Page 136 of Collateral Damage
I turn my attention to the screen as the pilot starts, one hand firmly clasped in Cooper’s. He rubs his thumb along my palm, and I lean over to kiss his cheek. In my other hand is a champagne flute, filled with crisp, sweet, bubbly deliciousness. Cooper’s chosen to stay sober, and I offered to skip the drinks, but he insisted I have one.
I’m proud of how much he’s matured. The old Cooper would’ve never said no to a drink.
The buzz from earlier hasn’t died down, but the audience quiets when the cast gets introduced on-screen. The forty-five minutes that follow are filled with typical reality television antics, but elevated because of the status of the cast, and then elevated even further with the feed of comments.
These are example comments made up by the network, but I see Perry’s vision. The algorithm has been built to feature themost liked comments. It reminds me of watching a live tv show finale while simultaneously scrolling on my phone to see what people are saying about it.
It’s wild and fun, completely on-pulse with current trends, but I have to admit, I’m glad I’m not on the show. If they want more fame, well, they’ve just landed in a heaping pile of it. Is it a pile of gold or a pile of trouble?
The episode ends with Benton and Gloria making out in the hot tub, his voice over explaining how he’s not looking for anything serious and only here to have fun, which is great, considering Gloria had told him she wants the same thing. Then we’ve got her voice over, gushing about how she’s looking for marriage and babies, and she thinks Benton might be the one to make her dreams come true.
The screen goes black, and the crowd erupts into applause.
On our way out of the theater, we’re stopped by people wanting to chat with us about the show or congratulate us. I lock eyes with Benton, knowing exactly how he feels. He’s practically being mobbed, and while he’s smiling, his eyes are tense.
My stomach flips. There’s a narrative arc within the season that temporarily makes him the villain before it turns around and shows the truth of him being manipulated the entire time by Gloria. She never got to know the real him; she wanted airtime and drama. He’s just got to stick it out for the next few months.
But it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
“You ready to go?” Cooper asks, and I nod.
With his hand on the small of my back, he leads me out the front doors. We’re not the only ones leaving; a crowd spills out after us.
New York City at night glitters, and I’m floating on a high. Cameras are still out here, capturing every move, searching for famous faces, but the crowd has multiplied exponentially, and Cooper’s hand slides into mine.
“Stay close,” he murmurs.
We’re swallowed, weaving through the sea of bodies, and I realize why it’s gotten so crowded. The security can’t do a good enough job when most of these people aren’t guests from the event. Word got out, and fans showed up, here to catch a glimpse of famous people.
Several of them call out names, and some of them start crying.
“What the fuck?” Cooper curses under his breath, and my anxiety grows.
People shout, cars honk, and the neon glow from the cinema creates a dizzying effect.
“It’s Justin!” someone screams, and the crowd shifts violently. A sharp jolt sends me sideways, and I lose my grip on Cooper’s hand as a group of teenage girls pushes me. I’m not about to be trampled, so I shuffle to the edge of the crowd, my eyes frantically scanning for Cooper.
He’s taller than most men and women, but it’s loud and crowded, and he’s got a prosthetic leg. He needs to be extra careful.
“Cooper?” I yell into the crowd.
A few people look at me weird, but for the most part, I’m ignored. My pulse quickens. Where is he?
“Cooper!” My voice cracks as I yell again, but it’s drowned out by the sudden surge of noise from the crowd. The cast has come into view.
I need to get in there, but before I can take a step, someone grabs my arm. Hard.
“Spare some change?” The voice has a jagged edge that scrapes my nerves.
I turn and freeze. The man looming over me has a dark look in his sunken eyes. His clothing is filthy and tattered, and he grins with broken, yellowed teeth.
“I don’t carry cash,” I say. “Sor?—”
The apology sticks in my throat as the man yanks me closer, his street-stench slamming into me.
“You do,” he hisses, fingers digging into my arm while his other hand darts yanks at my designer purse.
“Stop.” I twist away from him, panic rippling up my spine. He shoves me hard to the ground, pain exploding through my tailbone.
