Wright that Got Away (Wright)

At least, I wanted to try before dismissing it entirely.

We had a second chance. I refused to squander it.

But while he was in the studio, rehearsing and structuring the songs that would one day become an album, I still had to run my own business. I’d dropped all the content with Nate on English’s suggestion. It pained me to give up a week’s worth of videos that we’d scripted, recorded, and paid for. But that was for the best, long-term, considering what I would be walking into at the gala this weekend.

Luckily, Honey had backup content ready to go and I had plenty of footage of the band. Though I also felt like I shouldn’t show too much of it since English was now consulting with an entertainment lawyer about the docuseries. Which meant more work for me here in Hollywood.

I’d taken to carrying my tripod around with me early in the morning and shooting a bunch of Blaire Blush discussions at various famous LA locales. Yesterday, I’d even taken a cab over to Santa Monica Pier and recorded on the actual Ferris wheel.

Today, I was on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. My phone dinged for the five hundredth time today just as I’d set up my tripod.

I clicked to my text messages and found another one from Honey.

Wish I were there to film this one. I’ve always wanted to go to Grauman’s!

I shot back a quick note.

Next time!

Is Campbell there with you?

Nope! Just me. He’s too busy.

Too bad! Well, don’t have too much fun without me.

I sent her back a dancing emoji, which was my cue to her that I was getting back to work, and pressed record. I stepped back and performed the dance I’d learned the night before. I was halfway through when a man stopped in front of me.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said, gesturing to the tripod.

“Are you Blaire Barker?” He had a camera in his hand and pointed it in my direction.

I gawked at him. How the hell did he know that?

“Uh, yeah?” I stepped forward, shutting off my camera and slinging my bag over my shoulder. It never felt like a good thing when a random stranger knew my name.

“You run Blaire Blush?” He was still talking to me through his camera.

“I don’t want to have this conversation.”

I turned and walked away. My hands were shaking slightly as I made a hasty retreat, passing over Bruce Willis’s Hollywood star. The man kept up with me, and suddenly, another man with a camera was jogging across the street toward us.

What the fuck?

“Blaire,” the man said.

“Leave me alone.”

“Is it true that you’re in a relationship with Campbell Abbey?”

I gaped at them, which was probably answer enough. I needed to get my facial expressions under control. Now, they had that shocked look on camera forever.

I continued walking away from them. But as I turned the corner, I nearly slammed into a group of tourists.

“Sorry,” I gasped.

“It’s her!” one of them said, clutching my arm.

“I knew we’d find her nearby. She went live in front of the theater,” another said.

I tried to tug away from the person, but she was still holding on to me. “Let me go!”

“You’re the person that Campbell decided to date?” a third said in disgust.

“She doesn’t look like much.”

I had no idea how any of them knew I was dating Campbell or who the hell they were, but my fight-or-flight was kicking in. I was ready to get the hell out of here.

That was the moment I realized that they were all wearing the same jean jacket. And on the chest was a Campbell Soup symbol. These were Campbell Soup girls. They’d tracked me down. Let me repeat, what the fuck?

“Let me go,” I said, jerking away from the girls. I finally pulled away hard enough that she released me. But this mob of girls looked much more menacing than the set of Campbell Soup girls I’d met in Lubbock.

I turned for another escape, but the paparazzi had caught up to me and were shoving cameras in my face. Flashes went off. The world tilted as my claustrophobia hit fresh and new and disorienting. The internet had speculated that Campbell and I were dating, but I had been more careful about what I was posting. Many people had moved on to thinking that I was just filming the entire band for their new album, which was also true.

But these people knew. They had been stalking me and come out to my last known location to harass me. I didn’t know their objective, but it couldn’t be good.

“This can’t be the girl,” the first woman said.

“Blaire.” One of the cameras was stuffed into my face, and the flash went off.

I blinked, momentarily blinded by the light.

“Is it true that you’re the ‘I See the Real You’ girl?”