Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(74)

“There’s only one more detail,” he says.

“Hmm?” My phone vibrates again with an incoming call, distracting me. I’m not going to look.

“I really need you to sign this.”

When I look up, he’s placing a file folder on the coffee table. He flips open the cover. It’s a contract.

My heart drops with a thunk that’s probably audible. “Brett, don’t do this. We’re not having this fight again.”

“I never wanted to fight,” he says in a low voice. “So let’s not. But I need your third album.”

“Why would I ever—”

“Just read it, Delilah. I put in a reversion clause. The language won’t allow us to hold back the third album. Or it’s automatically yours. There’s no way for you to lose out.”

Suddenly I’m blinking back hot tears. “But you already did that to me on this album! Why would I ever trust you?”

“It was a mistake,” he says. “I apologize. I was so upset at losing you, Dee. I went a little crazy.”

“You know I can’t sign this,” I say as calmly as I can possibly muster. “Charla Harris will have to do a full contract review. And my second album needs to be out before I’ll even consider it.”

Brett drops his head. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look beaten. “Okay,” he says simply. “Okay.”

Nearly sagging with relief, I close the folder and rest a palm on it. “I’ll FedEx this to Charla first thing tomorrow.” As if I’d ever sign it.

Brett stands up with a sigh. “Something to drink?” He paces toward the mini fridge in the corner. That’s another thing I learned from Brett’s family—that rich people like their beverages to be available anywhere. “I got a couple of those Mexican sodas you like.”

“Thank you,” I say automatically. I’m doing the math on how many more minutes I have to pretend we’re still friendly.

He brings me the bottle, unopened of course. Then he opens a beer for himself. “To Lucky Hearts,” he says. “May it top the charts for weeks.” He raises his beer, as if to make a toast.

I hastily twist the top of my soda bottle. It doesn’t quite hiss as loudly as a soda should, but the familiar scent of watermelon is appealing. I stopped drinking these because they reminded me of Brett.

He’s waiting. I touch the bottle to his and fake one more smile. “To Lucky Hearts.”

Brett holds my eyes as he takes a swig. So I do the polite thing and mirror him. As I swallow, though, I know that something is wrong. The taste is wrong. Salty and strong. I set the bottle down with a thunk on the coffee table.

Oh shit. I need to get out of here.





Silas





Delilah does not answer her phone. I waste precious time hitting redial. And when I inquire at the hotel desk, I’m told Delilah isn’t registered.

Of course she’s not. They would have used someone else’s name.

It’s only then that I wise up and call Becky. She answers on the first ring. “Silas? You have some nerve.”

“I know. But where is she? It’s important.”

Becky grumbles, “She went to the jerk’s house to talk about her album launch. That’s what happens when you cancel on her—”

“Got to go,” I interrupt. “Talk later.” After disconnecting, I shove the phone in my pocket and hightail it out of the hotel, heading down toward the water.

I reach the sandy beach and keep on going. It isn’t far to the Ferris house, and this is the most direct route. How many times did I do this run in high school? Hundreds? Running in the sand is great resistance for the thighs and glutes. I have to stop and burn a few seconds kicking out of my shoes and socks, but then I’m tearing down the beach, past the mansions.

This was always my view of Darlington Beach—jogging past other peoples’ dreamhouses. Beautiful, but so out of reach. When I met Delilah, I still had that chip on my shoulder. I still felt like an outsider, even though I’d lived here most of my life.

None of that matters anymore. There’s just the cool sand and my pounding heart. I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay. And then I need to tell her my new theory about her stalker.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t afford to be cautious anymore. I’ll hire a bodyguard for my mom if I have to. Tonight Delilah will know how much I care.

So will Brett Ferris. But that can’t be helped.

The Ferris house comes into view, lit up and beautiful. It has a privacy hedge, but beach houses aren’t fortresses, no matter how ritzy. Nobody wants to spoil the ocean view.

As I approach the hedge, I look up at the glassed walls of what must be an impressive, elevated sitting room. There’s movement, and I realize it’s the vertical blinds. They’re moving around a mechanized track, slowly closing off the view into the house. In seconds I won’t be able to see inside. So I jump straight up for a desperate glimpse before it’s all closed off.

My view lasts only a split second. Delilah is sitting on a sofa, her head in her hands, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. And Brett is leaning over her, holding a pen.

What the actual fuck?

Seconds later, I’m testing sections of the hedge, looking for a way in. I get impatient and force the stiff branches apart, hurling my body at the narrow opening until I fall clumsily onto the patio on the other side.