Page 110 of Fame & Obsession

“You think I’m some kind of fucking moron?”

“After watching four ER doctors pump my best friend’s stomach, do you really want me to answer that?” He glares, twirling the bat in his hands. “You’ve got some psycho bitch after you, and now she’s hurt Phoebe. And then you—fuck, man—haven’t you done enough?”

For the second time in less than two hours, my heart stops. “What do you mean they pumped her stomach?” Ty’s words about Lam’s ex-girlfriend seeing Phoebe at the hospital run through my head.

He mutters a low curse under his breath. “Nothing. Go home, Bale.” He twirls the bat in clenched hands. “Go back to your whore. I’m taking care of her.”

“Fuck you! You don’t know me.”

“Neither does she! Go home, or I’ll make good on the promise I made when we met.” Lifting the bat, he rests it against his shoulder, tightening his grip on the handle as he slams the door.

“Vivian’s dead,” I blurt out.

The door cracks open again, his face pale. “What the hell did you say?”

“The police just left my house.”

“What happened?” he demands, lowering the bat.

“You don’t want to know.” A sick shudder runs through me.It could’ve been Phoebe in that alley.

“Then there’s nothing more to say.” Scowling, he reaches for the door. “Like I said, she’s busy.”

Acting quickly, I shove my foot between the door and the frame. “I was an idiot to let her go, but I don’t make the same mistake twice. The only way I’m moving from this door is if you physically drag me.”

I know Harlow loves Phoebe like a sister and would protect her—especially from me—but Vivian’s murder has shocked me into reality.

No one’s going to keep me from what’s mine.

But Harlow stands his ground. “Do you know what she’s done for you? Do you even care?” He points to her bedroom door then turns back, eyes blazing. “Do you know the pieces I had to pick up that day? I can’t and won’t go through that again. But Phoebe can make that call herself if, or when, she chooses.”

My control almost snaps as I listen to him. Then his unintentional gesture registers.

She’s inside.

He tipped his hand without realizing it.

“Thanks, now Iknowshe’s in there.” I step forward, even more determined. “Get out of my way, Harlow.” I peer inside, scan the apartment. “Phoebe? Answer me.”

“Damn it!” He shoves the end of the bat into my gut and calls out over his shoulder to his boyfriend. “Baby! Get my phone.”

All the breath whooshes from my lungs on impact. Time is a commodity I can’t afford to lose, so I make a concession and give him something he’s not expecting.

Honesty.

“I love her too, man,” I wheeze.

His jaw clenches. “Your life is out there for everyone to pick apart, Julian. Nothing you do is private. Is that what you want for her—constant public scrutiny?”

Arguing is getting me nowhere, and nosy neighbors are poking their heads out of their doors as our voices rise.

Running my hands over my face, I ask the question. “Just tell me what happened to her. Please.”

He starts to protest then stops and looks over his shoulder toward her bedroom with a sigh. “I don’t know. She took her meds like usual. She seemed fine until she came out of her room acting crazy…” His voice trails off, his face grimacing at the memory.

I’ll kill that bitch.

I should’ve had security guarding her apartment too. I’ll never forgive myself for letting it get to this point. The images created by Harlow and the police—I’ll live with them in my head forever.