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CHAPTER 1

Milla

Muffin

 

Milla hadn’t expected to see herself on TV in her lifetime, and surely not as the featured subject. But tonight her life was going to change. She’d been an author for a while—it was a comfortable place with sweatpants and ponytails. Tonight she’d dressed to the hilt, and her ridiculously expensive little black dress and strappy heels left her feeling exposed.

 

When security showed her to the dressing room, she nodded gracefully and closed the door. But once she knew she was out of sight, she commenced a butt-slapping, hair swinging dance of excitement and victory. She had no way of knowing she was being taped for the late night television show’s blooper reel. Not even a little hint. She added her pretend-I’m-a-drunk-stripper dance, complete with toe drags. Eventually, she petered out and chicken-danced over to her welcome packet the people from Late Night With Andres! had thoughtfully put on the coffee table. She was to follow a long list of rules including, but not limited to:

 

• No cursing on air.

• Always cross your legs if you’re wearing a skirt.

• Please don’t flush any feminine hygiene products.

• Never ask the host about his bulletproof hair.

 

Milla snorted to herself. That’s exactly the sort of thing she’d be tempted to ask. Her online advice column, Milla Bites, had blown up recently when a troubled socialite on a downward spiral began quoting Milla’s snarky answers to her questions on Social Media. After video interviews, podcast spots, and some pretty exciting meetings with publishing bigwigs, Milla was poised to appear on tonight’s show billed as writing’s new, young face.

 

She unleashed an unattractive squee when she saw a basket of baked goods sitting by the mini fridge. She unwrapped a muffin and smiled, but just before she could sink her teeth into her first piece of swag, a noise ripped through the air and sent her mind into a primal scream. Cowering, she fell to the floor, clutching her crumbling muffin like a good luck talisman.

There was so much screaming.

 

Milla crawled to the door, intent on locking it, when another gunshot shook her brain and her hold on reality. Her sweet taste of fame was being poisoned by what must be a weapon in the building. She had just about reached the door when the knob began to turn. She froze for a moment, and as the door began to open, the fire alarm also went off, so a piercing, flashing noise announced her new visitor. There was nowhere to hide as he slipped into her dressing room. Milla stupidly held her muffin in front of her face and closed her eyes.

 

 After a few moments, it became apparent, since she was still alive, that the man had not killed her. Milla peeked around the muffin and watched her visitor lock the door. He turned and took a quick scan of the room’s interior. His eyes widened when he spotted her crouched on the floor. He didn’t appear to be the one with the gun, because the gunshots were still sprinkling through the building—and her nervous system. 

 

The man stepped over her and frantically searched through the room. The best weapon he could come up with was a huge can of Big Sexy Hair mousse. The blaring fire alarm cut out, giving way to an ear-piercing silence. New guy set down his beauty product and began pushing the couch in front of the door. Milla set her muffin remnants down and moved to help him.

 

They lifted the couch on his silently mouthed One, Two, Three. Then they stepped back and crouched down.

 

The flimsy lock and the bargain basement couch did not instill any confidence, but Milla was glad she at least had what seemed like friendly company. He soon had the can of mousse clutched in his hand again. He eased down to his belly and motioned for her to do the same. Their shoulders touching, they watched the door and listened.

 

Minutes passed like hours, and every move made way too much noise—including their breathing. The silence was just as bad as the gunshots because the madman could be anywhere, could want anything.

 

Milla bit her lip as the tears began, doing her very best not to become hysterical.

She sniffled, and her companion nudged her with his elbow—hard. He mouthed, No you don’t, while shaking his head. She tried to swallow her panic. It certainly would not help.

She looked at him earnestly to prove her intentions of holding her damn act together, and she realized he was him. The famous him. The man next to her was wearing a hoodie, but his face was the one all over the Internet and many women’s sexiest dreams.

 

Gage Daxson was a singer by trade, but his hard-partying bad boy image made him a hot topic of many blogs and entertainment shows. She watched his face register her knowledge. She could almost hear his internal sigh: this again. He didn’t seem to have any idea who she was, and she tried not to let this bust a hole in her ego.

 

Loud footsteps outside their door scattered her petty concerns to the wind. Both Gage and Milla flinched when they heard the sound of a door being kicked in. Then they heard crashing and banging in the room next to them and a man screaming about retribution. Milla closed her eyes. She didn’t sob, but her tears fell, wetting her cheeks as she began to pray.

 

***

 

CHAPTER 2

Gage

Practice

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