly? I thought we had a chance at a relationship, especially after those heart-melting kisses. Did I mean nothing to him other than a fun fling and a job?
I allow myself three minutes to wallow in self-pity over the implosion of my “relationship” with Gabe. Sobbing, punching the pillow, and berating myself for my bad choices in men, I try to get the hunky bodyguard out of my mind.
How ironic. My life mirrors a movie. How did I let myself fall in love with him?
After the theatrics are done, I dry my eyes and blow my nose, then pick up my phone and dial.
“What the heck, Ismeralda!” my agent shouts, answering on the first ring. “How could you be a no-show?” she screeches. If Barbara wasn’t such an excellent agent and promoter, I’d fire her on the spot. Instead, I listen to her scold me for fifteen seconds, then cut her off. In retrospect, it was a terrible idea to not inform her of the stalker threat, but at the time both Winston and Gabe wanted only my closest set of contacts to know.
“I was abducted at the hotel and locked in the janitor’s closet,” I say when she finally takes a breath.
“What?” she squeaks, quickly losing steam.
I explain everything that happened—from the first stalker email to being shoved into the closet to Gabe’s heroic rescue—excluding the Snickers bars binge. And the kiss.
“I need to reach out to the Denver bookstore owner to explain and apologize. I’d be happy to sign books tomorrow morning if he is agreeable.”
She sighs. “Unfortunately, your no-show is splashed all over the internet, currently one of the top five trending celebrity gossip topics. There’s lots of horrible comments out there, and some were posted by the store owner himself.”
Ouch! With today’s instant news, everything spreads like wildfire, be it good or bad. Although bad news seems to dominate the news cycle.
Straightening my shoulders, I say, “I’ll pass on reading all those comments. Should we do a press release that informs the media and gossip sites about the truth? Surely being locked in a closet by a stalker is a sufficient reason for missing a book signing. The sooner we get ahead of this story, the better.”
“Excellent suggestion! I’ll get right on that,” Barbara says.
“I also need to call the store owner to explain and apologize. Can you please give me his number?”
Barbara provides his information. After I hang up with her, I decide that calling him at nine o’clock at night and interrupting his private time is better than letting this fester any longer.
Before I place the call, my curiosity gets the best of me. I bring up my YouTube channel and my heart sinks. My over two million followers—the number I’ve prided myself in obtaining—has dropped by over thirty thousand and is still dropping before my eyes. Holding my head in my hands, I let tears stream down my face. Even though I was re-thinking my career and the fame and celebrity associated with it, I certainly didn’t want it to crash and burn like this. If the stalker meant to end my career, she did so.
~*~
The replacement bodyguard, Luke Fieldstone seems like a nice enough guy, about the same age as Gabriel but much shorter. My heart doesn’t flip in his presence like it does with Gabe. He’s rather stoic and humorless, taking this bodyguard assignment very seriously, as if he’s protecting the president. Not that Gabe took the assignment lightly, but I felt he appreciated and understood me, and that I wasn’t just a body that needed protection. I sure misread the tea leaves about that.
Unfortunately, the Denver bookstore owner declines to do an impromptu book signing tomorrow morning. Even though I explain my attack, his words are, “Maybe another time, Miss Harrington.” He probably anticipates my book sales numbers to plunge and he wants to cut his losses.
Panicking over losing any more of my followers, I quickly film a new makeup video. The double-winged eyeliner look is gaining popularity, but I haven’t featured it before. I first apply liner to the top lash, extend it outward, and end it in a winged tip. Then, a second wing is applied along the bottom lash line that echoes the top. My hands aren’t steady—due to a combination of lack of sleep and nerves—so I have to redo the makeup several times before it looks perfect.
At 4am, I finally post the video and then drop into bed exhausted, but sleep never comes. I spend the remainder of the night mulling over how quickly my life’s changed. Gabe fled like his pants were on fire, claiming he had no feelings for me, my YouTube followers are abandoning me in droves, and I may never sell another copy of my book.
To add insult to injury, the next morning my agent calls while I’m eating breakfast in my room. She informs me that she had to grovel and beg for the New York bookstore to keep my book signing on their schedule.
“You owe me one, Izzie,” Barbara grumbles. “I had to convince Pinky to do a book signing next week at the store, otherwise the New York store would have booted you.” My agent also represents the troubled former TV star whose book has been neck and neck with mine on the New York Times bestseller list for weeks.
Great. I’m now beholden to Barbara as well as Pinky “Scooter” Davis. Maybe Pinky would like some private makeup tips?
“Thank you so much!” I gush. “I’m sure my new bodyguard will ensure I get to the signing without incident.” After I hang up, I realize that I threw Gabe under the bus. The abduction was all my fault, not his. But I’m still peeved at him for running back to California as soon as his feelings got involved. Typical man.
Knock! Knock!
“Ready to go, Miss Harrington?” Luke asks when I open the door to my suite, after heeding Gabe’s advice and looking through the peephole first.
“I am,” I say, nodding towards my stack of luggage. Luke picks up the bags without a murmur of complaint and we walk together to the elevator.
“I trust you had a good night’s sleep?” I ask, making idle conversation as we’re whisked down to the lobby.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a polite nod.
Father rented a limo for the trip to the airport and it’s idling outside the hotel. Luke puts the bags in the trunk, then slides in beside me, careful not to get into my personal space. He immediately gets out his phone and spends the ride to the airport reading it.
Chin up, Izzie! I tell myself. Get through the next few days, then I need to disappear for a while to lick my wounds. I need to figure out how to get over Gabe and find a way to revive the career I don’t even want any longer. I’ve forced myself not to check the new video’s watch counter or my subscriber number. Just the thought makes me sick.
Maybe if I post some new innovative videos my followers will return. But do I want them to?