It’s not worth my energy.
“True. But what if Lunar came with us to the States? You don’t know unless you ask,” Ryan poses a question that never really crossed my mind.
Groaning, I shake my head. “It’s too late now anyway. She’s gone, and if Luke has his way, she’ll never be back.”
A knock on the door startles me, and for a brief moment, hope flares within me that maybe Luke has had a change of heart and Lunar has returned. Rushing for the door, I anticipate seeing my pink-and-yellow-haired beauty standing there with open arms, but no, to my disappointment, it’s Effa.
My half-smile falls, and I frown. She puts her hand on my arm—a sign of comfort. “Don’t be disappointed to see me, Danger.”
“Sorry, I was hoping you were someone else.”
“It’s shit about Lunar. But, as a distraction, would you like to work on the song? It might help.” Effa smiles kindly.
I’m surprised at how sprightly Effa looks today, considering she partied harder than Ryan did last night. Her hair is perfect, her skin clear, and her eyes glisten and gleam with a smile, lacking the telling signs of a severe hangover.
“Sure, a distraction would be good.” I stand aside, allowing her entry, and she skips across the hotel room carpet. I shake myhead at her spirited demeanor, but she’s young. At twenty-six, I am older, but at eighteen, she is living her best life.
She moves around the room, and I can’t help but feel a pang of envy at her carefree attitude.
Yet, in the chaos of my thoughts, I find a fleeting distraction from the turmoil within.
I just hope Lunar is doing okay.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LUNAR
After meeting with Luke, I had a sit-down interview. A one-on-one with a reporter of his choice, and she took down my side of the story. I told her I was taking some time away from the band so they could have their success without my background becoming an issue. She asked about my affair with Danger, and I started to get annoyed, stating it wasn’t an affair but a legitimate relationship. However, Luke quickly shut that down, ending the interview.
Who knows what’s going to go out into the media?
I found myself on a plane to Adelaide after a terrible time at the airport. Reporters swarmed around me while Recoil fans hurled insults, accusing me of being a whore and probably giving Danger syphilis, herpes, and whatever else they were screaming at me.
My confidence has been shattered.
I was never ashamed of my past as a club girl.
In fact, I was proud of who I was and what I was doing there.
But now, I can see why society views club girls with such disdain. The media portrays them as nothing more than a common whore, making it hard to argue. That’s precisely what the Australian press is painting me as right now, and all it’s doing is bringing Danger’s reputation and Recoil’s name into disrepute.
I can’t allow that to happen.
So I’ll take all the spotlight on myself, and I’ll bear the consequences while Recoil continues to pursue success. I refuse to let Danger suffer because of my past.
I can’t.
I chose to live that life, and now I must face the repercussions of my actions.
I hope my tough exterior holds out longer than my flimsy interior, because I want to burst into tears right now. But I won’t, not in front of the media. I won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’re breaking me and my heart. I know my feelings for Danger are stronger than anything I ever felt for Steel at the club, and honestly, I don’t see my life without Danger in it.
I just hope he can forgive me and that one day I can go back to him.
The plane lands, and I take a deep breath before I depart. The flight attendant smiles, complimenting me on my hair. She obviously doesn’t know who I am, but some passengers have been staring and sending me knowing glares. It’s been an uncomfortable flight, but I’m glad to be back home.
I’m going to live with Mom and Stuart for a while. Mom saw everything, which only made me more upset. She was, of course, supportive. She knew about everything that happened at the MC and the strip club, but she never wanted me to be outed like that.
My muscles are tense as I walk through the airport. So far, I’ve avoided cameras and reporters, but who knows what might be waiting outside or at baggage claim. I step onto the escalator and look down. My body stiffens when I see around five paparazzi waiting. Pulling down my sunglasses, annoyance creeps over me when they start snapping shots. The other people on the escalator start looking around—they’re confused yet curious. When I get to the bottom, I shield my eyes from the bright flashes, and they start firing their questions at me while I walk past them to the baggage claim.
