I see it before I even get to the gate.

Egg covers my car. And not just one or two—several yolks are smashed against the windows, hood, trunk, roof. Everywhere. The yolks are meshed into it in bursts of bright yellow, and the whites are dripping down and around and just about everywhere. As if it couldn’t get any worse, flour is layered on top of that. It looks plastered on it, and I have no idea what the hell has happened in the last hour.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, hoping this is a nasty dream.

I open my eyes.

Nope.

Not a dream.

Motherfuckers.

I throw my wallet and keys on the ground next to me and send a picture of my car to Aidan. Anger burns inside me—who the hell do his little fangirls think they are? Words on social media are one thing. Egging my fucking car? No. That’s where the line is crossed. That’s where the social media becomes null and void, because they know where I live, and their threats are no longer words, but true actions.

That’s where it becomes seriously fucking real.

Someone, somewhere, has a very real obsession with my very fake boyfriend, and they’re doing whatever they can to warn me off.

I’m torn between running away and giving them a giant “fuck you.” Every breath I take is sharp, because hello panic, hello freak out, hello what the fucking hell? Even my mental “fuck you” can’t dispel the anxiety building inside me. Even my stupid inner defiance can’t beat away this panic or this realistic fear that’s slowly drowning me. Minute after minute it rolls over me, and I can’t see anything other than my car.

Or my street.

Or my car.

Or my street.

Where is he?

Why did my car, of all things, get targeted?

Where is he?

Were they too afraid to target me as a person?

Where the fucking hell is Aidan?

An engine roars from down the street, and Aidan’s truck zooms up to my car, and he jumps out two seconds later.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“No one else but your stupid fans hate me enough to try and turn my car into a cake!”

He walks to the gate and, without opening it, cups my face with his hands. “Breathe, baby.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Look at my damn car! Breathe? How am I supposed to breathe? I haven’t breathed for ten minutes! And if that is a fucking photographer down the street, I’m going to shove his camera up his ass!”

He presses his lips against mine firmly. I freeze at the touch, but it’s brief enough that it’s barely even fleeting. “Breathe, Jessie. You’re mad, right? I get that. I’m pretty damn pissed, too. But yellin’ ain’t gonna make it better.”

“No, but it helps me.”

“I know. But this isn’t the place, because that is a photographer,” he continues in a low voice. “So just grab your things, get in my truck, and we’ll go like this isn’t bothering you, okay? Then I’ll get your car picked up, cleaned, and delivered back.”

“So I’m just supposed to pretend it isn’t happening? Is that what you’re saying?”

His eyes turn stormy. “No. They crossed the line. I’m just sayin’ let me handle it.”

“Like you’ve handled everything before?”

“I’m not afraid to throw you over my shoulder and shove you in my truck, you know.”

“Don’t you dare!” I seethe.

“Then do as I say for once.”

“The reason I’m in this mess is because I did what you said.” I bend down and grab my things, shoving them at him, because I have no pockets. “Or did you forget that part, huh?”

He puts my wallet and keys in his pocket, then simply holds his hand out for my phone. I slap it into his palm and unlock the gate. I swear I’m always furious at him for something. Doesn’t matter what. Something he does just always has to piss me off, doesn’t it?

I jump up into his truck, almost losing a flip-flop in the process, and slam the door behind me. He rolls his eyes as he gets in the driver’s side and hands me my things.

“You don’t have to be mad at me this time, you know,” he says, glancing at me as he starts the engine.

“Oh, I do. Because if it weren’t for you and your stupid idea, this wouldn’t be happening. I wouldn’t wake up to more threats and abusive messages than anyone should deal with in their life and someone wouldn’t have tried to batter and deep-fry my car!” Tears sting my eyes and I turn away.

I refuse to look at him. I refuse to let him see me so affected by this.

“Jessie.”

I shake my head, turning my whole body away from him, and swipe under my eyes.

“Jessie!” He pulls over at the end of the street, by the park, and I unbuckle my seat belt.

Screw this.

I jump out of the truck and slam the door behind me. My things are still in his truck, but I don’t care. I just care about getting away from him, because he’s right. There’s a line and it’s been crossed. Well, to be honest, there have been several lines crossed, but this is the final one.

I simply can’t do this anymore.

The tears burn my eyes hotly, and I drop my head back in an effort to blink them back. No, no, no. I’m not going to cry this way over this. I’m made of stronger stuff. Better stuff. It’s pettiness, and no one should cry over pettiness. I don’t have a tattoo for pettiness.

“Jessie!” Aidan says my name for a third time, and the rawness of his voice makes me swallow back the lump in my throat.

I walk as a tear rolls down my cheek.

“Dammit, Jessie!” He grabs my arm and turns me around to face him. He must have run to catch up with me, but I don’t care how he got here, not really. I just don’t want him to see these tears, because then I’ll have to admit that I care.

I keep my face turned away from him determinedly. He touches my cheek, his thumb brushing across my skin.

“You can’t hide from me, baby,” he says quietly, his voice gentle and full of regret. Guilt seeps from every word. “I can feel your tears running past my thumb. Look at me.”

I shake my head.

“Please. Jessie, please.” His words are stressed and drawn out, nothing but raw emotion.

“I can’t, Ads,” I whisper. “It’s just so much. It’s constant, all the time. I can’t keep doing this and pretending I’m okay, because I’m the furthest thing from okay that I’ve ever been.”

He moves, bending down, and touches his forehead to mine. “Don’t,” he breathes. “Don’t give up on this now, baby. I need you to stay with me, with this, with us, for just a little longer.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. Because, you—shit. You give me something. You give me the freedom to be someone other than Aidan Burke, Dirty B.’s drummer. You give me the freedom to be Aidan, the guy lost behind album sales and tours and a drum set. And, selfishly, I need that. I need something that reminds me of that, and, sunshine, it’s you. You remind me how to be me.” His inhale chills my lips. “So stay with me. Just for now.”

His words ricochet through my body. Like an electric current with no way to make it to Earth, his words spin around and around me until I feel every syllable with the rushing beat of my heart.

“Stop,” I whisper. “Stop saying things you don’t mean.”

“But I do,” he stresses, moving so that I have no choice but to look into his eyes. “I mean it. Every word. You stay, and I’ll do everything in my power to make them stop.”

“They never will.” I take his hand from my cheek, wrapping my fingers around his, and I drop it. “This is more real to them than us. What makes you think you can make them stop?”

“But I’ll try.” Defeated. He’s defeated. “Just let me try once.”

I take a deep breath and look away from him. I feel like I’m being torn in two different directions, but it’s more than an emotional tug. It feels almost physical, and I’m sick with the realization that I don’t hate Aidan.

I don’t even dislike him.

I like him. Maybe even a lot. Maybe too much to fight this.

And that . . . It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever thought or felt. That after all my protests that I wouldn’t be his bitch or take the shit from the fans, that I might just, and I’ll be okay with it. What did I expect, really? That I would stay hating him forever, even as I got to know him? Even as I got to know who he really is under the Dirty B. act? Under the overconfident-teenage-boy act he used to put up?