The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(64)

I wake on Sunday less excited for what lies ahead than I thought. It’s not because what Graham said worries me. My plan is to attain the exact right amount of fame: the sweet spot where I get pretty clothes and Khloe and I are workout buddies, but where I can still do whatever I want and talk to whomever I want, and I’m only recognized when it’s convenient for me—like when I need to cut in a line or get a table somewhere.

But—though it was fun having the stylist here and dreaming about it all—the reality is that today isn’t going to be especially interesting. I’m not going somewhere to diagnose a crazy skin condition. I’m not even talking about what I know. It’s just going to be all about catching a baby on a kitchen floor, and that’s a story I’m already tired of.

Graham is off doing one of his extensive, unnecessary, workouts while I putter around in the morning, but when it’s time to leave for the studio, I find him waiting.

“I’ll drive you,” he says. He hasn’t shaved since Friday and is in a button-down and jeans. He looks rugged, like an off-duty Secret Service officer.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I have to get hair and makeup done and it’s a whole thing.”

“I know. I’ll stay.”

“It will be hours—”

“Keeley, do you want to do this alone?”

“No,” I admit. I’d feel a little better if he was with me. I think, perhaps, he’d feel a little better about it too.

“Then let’s go,” he says.





He plugs in the address and drives us slowly, safely across town to The Grove. I stare out the window, wondering what my mother would make of this moment and when it’s going to feel the way I thought it would. Because I pictured the excitement and the clothes, and I pictured the compliments, like the stylist telling me I was adorable a thousand times yesterday, but what I didn’t picture was this strange discomfort that’s present at the same time. It’s nerves, yes, but it’s also this...disconnect. I thought I loved attention—I’m known for my love of attention—but this is the wrong kind.

Graham parks and walks me to the back door of the building, which temporarily serves as a hair and makeup/greenroom. We take a glass-walled elevator upstairs, through which we can see the entire crowd waiting.

“Wow,” I whisper.

“Are you okay?” Graham asks.

“That’s a lot of people.”

I wait for some kind of admonishment from him, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he reaches over and wraps his hand around mine. His palm is large and warm and dry, while mine is sweaty and cold and small. Nothing has ever felt better.

“It’s all going to be okay,” he says.

I blink back tears. He’s going to be a really good dad. He’s going to make someone a really good husband.

I can see clearly the life he’ll have with her, this mystery female he’ll one day marry. It will be intensely boring. They’ll eat in all the time and she won’t buy an olive-green suede trench coat that costs as much as their mortgage on a whim. They won’t go to Cabo for the weekend. They’ll live in a house like Ben and Gemma’s, and they’ll grill in the backyard while our daughter plays in the pool.

It’s the childhood I would have had, probably, if my mom and I hadn’t been so busy dreaming about fame and fortune. How strange that I might be on my way to those things at last, only to find myself dreaming about the boring life Graham will have with someone else.

Upstairs, everyone gushes over me: “your hair is so thick, your lashes are so long, your baby bump is so cute.” Ice water and snacks are procured. Both Mills and Mindy pop by on their way outside, bubbling over with excitement about the interview, and my video, telling me how impressive I am.

I gush back, of course, claiming I’m thrilled to be here. But out the windows I see thousands of people, and when I close my eyes for the makeup artist, I dream of being anywhere else.

Graham is sitting far across the room, reading on his phone, probably bored and irritated. I send him a text.

Me: You can go.

In the mirror our eyes meet. Whatever he sees in my face makes him smile as he texts me back.

Graham: I want to stay.

Thank God. I need him here and I have no idea why. It’s as if this whole experience is a stormy sea, and he’s my one bit of dry land.

The roar of the crowd as the show begins is deafening. My head jerks and the makeup artist laughs. “Don’t worry. They get worked into a frenzy when we do these shows on location. It’s crazy.”

I’m not sure why she thinks I’d find that comforting.

When I’m finally allowed to get out of the chair, one of the producers is waiting to lead me to the stage.

Graham crosses the room to us, determined to stay by my side as long as possible, and I don’t know if I want to smile or cry. I’m scared if I do either, I’ll ruin my makeup.

I wish he’d grab my hand like he did in the elevator, but that moment seems to be over.

We make our way downstairs, through a hall, and then…outdoors. The walkway to the stage is cordoned off, but just to the other side of the barricade is a solid wall of people. I realize they’re not here for me—they simply want to say they saw Mindy and Mills in person and perhaps get on camera themselves—but none of this is what I wanted. I don’t like what I’m doing here, but I wouldn’t want to be the hosts either, facing a massive, faceless crowd of people they’ll never get to meet.