“Perfect! Can you just turn...?”
Cameras clicked, photographers shouting over one another, desperate for the perfect picture of Hollywood’s newitcouple.
It was dizzying—the noise, the crowd, the sheer number of faces she’d only ever seen on TV now standing mere feet away. Poppy stood back, out of the way, soaking it all in and trying to blend into the background as much as possible and still—
“Over here! What’s your name? Can you turn for me?”
She froze like a deer in the headlights. For some reason they were—they were talking toher.
“Just smile,” Rosaline whispered, appearing at her side.
She glanced down at the badge dangling from around her neck, making sure she hadn’t dropped it. “Can’t they see my credentials? I’m not—”
“You’re beautiful, Poppy,” Rosaline murmured, head tippeddown, lips barely moving. “Who wouldn’t want pictures of you?” She glanced up at Poppy through her long, dark lashes and gave her a coy smile. “Bet they’ddiefor the pictures you’ve promised to send me.”
Poppy shuddered softly, breath leaving her body. She swayed on her heels and Rosaline’s fingertips pressed into the small of her back, steadying her, keeping her from stumbling in front of what had to be at least a hundred cameras from outlets all over the country.
“Rude,” she murmured. “Now I’m going to look like a tomato in every picture.”
Rosaline snickered. “A very cute tomato. Now,smile.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Poppy said in a sudden, unexpected burst of cheekiness.
Rosaline’s eyes widened and a sharp, too loud laugh popped out of her mouth. She shook her head, grinning. “You, Poppy Peterson, are playing with fire.”
With that, she stepped away, striding gracefully down the carpet like it was a runway. Photographers called out to her by name, but she paid them no mind, simply keeping a sort of reserved smile on her face as she followed Lyric, stopping when she stopped, moving when she moved in a dance she had perfected.
Poppy smiled and—no, that was too much teeth. Looking like a rosy little hothouse tomato was one thing; the last thing she wanted was to be likened to a deranged clown. What was that thing Tyra Banks always said? Smile with your eyes? A top model she was not, but she did her best to follow that advice as she hurried after Cash.
For the most part, the two posed for photos together, separating at times for Lyric to step into the spotlight that, tonight, was rightfully hers. Aside from the occasional eye-roll-worthy cajoling request from a photographer for them togive us a kiss, come on, so far, the night was off to a promising start. Even those requests, as annoying as they were, could’ve been worse, but Rosaline still glared, appearing to take mental note of the outlets responsible.
Poppy almost pitied them. Almost.
In seemingly no time at all, they reached the final batch of photographers. Lyric was posing alone, Cash standing off to the side talking to the husband of an R & B singer currently topping the charts. Rosaline had her gaze trained on the sea of photographers, flashing occasionally to Lyric.
Poppy hung back, smile flagging, feet already throbbing, the perils of purchasing a pair of shoes the day before an event and not breaking them in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, turning slightly in the direction they’d just come from when—what the fuck was she—there was no way she was seeing...
Maybe ten, twelve yards away, only slightly tucked away by a gauzy white partition that separated the photography area from the publicist arrivals waiting tent, stood a white woman wearing the same sort of publicity credentials Poppy had on. She was slipping off her modest kitten heels and reaching up for the halter tie of her unremarkable, unembellished black dress.
Poppy whipped her head around. Was no one seeing this? All of the photographers were so focused on the talent, on getting the perfect shot, that no one but her, playing wallflower, seemed to notice. She quickly turned back to the absolute bizarre spectacle playing out just in time to witness the dress hit the carpet and—okay, that wasa lotof skin.
This was only her second big red carpet, so by no means would she claim to be well-versed in the goings on of what happened behind the scenes at these things, but she was 99.9 percent surethis wasn’t normal. Unless it was some kind of performance piece? Art? AJackass-style revival she didn’t know about? Guerrilla marketing, for what? No clue. A new album, maybe? Or maybe it was—
No.
Poppy’s jaw dropped.
The woman, whoever the hell she was, turned just enough that Poppy could make out the giant tattoo on her stomach.
A giant tattoo of Lyric’sface.
A full-color, giant tattoo of Lyric’s face circled with an even larger heart with script beneath it reading,Until death do us part.
Growing up in Portland, Poppy had been around her fair share ofweird. From naked bike rides to the giant pumpkin regatta to the Freakybuttrue Peculiarium, Portland wasknownforweird. But this? This had to take the cake, topping her list of most strange spectacles Poppy had ever seen.
The woman was still tucked far enough away that none of the photographers could see her, and everyone on the carpet was either busy posing or focused on their clients. All of the event staff was congregated at either end of the carpet, nowhere near where she was. They say look to the helpers...
Rosaline might not know what was happening any more than Poppy, but she’d know what to do about—
