Whenever You Call
Vicki James
Not until America’s most beloved rockstar died in my hands.
Plagued with guilt, I stupidly watched over his wife from afar, only for some messed up form of karma to throw me into her life without me ever being able to turn back, because Hannah Moore was far too good for the likes of Hollywood, and it turned out she needed saving, too.
Allowing us to grow closer through a trauma she didn’t know we shared was a dangerous game to play, but when she looked up into my eyes, begging me to stay, I forgot all the reasons why I should go.
I forgot everything else existed but her.
Especially that, in Hollywood, the truth always came out in the end, and when mine did, I’d no longer be the hero she needed, but the nightmare she wished she’d never fallen into.
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