Page 30 of Played
“No, you’re as tired as I am.” I squeeze his arm. “Besides, if you’re there with me, you’re going to dirty my kitchen up, not clean the bathroom after you shower, and take over my living room.” He just snorts, but his mouth twitches in a reluctant smile. ’Cause he knows I’m not wrong. “I’m not going to take a check out of Graham’s mouth either. It’s not his fault his boss is an ass-a-hole.” Graham arches an eyebrow, and I answer his unspoken question. “He’s so much of an asshole he deserves an extra syllable.”
This time it’s Graham’s mouth that quirks the barest amount.
“All right, sis.” Malcolm pulls me into his side and slides an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me close. “Call me when you get home. Let me know you got there safe. I’ll come by if you need me.”
“I will, and I know.” Wrapping my arm around his waist, I return his hug.
He remains in the same spot as I walk to my car, unlocking it with the key fob. I don’t wait to see if Graham is behind me or not. If he’s in Solomon’s employ, I’m sure he’s resourceful. Resourceful and possessing the patience and long-suffering of Job.
I start my car and pull away from the curb, beeping my horn at Malcolm. He holds up a hand, and I pull off. The entire way home, I keep peeping in my rearview mirror to see if Graham’s still tailing me. And when I arrive home, I’m suddenly thankful for Graham’s presence. As soon as I park, about four people rush to the sidewalk, blocking the path that leads to my house.
I don’t scare or panic easily, but my heart soars to the back of my throat, lodging itself there. I can barely breathe, my pulse racing in time with the rapid camera clicks and flashes. My fingers tighten on the wheel, and for a moment, I can’t move, the walls of my car steadily crowding closer and closer to me. I want to push out of the car and run. But I also want to huddle there on the seat, try to curl into a ball and disappear ...
A firm, quick rap on my driver’s-side window has my head jerking to the side. A wave of relief surges through me so powerful that if I wasn’t already sitting, I’d sink to the floorboard. Graham stares down at me and points a finger down. Fumbling, I jam the unlock button a couple of times, and Graham opens the door, granting me just enough space to slide out so his big body remains between me and the press on the other side of the car. He settles a hand on the middle of my back, gently but firmly guiding me forward. A guy rushes around the hood of my car, and Graham outstretches a hand. The cameraman wisely pulls up short, or else he would’ve had a palm to the face. And that’s a big-ass palm.
“Keep your head down and keep moving,” Graham murmurs. “Have your house key ready. I’ll come back for your bag later.”
I follow his directions, bowing my head and striding forward, ignoring the questions thrown at me as well as the demands to look up for a picture. White noise buzzes in my ears like a live wire, and it’s pure muscle memory that has my feet moving forward. In seconds that feel like hours, we climb the front steps, and with trembling fingers, I shove the key into the lock. Or try to. I manage it on the second try, and another surge of relief crashes through me when the door opens and I step inside my house.
“Wait right here,” Graham orders, and I pause inside my postage-stamp-size foyer as he roams through my living and dining room, the kitchen, and the small office. He then ventures upstairs and, minutes later, descends the stairs, giving me a nod.
“It’s all clear.”
“Is all that necessary?” I ask, a little unnerved by his reconnaissance.
“Yes.” He pulls his phone from his back pocket and tips his head toward the living room. “You’re free to move around. I pulled the curtains in all the rooms, but just to be on the safe side, try and stay away from them, if you can. The lenses cameramen have today are ridiculous.”
Pulled curtains? Stay away from the windows? Holy shit. What has my life turned into?
Graham doesn’t wait for my answer but turns around, heading back toward my front door and peeking out the small window cresting the top.
Palming my forehead, I walk into the living room, glancing at the long light-blue curtains. I make my way to the couch and sink down on it, still staring as if I can see through the glass panes.
“Ms. Wright?”
I lift my head at the sound of Graham’s voice to find him standing in front of me, his phone outstretched toward me.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Young would like to speak to you.”
My eyes narrow on that cell as if it’s hairy and has eight legs. I want no part of it. But Graham’s arm isn’t lowering, and that steady gaze silently informs me he’s not moving until I accept the phone. Sighing, I take it.
“What?” I say, none too friendly.
“Graham’s going to stay with you until the reporters go away. He’ll sit outside your house and make sure they don’t try to get any closer than across the street. I know you don’t like it,” he adds before I can voice my objection. Because I was about to voice it. “But just let him do it.” A pause. “Please.”
For the second time this morning, I mutter, “Fine.”
“Good.” Then, “Adina, I’m sorry.”
I blink. Pull the cell away from my ear. Stare at it. Then put it back again. “Say what now?”
He snorts. “You going to make me repeat it, huh?” His low chuckle is a sensory caress that has heat curling low in my belly. “I’m sorry, Adina,” he repeats, tone stripped of humor. “This is on me. I should’ve been more careful. I know better, and I wasn’t thinking. I’m ...” I can just picture that hard jaw flexing. “This is my bad, and I didn’t mean to put you in this predicament.”
Just earlier I was heaping all the blame on his massive shoulders and big-ass head. But now ... it must be the shock from hearing him apologize, because I’m thrown. Thrown enough to grant him mercy.
“Yeah, well ...” I clear my throat. “At least my Gram numbers have skyrocketed.”
