Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I’m not the problem. I’m on his side. I’ll be there when all the rafts sink and no life jackets are found. His personal hate towards me is just fucking with his best judgment.
I stare at him a second longer. “That sounded like an apology,” I tell Thatcher.
“It wasn’t.”
I eat the rest of my sandwich and lick my thumb. “We’ll agree to disagree.”
A head pops in the room. The crew manager. “Thirty minutes until pictures.”
We may’ve survived the paparazzi, but we still need to deal with hundreds of emotional and adoring fans at the meet-and-greet. And this time, we’re not sure who they’ll be screaming for.
I’m calling it.
Out of the thirty-plus FanCons so far, the Salt Lake City one has to be at the bottom. It’s not even a bad event: no power outages, no successful groping hands, minor heckling, and a sold-out concert venue. All in all, Maximoff Hale would definitely call this FanCon a victory.
I’m calling it weird as fuck.
Half the attendees in the concert theater aren’t focused on the famous people. Maximoff and his cousins sit on stage for the Q&A panel, and the audience is distracted.
Phone cameras aim at the five of us. We’re on the ground. Guarding either side of the stage near the stairs.
I put on aviators at the next camera flash.
Fans should be more obsessed with Maximoff and his cousins than security. They’ve been famous since birth. We’ve been news for a week.
One is not like the other.
I remember Akara’s “suggestions” before we started the event.
Don’t engage if they ask for photos.
Don’t engage if they ask for an autograph.
Do not answer any of their questions.
Basically, shut up and do your job.
Easy.
I rest my boot on the second stair. Oscar leans into my ear. “That girl keeps staring at you.”
I don’t look. My eyes are on my boyfriend who waves to the audience as Jack Highland introduces him.
The audience cheers and whistles.
“Is she wearing an Adidas crop top?” I ask Oscar.
“Yep.”
“She’s been following me all day,” I say.
“I’d say you have a fan,” Oscar tells me, “but really it’s just Maximoff’s fan being confused and following you.”
I pop my gum in my mouth and flip him off. A few cameras flash at me.
Fuck, I’m not used to that yet. With paparazzi, I can pretend cameras exist purely for Maximoff. In the venue, surrounded by fans, it’s more obvious where their attention is trained.
I catch Maximoff staring at me, and my mouth slowly stretches.
He cracks his knuckle, licks his lips, and diverts his gaze. I want to tell him he can stare at me all day. Every day.
Jack mans a podium on stage and angles the mic to his mouth. “First question.”
In the audience, an assistant passes a mic to a girl in the aisle. A line is already cued up for questions.
“Ummm…this is for Jane.” The preteen pushes her glasses. “If you could date any of the bodyguards, who would it be and why?” She mumbles a thank you and darts to her seat.
Jane’s eyes go utterly wide.
“Fuck,” Oscar curses beneath his breath.
Jack Highland is fast. “Good question.” He smiles sincerely. “But we’re not answering any that involve bodyguards today. Next up?”
Maximoff noticeably eases. I’m just glad he had the bright idea of bringing Jack on tour to moderate.
I hook my aviators on my V-neck.
The assistant hands the mic to the next fan in line.
A short boy clears his throat. “Before I ask my question, I’d just like to say that I totally agree with the Jane-Farrow ship. Jarrow forever!” He pumps his fist in the air to moderate applause.
I roll my eyes, and photos snap my reaction. Probability that I’m a gif tomorrow = high. Someone even shouts, “Oh my God, he doesn’t like Jarrow!”
Jane lifts her mic to her pink lips. “Farrow is a lovely person.”
Maximoff raises his mic. “But he’s taken.”
Gasps flood the room, and my smile is killing me.
Oscar whispers in my ear, “Boyfriend’s territorial.”
I’m enjoying this.
“Taken by who?” the boy asks.
“That’s for Farrow to know,” Jack Highland says, his charisma softening the words. “Remember, we’re all here for Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Beckett, and Sulli.” He waves his mic, and the crowd cheers for them. Many shout I love you to the famous ones.
The boy puts his lips too close to the mic. “Jane, who would you ship yourself with?”
“Happiness,” Jane answers.
“Is that the name of a bodyguard?!” someone shouts.
“It’s a noun,” Beckett says with a what-the-fuck face.
Jack speaks to the boy. “There are no ships with bodyguards. Next non-bodyguard related question.” He motions for the assistant to pass the mic to the next in line.
“But-but.” The boy white-knuckle grips the microphone. “What about Sullivan and Quinn? Quinnivan is a real thing, right? Or Maximoff and Donnelly? Maxelly?”
I choke on my gum.
Oscar pats my back, and I cough hoarsely into a fist. That one isn’t funny. I’m not shipping him with anyone but me.