“I would’ve helped you in a heartbeat, man,” I say. “It was a great idea. Fuck, I wish I thought of it first.” I nudge his arm playfully. Shove him off the balcony, Richard.
Patience, darling.
He laughs. “It was genius, wasn’t it?” He finishes off his drink with a self-satisfied grin. “Had I known you were cool with it, I would’ve just asked you to put the cameras in there. It took my crew five tries to hardwire them in your room when you were gone.”
I snuff the cigarette on the ashtray. “No shit?”
“It was a bitch,” he says, “but you have the real bitch, don’t you?” He watches my face, waiting for my lips to downturn, but I just smile again. The only thing that keeps me from breaking character and publicly humiliating him among cellphone cameras and bar patrons—is the idea of ruining him at the end of this.
“She’s a handful,” I tell him and then pat his chest. “Speaking of which, she’s actually coming around to a season two, but she has a ton of requirements.” No one can lie like I do.
He snorts under his breath. “Of course she does.”
“I’ll email them to you.” I check my watch. She should be here…and then my phone buzzes.
Just parked. I’m coming in to claw your face off—the fake one, not the one I love. – Rose
I like when we work together, but I don’t want her to see Scott or vice-versa. I squeeze his shoulder in goodbye, triggering camera flashes. Scott almost laughs at them.
“I have to go,” I say, “but thanks for this.” I down the drink and set the glass on a wooden patio table.
“I knew you needed it.” He actually shakes my hand—the first time he’s offered this gesture. It’s a friendlier handshake, pulling me to his chest. He pats my back. “Keep me posted about everyone?”
“Yeah, definitely.” I have a better read on him than I ever used to. He has this nervous look in his eye whenever we leave, afraid I’m going to pull a switch on him and fuck him out of his deal with GBA. I hold more cards, and I just need Scott to trust that I wouldn’t hurt him.
I predict that he’ll test me sometime soon. One test. Just to see if I’m being truthful about everything I’ve ever said to him. We meet every weekend, and I’m sure he’ll pick one sentence I told him, a phrase or comment, and try to see if I contradict myself.
If I pass that, he’ll view me as a real friend.
* * *
I exit the bar using the outside staircase with my bodyguard in tow, bypassing hoards of people, some journalists that I recognize from Celebrity Crush. Wendy Collins among them. When my soles hit the sidewalk, I can’t blow past the paparazzi. Despite my bodyguard yelling warnings to back up, his arm outstretched, they press up against me, pushed nearer by other cameramen hugging too close.
“Have you slept with men, Connor?”
“Are you gay?”
“Do you love Rose?”
“Who’s your partner and is Jane considered his child too?”
I stay silent and search for Rose at the entrance of the bar, the bouncers instructing everyone to remain in line and not flock me.
I dial a number and put my phone to my ear. “Where are you?!” I yell over the noise and try to push ahead.
“I’m stuck in the parking lot—shoo, stay back.” The cacophony on her end is louder than mine. “Give me space or I will ram my five-inch heel into your asshole.”
I barrel through the cameramen, unable to run but I shove them aside, no longer slowly trudging through. A few fall over, careening into the pavement. My bodyguard rests a hand on my shoulder to keep up with my pace, and when I have enough space, I sprint around the brick building to the side parking lot.
As soon as I see the sheer volume of cameras and people surrounding Rose, I race as fast as I can towards her, all other insignificant thoughts disintegrating from my brain.
Vic, her bodyguard, tries to escort her through the masses, and her other bodyguard, Heidi, who she hired after Jane was born, flanks her left side.
“Rose!” I yell, tall enough to see over the droves of people.
She whips her head in my direction, but she can’t see past the cameras. “Connor!”
I’m ten feet from her, about three people blocking me. I have to ditch my bodyguard to wedge between bodies, the questioning, the shouting increasing tenfold by my presence.
“Rose, I’m right here!” I yell as she cranes her neck. I reach a hand past someone’s arm, trying to touch her.
“Is your marriage fake?!”
“Are you even in love?!”
Rose is finally able to clasp my hand, and she pulls me towards her, Heidi helping by gripping my wrist. They both tug, and I pass through the last row of cameras.
I hold Rose to my body and cup her face. The heat in her eyes hides panic, but her arms clutch me more securely, in fear that we’ll split apart again.
I can feel my heart pumping vigorously in my chest, and I kiss her forehead, the cameras flashing wildly again.
“Why didn’t you kiss on the mouth?!” someone yells.
Because you’d dissect her rigid posture and say it was a publicity stunt, like everyone has done before.
I whisper in her ear, “Ça va?” Are you okay?
“Just pissed at that one.” She points at an older man with a full beard. He raises one hand off his camera in surrender when I meet his gaze. “Don’t act innocent,” she snaps, tucking her purse underneath her arm. “Everyone heard what you said!”
The other cameramen shift away from him, dissociating themselves from his behavior. I draw Rose closer to my chest, unsure of what he said. For her to be this upset over a comment, it must’ve been worse than all the others.
She takes a deep breath, and the shouting from paparazzi escalates around us. I lower my head to her lips so I can hear her answer.
“He said that social services should take our daughter away—”
A camera nearly clocks her in the head, but instead hits the Escalade. Alarm flickers in her eyes, and I pull her towards the driver’s side. “We need to leave,” I tell her.
She nods in agreement. “Heidi,” she says loudly. “You can follow us with Vic and Stephen?” My bodyguard is already at the extra SUV with Vic.
Before she leaves, Heidi shouts, “We’ll try to keep the paparazzi off your rear!”
I protectively stand behind Rose while she opens the driver’s side door. I wait for her to slide in. Lenses hit my back, paparazzi shoving each other in haste.
“Crawl in,” she tells me. I open my mouth to refute, but she adds, “You’ve been drinking.”
I forgot. The past ten minutes has pulverized any buzz I had. I put my lips to her ear again. “Stay close to me.” I move around her, keeping an arm around her waist as long as I can. I have to crawl over the driver’s seat and onto the passenger one, a feat much more difficult for someone of my height.
I manage well enough, quick as I can be, and by the time I sit, Rose is already in her seat, slamming the door shut. She turns on the ignition and flicks on the light.
“I hope I blind them,” she mutters.
I stretch my arm over the back of her headrest, watching as the paparazzi disperse to their cars, some still stationary and others putting the lenses to our side windows.
“Go slow,” I tell her.
She’s always been an aggressive driver, and in these situations, it calls for someone who straddles between the line of careful and assertive.