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This earns him a hard glare from me. They were warned I’m not above walking off an interview. It wouldn’t be the first time and it probably won’t be the last. Michael holds his hands up passively. “Loosen up, big guy, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, laughing into the camera.

Cas: “Anyway, because this individual has caused an immense amount of trauma and mental anguish, we respectfully asked the paparazzi and papers not to run the photo or the story. I didn’twant my girl to be revictimized by seeing this. I couldn’t care less about me, but she’s been through enough.”

Michael: Aww, that’s sweet. I gotta tell ya, we here at the studio agree. If they were asked not to run the headlines in order to avoid the revictimization of someone who was previously involved in an abusive relationship, it seems wrong to do it anyway.”

Cas: “Hold on. Who said she was in an abusive relationship?” I whisper through gritted teeth.

Michael: “For anyone else who thinks they might need help, here’s the national hotline information.”

Cas: “That’s great and all, and I truly am an advocate for women’s safety, but I don’t want to spread misinformation. This isn’t about the possibility she may have been in an abusive relationship. It’s about standing up for a woman who was being harassed and threatened by a man who then took a photo with the intent to blackmail her in order to cause further harm. It’s about not revictimizing someone who has an active legal case.”

Michael: “Very well said, Cas. I for one am impressed. One last question for you, if you don’t mind.”

I narrow my eyes at him in warning.

Michael: “Never mind. It looks like we’re out of time. Thank you so much for joining us tonight, Cas. For the viewers at home, you can see Cas at one of his sold-out shows, or for those ofyou traveling to the Big Apple for New Year’s, you can catch him there performing live for the New Year’s Eve ball drop extravaganza.”

“And cut,” the producer calls.

I rip my microphone off, toss it at Michael, and storm off the set. I don’t give a fuck if I was rude or over-shared details. Everyone can piss off. Patrick and Todd might be breathing down my neck to be cool and behave, but I’m ready to burn down several buildings in response to them running this photo. I was also told if I do, then my contract is toast. I fucking hate being a good little puppet—it doesn’t suit me.

There’s a car waiting to pick me up and take me to the hotel so I can get on the tour bus. I climb in, greet the driver, then quickly find myself lost in my thoughts. I made it very clear to everyone what my terms were for this interview, and that little cockroach, Michael, really pushed the limits. I’m not happy with the condescending attitude he had. Where did they get off pushing the agenda she’s recovering from an abusive relationship? I don’t even know if it’s true, and the media shouldn’t be embellishing stories for views. I’m especially pissed about this insertion of their own made-up narrative about her situation. It’s victim-shaming. Even if it was an abusive relationship, it’s no one’s business but hers.

That’s fine if the studio wants to be a bunch of dicks about the situation, I’ll send them a little thank-you gift. The real question is, how do I pull this off? Who will have access to the information I need to give them a metaphorical middle finger? I run throughall my contacts in my head trying to find a match—and then it comes to me.

Arty. He’s perfect for the job and I still have his number from my trip. I scroll through my emails and find the number then call him.

“Arty,” I say casually when he answers. “You’re my favorite intern, and I need your help with something again. That chicken penne tip was perfect.”

“Okay, sure. What do you need me to do?” he asks, curiosity in his voice.

I need you to send the studio a gift but it has to be our little secret. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I gotchu, Cas,” Arty agrees.

“I want you to go to this website I text you, and then I want you to order the most obnoxious dildos you find. I mean the weirdest, craziest shit. I want you to order five.”

“Got it, five super embarrassing dildos,” he repeats.

“Have them sent to the studio as a gift. For the gift tag personalization, write: Since you wanted to behave like a bunch of dicks, I figured I’d send you a few more for inspiration. XOXO. Cas Wilder.” I wait for Arty’s reaction.

“This is going to be so fucking funny,” Arty laughs. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Nah, nothing else, just the dicks.” I hold back a snicker. “Thanks, Arty.”

“You’re welcome. Bye, Cas.”

“Bye.” I hang up, and honestly, I can’t believe how easy that was, but Arty seems like the kind of guy I would typically be friends with. He doesn’t ask questions, is always along for the ride, and comes in clutch as needed.

This week is going to suck. We leave tomorrow for a few more stops before a bigger show in Chicago. These next three shows this week are going to be grueling. I’ll be busy touring, and Vivienne has already left for Texas. They flew in early and planned to leave late for girl time plus some tourist shit. I shouldn’t be jealous. I love that she has Roxy and the two of them are having the time of their life, but I want to be there with her too.

Hence why I’m terrible at relationships. I can get clingy, jealous, and slightly possessive. I know nothing about her plans prior to the tour, but I did manage to pose as her assistant and set up meals for her and Roxy at the hotel hosting the convention. I also asked them to place any flowers sent for delivery to her in the room, along with a bottle of champagne.

That reminds me, I need to order the flowers. I swipe to where I saved the flower company from the hotel’s websiteto place an over-the-top order and fill out the card. It reads: Congratulations on the start of what I can only hope is a successful tour. Roxy, please take care of my girl and keep her safe. The fan club is depending on you. Vivienne, my muse. I can’t wait to see you again, darling. I promise to be waiting for you when it’s over.

Hmmm. That’s catchy, I can’t wait to see her again. My brain starts doing its thing, mixing this line in with the lines I already wrote for the don’t be a one-night stand chorus. It’s for the best. I need a way to distract myself for the next week. I was going to sleep, but maybe I’ll work on her song instead.

My phone chirps from my pocket, and I realize it’s the camera system I installed at Vivienne’s. More alerts start popping up until they cover my screen. I click open the first one and see Jackson strolling up the sidewalk to Vivienne’s house. When he reaches the front porch, he walks right to the camera, looks into it, and says, “Bye Cas. Did you really think cameras would stop me? How many more did you hide? I guess I get to go searching and find out. Where should I start?”