I raised an eyebrow. “He jokes.”

“I’m giving you today to rest.” He pushed the fruit cup and pastry toward me. “There are some DVDs in the hall cupboard if you get bored. I’ll be back tonight with groceries but I have to get back to the office now. I see you’ve already found the washer/dryer so you’ll make do for clothes until Friday?”

I hated to ask, but . . .”I only have one pair of jeans. The other pair got ruined.” Grass stains. I tried not to flinch as an image of Johnny holding me down flashed before my eyes.

I blinked it away, taking a deep breath.

O’Dea didn’t notice my distress. “I’ll ask Autumn to bring you a new pair tomorrow. Size?”

I tore open the fruit cup, playing with it in my hands so I didn’t have to look at him. “Um, I used to be a four but I’m probably between a two and a zero now.”

“UK size?”

“Oh right. Then I’m between a six and a four. I used to be a UK eight.”

O’Dea was silent so long, I glanced up at him.

His expression was grim with understanding. “Brenna will get your weight and strength back up before you know it.”

Pride pricked, I scoffed, “Pity doesn’t suit you, O’Dea.”

“Funny. Because self-pity doesn’t suit you.” And on that irritating parting shot, he left the apartment. I almost threw the pastry at the doorway he’d been standing in but he wasn’t worth the loss.

I MUST HAVE BEEN TRULY exhausted because, despite having so much to worry about, I slept after I ate. And I mean I slept.

The next thing I knew I was blinking open my eyes to the feel of being rocked and a familiar masculine voice calling my name. When the blurring cleared from my hazy eyes, I tensed in bed at the sight of O’Dea sitting on it next to me. His frown disappeared as I became more cognizant.

“What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock. You slept all day?”

I pushed myself up and O’Dea abruptly stood from the bed. “I guess so.”

“I put some food in the fridge. Dinner is ready.”

“Dinner?” I shoved off the duvet and got up, the room spinning a little.

“You okay?” he asked, and I felt his warm hand grasp my arm to steady me.

“Got up too fast.” I grimaced. “I guess the attack took more out of me than I thought.”

O’Dea let me go and shook his head, something like anger tightening his features. “It’s not just the attack. It’s months of sleeping rough. You’ve exhausted yourself. And never mind what damage you’ve done to your back sleeping on a cold ground for weeks on end.”

Rolling my eyes, I followed him into the kitchen. “Can you not lecture me right now?”

He threw me a look over his shoulder but refrained from answering. He slid onto one of the stools at the counter and dug into a plate of food. He was staying for dinner?

I stepped closer to the plate next to his, my stomach gurgling in hungry protest at the sight of the steamed salmon, baby potatoes, and mound of salad. Food. Real food.

“You cooked?” I asked as I gingerly got onto the stool next to him. My body was so stiff that the aches and pains distracted me from how close we sat together.

“You were sleeping when I got in with the groceries. I’d have to cook my own dinner anyway so . . .” He shrugged, not looking at me.

Confused by his contradictory nature, I studied him, curious. “Do you always look after your artists like this? So personally?”

“Only the ones who can’t look after themselves.”

And there he was. “I can look after myself.”

O’Dea grunted. “Oh aye, and a bang-up job you’ve been doing so far.” He pointed to my plate with his fork. “Start eating.”

“You are so bossy,” I grumbled but did as I was bid because I wanted to.

The food tasted so fresh, I couldn’t help a little moan of satisfaction.

“Good?” he asked, sounding amused.

I nodded and swallowed. “Everything I’ve had in the past year has been fried or processed. I used to be an incredibly healthy eater. I had to be. We toured a lot. You need strength and energy for that.”

“You don’t think you need strength and energy to survive homelessness?”

“Of course you do. But unfortunately, fast food is cheaper than salads and a home-cooked meal. I ate what I could afford.”

He nodded, getting my point.

For a little while we ate in silence. To my surprise, it was. . . . well, it was a comfortable silence. Which suggested I couldn’t care less what O’Dea thought of me. I always used to care what people thought about me. Too much. You can’t do fame when you care that much because the public will destroy you. Even when most of the comments were positive, it was the negative that stuck with me. Ate at me. And then there were the posts that were filled with vitriol.

The worst incident was on Instagram. I posted a photo of Max and me together. Austin had taken it and I’d loved it. We were all hanging out in a hotel room and I was sitting on Max’s lap while we tried to play my guitar together. Austin had snapped a photo of us laughing into each other’s faces. We looked in love.

At first the photo got a lot of likes, a lot of love.

But Micah decided to post a photo of himself sitting solo with his guitar, looking forlorn. I didn’t know if it was deliberate or if he wasn’t thinking, but the fans saw it as a response to my photo with Max. The comments on my photo turned nasty fast.

I was a heart-breaking bitch.

I should burn in hell.

I should kill myself for being such a bitch.

Why people thought it was okay to post things online that they would never dream of saying to someone in real life, I didn’t know.

But back then, having my life become public property wore on me.

It made me depressed.

“I don’t care as much now,” I said.

O’Dea looked over at me. He swallowed the bite he’d taken and asked, “About?”

“What people think. I used to care too much. Maybe the publicity stuff won’t be so bad now that I don’t care.” It would help me to think so.

He was quiet a moment as his gaze returned to his plate. And then he delivered a swift verbal punch to the gut. “If you didn’t care as much what people think, you’d be ready to face your band.”

I glowered at him, anger making my skin flush hot. “I meant about people I don’t know.”

“Well,” his expression remained aloof, indifferent, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Any gratitude I’d been feeling toward him for the dinner turned to dust in my mouth. I pushed my half-eaten plate away and slid off the stool.

He sighed. “Where are you going? You haven’t finished eating. You need to eat, Skylar.”

“Eat shit and die.” I slammed the bedroom door behind me and leaned back against it, trying to calm down.

Loneliness overwhelmed me. A horrendous, black, gaping hole of complete aloneness appeared, readying to swallow me.

I slid down the door, feeling tears burn in my nose.

All the time sleeping in that cemetery I hadn’t felt this alone.

Crap.

I swiped at a tear that escaped.

Maybe I really did need to see a therapist.

Okay, there was no maybe about it. I wasn’t stupid. I knew I was messed up about everything. But I was so scared.

So scared that if I started to talk to someone about everything, the guilt would become too much to bear.

A gentle knock on my door made me suck in a breath.

“Skylar?”

I ignored him.

I hated him.

O’Dea sighed. He was always sighing. Like I was an exasperating child he’d been burdened with. “I’m leaving so you can come out of the bedroom and finish your dinner.”

I snorted. What a martyr.

“Skylar . . . I’m s- . . .”

Tensing, my eyes widened. Was he . . . was he going to apologize?

“I’m . . . fuck.” He blew out an angry-sounding breath. “I’ll be back tomorrow and I expect you to be civil.” His footsteps thudded down the hallway and then the door slammed shut.