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)
My mind reels. About fame and the bodyguards, the video leak. “Who do you think from my family or security shared the video?” I ask him since I’m all out of guesses. Any name that crops up seems like a colossal betrayal.
Farrow straightens, more serious.
I read his gaze pretty well. “Do you know who?”
“I have a good guess.” His jaw tics. “My father.”
I blink a few times, processing. Dr. Keene’s number was a part of the text thread. He’s grouped in the circle of trust. And he’s been acting desperate to get Farrow to quit security.
“So he gets you famous,” I say, “and you get fired.” I’m rigid, my joints needing oiled. I stretch my arm over my chest. “I’ll tell security to look into it.”
“I already did. My father is denying, and there’s no proof.” Farrow combs a hand through his hair. “And his leak didn’t work. Now I’m famous and still a bodyguard. I wonder what else he has up his sleeve.” His eyes hit mine, and the insinuation is obvious.
“Your father isn’t stalking me,” I almost growl. Christ, even saying that sounds soap-opera-level fucked-up.
“He could be. It makes the most sense.” His voice fades as chatter, laughter, and footsteps echo down the hall. Probably from hotel guests, but we drop the topic and start buying drinks for everyone. Shelving theories about the leaker and the stalker for now.
35
FARROW KEENE
“Farrow, what’s your opinion on kale?!” The obnoxious, over-enthused paparazzi point Canons in my face, fighting for a money-shot and bobbing up and down like Chihuahuas needing to piss.
A cameraman to my right screams, “Farrow, what’s your workout routine like?!”
“Back up!” I yell like a threat. Maximoff stands directly in front of me, and I shove bodies back, not allowing anyone to edge too close.
He walks closely behind Jane. She dips her head, cat-eye sunglasses block the flashes, and she reaches back and clasps Maximoff’s hand.
It’s a big deal.
Jane hasn’t really held his hand in front of cameramen since before the Camp-Away. Paparazzi don’t adjust their cameras and fixate on their friendship.
Good. The media dropped the rumor, paparazzi followed suit since it’s not profitable, and slowly, the public is getting there.
I don’t give a shit what any “fans” think or what tabloids print. What’s most important to me: Maximoff and Jane salvaging their friendship.
In the masses, Thatcher shields Jane from lenses and hands. We create a small but effective barrier.
Paparazzi have congested the path from our parked tour bus to the venue. We considered dropping the famous ones at the entrance, but fans would just rock the car. And paparazzi shouldn’t even be here.
See, we’re in Salt Lake City, miles and miles away from the disaster zone that was L.A.—but as soon as we left, paparazzi rode our asses down the highway. Basically eating our exhaust.
“Thatcher, have you ever considered modeling?!”
“How tall are you, Thatcher?!”
He towers above the frenzied crowd, but I’m staring at the back of his head. Still, I know he ignores them. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Like hell he’d break protocol.
“Farrow—” A hand grabs my arm and tries to tug, but my reflexes kick in. I seize his wrist and twist. He jerks back, and another cameraman attempts to rush forward in the space.
I shove him. So forceful he trips backwards into another body. Like an unstable cluster of bowling pins, I watch a thirty-something guy go down. His Canon crushes underneath his ass.
“I’m going to sue!”
Sure. Try me.
At the commotion, Maximoff glances back at me. Jane pushes forward, trying to tug him along. Their hands break, and an unintentional gap forms between them.
“Walk, Maximoff,” I say in a deep voice, my hand on his broad shoulder. I’m not standing out here and mediating this shit. And we’re not holding a press conference in a parking lot.
A camera lens almost whacks against my jaw. I dodge the blow, but Maximoff looks murderous.
“Give him space,” he growls.
“Walk,” I say sternly, more concerned about Maximoff reaching the venue safely.
The empty space between him and Jane is already too wide. People start creeping in, and if he doesn’t reconnect with Jane fast, then I need to walk in front of him and clear a path. Thatcher keeps his position ahead of Jane, barreling through the masses.
Before I make a move, Maximoff finally surrenders, and he charges forward.
His hand clasps Jane’s again.
Random fingers tug at the hem of my black V-neck. Trying to hook into the waistband of my black pants. Not my favorite thing. Not even close. And yet, I know Maximoff goes through this every single fucking day.
We reach the venue, and once inside the building, we walk quickly down empty hallways and towards the dressing rooms. At our last security meeting, we made a call to switch FanCon locations from hotels to concert venues.
Securing the area is easier, and with a backstage, we can easily bring the famous ones on-and-off stage without hassle.