“Where are you?”
“Sam?” Patricia’s voice made me freeze in place.
“Hey. It’s me. I’m sorry I thought you were someone else.” I put a finger in my other ear. “Are you okay?”
“Can you talk?” She sounded tired.
“Hold on.” I looked around for somewhere quiet but didn’t see anything. Becca wasn’t standing at the stairs, so couldn’t ask her either. I took the steps down and found a bathroom where the music was much more muted. “I can hear you now. What’s wrong?”
“It’s your dad, sweetheart.” I knew it was bad for her to be calling me, but my heart still stopped.
“What’s happened?” My throat tightened. “Is he—”
“No! No, but it’s not good.” I could hear the strain in her voice. “It’s worse than we knew.”
“I don’t understand. Where is he?” Panic filled my chest and I saw one of the girls look at me in the mirror.
“Sam, I didn’t know it was this bad. He never let us go in with him to the appointments, remember?” Her voice choked up and she took a minute before continuing. “He’s at the hospital. I couldn’t wake him up.”
“He’s dying?” My voice came out on a sob and I covered my mouth with my free hand. I was standing in the bathroom at a club while my father was dying in a hospital.
“Yes, baby. I think he knew but didn’t want us to worry.”
“He knew and didn’t tell us?” I whispered the words. “Why would he do that?”
“I can only guess he didn’t want us to spend all our time focused on him.”
“I’m coming. I’ll have to get a flight, but I’ll leave as soon as I can.” I dragged the back of my hand across my nose and the girl that had looked at me handed me some tissue. I mumbled a thank-you as she left but wasn’t really paying attention. I needed to go.
“Okay.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just didn’t know.”
“It’s okay, Patricia. I’ll call you soon.” I hung up the phone and took a couple of deep breaths. It didn’t help. The tears running down my cheeks wouldn’t stop. How had I not known it was this bad? Why did I leave him?
I turned on the sink and splashed water over my face. I needed to get out of here—needed to get to the airport. Rubbing my shaking, wet hands on my dress, I left the bathroom and shoved my way through the crowd. Someone elbowed me and I tripped but got right back up and kept going. The bouncer at the door said something, but I didn’t hear him. There was too much noise in the club. Too much noise in my head.
I practically fell out the door and into the line of people waiting outside. Our car was gone of course, so I looked for a cab. Reporters had gathered outside, the bright flashes of their cameras blinding me as I tried to decide which way to go.
“Samantha! Duchess Rousseau!”
“Rousseau! Look here!”
“Are you upset? Did someone do something?”
“Samantha!”
“Where’s Alex?”
“Where’s Cathy?”
“What happened?”
“Look here!”
“Sam!”
I shoved through the people and tried to put some distance between myself and the reporters, but they kept pace. One of them reached out and grabbed my shoulder. I shrugged him off and kept walking. I had no idea where I was or where I was going. The farther I got from the club, the more my fear fed my anger.
“Tell us what happened!”
“Leave me alone!” I glared at the reporters, but they continued to snap pictures, not caring how upset I was.
“Why are you crying?”
“Samantha! Sam!”
The guy who had grabbed my shoulder reached out and tugged on my purse while pointing a camera in my face. Something inside of me snapped and fury raced down my spine. Turning around, I shoved the camera out of his hand and kicked him in the nuts as hard as I could. He went down with a groan and I turned back around and started walking away. My entire body was shaking and I couldn’t stop.
“Samantha! Why did you do that?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you miss home?”
I turned a corner and the heel of my left shoe wedged down into a grate. I couldn’t regain my footing and fell. My body slammed against a metal trash can in a loud explosion of noise. The metal was rusted and a jagged edge gashed my leg. I gasped when I hit the ground, my head slamming against the brick wall and more tears pooled in my eyes. I tried to stand up but my feet wouldn’t work; a sharp pain shot up the leg that wasn’t cut while the bleeding gash on the other throbbed. A few of the photographers put down their cameras and moved to help me, but I shoved their hands away. I didn’t want them touching me. These were the people who had been chasing me.
I heard scuffling in the crowd and I looked up just in time to see Alex slam his fist into a photographer’s face when he wouldn’t move. The man went down with a thud and his camera exploded into a hundred pieces on the concrete. A few of the photographers protested over the treatment of their colleague, but most of them just took more pictures.
“Samantha?” The panic in his voice made my tears come faster.
Alex leaned down, his eyes checking my leg quickly before he scooped me up in his arms. The photographers went wild but gave him room. I buried my face in his shirt and tried to get control of the sobs that were trying to break free. Everything was wrong. My father was dying and I was here, being chased by the paparazzi. Even with my eyes squeezed shut I could see the bright flashes of the cameras.