The Deal by Natalie Wrye

Author:Natalie Wrye [Wrye, Natalie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wrye Writing
Published: 2019-04-25T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 15

MARILYN

“Jesus, Mare. A fucking stalker?” Jesse paces. “How could you keep that shit to yourself?”

Thirty minutes later, back in our hotel suite, I tell Jesse everything.

The whole sordid story.

It all started with what seemed like a few harmless pranks. A dumpster fire or two.

The antics in my neighborhood grew wilder, stranger, more specific. Until everything ended…the night someone broke into my apartment and stole my phone.

They leaked my most private photos, keepsakes I’d saved over the years for one special person. One private person.

The person pacing the length of the carpeted floor in front of my eyes, his own ablaze. His large hands run through the dark waves atop his head, and with a handful of the beautiful mussed strands between his fingers, he stops suddenly, jaw clenched.

Inhaling deeply, he retracts by a single step and crosses his arms. Or rather, he folds these large, muscular, overwhelming pipes that dangle from his shoulders, masquerading as arms…

The gesture is innocent—almost a sign of defeat, but it does little more than remind me of his size. And my size.

A whopping five foot-six to his six foot-three—hell, maybe even four…

Unaccustomed to seeing him out of his calm and collected element, I once again notice how long Jesse is in the torso, how broad.

Now out of his suit jacket, he fills up the room with his broad frame, his eminent size. Shoulders and arms divided into shredded cords of muscle, he faces me—a towering hunk of man, in the middle of a barely concealed rage, his green eyes hard as he stares at me—sitting there, telling the end of my story from the edge of the softened mattress.

I watch Jesse sigh.

“I thought helping you erase those emails you sent five years ago was bad.” He shakes his head, exhaling. “Is there a charity that I can donate to? A fund for people like you who can’t keep their hands—or noses—out of crazy shit?”

I glower, gazing up at him. “I didn’t ask for a stalker.”

“And you didn’t do anything about it either. Arriving in Manhattan a day earlier doesn’t solve this problem, Duchess. In fact, running from it only seems to have done one thing: Brought the bastard here where he can torment you even more.” He scoffs. “And I might be a little slow here, but explain it again: Why didn’t you take this break-in at your apartment to the police? Would that have been too sane for you?”

I exhale, craving a cigarette more than life itself. If only I could get to my Doc Marten boot where the last one was stashed… Or a bar.

I’d take either—or both—to pretend this wasn’t happening right now.

I lift my chin with a sigh. “I didn’t need another scandal to add more firepower to the press. It was bad enough that my personal pictures were taken. Add in a crazed lunatic, and the studio would definitely get rid of me. And there goes everything.” I stand to my feet. “The show. My chance. An opportunity to aspire to something more than to the ‘Hollywood Babymamas’ roles and the sexy siren soaps.

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