I click on yet another hashtag with my name on it and see:Anyone else think that journalist seemed a little... unhinged?
I should close the app. I should stop reading and go to sleep like a normal person, but instead I keep scrolling. It’s hard to stop when everyone is talking about you.
It also doesn’t help that photos and videos of Carter Crane are all over the internet. He’s out at some business thing right now and at a premiere the a few nights before that.
He looks just the same as he always did, with the terrifying exception that now I have met him, I know what he smells like.
Unhinged doesn’t even start to cover it. I wasn’t obsessed with him before Point of Contention, but I sure am now.
My phone buzzes against my chest. I almost ignore it. I glance at the screen anyway. It’s an unknown number.
This is Carter Crane III. We should talk privately and off the record.
My heart slams against my ribs. Heat spreads through my chest and pools low in my belly. Suddenly, I'm back in that studio, drowning in winter and snow, unable to look away from his eyes.
I set the phone down on the mattress beside me. Pick it up again. Set it down. My hands won't stay still.
I close my eyes, trying to get my heart rate under control. This is insane. It’s just a text message.
I breathe out slowly and open my eyes.Get it under control, Dean.
It’s some kind of trap. They want to get another reaction to make me look like the omega they’re painting me as.Unhinged.
Or maybe Carter wants to talk about his family. I could have a source right on the inside.
Or maybe he wants to talk strategy about how we are going to handle the media storm.
Or maybe he wants…
I've been dreaming about him, waking up hard and aching.
I pick up the phone and type a response before I can talk myself out of it.
Where?
His reply comes faster than I expected, fast enough that I wonder if he's been staring at his phone the same way I've been staring at mine. It’s an address I don't recognize, a hotel somewhere on the outskirts of the city. There are instructions for a side entrance, a room number and a time.
Tomorrow. 8 PM.
A secret evening meeting in ahotel. Of course, it’s a hotel. We need privacy to…talkwithout anyone seeing.
I stare at the message for a long time. I should ask what he wants to talk about and demand some kind of assurance that this isn't a setup. Maybe I should insist on bringing a friend.
I'll be there.
I hit send before I can change my mind, and then I lie in the dark with my phone clutched to my chest like a talisman and I don't sleep at all.
I am completely useless the next day. I haven’t slept and all I can think about isCarter Craneandhotel. Luckily, I only have two interviews scheduled and neither requires a great deal of brainpower. I answer the same questions I have for weeks on end.
The Crane family is corrupt.Truth.
Yes, the evidence is available to back that up.Truth.
No, I am not obsessed with Carter Crane.Lie.
When the last one finally wraps up, I escape with a sense of relief. Whatever is going to happen this evening, I want to get it over with.
It’s hard not to arrive early. I end up sitting on my hands in the apartment to stop myself from leaving too early.
