Lovegame(77)

No. Just, no.

No matter what kind of an Oscar campaign my mother thinks we should run, no matter how much realness she wants in me dressing like the Belladonna, there is no way—no way—I would ever voluntarily put that thing in my hair. Not when most people believe she was wearing it the night she dismembered her husband’s mistress.

I put up with it on set because I didn’t have a choice. But tonight? At my mother’s birthday party? There is no way I put that thing in my hair. No way.

So how the hell did it get there? I’ve been sober all night—very careful not to drink too much so that I could keep my wits about me. And that means I didn’t let anyone close enough to put that thing in my hair—at least not, anyone I don’t trust. I mean, I did the whole air kiss thing with a bunch of the guests, but it was quick and easy, over in a second or two. The only people who had their hands on me longer than that for one reason or another were Damon, my mother…and Ian.

Panic crawls through me at the thought, shutting down any hint of arousal and freezing me from the inside out.

Ian, who cornered me on a balcony in the dark for long minutes at the party.

Ian, who has had his hands all over me for the last fifteen minutes.

Ian, who just “coincidentally” pulled the brooch out of my hair to begin with.

Ian.

Ian.

IAN.

As soon as the thought registers, I’m slapping the brooch out of his hand. It goes flying through the air before slamming into my granite countertops and skidding across the floor.

I don’t stay to watch it come to a stop. Instead, I take off running, running, running, in a desperate attempt to get away. From Ian.





Chapter 21


“Hey!” I take off after Veronica who is currently fleeing down the hallway as if the hounds of hell are after her—or maybe even Satan himself.

“Stay away from me!” she screams, right before she grabs a vase off a table and sends it flying toward my head.

She’s got surprisingly good aim for a tiny slip of an actress. I duck as soon as she lets it fly and still I barely manage to avoid getting brained with the thing. I watch, in shock, as it shatters against the wall right behind my head.

What the hell is going on here?

I don’t have time to contemplate the question as she follows up the vase with a hardcover book, a lamp, and an amethyst geode crystal that might actually kill me if it connects. I manage to dodge them all, but the few seconds it takes me to save my brain cells is all she needs to get to the front door and out onto the driveway. Part of me wants to let her go—she’s obviously hysterical, obviously afraid, and the last thing I should be doing right now is chasing her. But at the same time, it’s the middle of the night and she’s Veronica Romero running through Manhattan Beach in high heels and lingerie. Anything could happen to her.

It’s that thought that has me putting on a burst of speed, determined to protect her from even herself if that’s what it takes to keep her safe. I catch her halfway down the driveway and I grab her wrist, whirl her around to face me.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams and she goes for my face, fingers curled into claws as she kicks and scratches and throws a few knees and elbows in her frantic efforts to get away from me.

It’s the craziest f*cking thing I’ve ever experienced and for a minute I feel like I’m in the middle of an episode of the Twilight Zone. One minute we were in the kitchen making out and the next Veronica has gone completely, around-the-bend insane.

More afraid than ever that she’s going to hurt herself—or me, at this point, since she seems out for blood—I grab her wrists and spin her around so that her back is to my front, her arms folded over her chest and held in place by me.

“Let go of me!” she screams as she bucks and thrashes against me and for the first time I worry about the sound carrying. It’s a quiet night despite the wind whipping up from the beach and the last thing we need is a trigger-happy security guard coming up here—or some neighbor with a smartphone. Talk about a PR nightmare. I can already see the cruel hashtags trending on Twitter…

“Let’s go inside,” I urge, keeping my voice as low and calm as possible as I drag her slowly back toward the front door. “I swear I won’t hurt you, baby. I swear. But I can’t leave you out here like this. Anything could happen.”

She’s too far gone to listen. She’s thrashing against me, breathing harsh and eyes wild as she strains desperately against my hold. I’m trying to stay calm, trying to think this through, but the truth is I’m nearly as panic-stricken as she is at this point. I don’t have a clue what’s going on here but I’m terrified she’s going to end up hurting herself if I don’t get her calmed down, fast.

“It’s okay, Veronica,” I tell her over and over again as I wrestle her onto the front porch. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her only answer is to rake her stiletto heel straight down my shin. She doesn’t stop until the sharp tip is digging into my foot through the top of my shoe and f*ck. Just f*ck! I don’t have time to do anything more than register the pain, though, because she’s rearing back at the same time, trying to head-butt me.

Jesus Christ. Whoever taught this girl to fight taught her to fight dirty. Forget the Big, Bad Wolf and think Terminator instead. And if she wasn’t currently using all that fighting knowledge against me, I’d be incredibly impressed. As it is, I’m just hoping that we both make it through with no concussions or broken bones.