The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(65)

I turn to Graham, swallowing down my panic. “I guess I’ll see you afterward.”

He hears the uncertainty in my voice, and though he’s clearly tense, he leans down, his lips right beside my ear. “In an hour, you’ll be back home. I’ll order us both steak frites and we’ll watch the movie about the kidnapper. You’ll think it’s sexy and I’ll be horrified by your taste but a little turned on. Focus on that.”

Warmth rushes through me. There are ten employees here whose job is to make me feel cared for, but it’s this, it’s Graham knowing just what I need to hear—or maybe the idea of Graham turned on—that actually succeeds.

“Will you give me back my sweatshirt?”

“Now you’re pushing it,” he growls, and when I laugh, he does too.

I climb the stairs to the stage as I’m introduced and there’s a roar from the crowd, which is so vast I can’t even stand to look.

I make it to my seat without tripping. Mindy and Mills both exclaim over the video again and then start asking questions: Was I scared? What went through my head? Do I now get free chicken tikka for life?

I chat away, smiling, making jokes, but I feel like I’ve been kicked into a higher gear than I’m meant to go in—electrified, but not in the “this is where I was always meant to be” way I expected. It’s more like my body is flooded with something toxic, something that can’t be good for me or my daughter. I’m sweating, my heart is racing, my core temperature way above normal.

This is what my mother wanted for us: the attention, the adulation, people saying some version of, “Keeley, how are you so amazing?” and all I want in the entire world is to get the fuck off this stage, to have it behind me. Even if they were lauding me for something that warrants it—my current breast size, for instance—I still would hate this. And if I hate the thing I thought I wanted most, then what, exactly, is left?

“Guess what?” asks Mindy. “We found a second video of you.”

I stiffen—if I got married while drunk and forgot, I could easily be on film doing a whole lot of stuff I wish I could forget. I breathe a sigh of relief when the clip plays on the screen behind us and Zuma Beach comes into focus. We were surfing there when this guy got a nasty cut on his shin—clear down to the bone. I used the leash of his board as a tourniquet, which was really all I could do until the paramedics got there.

So it’s fine that they have the clip, but I had no idea I was being filmed, and I wish I hadn’t been. They’re making me out to look like some doctor superhero who runs around LA looking for people to assist, rather than what I am: a very lazy girl who just wanted to surf and eat chicken tikka masala in peace and was compelled to intervene because of a medical degree she sort of regretted possessing on both occasions.

“Honestly, it was just a very uncomplicated delivery,” I tell them. “And anyone could have done what I did with the leash.”

“Isn’t she cute?” Mills asks the crowd. “You’re so humble.”

If she had any idea how many times I’ve thought my ass looks amazing in the Zuma Beach video, she’d know I’m not humble.

At last, it’s over. I step off the stage, sweaty and dazed, overwrought. I used to drink when I felt this way, and I’m not sure what to do with it now that I can’t.

No, I do know: I want Graham. He’s waiting at the other end of the walkway, but before I can reach him, Trevor is standing in front of me.

“You were fantastic!” he says. “Come with us to La Piazza. There’s a private party afterward for the cast and crew, lots of Mills’s celeb friends coming too. It’ll be a good chance for us all to talk about the future.”

I have no desire to talk about the future, but I know I should go. I can’t abandon my mother’s dreams for me based on a five-minute interview. But Graham and I had a plan, and the truth is…I sort of wanted that too. No, not sort of. I really wanted that too.

“Sure,” I say. “Let me just talk to Graham.”

He pulls out his phone. “I’ll call over now to put your name on the list.”

I make my way through the chute to where Graham stands. He’s got a brow raised as if he already knows what I’m going to ask. “There’s a party at La Piazza,” I say. “Trevor invited us.”

He glances out across the square toward the restaurant. “How the hell are you even supposed to get there?”

I shrug. “We’ll just cut through the crowd.”

His nostrils flare. “Keeley, are you serious right now? You were just on stage. You can’t just go walk through that crowd.”

He’s being ridiculous. If I can make my way all the way from the main stage at SXSW to the back without my top on, I can walk through a crowd of middle-aged tourists who’ve already forgotten me. “Graham, did I suddenly turn into Beyoncé? No one is going to care.”

“This is a really bad idea.”

“Come on,” I groan. “It’ll go fast. I don’t even want this job, but if I miss a chance to meet Khloe Kardashian, I’ll never forgive you.”

I head toward the main exit, certain he’ll follow. As I walk through the doors, I hear Mindy and Mills wrapping up the show, which means I’ll barely even have to push—the whole crowd will be leaving in a second anyway. I begin to cut through and someone says, “Oh my God, you’re the doctor!”