Page 1 of Fame & Obsession

Prologue

Six Months Earlier

Wings of Hope Bereavement Chat Room

AngelMia:You’ve been gone lately. Missed you in chat room, Jag.

Jaggulyre4:Busy with my job. Things are nuts; we need to hire someone new.

AngelMia:How’s the hunt going?

Jaggulyre4:Not good, no one fits the bill. No one will fill his shoes.

AngelMia:You will find a fit. Have faith. I do.

Jaggulyre4:Hate to say that I won’t be in chat much for a while. My friends are pissed that work is suffering from computer time. I’ll try to check in when I can.

AngelMia:NO!

Jaggulyre4:Sorry, Mia. Thanks for helping me the past few months. It’s still hard, but I’ve got to start figuring things out. I’ll log on whenever time lets me, to check on you.

AngelMia:I need you.

Jaggulyre4:You’ll be fine, Mia. You’ve done amazing since your brother’s accident and made great progress. I won’t be too far away, I promise.

AngelMia:Things aren’t so simplistic. Everything must fit perfectly, step by step. This is my step, Jag. It’s my beginning and your end.

Jaggulyre4:Don’t think of it as an ending. I’m proud of you, Mia. Take care of yourself, okay?

Jaggulyre4has logged off

AngelMia:I’ll be with you, watching and waiting. When the time is right, you’ll come back to me, or I’ll find you. Your Angel, Mia.

One

Phoebe

“Belvedereon the rocks with two limes!” I scream over the techno beat vibrating from every corner.

The bartender holds up two fingers in question. “Belvedere on the rocks two times?”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Hoisting myself up onto the wooden bar, I crook my finger and motion him closer. His ear hovers inches above my mouth as I scream over the pounding music. “Limes!”

Jerking his head back and rolling his eyes, he focuses on fulfilling a mountain of table-service drink tickets.

Irritated, I check my phone for a third time, verifying that Heath Vaughn is late.Just perfect.I never wanted to interview the has-been boy-band asshole in the first place, so the fact he chose to make some grand entrance grates on my last nerve.

A sudden clink of glass diverts my attention, and I offer an apologetic smile to the bartender as he hands me my drink. It’ll probably end up being the crooning come-back kid’s only saving grace with me.

My patience has run its course.

Scanning the perimeter, I silently curse the dim lighting while lifting a toast to what will hopefully be a brief interview.

Giving up, I lean a hip against the bar and sigh. I’m screwed. The man could have a spotlight on him, and I wouldn’t give him a second glance.

My lips curve into a smirk against the glass. God, I have to be the shittiest entertainment reporter in this city.