Page 92 of Layla

“Please don’t say anything about his dick,” James grumbles, and I hear the unmistakable sound of her smacking him.

“He surprised me with a house, smart ass.”

That has my gaze snapping up to her face. She’s smiling in a bashful sort of way. “We’re moving in together.”

“Wait, he bought you a house?” Dylan asks.

“He boughtusa house, yeah.” Her eyes meet mine and I can see a million emotions in them. Happiness, a little fear. Relief. And something I can’t quite name but can totally understand. I told John last week that I’ve never really had a home. Well that was doubly true for Haylee. At least I knew I would always have a place at Dee’s. Haylee didn’t have anything like that. I wonder if Lennon realized it, if he knew what a big deal this would be for her.

For the second time in as many minutes, I feel tears come to my eyes. But this time I can’t hide them.

“Hey,” Haylee says softly, reaching across the table for my hand, ignoring the way the boys are gaping at us. We don’t really do sappy PDA. But Haylee is squeezing my hand now while I desperately try to wipe the tears away before they fall. “This doesn’t change anything, Layla. Just because I’ll be living with him when we’re in LA it doesn’t mean I’ll see you any less—”

I shake my head. “It’s not that,” I say, which is only a little untrue. Of course I’m worried about seeing less of Haylee, but that’s been the case ever since she got serious with Len. “I’m just…I’m really happy for you.” I try to swallow past a lump but it’s no use. My voice is shaking. “I know what this means to you, having a real house and…” I grab my hand back to wipe at my eyes again, more furiously this time. “I’m just really happy that you have that now.”

“Oh, Layla,” she whispers. Then she’s pushing Dylan out of his chair so she can sit next to me, wrapping her arms around me tight. “You’re the best, you know that?”

I snort into her hair, not bothering to hide the tears anymore. Everyone has already seen them, and I’m pretty sure Haylee is crying too. Hell, I’msureDylan is—the dude cries over sappy commercials.

“Love you, girl,” I mutter, and she squeezes tighter.

“I love you, too.” She pulls back, wiping at her eyes, and then levels her gaze on me. “Now will you please tell me what in the hell is going on with you?”

I stiffen in her arms. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” She doesn’t look sappy anymore. Actually, she looks a little pissed. “Something has been bothering you for weeks now, and I want to know what it is. You were acting weird on the tour—you were grumpy and skipping parties, which is totally unlike you. I know you weren’t sleeping—”

“When do I ever sleep?” I snap, but she just glares at me and I know she isn’t going to drop this.

“You think I can’t tell when you’re not acting like yourself?” she asks in a low, accusing voice. “You’re my fucking family, Layla. And it sucks that you won’t talk to me.”

“Nothing is going—” I begin, but Lance cuts me off.

“Layla.” His voice is quiet and commanding and when I meet his eyes, I see the steadiness in his gaze. He nods slightly as if to sayjust tell her.

But I can’t. I can’t tell Haylee of all people. My mouth moves to make up some excuse and then…then I just stop. Because sheismy family and I’m so tired of keeping this to myself. I’m tired of lying and I’m sad about John and I’m scared and I’m just…tired.

I’m so damn tired.

“I’ve been getting letters,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “The label was concerned, so they upped my security.”

Haylee goes very still next to me.

“What kind of letters?” James asks, his gaze on Haylee.

Fuck. The fact that he’s looking at her, and not me, only reminds me of why I didn’t want to tell her in the first place.

“Threatening letters,” I whisper. “And pictures. Of me.”

“Someone was taking pictures of you?” Dylan asks. He doesn’t sound at all like himself. His voice has gone low and gravely and, fuck, serious. Dylanneversounds serious.

I nod. “The guy, or whoever, was able to get pretty close to me a few times. He sent a couple to the label and to Louis. But he, uh, also got onto our floor in the hotel to put a letter under my door. Twice.”

“Seriously?” James growls. “How in the hell did someone get onto our floor?”

I shake my head. I still haven’t looked at Haylee. I’m too scared of what I’ll see. “No one knows. But since the guy was able to pull this shit in multiple states, they’re taking it pretty seriously. The FBI has been involved and John says—” I cut off in the middle of the sentence. I can’t talk about John.

“John was hired for you,” Dylan says in that same not-Dylan voice.