And as for my feet—well, I have no one to blame but myself. Jackson warned me we’d be standing. Apparently my favorite low black sandals aren’t the all-purpose shoes I’d thought they were.
All in all, I can’t wait for the blast of cool air when we get outside. So I’m thrilled that we’re heading toward the door, even if we are part of a human wave, so up close and personal that I can smell at least seventeen different shampoos and deodorants.
Jackson has his arm tight around my waist, and I can feel Cass pressed up behind me so as to not lose us in the crowd. The entrance is a set of wide double doors that open straight onto the parking lot, so the wave is actually moving pretty fast, and as soon as we step past the doors I sigh with pleasure as the cool air washes over me. And then I immediately cringe as the cameras start flashing.
Jackson grabs my hand and Cass presses her palm to my shoulder even as I register that these are not camera phones. These are Nikons and Canons and Ricohs, and they’re being held by photographers who stand next to reporters with microphones sporting logos like TMZ and ET and god only knows what else.
I turn to Jackson, confused and panicked, because this is a step up from the paparazzi we’ve been dodging. I hope desperately that there is a movie star inside. Surely this isn’t all about Jackson.
Except it is. They’re calling his name. They’re mentioning Reed. They’re talking about the movie. About Damien. The assault. The Fletcher house in Santa Fe. And I don’t get it because Jackson hasn’t been arrested and nothing has changed, and—
“Is it true that Arvin Fletcher’s granddaughter is your daughter?”
“Why is she hidden away?”
“Is Veronica the reason you’ve been trying to block the movie?”
“Is it true the movie’s been green-lit? Do you think Reed’s death drummed up more interest?”
Behind me, Cass gasps, pulling me out of the weird tunnel vision funk I’d slipped into when the questions started flowing. I hear Siobhan mumble something, and then take off running, shoving her way past us and through the crowd.
I have no idea what she’s doing, but it doesn’t matter, because I can’t seem to move. My hand aches, and I realize Jackson is squeezing it tight, and I think that’s good. Because if he’s grabbing on to me, he’s not pummeling someone else.
When I look at him, though, I’m certain that is exactly what’s going to happen. And when another question rings out—“Did you kill Reed to keep your daughter a secret?”—I know that the paparazzi have gone too far.
I feel him tense beside me. I see the anger held tight in his face.
And, god help me, I feel the cool, helpless sense of loss when he lets go of my hand and bursts forward, undoubtedly to pound the shit out of the idiot reporter who has no idea what door he’s just opened.
I lunge for Jackson, then actually yank him back by the waistband of his jeans.
He turns to me, his face awash with anger, and I think, Oh, shit. That picture will be all over the tabloids, then he’s bursting forward again, his fist flying out, and before I even have time to scream his name, the reporter is flat on his ass, his hand pressed to his jaw, and Jackson is about to swoop down for another punch.
“No!”
I scream the word so loudly it hurts my throat, but it works. Jackson turns to me, his face eerily white under the flash of so many cameras.
He’s breathing hard, his eyes wild, and I’m really not sure how the hell to get us out of this mess. And then I hear someone calling for Cass, and then Cass is tugging at the back of my shirt.
It’s Siobhan, and her head is poked up out of the limo’s skylight.
“Go,” I say to Jackson, and the word seems to pull him back to himself. We push through the crowd, both Cass and I sandwiching him, and then we tumble into the limo through the door that Siobhan now holds open for us.
“Go!” Siobhan yells, her palm flat over the intercom button. As the limo starts to move, she looks back at us. “I figured we needed an escape route.”
“You’re brilliant,” I say, but she doesn’t answer. How can she when Cass has caught her in a wild lip-lock?
Outside, the cameras are still snapping, but I’m starting to breathe a little easier. Jackson is still wound up, though, and as I move to sit beside him, he pulls out his phone. He’s just about to dial when it rings. “Evelyn,” he says to me as he taps the button to answer.
“Goddammit, young man. What exactly does ‘mind your temper’ mean to you, anyway?” Her voice is tinny through the speaker, but her frustration is loud and clear.