Page 2 of On the Run
“What?”
“Just speculating. I can’t see why you want to find this guy.” I chuckled uncomfortably. “He’s a nobody.”
“We want to find him to get a statement about Jayd, clearly,” she said slowly, like she was talking to a very young child. “Everyone has a price… or a breaking point. And if HiWire doesn’t find him, the cretins at BlazeNewz will.”
I’d cleared my throat. “But Tattoo Guy is a victim of circumstance. An innocent. Who clearly spends lots of time in the gym. And has an amazing head of hair.”
She’d tipped her head to one side. “Honestly, Tobias, listen to yourself. Should you be having another martini? I’m afraid you’re losing your killer instinct.”
I was losing something, for damn sure. Possibly my mind. As evidenced by…
Fact Number Two: I was right then in freakin’ Florida, at Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport, having a low-key panic attack and trying to avoid my fifteen minutes of fame at all costs.
I’d canceled my once-in-a-lifetime trip to the place where every reporter and celebrity gossip hunter in the solar system would be hanging out this weekend, grabbed my already packed suitcase, and fled the city, imagining I was mere seconds ahead of a SWAT team of camera-toting paparazzi closing in on my location. I’d headed for the most remote place I could conceive of and theoneman I could trust to hide me, no matter the cost to his own health and safety, my best friend, Mason Bloom… who apparently had his phone on silent, withzeroregard for my crisis.
Furthermore, I was being auditorily assaulted by a maintenance dude riding a Zamboni-esque floor cleaner around the linoleum of the baggage claim area with wanton disregard for my eardrums, which was unacceptable.
I also may have been hungover at 8:00 p.m., but that was neither here nor there.
Why, yes, Iwasgiven to slight overdramatization. I liked to imagine that, along with my complete inability to think logically under pressure, were delightfully amusing quirks of my personality.
My phone rang in my pocket, and I answered immediately.
“Mason, finally! Thank fu—dge!” I amended when Blue Hair gave me a death glare over her shoulder. I widened my eyes in the universal gesture for “Back off, sis,” and when she harrumphed and faced forward again, I continued. “I need you to come get me. As in, posthaste.”
“Uh. Tommy?Mi angel, it’s Aron. From the bar. And, uh, from Dive the other night, too. Remember?”
I huffed. Did I remember? Did George Washington remember Benedict Arnold? Did Jesus remember Judas Iscariot? Did Britney remember whoever the heck had provided her with those hair clippers?
It wasn’t likely I’d forget the instrument of my downfall, especially when it came packaged as a hot bodybuilder I’d flirted with at a bar last weekend who’d invited me to the exclusive backroom VIP party Wednesday night at Dive.
“Come on, Tommy,” Aron had said, flexing all his muscly muscles and smiling with every one of his professionally whitened teeth, which had been such a welcome change from his blathering about his chances in the upcoming Muscle Man of Manhattan competition that I’d agreed without thinking and hadn’t even bothered correcting him when he’d used the wrong name.
I hadn’t understood that he’d meant we’d attempt to party with anactualrock star, and had therefore not comprehended the possibility that I could be caught on camera with said rock star in what appeared to be a very compromising position.
This would be the last time I was a fool for a muscle-bound guy with a perfectly sculpted ass, I vowed to myself. The very, very last time. I’d officially hit rock bottom.
“I am not yourangel, and of course I remember you, you dick—ens,” I corrected, in deference to the children. I added in a furious, accusatory whisper, “You staged that whole scene and sold me out for forty pieces of silver.”
“No way, man, it was twenty-five thousand dollars.” Aron’s voice was both sincere and sincerely awestruck, and the confirmation infuriated me. “And I didn’t sell you out… exactly.”
“No? What doyoucall pushing me to the ground at the exact moment a photographer snapped the picture?” I whisper-hissed.
I wasn’t sure which was more mortifying: that I’d been so busy plotting my escape from another deadly boring night at a club with young try-hards, I hadn’t seen the move coming, or that I’d been so incensed by Aron’s braying laughter and his insistence that it was a “harmless prank” to notice a photographer was even there until Jeanette showed me the picture earlier.
I hadn’t lived a blameless life by any means, but I had one rule that was inviolable: I kept my shitcontained. No gossip, and sure as fuck no scandals.
Thanks to Aron, I’d broken that rule, and now everything I’d spent the last ten years working for was in jeopardy…
And I was almost positive that wasn’t me being quirkily dramatic.
“It’s me making lemons outta lemonade,” Aron insisted. “Look, Tommy, the story’s gonna come out one way or another, it’s only a matter of time. That singer dude wasn’t acting like any virgin I’ve ever met, so we can’t be the only ones he’s fooled around with.”
“We?” I demanded. “Nuh-uh-uh.Wewere not involved in any fooling, Aron. You were the one kissing him. And then you stood up and pushed me soIwas the one who got caught in the picture.”
A picture which not only showcased the aforementioned shoulder tattoo, but also Jayd’s hands reaching out to embrace me and his chart-topping face, complete with beard burn and kiss-swollen lips, contorted in what appeared to be incredible pleasure—and, let me just say for the record, totallywouldhave been incredible pleasure, had I actually been doing what it looked like I was doing, because blow jobs, especially with me, were fuckinglife-changing.
Only Jayd, Aron, the photographer, and I knew poor Jayd had actually been yelling and trying to grab me because I’d tried to break my fall by bracing a hand on his nuts.
