The three of us combined have at least twenty bags. I have never seen so much money spent in one afternoon.
Amelia laughs. “Maybe we shouldn’t show them. They may have a heart attack.”
“I don’t think there’s any hiding these.” I gesture to our hands.
Times Three’s bodyguard walks in front of us, surveying the outdoor mall like a hawk as we make our way to the car. His phone rings. Picking it up, he listens for a second before spinning around with an alarmed look on his face.
“Just got a call saying paparazzi are swarming the building outside. There are at least ten men out there, so I made a call for backup.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Amelia mumbles, the happiness that was bursting through her body a second ago drained.
“They always find us. How do they do it?” Trinity sits on a nearby bench and huffs. Blowing the brown hair out of her face, she pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.
For a Monday afternoon, the mall isn’t busy. Amelia has been able to walk around without getting harassed every second. She isn’t even trying to blend in and disguise herself.
Ten minutes go by until three more men, dressed in black, stride into the mall and find us a couple of feet away. My eyesight isn’t the best, yet I can spot multiple people crowding around the door, blocking all paths to walk through the parking lot.
“Let’s go, ladies,” one of the bodyguards chirps.
We send each other concerned looks as the bodyguards surround us and push us forward with their strength.
“Keep your head down, no talking, and keep walking.”
As soon as we exit, it’s a zoo. The paparazzi push closer, someone grips the back of my shirt, bright lights make me see stars, and everything they yell combines together..
“New girl, tell us your name!”
“Who are you? Everyone wants to know!”
“Are you a new girlfriend?”
“You guys look great!”
“New girl, you’re trending all over the internet. How do you feel about that?”
I’m what?
TWENTY-TWO
LILY
I’ve been rotting for the last few days—it’s very easy to do that on a tour bus. No one bothers me when the curtain to my bunk is closed because they all assume I’m sleeping.
I’m really just lying in bed, doomscrolling, internally panicking at all the gossip about me, which is spreading like wildfire.
I have fan pages. Fan pages!
The tremble in my fingers seems to be permanent as I repeat everything I’ve read and seen in my head, torturing my poor, overworked brain.
Elijah warned me I might become an interest to the public. His advice was to shrug it off and don’t let anyone or anything in my head. I have failed miserably so far. I’ve been obsessing over completely false information about myself, spouted by strangers who don’t even know my name. Self-doubt is like mold rotting on my bones, spreading more and more each moment I breathe.
Does anyone believe anything these people are saying? One gossip magazine declared I’m a fan that leeched on to the band, only to get famous; another says I’m a groupie they decided to keep around; and others say I’m being passed back and forth between the two brothers.
That just makes my blood boil, but what makes my heart feel like it’s being stomped on are all the accounts created only to pick apart my appearance.
Ew, her hair is too frizzy.
As if I wasn’t shopping around in one-hundred-degree weather.
