I was proud of him.

Joe Taylor had become a different person after he left the apartment building he holed himself up in for almost ten years of his life.

When that ignorant bastard had shattered Joe’s heart, I thought it was all over. He came crying back to my house, begging me to get him a new apartment. I had been all too willing to agree; I’d been willing to get my gun out of the night stand and go shoot the dick, too, but Joe hadn’t let me do that.

Such a shame.

For the first three months, Joe was worse than ever. He didn’t come out of the apartment, didn’t let me come in longer than it took to pick up a manuscript or deliver the groceries. Joe did a very good impression of a skeleton by the end: expressionless, listless, silent.

And the, the impossible happened.

One day, Kisten was on the news. His father had passed away without ever producing another heir to the business. God only knows why they handled their business like it was the fucking dark ages, passing it from father to son. Kisten, the illegitimate child, became a billionaire overnight.

It was like a challenge. Seeing Kisten successful, happy- it snapped Joe right out of his depression. His reason for succeeding seemed to be to ‘prove to the lousy son of a mouse that he wasn’t the best thing that happened to me’. A goal I very much approved of- and I approved even more of the way Joe went about it.

He dropped the pen name first. There was a press conference where I got to parade him around, the talented writer of all those romance novels and oh dear god he was a man. The papers had a field day with it. Sales skyrocketed, and Joe Taylor became a household name.

With the fame, came the fangirls. At first, I thought he wasn’t going to be able to handle it. What were fangirls but a pair of hands that wanted to steal him away and tie him up in their closet for their own personal use?

Even that he managed. Though he never lost his fear, and often flinched away from grabbing hands, he could slap on a gracious smile. He had a wardrobe full of gloves so that he was protected when he was forced to shake hands. For some reason, it was gasoline on the fire of the fangirls’ desire for him. Being quirky was an asset.

A year had passed since that first press conference. A year of new novels, new business, new press releases and book release parties and TV interviews that he handled with a skill I didn’t think Joe was capable of.

But no matter how proud I w, I hurt for him.

It became clear every night, when we shared a hotel room because the media liked to pin us as a couple and it kept fangirls from going too crazy.

“Joe. Aren’t you going to eat anything?” I asked, pushing the plate closer to him.

He looked down at the food like it was an alien object, alive and squirming on his plate. “Ah… no. I’m just not really hungry.” His voice was soft, and it always shook a little when we were alone.

When I reached out to touch him, he flinched back violently, almost knocking over the table. He apologized for it immediately, soft words flowing out of his mouth like honey. Honey that was poisoned before it even left his mouth. A whole string of lies that meshed together. He usually managed to ensnare me with them, snare me in the devil trap he spun with his tongue.

“Stop,” I said sharply, standing up abruptly. I turned my back on him, running a hand through my hair as I bit down hard on my bottom lip to press back tears.

Damn it, I thought I had gotten over it. The drawing back, the fear as bright and sharp in his eyes as ever. That first week he spent with me, he had seemed to be getting over it. Then he went back to that apartment building. He never told me what happened, but it smashed the part of his heart that had started to heal, breaking him worse than he had been before.

“I can’t take it,” I said softly, my hands shaking until I wrapped my arms around myself.

Joe made a soft, sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.” His voice shook worse than my hands. I heard him stand up, and even though he didn’t touch me, I could feel the heat of his body against my back. I knew by the way his his breath hitched every time he inhaled that he was crying again. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean… I never mean… I don’t want to hurt you.”

It was always some variation of that. We would stand there silently for a while, both of us shaking slightly while Joe cried. There was just something about that man, a certain vulnerability, that broke right through all the walls in people’s hearts. Nobody could hold out against him.

After a while, he would sigh softly and brush away his tears. Then he’d leave me alone in front of the TV or the fireplace, shutting his door softly behind him. Sometimes I would hear him crying. Other times, he would clack furiously at his keys as he used his emotions to fuel the next chapter of his novel.

Either way he spent his night, he came out of the room in the morning with dark circles under his eyes. He would drink a whole pot of coffee to give himself some semblance of life. Joe had become an expert at make-up; when he came out of the bathroom, he looked like a normal person, an attractive writer in his late twenties with impeccable style. And when he forced a smile I could almost believe him.

“So, what’s on the agenda today, Liz?” he asked as he sat down at the table.

I shoved a plate of toast in front of him, glaring when he tried to push it away. He meekly started eating while I took out my tablet and scrolled through the schedule.

“You have a fitting for a tux at eight, and then brunch with the head of a publishing company at ten. After that, there’s a book signing at the local indie bookstore until five. There’s been hundreds of RSVPs, so it should be full.”

Joe sighed, his head hanging, but nodded his assent.

And so we were at the local bookstore hours later, a crowd of devoted fans screaming his name as he sat down. Cameras flashed, reporters screamed questions, and he handled it all with ease. When that part was over, the security pressed his fans into a line, and they steadily streamed up one by one to get their books signed.

The only people Joe truly smiled at were the kids. From toddlers to teens, he would offer them a genuine smile and talk to them like he actually cared- because he did. He especially loved the ones that wanted to be writers. He would talk to them until we forced them on their way so he could sign the next book. Otherwise he was genial- unless the men flashed him a flirtatious smile, and then he would stare at them stonily until they moved on with their book unsigned.

“Miss Ryker, we have a situation.”

I looked up at the security guard. He lowered his sunglasses on his nose, so I could the gravity in his eyes. “Which one?” I asked.

The security guard pulled up a set of pictures on his tablet, and pulled up one in particular. I would recognize that face anywhere. My smile became glacial cold. “Get him the fuck out of here,” I hissed between clenched teeth.

The security guard nodded and waded back into the crowd. The security guards all left their posts, hands on the little mics in their ears as they coordinated their efforts to get the annoyance out of the store before he could cause a real problem. Joe noticed- of course he did- and shot me a curious glance. I shrugged it off and hoped that would be the end of it.

But that would have been too easy, and god forbid life be easy just one fucking time.

The annoyance saw the guards coming before they got close, and started to push his way to the front of the line. “Joe Taylor!” he shouted, his voice high and urgent.

Joe ignored it; he had plenty of attention ignoring fans shouting his name.

“Joe Taylor, listen to me you fucking asshole!”

That caught Joe’s attention. He started to look up, but I leapt in front of him before he could catch sight of the annoyance. “Don’t worry, Joe. It’s just some crazed fan. The guards will get him out of here in no time!”

“Elizabeth…” Joe, wide-eyed, tried to look around me.

“Joe Taylor! You better fucking listen! You asshole, you need to listen to me!” His voice kept getting louder as he shoved closer to the table where Joe was set up. The guards were screaming at him to stop, but that obviously wasn’t working.

I gasped as hands shoved at me, pushing me sideways.

“Elizabeth!” Joe stood up, alarm on his face.

“Hey, asshole, over here.”

Joe froze; with the voice that close, he had to recognize it. My eyes shut, defeat making tears sting the back of my eyes, and Joe looked at the person who had gone to so much trouble to find him. As he looked at Clint Ryker, the punk rocker who lived in 2B.

“Finally. Listen to me, Joe. Kisten wants to talk to you, and you better fucking-”

My eyes opened just in time to see Clint go flying back into the crowd, Joe shaking his hand with a grim smile as the guards swarmed in.