“Because he thought I was making a scene,” I mutter. “I wasn’t beingclassy.”
“No. That’s not it at all.” He studies me for a moment. “I think we need to talk a bit about the psychology of stalking.”
I swig down some more beer. “Told you. I’m already seeing a therapist.”
“Not of being stalked. Ofstalking.Stalkers like X tend to exhibit very specific psychological traits.”
I close my eyes. I hate this shit. Ihate it. “Look, I don’t care if he’s a tortured soul, or depressed, or whatever, okay? I don’t care if he’s socially anxious, or an orphan, or his parents divorced when he was a kid. All of that stuff is shitty, but none of that justifies his behaviour.” I pick at the label on my beer bottle. “I’m sure he is mentally ill. But I’m not his psychologist, or his mum, I’m hisvictim.And asking a victim to empathise with someone who is hurting them is fucked up. I’mallowedto be pissed at him.”
He lets out a low groan. “Christ, Briar. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” He reaches out and puts a hand on mine. I blink at the unexpected contact. His palm is cool and smooth. “I know you’re angry,” he says. “And you have a right to be. And if you want to go to the gym, work off some steam, and then come back and have this conversation, that’s fine, too. But trust me, I am not about toblameyou for anything that X is doing to you.” His brown eyes hold mine, completely sincere.
I believe him, I realise. I really do. Ever since I was sixteen years old, I’ve had people blaming me for shit I had no control over.
But I don’t think this man will. Not at all.
I take a deep breath through my nose. “No gym. Let’s eat. Then you can tell me how bad I screwed up.”
Twenty-Eight
Briar
?
Half an hour later, Kenta and I are sprawled on the sofa in comfy clothes, bent over a pile of papers. The coffee table in front of us is laden with plates of vegan sushi and steaming cups of miso. Glen left to sort out new security details with the hotel manager, and Julie’s gone back to her suite down the hall. I haven’t heard anything out of Matt, so I assume he’s still asleep.
It’s just me and Kenta.
This hotel has a balcony, and even though I’m not allowed to sit on it—sniper risk, apparently—the view through the glass doors is amazing. A storm is rolling in, and the sky is deepening to an intense purple as dark clouds tense over Hollywood Hills. The strange light is stroking down the side of Kenta’s angular face, kissing his skin a lilac-silver colour.
I study him as he bends over his notes, his dark hair falling loose around his face.I like the way he moves. All of his movements and gestures are fluid and firm. Graceful. Even his handwriting is neat and pretty. I watch his strong fingers on the pen, and a pang of leftover want echoes through me. I remember pressing him against the wall last night. I remember his hot mouth under mine. I imagine those strong fingers inside of me.
“Briar?” He asks, and I jolt back to reality. He smiles gently, like he knows exactly what I was thinking about. “I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll try to be quick.”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat, shifting position. Our arms press together, and I can tell by the slow stiffening of his muscles that he notices, although he doesn’t say anything.
He points to the diagram he’s drawn on his notepad. “Stalkers like X, who engage in these obsessive romantic fantasies with strangers, are usually pretty powerless by society’s standards,” he explains, jotting a note. “They’re usually not rich, not particularly attractive, not physically strong. They have poor social skills, and little to no family or friends. They’re often unemployed, or working low-paid jobs.”
I don’t see why that means I should let them harass me, but I keep my mouth shut and let him speak.
“To combat this feeling of powerlessness,” he continues, “they build a fantasy in their heads. It gives them a sense of control and importance, in a world that generally considers them unimportant. X has clearly imagined a world in which the two of you are in love.”
“But he’s wrong. So I should set him straight.”
Kenta shakes his head. “If he were an average person, I would fully support your right to reject him. But stalkers of his type are usually unstable. They don’t handle rejection well.” He reaches under the pile of papers and pulls out a book, handing it to me. I read the title.When Love Becomes Obsession: a Clinical and Behavioural Study of Celebrity Stalking.The cover image shows the silhouette of a man hiding in the shadows, holding a gun. “Matt didn’t want me to give you this,” Kenta says. “Said it would just make you paranoid. But I think you’d appreciate knowing what you’re dealing with.”
“Definitely.”
He nods. “Check chapter thirteen. There’s a phenomenon that psychologists call the ‘devaluation of the object of obsession.’ Essentially, X is obsessed with you. Because he centres his entire fake reality on the idea that you are going to love him, when you reject him, you tear his whole world apart. You destroy any feeling of control or power that he imagines he has. On the carpet tonight, you announced to the whole world that he’s been wrong this entire time; he’s not strong, or lovable, or important.”
“He’s not,” I mutter, flipping through the pages.
Kenta nods. “When a romantically obsessed stalker gets rejected, their obsession doesn’t just go away. It often flips. In his mind, you swing from being an idealised angel to the opposite. A demon.”
“I become devalued?” I guess.
“Exactly. The problem is, you’re still in the magazines. You’re still making money. You’re still on carpets. That could be infuriating to him, if he decides that you don’t deserve any of that praise. You’ve been devalued in his head, so he might want to devalue you in the eyes of everybody else, as well. Potentially by hurting you. Or destroying you entirely.”
I look up at him. “You think he might kill me.”
