Managed (VIP 2)

I vetted out a good spot to catch the guys exiting their limos, and to take pictures of the onlookers as well. It tells a better story for this night, and it keeps me away from Gabriel. I’m trying not to regret my decision given the nasty tinge that’s in the air right now.

Teenage girls vie for position, jostling each other, throwing elbows in a not so subtle manner. They haven’t devolved into fights, but it’s a close thing. Glares and shoves are increasing. Security looks annoyed, and they aren’t exactly kind with their attempts to keep the fans back, resorting to shoves as well.

Around me are fellow photojournalists. Many of them I don’t know, but some are familiar.

Even though I don’t want to, I search the crowd for Martin’s face, fearing that he’ll decide to pay Kill John, and me, a visit. I’d rather see him coming than be sucker-punched by him suddenly showing. I’ve done this each and every night, all the while cursing him to hell. But, thankfully, he’s nowhere to be found.

“How’d you get a job traveling with Kill John?” Thompson, one of my old colleagues, asks me as he sucks on a cigarette. He’s got a bloated look about the face, his skin grayish in the harsh marquee lights. “You fucking them?”

“Yes, all of them.” I don’t bother looking at him. “It’s kind of a train situation. I hear they’ve got an opening for a bottom, if you’re interested.”

“Cute.” He tosses down his cigarette butt, not bothering to snub it. The glowing stub comes close to my open-toed sandal. “I should quote you, brat.”

“Because your credibility is so reliable,” I mutter.

The weasel stomps out his cigarette, barely missing my toe. I don’t react, though I want to.

Never get emotional. A good mantra, but not one that’s easy to follow. I’m regretting my plan more and more as bad memories of desperate days fill my head and make my stomach churn. I hated being a pap. Hated who I was and how I felt—as though I was covered in mud from the inside out.

My phone buzzes.

Brenna: We’re coming around the block

Go time. I’m about to tuck my phone back into my pocket when another text chimes.

Sunshine: 30 seconds ETA

His text does for me what Brenna’s can’t: make me feel cared for, and make me care back.

Keeping my distance from him isn’t going to work, not when we’re in constant contact, anyway. But I can’t bother worrying now. Kill John’s motorcade is in sight.

The crowd erupts into pandemonium. Girls scream, shoving turns rough. All of us are so packed together that we seem to undulate like a raging sea.

I brace my feet and start snapping, capturing chaos.

The first large SUV pulls up to the curb. The guys are in there. Gabriel, Jules, and Brenna will be in the next one.

Jax is the first to exit, and it’s like he’s touched a live wire to the crowd. Everything amps up. My view behind the camera shakes as I’m jostled. But I get the shot of Jax’s face—the flinch and then the smoothing of his features into some bland neutrality. He smiles, but he’s not really there.

None of the guys are. Not this time. The crowd is just too wild for them to linger. They move toward me at a steady pace. At my back, people shove and push. I’m in a good spot and clearly that’s not sitting well with more than a few girls.

“I can’t see!”

“Get out of the way!”

“Move, I was here first.”

“Fuck you.”

Those last two were not aimed at me, but I’m in the middle of it. Suddenly arms are flailing, hands slapping. I duck a few blows and edge away. But that fuckface Thompson shoves me right back into it. I’m glaring at him when someone grabs my hair and pulls. Hard.

Tears prickle behind my lids, my scalp screaming. I lower my head and twist my body, my elbow connecting with the wrist of my hair puller. The girl lets go with a squawk.

Someone grabs for my camera, and I slap the hand away. Around me, other fights break out.

In my periphery, I see Jax. His gaze catches mine, and he frowns, slowing down.

No, no, no. Get out of here.

The other guys are pausing too, seeing me in the melee. Not good. The crowd surges again, crushing me into Thompson and a security guard. A blow hits me right in the eye, and I see stars. It hurts so badly, I cry out. Another blow comes. Pain sparkles and tears.

It occurs to me that Thompson just elbowed me twice. He actually hit me.

I’m about to rip into him, when a body pushes between us with enough force to send Thompson sprawling on his ass. Gabriel stands before me with an expression of rage so fierce my skin prickles.