Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Annabelle
The second the back door shuts behind us and the roar of the arena fades, I round on Bryce like I’m about to perform an exorcism.
I’m shaking, partly from adrenaline, partly from rage, and partly because Bryce Blackhorn is standing three feet away looking unfairly hot under a flickering alley light like he belongs on a movie poster titled: Terrible Decisions, Volume One.
My voice comes out sharper than intended.
“See? See? This is exactly what I mean, Bryce. One second you’re fine and the next, boom…headline. Chaos. Media wildfire. This is not what the Outlaws need.”
He drags a hand down his face, jaw tight.
“You think I wanted that?”
A notification pings from his phone. Then another. And another.
I don’t have to see the screen to know what it is.
Public opinion sharpening its knives.
Bryce exhales heavily, pacing one frustrated step before turning back toward me.
“Look, I get it. I have a reputation. And yeah, sometimes I’ve earned it.” His eyes lock onto mine: intense, amber, too honest. “But sometimes? This crap just happens. Because people are looking for something, anything.”
I cross my arms, fighting the urge to shout, hug him, or throw his phone into oncoming traffic. Not sure which impulse is strongest.
“The crowd shoved me.”
“And I caught you. Which is the part every headline conveniently skipped.”
That stirs something hot in my chest, anger or embarrassment, I can’t tell.
He steps closer, voice low.
“You want honesty? I can’t go home half the time because reporters camp outside my driveway looking for a story. And if they don’t find one," he gestures toward his buzzing phone, “they make one.”
I blink because I wasn’t ready for vulnerability. I was prepared for deflection, sarcasm, maybe a wink. Not this.
And for one terrifying second, I almost soften.
Almost.
Then his phone dings again.
Reality crashes back.
“We need to get this under control,” I mutter, spinning toward the door.
“And by ‘we,’” Bryce says behind me, “you mean you’re going to threaten a photographer.”
I stop walking. “If necessary? Yes.”
His grin is infuriating.
“I’m starting to think you enjoy bossing me around.”
I throw him a glare sharp enough to qualify as a weapon. He leans in, not touching me, just near enough that my pulse forgets how to function.
“Relax, sweetheart.” The word is soft, teasing… dangerous.
“I don’t relax,” I snap.
“I noticed.”
***
The second we step back through the backstage doorway, energy slams into us with voices, laughter, and the hum of post-concert adrenaline.
Dex spots us instantly and points like a delighted toddler discovering a forbidden button.
“LOOK. The chaotic couple returns. You guys missed the encore.”
“We are not a couple,” I say automatically.
Colby raises his hands. “That’s exactly what a couple caught in a scandal would say.”
I grit my teeth. “No. That’s what a professional PR rep says when she is one incident away from losing her sanity.”
“Same vibe,” Dex says cheerfully.
Bryce moves past me, bumping my shoulder lightly, not enough to knock me off balance, just enough to make me notice.
Of course I notice.
His presence is like gravity: unnecessary and impossible to ignore.
I spot the photographer near the catering table, the same one who took the angle-from-hell photo.
He’s scrolling his phone, looking far too pleased with himself.
Perfect.
Time for diplomacy.
Or… whatever my version of diplomacy is at this point.
I march toward him.
“Hey,” I say sharply.
He startles, looks up, and recognizes me instantly.
“Oh,” he says, grinning. “Mystery woman. Looking for a copy of the picture?”
“No,” I say sweetly, the kind of sweet that causes fear in small animals and hockey players. “You’re going to delete it.”
He laughs.
Like this is adorable flirtation and not the beginning of a legal war.
“Come on,” he says. “It's harmless publicity.”
I stare at him, slow and cold.
“Listen carefully,” I say. “That photo implies Bryce assaulted a woman. That’s not gossip. That’s defamation. So, unless you personally enjoy the idea of your bank account being medically declared deceased, remove it.”
His jaw drops a little. “Okay, wow…”
Footsteps approach behind me.
Bryce.
He doesn’t say a word.
He just stands there large, quiet, and radiating don’t screw with her energy.
The photographer swallows.
“Deleting it now.”
“Good choice,” I say, and turn away before I choke him with his own lanyard.
***
“Alright,” Mason announces, clapping his hands. “Celebration continues at Jax & Company. Drinks, food, zero paparazzi allowed.”
“Zero?” Dex asks skeptically.
“Okay,” Mason adjusts, “three. Tops. Maybe five.”
We walk to the restaurant-bar which is filled with dim lights, leather booths, and music just loud enough to make eavesdropping difficult.
The host seats us in a long booth. I attempt to sit far from Bryce.
Dex, the traitor and chaos goblin extraordinaire, blocks me with his arm.
“Nope. Assigned seating. Lovers’ quarrel section is right here.”
“I’m not...”
But Dex physically maneuvers me into the seat next to Bryce before I can finish.
I consider stabbing him with a butter knife.
Bryce settles next to me, smug and relaxed.
“Comfortable?” he murmurs.
“I will tase you if necessary.”
“Careful," he murmurs. "You're starting to sound like you may be flirting with me.”
"You wish, Blackhorn."
Nachos arrive. Wings arrive. Something involving barbecue sauce arrives and Dex immediately looks like he wants to marry it.
Conversation explodes around the table.
Colby raises his glass.
“To Bryce, our walking PR hurricane. May he trend for positive reasons one day.”
Everyone cheers.
Bryce shrugs. “Unlikely, but I appreciate the optimism.”
Janie grins at me. “Annabelle, blink twice if you're being held hostage by his charm.”
“I’m immune to whatever that is,” I reply.
Harper sips her margarita. “Sweetheart, no one is immune to that.”
Bryce nods his head, genuinely intrigued.
“You think I’m charming?”
“Oh no,” I say, horrified, “absolutely not. I think you’re…”
“Pretty?” Dex supplies.
“Unavoidable?” Mia suggests.
“A professional hazard?” Colby adds.
“Yes,” I say. “That one.”
Bryce just watches me… steady, unreadable, and definitely amused.
It bothers me how calm he looks compared to the storm brewing in my chest.
The table gets louder, debating ranch vs. blue cheese with the passion of a Supreme Court hearing.
I focus on my drink.
Bryce lowers his voice so only I can hear.
“Thanks for handling that backstage.”
“You mean threatening someone? Yes. You're welcome.”
“I meant having my back.”
The words hit somewhere I’m not prepared for.
“I wasn’t doing it for you,” I say too quickly. “It was for the team. For PR. For me, too.”
“Sure,” he says. “I must say, though, it was a bit of a turn-on seeing you take charge like that.”
I glare. He smiles in a slow, warm, and annoyingly genuine way.
And my heart does something stupid.
A few minutes later, the night winds down. The last of the wings disappear, the table is littered with empty glasses and crumpled napkins, and everyone looks a mix of exhausted and wired.
Dex stretches like he’s preparing for battle. “Alright, children. Shuttle’s waiting. Let’s get Bryce escorted before he accidentally adopts another scandal on the walk to the parking lot.”
“I don’t adopt scandals,” Bryce mutters.
“You attract them like raccoons attract trash cans,” Colby replies, patting him on the shoulder.
The group heads toward the exit in a slow-moving cluster. I hang back, needing air and space.
A hand brushes mine.
Not grabbing. Not guiding. Just… there.
Bryce.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “We’ll take you to your car.”
It’s not a question. Yet somehow, it doesn’t feel like control. It feels more like concern.
I hate that it matters.
We climb into the shuttle, a sleek black Mercedes van clearly designed for celebrities or transporting highly volatile egos.
Everyone finds a seat.
There is one spot left. Next to him.
Fantastic.
I slide in, deliberately keeping an inch of space between us, which is the emotional equivalent of building a pillow fort.
The shuttle pulls away. The city passes by in streaks of neon and shadow.
No one speaks for a moment. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Then Bryce’s phone buzzes. Again.
He glances at the screen, jaw ticking. Then he turns the phone toward me.
brEAKING: Bryce Blackhorn leaves concert holding hands with mystery woman. Romance confirmed?
The picture below it? Us. Hand-in-hand. My face mid-glare. His mid-smirk.
The shuttle erupts.
Dex gasps dramatically. “OH THIS IS GLORIOUS. You two were holding hands?”
"Yeah, asshole, when I was trying to get her out of the concert safely."
Colby claps like a deranged seal. “I’m framing this.”
Mia bites her lip to hide a grin. Harper doesn’t bother.
“Well…” Harper says, thoughtful. “You two might as well go ahead and pick wedding colors.”
I groan and drop my head into my hands.
“Burn the internet,” I mutter. “Just burn it.”
Bryce lowers his voice until it curls just beneath my skin.
“Guess we’re officially a story now.”
“I am going to lose my mind,” I whisper.
He chuckles.
“Don’t panic. It could be worse. You could be stuck with someone boring.”
My eyes snap to his. His are warm. Honest. Dangerous.
And that’s when Dex blurts, loudly enough to wake every ghost in Tennessee:
“SOOOOOOOO, should I put you two down as ‘together’ or ‘it’s complicated’? I’m making bets.”
Everyone laughs. Everyone except me.
Because Bryce doesn’t laugh.
He just looks at me. Long enough for something inside my ribcage to trip, fall, and stay down.
The shuttle slows. My stop.
I grab my keys. "Thank God this night is finished."
I stand. Bryce stands too. Too close. Too steady.
His voice drops low to a whisper.
“We’re not finished, Annabelle.”
I swallow. Hard.
“We never even started.”
His smile is slow, knowing, and reckless.
“Oh sweetheart… you have no idea.”
The door slides open. Cold night air rushes in.
And as I step out, pulse wrecked and sanity questionable, one truth hits me with the force of a slapshot:
I am in so much trouble.