“Bastard.”
“Whose only fault is trying to keep you from the same fate.”
“Go to hell, Bishop.”
“Not until you understand the full effect of your actions, then I’m on my way there.”
Her eyes bugged. “I just wanted to feel better. I wanted some semblance of my old normality before we head to New York, and Tara agreed—”
“Goddamn Tara.” His head throbbed. Ella didn’t get it, no matter what he said or how he explained it. “She’s just like Jay. Do you hear yourself? She’s the misconception of everything. She’s using you like he does.” Bishop threw his arms out. “Screw it. This is the same conversation. Recycled!”
“Cute. How long have you been waiting to use that?” Ella pushed her lips into a thin line and bunched her hands in her skirt. Then she dropped her head, letting her hair fall down, hiding her behind a curtain of strands. “I thought you’d catch me when I fell for you again. You said you would. How stupid was I?”
He stared at the woman that he wanted so desperately to care for, who wouldn’t let him. This argument was the epitome of everything that he disagreed with. His throat burned because what he wanted most kept pushing him away.
“Ella, you have to want me to catch you. You have to fall when I have a chance to catch you. Hell, you have to fall near me, and we are not in the same universe. We’re not orbiting in the same galaxy when you pull shit like this.”
“I’m falling.” She ran her hands over her face, threading her fingers into her hair, pulling at the locks before she released them. Her pained expression killed. “No, I fell for you, and it shouldn’t matter where or how. Why don’t you see that?”
“Jay was there today. Why don’t you see that?”
“I do,” she whispered. “More than anyone on earth.”
“Then goddamn it! Why are you baiting him?” His eyes fell to a picture of Brie on her shelf. It was so small, he’d missed it last time he was in there. “I’m telling you. This is like watching Brie pick up the phone in slow motion. But you keep doing it over and over, and one of these days, it’s going to kill you.”
“Stop,” Ella whispered, her voice shaking.
Each vibration struck him like the reverb from a mortar strike that, at this second, he almost missed. Anything was better than this pain. “I’m out.”
“You’re leaving the job? Or… me?”
A surge of bile stole his throat and his breath. “If it’s not Jay today, then there’s a half dozen psychos tomorrow, and you keep giving them the roadmap.”
Her bottom lip trembled. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was, babe.” And he was dying inside. “Locke’s not far. I’ll get him back here. I can’t handle this right now.”
“You’re an asshole.” Ella’s voice had changed—still heartbroken, but angry. She was as mad and as ready to fight as he was. “You never make mistakes, Bishop? You never do things to blow off steam with the guys? Your job? That’s something we’ve never talked about.” Flames shot from her narrowed, tear-reddened eyes. “That same job, where you run around with a gun on your hip, and who knows what you’ll do next after you’re done working with me. You act like I’m the only person who has to be perfect not to die! You ran from Brie straight into a war zone. Now here you are, working for some company that still might kill you. Screw you for not admitting that too.”
His fingers went numb as her truth hit him like a sledgehammer. His body followed suit, and last to go was his mind, suffering at her argument. “I’m out.”
“That’s the truth.”
Ella is right… Bishop rubbed his face. The entire time he’d been on her job, he craved the adrenaline rush that put him in danger. He’d been trained, disciplined. Though at the moment, it would be impossible to tell.
“You know what?” Didn’t matter if she was right or wrong; he still refused to watch her walk a gangplank of stupidity. “Forget it. You, me. We don’t work. This is done.”
The heaviest steps of his life took him out of that room that millions of people had now seen.
He trudged through her condo, and damn, the grip on his lungs was enough to crumble him to his knees. Or infuriate him to the point of punching a trail of holes in her wall. That would shout how much she meant to him, and she could vlog the shit out of it.
He just couldn’t watch her self-destruct.
Bishop dragged his hand over his mouth, throwing open the front door. Locke stood, waiting. Thank fuck for his buddy, who knew what might happen and stood ready and waiting as backup without even having been asked.
“Man, you good?” Locke asked.
“No.”
“You leaving?”
“Yes,” Bishop growled.
“It’s going to be okay, brother.”
Bishop turned around, sweeping one last look over Ella’s condo. He didn’t buy Locke’s line of bullshit for a hot minute. He let the door slam. Whatever else Locke had to say would have to wait. There were less than twenty-four hours until they needed to be in New York City for the Capri Awards with Ella and Tara, and the thought of wearing one more tuxedo was enough to make him lose his mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The fabric was too red, the waist was too tight, and the V-neck dropped way too low between her breasts. Ella couldn’t stop cringing at the mirror in the hotel room suite, and Tara couldn’t stop beaming. The Capri Awards were tonight and packed serious star power. A little bit of Hollywood, the who’s who of television, and Tara was in her element.
“What is with your face? You’re never this blotchy.” Tara grabbed powder that the makeup artist had left. “She had to airbrush you to hell and back. You do know that, right?”
“Obviously, I know that.” Ella tried not to sound as though she had cried all night while sucking down mint tea to counteract the effects of love-torn devastation.
Tara and the makeup girl had spent an easy ten minutes analyzing her puffy, bloodshot eyes before coming up with a course of action. Who knew makeup needed such things?
Tara pressed her hands together and rubbed them back and forth, sizing up Ella. “Everything about this dress is perfect. Do you know how hard it was to get this thing? It’s going to photograph perfectly. Your curves are va-va-voom—”
“I hate—”
“Blah, blah, blah. I get it, I get it. But the boho chic does nothing for you in the big leagues. Black tie, not beach-and-bonfire. Trust me, this is the look you need.”
“I trust you.” But did she? Should Tara have been the voice of reason and reminded her to stay on point with Bishop’s rules? No. Tara had never been the voice of reason, and Ella was responsible for her own decisions on whether to post live or not. Plus, Tara knew clothes and red carpets.
“Of course you do. This is what you pay me to do. You’ll easily be on every best-dressed list. This is Malia Sava.”
Designers were not her thing. “Wheeeee…”
“Your stories get more coverage if you get more coverage.” Tara repeated the mantra that Ella had come to know during award-show season. “Think about how this dress will look when you’re holding a Capri.”
A mantle full of awards didn’t get Ella that excited. “I can get coverage without my boobs being on display.”
“Ehhh. I don’t know.” Tara put her hands on her hips as though she were scolding Ella. “You’ve got some killer tits, and there’s nothing I like more than a dress that says cover me.”
Ella knew she didn’t mean that in the literal sense. She meant press coverage. “Understood.”
The door opened, and in walked Bishop, ripping into a piece of beef jerky. That asshole. Ella swallowed a gag. Gone was the fresh heartache that made her want to cry again. That was how he walked in here? Screw him. His message was sent to her loud and clear. She’d cried all night for no reason. Clearly, she had fallen in love with a jackass.
Tara continued her lecture. “It’s sexy. Sex sells. I sell you. See how that works?”
Bishop stopped, mid-rip into the jerky. That face said it all. The dress was sexy. Soon as he kicked back into gear, he managed to look everywhere around the room and also straight at her simultaneously.
Served him right, and suddenly Ella loved this dress. The jerky still made her want to puke, but she would own it if it made him act like that—and she hoped it hurt. Oh God, now the tears wanted to come back. No. Ella wouldn’t let that happen again, and she sucked down a long breath.
“Monkey suit looks good on you,” Tara said without turning. “What is going on with you, Ella? More powder…”
Tara was right about the blotchy spots on her cheeks and about Bishop in a tux. Locke wore his well too. Both men were big, broad, and built to wear custom-tailored fits. Battling head-to-head with half the people walking the rope line and red carpet tonight, Locke and Bishop would easily blow the competition away. And she would have to ignore it all. Deep breath in, deep breath out.
“What do you think?” Tara nonchalantly asked Bishop. “On a scale from one to can’t-keep-your-hands-off-her, where’s our girl land?”
Ella gasped. “Tara!”
Bishop cleared his throat, walked straight into the hotel room’s kitchenette, and got a glass of water as she stared a hole into her publicist’s face.
“Don’t say that,” Ella whispered, feeling embarrassed heat spring all the way to the top of her ears.
Tara grumbled. “See, that proves my point. Red-blooded male. You’re hot, but this dress makes you on fire.”
“You have no idea. That look has nothing to do with the dress.” The blotchiness was back tenfold, and as Tara reached for the makeup again, Ella didn’t think this night could get much worse.
Bishop had been in the room for all of one minute, and she was dying inside as much as she wanted to walk over and throw herself into his arms—to explain and to punch him in the chest. But instead, she took Tara’s offered hand and slipped into the heels that waited her.
“Perfect,” Tara crooned. “Now those shoes turn your butt into a booty.”
Bishop choked on his water and slammed the glass into the sink. Ella remained as silent as the wind rolling off a bay.
Tara went into analyzing mode, her eyes bouncing between the both of them. “Are you no longer banging his brains out?”
“Tara,” Ella hissed.
Bishop raised his eyebrows, clearly hearing that. Spinning away, he headed for the bathroom.
Tara watched the door slam before her entire animated personality flew into top gear, wide-eyed and mouth agape. “What is going on?”
“I crossed the line, and he told me so.”
“Why?”
“I made that video we talked about.”
“Yeah? You didn’t say anything in that—”
“I did it from my real bedroom. It was too much for him.”
Tara pursed her lips. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“He has his reasons. It struck too close to home.”
Tara crossed her arms and tapped her expensively clad foot. “That’s some bullshit.” That was one thing about Tara—she was fierce and didn’t hold back. Ella could see how she got her way with as many reporters as she did.
The bathroom door opened, and Bishop walked out, adjusting his earpiece. Tara straight growled at him, and Ella didn’t call her off.
Bishop didn’t flinch. “Schedule says we hit the road in two minutes. Limo’s waiting downstairs. Ready?”
“Of course we’ll be ready,” Tara snapped. “It’s what we do.”
“Glad you have your game face on.” Bishop tugged at his wrist, pulling at a wire in his sleeve. “You run offense, I’ll stay on D, and then, in the end, we’ll see what was worth it.”
Great. Tara versus Bishop wasn’t what she need before the big event.
Tara turned to the table and gathered items into a bag, while Ella walked to the giant picture window and stared out into the city. The afternoon light painted New York in a beautiful, albeit overpopulated, glow. Nerves always tickled before events, and this one had a new twist for her: an award presenter. Maybe she would pick up an award too, but mostly, the purpose of tonight was to garner buzz and keep relevance, all of which made Tara so, so happy.
Tara spun to her. “Ready?”
“Yup.” She stared at the bustling traffic below, trying not to bite and chap her lips too badly before the cameras zoomed in.
“Great. I’ll be in the hall.” Bishop stormed out, letting the door slam behind him.
With him went an air of tension, and Ella could suddenly breathe better. She dropped her head back—
Tara whistled. “Holy. Shit. Woman. What on earth did you do to that man?”
“Nothing I hadn’t done before.” No matter what he had explained or what she’d said, they had an impasse as big as the gap in their history. “We should go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The limo eased up in the line, waiting for the red-carpet exit. Ella’s nerves jumped in her throat as she watched the coverage of the event on her phone. With the volume on mute, she saw a reporter in front of the Jumbotron, which was adjacent to a bleacher full of fans. Then Alia Bardi, someone who Ella would totally fangirl, exited a limo, waving to the crowd. A moment later, the rumble of cheers roared from outside the limo. It was unreal to watch and live the live coverage—very meta. Ella may never get used to this world.
Locke was already inside the event, and Bishop sat across from her. At least her emotional tailspin had numbed while sitting near the brooding, angry, tux-clad badass.
“Four vehicles until us,” the driver said.
“All right. Smile,” Tara ordered, doing the final social media prep.
Ella did, letting her snap a few photos that they all agreed would be uploaded in real time because obviously, everyone knew she was at the Capri Awards, and part of her job was to hype up her fans.
“Now, random candids.” Tara asked for different poses.
Ella glanced out the window, in her purse, at Bishop… He had shifted to watch her, and their eyes locked. Shit. One glance held too long, and the waterworks threatened to ruin hours’ worth of makeup.
Tara noticed too. “Nope. Cut that shit out, you two. Dab your eyes, Ella. Come on.”
Whatever his intense look had been, it wasn’t a nice mushy one, but it still sliced deep inside her heart. Ella dropped her chin and blankly held her phone. “It’s nothing.”
“Then don’t mess up that eyeliner or those lashes.” Tara rifled through her bag and pulled out a tissue. “Cry or kill each other later. Not until I have this event done.”
These drop-off lines took forever. Four limos didn’t seem like much. But pulling up, waiting, the big exit, the pull away—even though they ran it like a machine, there was still time, and it ticked by like molasses on a frigid day.
Her phone burned a hole in her hands, and hell, she needed to talk to him before all of this started. Ella flipped to her text messages. Rarely was Bishop one to text. Not unless she was at the beach or dropping location updates. Definitely not for conversations, but now he was going to have to figure it out.
ELLA: Is this how it’s going to be? All night?
ELLA: ???
BISHOP: I’m working. You are too.
ELLA: HA. Good thing social media is part of my job. As you reminded me.
BISHOP: Low blow, babe.
ELLA: YOU BROKE UP WITH ME OVER A VIDEO
BISHOP: If that’s why you think I can’t deal, then you need to think again
Tara cleared her throat, obviously catching on that she and Bishop were texting. “One limo up, one in the hole. Only two, Ella. Two in front of you, so don’t screw up your makeup.”
“Got it.” Her thumbs hovered, ignoring Tara. Bishop was right. She knew it wasn’t the video.
“One and then us,” Tara whispered. “Head up and game face on. You have an exclusive almost immediately with GreenTV.”
“Got it,�
� Ella mumbled to appease Tara.
Bishop didn’t walk away over the video. It was Ella’s words, her location, the actions after all his warnings, and what was common sense. She’d never set foot in that room with a live feed. What had she been thinking?
“Ma’am,” the driver said as he paused.
“That’s my cue.” Tara reached for her phone. “Hand me whatever you want me to carry inside.”
BISHOP: If that’s all you came up with? Blaming the video? That *sucks*. I loved every second hanging with you though. Least we can say we tried.
Now he could channel emotion via text? Dumbstruck, Ella couldn’t fathom a response. It didn’t matter. Tara was scooting, and Bishop too, pocketing his phone and readying to exit the car. Numbly, she handed over her cell to Tara.
The limo eased up and paused again, and Tara pulled her credentials, emblazoned with “publicist to Eco-Ella,” around her neck. She popped up as her door opened opposite the red carpet. “See you on the inside.”
Bishop—who was clearly the muscle and didn’t need a badge hanging around his neck—said zip, leaving out the same door as Tara.
“Ready, Miss Leighton?” the driver asked.
“Yes, sir.” This was work. She was a professional. The tears could come later when she could find a bathroom and fall apart privately at a better time. Until then, she would fake the next few hours, even if she couldn’t see past the pain and distraction that made her arms numb and her legs drag.
They eased to another stop, and the red-carpet security opened the door. The Jumbotron’s camera zoomed in on her face, and she beamed, as happy and carefree as Eco-Ella could.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The red carpet had been a blur, and the green room was supposed to be somewhat calming.
Ella sipped water and watched Tara upload behind-the-scenes pictures online, cross-posting everywhere. The category that Ella was presenting came early in the awards show, so she’d been immediately whisked backstage.
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