Chapter 7 #2
I don’t answer right away. I’m reading Grayson Hayes’s official statement—a carefully crafted bit of press manipulation designed to make him look like a wounded saint.
His statement reads like a PR master class: “Charlie and I request space during this difficult time. We appreciate your understanding as we navigate these personal challenges away from the public eye.”
But the ambiguity might as well be Charlie’s social death sentence. The comments are a flood of support for her apparently jilted beau. Poor Grayson. He deserves better. She never appreciated what she had.
Forrest drops onto the bench beside me with a grunt, tugging at his bootlaces. I catch him exchanging a look with Saylor—that silent bro-code communication where eyebrows do all the talking.
“I can see you two,” I mutter. “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit.”
Forrest claps a hand on my shoulder. “Sora’s locked away working on her manuscript, and I don’t get Koda back until next week. My schedule is wide open for whatever existential crisis you’re having.”
Instead of answering, I flip my phone around and hold it up.
Forrest squints at it. “The singer?”
“Yeah.
“Read the headlines.”
Forrest scans the article, then hands the phone to Saylor.
“Okay, so she cheated on that douchebag who is ruining the Marvel remakes, by the way. Cheating is hardly news in Hollywood, mate. Did you place a bet on this couple or something?” Say asks.
“She’s not cheating,” I answer flatly. “Because they’re in a fake relationship.”
Forrest lifts his brows so high they nearly disappear into his hairline, his expression shifting from confusion to concern like someone watching a friend claim they were abducted and probed by aliens. “And you care because?”
“I’m the guy in the photos. I caused this.”
“Come again?” Forrest asks.
An eavesdropping Cam stops rubbing his neck and swivels around. Saylor’s jaw drops as he zeroes in on the picture on my phone. “No way, mate. You’re way too tall to be this guy. Are you sure it’s you?”
“That’s because I’m practically folded in half. Charlie barely comes up to my shoulder.” I tap the blurry image on my screen. “But yeah, that’s me. I know because I was there. We weren’t—it wasn’t what they’re saying. She was upset, I gave her a hug, that’s it.”
“How did you end up in Charlie Riley’s penthouse?” Cam asks accusingly.
“Why? Jealous?”
“Uh, yeah. I’d leap with that. How is she?” he asks.
I have to bunch my fist like I’m squeezing an invisible stress ball to avoid wrapping it around Cam’s neck.
Mental note: petition Rina for veto power on group chat additions.
I can’t control who she hires, but this human embodiment of a participation trophy needs to stay approximately thirteen zip codes away from me.
“How did this happen?” Forrest says. “Rina doesn’t like celebrity clientele. Too much risk for gossip.”
“Charlie wasn’t a job,” I explain. “She was a…” What exactly was that?
Wrong place, wrong time? Or exactly where I needed to be with exactly the right person?
How do you categorize a head-on collision that leaves no wreckage, just endless unanswered questions?
“I was at the wrong hotel. Autocorrect of all things. We met, and we…talked. She sang outside on the patio which maybe is what invited the cameras.”
Cam pries my phone from Saylor’s death grip and examines the image. “That doesn’t look like talking.”
“It’s complicated,” I huff out.
“Like you guys were talking in your underwear?”
“I’m fully dressed, and she’s wearing clothes. A pajama shirt and…” Well, I’m not going to say tight little pink spandex that I wanted to peel off her like a banana out loud. “Shorts.”
“It’ll pass. It always does. Impossible to make you out in this photo, mate. You’ll be fine,” Say offers, firm in his resolve.
“I wasn’t worried about me,” I admit. “I can’t imagine she’s taking this well.”
“Have you talked to her?” Hawk asks.
I shake my head. “After we saw the cameras going off, she snuck me out of the service elevator and I basically fled the scene. She was terrified. I didn’t want to stress her out anymore.
I did exactly what she needed. I disappeared.
I don’t know how to get a hold of her. I’m sure she’s not checking her social media at the moment.
I doubt she’s still at the hotel. I mean I could swing by, maybe? ”
“Don’t you think you two being seen together would make things far worse?”
I nod solemnly. “Fair.”
Hawk pats me on the back, all chummy and supportive. “Her people have people. They will handle it. That’s what they do. There’s an entire army of protection around Charlie Riley. She’ll be fine. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I know.” But they didn’t meet the girl I did.
So broken, hopeless, and very much alone.
What good is an army if they can’t stop her from drowning in her own head?
Who’s treating her like a person, and who is treating her like a product?
Are those paper hearts her mom left going to be enough?
I can’t help but worry because for better or worse, we had a moment.
An exchange of vulnerability that somehow tethers us to each other and has left me with all these damn questions.
“All right, beer o’clock.” Cam slams the locker after collecting his stuff. The welt is angrier than ever and I know he’s going to screech like a baby bird when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
“I’m going to take a rain check,” I say, holding out my hand until Cam returns my phone. I pocket my phone carefully like it’s a bomb that’ll erupt at any moment. “Black Cat’s probably planning my murder.”
“You still haven’t named that thing?” Hawk asks.
“Black Cat is his name.”
“That’s a description, not a name. A pet should have a real name,” Saylor adds.
“He’s not my pet. We’re cohabiting, not bonding.
Any day the call of the wild is going to whisk him right back on the streets of Brooklyn.
” But not even I believe that. Black Cat is getting a little thick, like a few new-relationship-happy pounds, which makes me think this drifter thinks we’re in some sort of commitment situation. He’s wrong. I don’t do that anymore.
“Didn’t you buy him a heated blanket?” Say asks. “I remember because you used my Prime account.”
I glower at Saylor for calling me on my bullshit. “It’s February in the Northeast. I’m unattached, I’m not a monster.”
We say our goodbyes in the parking lot—Forrest and Saylor reluctantly agreeing to one beer with youngblood over here.
I climb into the back of my budget Uber that arrives right on time.
A tiny Corolla that can barely contain me.
I have to bend my legs like a wilted spider to fit in the back seat.
Once I’m somewhat situated, I go back to my own internet sleuthing, pulling down on the screen, hoping for new articles related to my “Charlie Riley” search.
To my surprise, a new one posted barely five minutes ago.
I lunge to the CelebNow article, hungry for the details.
Headline: Charlie Riley Cancels Boston Show: “Personal Reasons” Cited
The first few lines of the article speculate that the entire tour is canceled and Charlie is dragging out the inevitable for attention.
My chest tightens. Again, that’s not true.
She told me she wanted to finish the damn thing, to show up for her fans, to reignite her passion for performing.
This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t part of the plan.
And now? She’s worse off for knowing me.
I should’ve gotten her number. Should’ve thought past the moment.
But everything happened so fast—the boyfriend bomb, the fake-relationship explanation, the awkward goodbye, the elevator ride where I convinced myself it was cleaner this way.
Ships in the night. A collision that was never meant to last.
So why do I feel responsible?
And why did that goodbye feel like a beginning?
Black Cat is stationed by the door when I get home, his grumpiness radiating.
“Hey.” I toss my keys on the counter. “Miss me?”
He meows—a sound that roughly translates to: My dinner is late. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.
“You have an automatic feeder. You’re literally the least neglected creature in Brooklyn.” But the kibble won’t cut it. He wants his wet food, served on his stainless-steel platter, the bougie little beast.
Another demanding meow.
“Fine,” I grumble, fully recognizing who owns whom. I don’t have a cat, I have a furry overlord.
I fork tuna into his bowl and watch him attack it like it’s personally wronged him. Even with Black Cat’s coos of appreciation between the satisfied smacking sounds while he eats, the apartment feels too quiet. Too small. Too alone.
I check my phone again and am disappointed to see #CheaterCharlie still trending and on the rise.
I read the comments, looking for the unsung heroes defending her, urging the trolls not to jump to conclusions because hugging someone isn’t a crime.
But the unsung heroes are buried under the avalanche of hate and negativity.
All of this over a hug… No wonder Charlie hates the spotlight.
It never highlights the good. Only the unhinged.
I have to get in touch, somehow. I need to figure out a way to help, or at least promise Charlie she has my discretion. I should—
Knock, knock.
I freeze. No one knocks. The building has a buzzer, and my friends would’ve texted before they showed up to make sure I had beer.
Another knock. Sharp. Impatient.
Who the fuck?
Trying to keep my footsteps quiet, I make my way to the door and check the peephole.
A woman. Tall, angular, red-brown hair pulled back in a tight, low ponytail.
Structured blazer. Silk blouse. The kind of understated elegance that indicates she’s important.
Even her posture radiates authority—arms crossed, chin lifted, the expression of someone who bills by the hour and deeply resents every second she’s wasting.
Oh fuck—she’s giving lawyer vibes. Maybe she’s here on Charlie’s behalf to serve me a gag order.
Hiring an escort can’t look good for her reputation, but I’ll just calmly explain nothing happened and no money changed hands…
I slowly pull open the door. “Yes?”
Her eyes sweep over me, cataloging the paint-speckled jeans, the rumpled shirt, whatever haunted expression I’m currently wearing.
The assessment takes two seconds. I don’t pass.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mumbles under her breath.
“Taio Wilkes.” She says my name like a statement, not a question.
I answer anyway. “That’d be me.”
“I’m Sage Hilston, the head of Charlie Riley’s PR team.” Her eyes narrow, her tone is ice, wrapped in smooth silk. “We need to talk. Or, more accurately, you need to listen.”