Page 20 of The Oscar Escape
It was a damned good thing Madelyn had reminded him to take it. He pulled up the hood on the hoody. He needed to be as unrecognizable as possible. He exhaled a sharp breath and held the package above his head. “Delivery, make way!” he cried, snaking through the horde of paparazzi. He stopped in front of the bouncer. “I’m supposed to get this to the VIP section. It’s for some guy with the last name of Jamison.”
“What is it?” the big guy asked with a skeptical bend to the question.
Oscar shrugged, making sure to keep his face obscured. “I don’t know, man. I just get paid to deliver stuff.”
The bouncer crossed his arms, looking more immovable by the second.
“Listen,” Oscar pleaded, recalling his recent interaction with a random delivery guy. He looked at the box like it contained three-day-old egg salad and stepped back. “I can toss it. I already got paid. It’ll be your ass on the line if this VIP doesn’t get the shit they ordered.”
He could see the wheels turning in the bouncer’s head.
The big guy stepped aside. “Yeah, okay, but I better see your ass leaving soon, or I’m coming in after you.”
Boom!Score a point for the resourceful documentarian.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” That wasn’t a lie. If everything went as he’d hoped, he and Aria would blow this joint in a matter of minutes. He slipped past the tank of a guy before the man could change his mind.
Oscar surveyed the scene. He’d gotten inside. Now he had to find Aria. That might be easier said than done. The club was massive. Strobe lights flashed. Bass thumped. Writhing bodies packed the dance floor. Aria loved to dance, but he’d bet she wouldn’t be on the dance floor tonight. She had to be here to confront Justin, and she’d ditched her security to do it. That was no small feat. Dom and Malik loved Aria like a sister. They’d never let her pull a stunt like this. He had to get to her before she did something she’d truly regret. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the blaring music stopped.
“Hi, everybody,” came a woman’s voice that he’d know anywhere. Unfortunately, her words poured out of her like her mouth had gone numb. “I’m Aria Paige-Grant,” she slurred into a microphone as she stood beside a wide-eyed DJ.
And that wasn’t even the worst part.
The gobsmacked DJ’s turntables happened to be situated next to the VIP section. And who was seated in that swanky VIP booth and flanked by blondes? Justin freaking Jamison.
A round man in a Hawaiian shirt stood with his back to Aria. He held up his phone to get himself and the rock diva in the frame. A slippery smile slithered across his face. “You’re getting this live and unfiltered, folks. After a lackluster performance in Boston, Aria Paige-Grant, coming off a stint of extensive plastic surgery and likely on heavy pain medication, staggered down the street. Your favorite celebrity chasers, the Hawaiian Shirt Guys, followed her to this club. Stay tuned. She’s about to confront her cheating boyfriend in what I predict will be an epic meltdown of rock star proportions.”
A muscle ticked in Oscar’s jaw. This fucking asshole. He understood Aria was in the spotlight, but jerks like this were out for blood. Rabid protectiveness surged through him. “Turn it off,” he growled, getting in the guy’s face.
The bald man flinched. His eyes widened with fear. He looked over his shoulder and met Oscar’s gaze with that slimy smirk back in place. He gestured with his chin toward the sea of paparazzi and club-goers with their phones pointed squarely at Aria. “Are you going to stop everyone?”
Oscar hated to admit it, but the Hawaiian shirt guy had a point. He was ready to fight for Aria, but there had to be over a hundred people filming.
“I asked the DJ to cut the music so I could say . . . Hello, party people!” Aria crooned like she was on stage.
Oscar’s hammering heart slowed a fraction. Okay, maybe she was here to have a good time.
“And,” she continued, “I’m here to call out my lying, cheatingex-boyfriend,Jam-ison Jus-ison.”
“Sweet Christ, she’s blitzed!” Oscar swore under his breath as his blood pressure went through the roof.
The club went eerily silent as Oscar looked on in horror. This wasn’t drunk and feisty Aria. He knew drunk and feisty Aria. She was a blast. Aria could drink most men under the table. He didn’t know this Aria. What the hell was in her system?
Aria tapped the microphone. “What I meant was I’m here to confront Justy Jamerstien.” She huffed. “Justed Sonny-James.”
Oscar stood there, frozen. There was hitting rock bottom, and then there was this shit.
“Justin Jamison,” another rotund bald guy in a Hawaiian shirt called out.
How many of these fuckers were there?
“Winner, winner! That’s it, Jussy Jamison,” Aria garbled, again screwing up the name.
What was wrong with her? She’d never done drugs. While plenty of rock stars dabbled in that shit, it wasn’t her thing. At least, that’s what he’d thought. And there was no way she’d undergone recent plastic surgery, as the first Hawaiian shirt guy blathered on his livestream. But he couldn’t worry about that. Aria was on the move—and he needed to get her out of there.
She took a few steps toward Justin. He and the blondes were cozied up on a couch with a low glass neon table covered in Champagne bottles separating them from the irate Aria. Like she was taking the stage, his best friend stepped onto the glowing surface and towered over the trio.
“Ladies,” she said, looking between the blondes, “in my hit song ‘Believe,’ the refrain goes like this:Gotta believe in who you are, know yourself, know your heart.I suggest youbelievein getting the hell out of here because shit is about to go down.”
