And then he guided me off the floor, pushing me through a sea of cameras and lights. People screamed out questions, asking about Trigger and the incident. News had been slow today. I was sure we’d be trending for a few minutes. They would make a mountain out of a molehill and then speculate for days.
But I didn’t care about any of that.
All I could think about was Hunter’s body moving against mine.
12
A Douchebag, a Gun, and a Bottle of Whiskey
Hunter
It took forever to get Zola to the car. Her people followed. Crowds and lines of onlookers blocked the way. I checked my phone in between breaks.
Apparently, we’d been trending on twitter. Everything had gotten out to the public—my knocking down Trigger’s hand, their dance, and ours. People had been comparing video footage of the dances, analyzing which dance Zola truly looked to be enjoying herself. I’d won that round.
There continued to be others. They created stories. Gossip blogs claimed I’d been Trigger’s bodyguard, fell in love with Zola, and quit working for Trigger that night. Others had me as an up-and-coming actor that somehow grabbed Zola’s attention. None knew our true history. Not one reported on Zola’s stalker. Several jealous fans began to cut Zola down, calling her a shallow hoe for playing with both of our hearts.
I didn’t let Zola glance at her phone, keeping her busy as we made it to the car.
Maybe I went a little far with Mr. Trigger, but he should’ve kept his hand to himself. Had no one been there, I would’ve broken it.
My phone buzzed. York had already called five times. Since I hadn’t answered the consecutive calls, he texted.
York: What the fuck is going on in New York?
Me: I’ve got it handled.
York: Did you really break the guy’s hand?
Me: Don’t believe the gossip blogs.
York: Of course not. They are trying to make it seem like Zola and you are together.
Guilt moved in my heart.
Me: We’re still leaving the event. I’ll talk to you later.
Once the driver picked us up, there were more packed streets and traffic due to Trigger’s party. We then had to take each person home. The driver had offered to take Zola and I first, but I wanted to get a feel of the people around her, and where they lived.
I hadn’t finished telling Zola about the different types of stalkers because I didn’t want her to further stress. But there were also intimacy seeking stalkers. They stalked due to loneliness and a lack of a close confidantes. Victims were usually strangers or acquaintances who became the target of the stalker’s desire for a relationship.
It could be someone they simply worked for, yet in their mind, they believed their relationship was much deeper than the reality. This behavior was fueled by a severe mental illness involving delusional beliefs about the victim. Erotomaniac delusions. Sometimes they established an emotional connection with the person. They would be a friend and possibly try to make the relationship more intimate. Whether the victim told them no or not, the stalker would believe they were closely linked.
Could it be any of these people here?
Each person arrived at their place, and nothing seemed off. Alexander had a penthouse in a high rise several blocks from the hotel, but he was nowhere near Zola’s apartment.
Zola’s makeup artist, Takako, had the gossip on everyone. As soon as Alexander left the car, Takako boasted about how Alexander had an uber rich sugar daddy. Apparently, the guy was some ninety-year-old bank oligarch, and Alexander had been his lifelong secret. Meanwhile, Takako claimed Alexander had some allegations brought against him by young male models. He’d gotten overly-touchy and showed up at a few male model’s places drunk and begging them to have sex. Takako never hinted at his cocaine habit, so I wondered if they really knew anything at all.
The whole time, I listened as Takako yapped to Zola. Exhausted, Zola merely smiled and nodded, probably ready for them to go as I was.
Takako had more to say after we dropped off CiCi at a decent sized building on the edge of Soho.
“Nice spot.” Takako rolled their eyes. “That’s what comes when you sleep your way to the top.”
For the first time, Zola shook her head. “Don’t talk about CiCi like that. She’s one of the hardest working models out there.”
“She’s slept with so many—”
“Let’s leave it alone, Takako.”
Takako blinked. “Fine.”
“Thanks.”
An odd silence filled the car.
Zola leaned back in her seat. I watched her from the side, trying my best to not be so obvious. Soon, we would need to have a discussion. I was eager to get it over with.
Fuck. She felt so good on the dance floor.
I couldn’t help myself. I’d had to hold her for a little longer. It was completely out of Bodyguarding 101 protocol.
One, never dance with the person you are supposed to be guarding.