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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Oh my God. Ella’s wrist burned as though it was on fire. Now was the wrong time to have an allergic reaction to the bracelet, as she stood in front of Hollywood, New York, and cameras pouring live feeds into living rooms around the world. Their spot would be over in a flash, but it seemed as if hours had passed.
Joe Devlin, the hunky actor at her side, put his hand on her back, leaning close as she tried to hide a whimper of pain.Shoot. Ella blinked, focusing on the teleprompter, trying to find her place.Okay, one simple line.She licked her lips, trying for a smile. “And the winner is…”
But she couldn’t move her wrist without crying out in pain and grimacing. Ella turned to Joe. Her arm shook as she handed him the envelope, going completely off script. Being the consummate professional that he was, Joe went with the flow. Everything else was a blur, and Ella bolted offstage as soon as she heard the room roar with applause for the winner.
Her eyes were on her own prize, and Bishop had his arms outstretched—an offstage safety net, ready and waiting.
His strong hands grasped under her arms, and he lifted her up, as her designer shoes couldn’t carry her another step. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“Get this off me,” she croaked, clawing at the bracelet and tearing at her skin. The burn seared her fingertips. She’d always been hypersensitive, but this was intense.
In a deft move, Bishop spun her away from the prying eyes of stagehands and behind the makeshift privacy provided by the dark underbelly of backstage. Footsteps and whispers surrounded her, but she couldn’t open her eyes to make sense of the burning pain radiating from her wrist.
“I’ve got you. Easy.”
“My wrist. This bracelet. Something’s wrong. I swear, it’s eating through my skin. Help me get it off!”
Someone said they were on a commercial break, and another groused that she had lost her mind.
“I’m not overreacting. This hurts.”
“I need some light.” Bishop lifted her hand up.
“Ow. Don’t do that,” she pleaded.
A dozen cell phones must’ve lit up with their flashlight accessories, and several people gasped. Ella blinked, forcing her eyes open through the tearing mascara—no!Red, irritated skin marred her arm near the bracelet.
“That’s like a chemical peel gone haywire,” someone behind her muttered.
“Ew, God,” said another. “Poor thing has the shakes.”
A cameraman appeared, shoving the lens as close to her wrist as Bishop’s face was.
“Get that out of here.” He elbowed the man, dropping her hand.
“Bishop,” Ella cried. When he let go and her hand fell, the pain quadrupled.
“Shit. Get that asshole out of here!” He knelt back down, and together, they ignored the network staff’s arguments for and against why the camera should stay. “Ella, how do we get this off?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t get it off.” Her teeth chattered. The pain began to push the limit of what she could handle without outwardly reacting. “I couldn’t undo the clasp.”
“Parker, Locke, are you getting all this?” Bishop asked as she started to cry. “Can someone find the house doctor already? It’s starting to blister.” He pivoted on his knees, inspecting and growling at the people hovering nearby. “Keep that camera away. So help me God. And get the goddamn medic already. Some water—”
“Yes, wash it off.” Why hadn’t she thought of that? She needed someone to get her a bucket of ice water to dunk her hand into.
Bishop pulled his fingers away, inspecting his hands. “No water. Hang on.”
Behind her, people ran off. She could hear the scurry and feel the movement, but the localized intensity of her wrist drew her attention like a moth addicted to a flame. “I’m going to be sick.”
“No, you’re not,” Bishop ordered, wiping his hands on his pants.
Her head swam as her stomach revolted.
“El, listen.”
She looked up and found his green eyes. He had such fierce green eyes. They were angry, on fire. Just like she was right now. She whimpered. This was ridiculous. It was just a bracelet, but it was anything but. A collar. A trap. A torture device.