Page 34 of Just Friends Forever
What I see sends me stumbling backward. I scramble to turn around.
“Troy! Troy!” I hurry up my stairs, through my door, pull open his front door, and then charge up his stairs, calling his name the whole time even though I know he’s out back with his earbuds in.
I sprint toward the door to the backyard and fling it open, running headlong into Troy at the top of the stairs.
“Stevie,” he says, stabilizing me with hands on my arms. His eyes are wide and alert, staring straight into mine. “What’s wrong?”
I only ran up two half-flights of stairs, but I’m breathing like I ran a marathon. “There was a man,” I gasp, “taking pictures. Through the window.”
“What?!”It’s not a question. It’s an implicit threat.
I nod, feeling the burn of tears begin behind my eyes. It’s not the first time my privacy has been violated, but that only makes it worse. “There are a bunch more paparazzi on your sidewalk too.” I barely choke out the words. I know I sound dramatic—it’s just people and cameras, but it’s making me feel like I’ll never be rid of the past—that my life will never be mine again.
Troy pulls me into his arms. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I swallow and hold onto him, my hands on his bare back, my cheek against his collar bone. I believe him. He may joke about being my hired security, but in many ways, he’s functioning in that capacity. It’s one thing to have paparazzi following you around when you have a security team; it’s another thing entirely to face the furor of the media on your own.
He keeps me close, his grip steady and firm. Against my head, I can feel his jaw working. Finally, he pulls back and looks me in the eye, nostrils flared. “Stay inside, okay? I’ll handle this.”
“Troy, wait,” I say as he brushes past me toward the stairs to the front of the house. My anxiety kicks up a notch. Ever since the first time Curtis and I had a run-in with the paparazzi, he and his team always told me to leave them be, to let them do their jobs. Antagonizing them would only lead to problems—big problems, even. “We want them on our side,” Curtis would always say.
I follow Troy down the stairs, but he’s already out the door by the time I reach the foyer. He pulls it shut, but it doesn’t close all the way. I don’t follow him out—my presence will only lead to furious camera clicks—but maybe I should try harder to stop him. Based on the look in his eye, I expect him to stride up to the paparazzo I saw and sock him in the face.
I clench my eyes shut at the thought. Assault charges against Troy are the last thing I want.
I hurry over to the windows to watch the dumpster fire ignite. I pull up on one of the blind slats and frown. Not only is Troy not approaching the paparazzi, he’s smiling and waving at them.
“Morning,” he says like he’s greeting a neighbor taking out the garbage.
What’s he doing? Lyla’s words about his career goals pop into my head, and a twinge of doubt pinches my gut. Is he using this as an opportunity for media exposure?
He heads for the side of the house and disappears from my view. I’m so confused. There was murder in his eyes when he went out that door, and the next second, he was greeting them like Queen Elizabeth. It’s like he intended to do a red carpet walk around the house.
The paparazzi lined up on the sidewalk seem just as confused, their cameras hovering just under their eyes, their brows pursed.
Troy reappears suddenly, and my eyes narrow, trying to get a view of what he’s got in his hands. My eyes widen. He holds the end of a hose toward the line of paparazzi and starts spraying.
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TROY
There’sa second of shock before the paparazzi scatter, turning around to hide their expensive cameras and lenses from the fury of this incredibly powerful pressure washer attachment. I need to send homemade brownies to Mr. Gates for installing it.
It’s chaos as the paparazzi trip over each other to take refuge from my sweeping spray. Within thirty seconds, engines are revving, and cars are speeding away from my house.
I don’t know who the guy was who dared get closer than the sidewalk, but my only regret is not spraying this water directly into his nostrils from point blank range. I’ve never seen Stevie as terrified or frantic as she was inside.
Once my mission is complete, I wind the hose back onto the bib and wipe off my hands on my basketball shorts before heading inside.
Stevie is in the foyer like she’s been watching through the window.
I shut the door behind me and let out a sigh. “Well, safe to say the new attachment works. It would’ve been really embarrassing if the water had only shot a few feet.”
Stevie smiles, but it’s weak and forced.
I shed my humor immediately and walk over to her. “Are you okay?”
She nods, her arms folded across her body in a way that makes her look extra vulnerable and anxious. I rub my hands along her upper arms. “Did you get a look at the guy who came onto the property? We can sue him for trespassing, right?”
