He turned away from the screen and watched the parade of emotions marching across her face. She was working hard to keep them from showing, but Trace knew how to read her eyes. Her pain was on a steady loop.
Anger. Hurt. Sadness. Anger again. Disgust. Disbelief. And repeat.
“Turn it up, please, Han,” Kylie said evenly.
“Kylie,” he began, but she just shook her head without looking at him.
“What no one knows,” he heard the woman’s grating voice from the speakers as Hannah turned the volume higher, “is how truly ungrateful she has been for everything I’ve done for her. I mean, her dad left us with nothing and I worked two jobs to keep a roof over her head.”
Kylie didn’t cry or yell or cuss. She just sat with her back ramrod straight and stared.
Trace felt sick. And pissed off. Fighting off the overwhelming urge to comfort her the only way he knew how was damn near impossible. And now he had no idea how he could tell her what a piece of cheating scum her boyfriend was when she was dealing with this. That was the worst part.
Because now he couldn’t tell her.
“Her father was no prize himself,” the woman continued. “I mean, I tried to teach her manners but he just let her run wild. It’s no wonder that she got her start in the music business by seducing older men. Her relationship with her dad was always very odd to me. She’s a perfect case study for a celebrity with daddy issues.”
Everyone’s eyes went to Kylie. Trace braced himself. If she wanted to hit something, he’d let her hit him. He could take it.
Her eyes widened a fraction, but other than that she kept her expression blank. She’d always had one hell of a poker face.
When the crazy bitch on the screen began dabbing her eyes and discussing Kylie’s late father’s supposed impotence, Trace reached forward and turned the damn thing off.
“That’s enough,” he said to everyone. “Out. All of you. Go get some rest. We’re about to be heading to Atlanta anyways.”
Kylie remained frozen and mute. Until Hannah turned to leave.
“I want a copy of her book, Hannah. As soon as we get to Atlanta.”
“Kylie, are sure you should—”
“Get me a copy of the book, Hannah, or you’re fired,” Kylie said evenly.
The girl nodded once before following Mike and Kylie’s friend off the bus.
“That’s one way to treat your assistant,” Trace said once they were alone. “Though I think you might keep her longer if you try a more civil approach.”
“Why would she say those things?” Her voice was thick with pain and barely above a whisper. She looked up at him with a helpless expression. “He’s dead and gone, Trace. Why do that to his memory?”
Her eyes were full of tears he wished he knew how to stop.
He sat down in the across from her. “I don’t know, darlin’. I don’t even try to figure out why people do the things they do.”
She turned her eyes upward in what he assumed was an attempt to keep the moisture in them from leaking onto her face. Instinct told him to reach out, wrap his arms around her. But he didn’t know if she would want that. Or if she’d want it from him.
He figured he’d lost the right to comfort her the way he wanted to. But he vowed he’d do the best he could—as her friend. As someone she could trust and depend on. He wanted so badly to be that for her. To not let her down this time.
“Hey, look at me,” he said, angling himself closer. He placed his hands gently on the tops of her thighs and leaned into her. “What she says, it doesn’t change anything, Kylie Lou. Your memories of your daddy are yours. And she can’t say anything that changes who he really was or what he was to you. Understand me?”
“I-I just don’t understand why they’re listening to her. Why are they taking her seriously? She’s lying, Trace. None of that stuff was true.”
He lifted a hand and wiped the few tears that had fallen. “Because the world is a big place. And there’s plenty of room for all the crazies.” He leaned his forehead onto hers. “Sooner or later, they’ll see that she’s a desperate nutjob trying to get attention. But until then, you don’t give her that power. She can’t hurt you or him anymore.”
His strong girl, the one who’d held her head high during everything he and the world had thrown at her, crumbled in his arms.
“I hate her,” she whispered through her sobs into his embrace. “I hate her so fucking much.”
“I know. I know you do.” He tried not to breathe in her warm, sweet scent, but fucking hell it was hard. He stroked her hair, rubbed her back in calming circles, and did everything he possibly could to resist the tempting urge to kiss her. To pick her up and carry her to his bed where he could soothe her pain all night long. And then some.