Page 77 of Songbird
“We got company,” he mutters a moment before a paparazzo on a motorcycle scoots past us on the inside.
“Stick to the road rules,” I remind him, though he knows better than to risk Rosie’s safety with reckless driving. “It’s a fifteen-minute drive to our next location. We might lose him on the way.”
We don’t, and the dangerous way the rider weaves in and out of traffic sets my teeth on edge. John is an excellent driver, and my only other consolation is that as long as we’re moving, I can at least hold Rosie’s hand across the seat.
“Are you okay?” I ask, scanning her face for hints of fear and brushing my thumb along the rise and dips of her knuckles.
“I’m fine,” she says tightly enough that I don’t believe her. “Let’s just get to where we need to go.”
Where we need to go is Rodeo Drive for a solo late lunch at a restaurant popular with Hollywood celebs. Like our arrival at Rosie’s hair salon, nobody’s around when we pull up outside, and Rosie slips past the on-street café seating just as heads start to turn and the stunned whispers grow wings. By the time she’s seated at the back of the restaurant with a salad and sparkling water on her table, a line of people has begun to form outside, other diners inside the restaurant won’t stop staring, and there are too many variables for me to predict all the ways this could go wrong.
John steps away from his position at the front of the restaurant and leans toward me. “We need to leave before things get too tricky out there.”
“Agreed,” I reply. “I was about to say that same thing.”
I’m close enough to Rosie, standing on guard at her back, that I can dip my head and speak quietly into her ear. “We need to cut this short,” I tell her. “Too many people know you’re here and the venue isn’t secure.”
She calmly lifts her napkin to her mouth, then sets it on her plate. “Okay. Let’s go.”
I take it as a bad sign that she gives in so easily, and she floats out of the restaurant with enough poise and confidence to make me wonder if she’s got another reason for wanting to leave. I’m certain of it when John opens the door to the street and she drops her chin to quietly say, “Stay close. I’m going to take a few pictures.”
“Rosie—”
She steps out and ignores me completely, and with a curse under my breath, I follow.
The noise on the street is different this time. There’s no shouting or shoving, but the minute Rosie walks out into theafternoon sunshine, a teenage girl with her phone held up at arm’s length slides up beside her and snaps a selfie. Rosie smiles politely, even though the girl didn’t ask first or say thank you afterward. She dashes off squealing as Rosie moves forward another inch, only to be stopped by a middle-aged woman with her phone in the same position, posing and snapping beside Rosie like the woman I love is a tourist attraction and not a real person. I am fuming.
Around us, people take pictures from afar and up close, as one by one, people dart from the crowd to get a picture with Rosalie Thorne. The energy shifts, people desperate for a picture before it’s too late. John carves a path toward our car, arms flung up as he pushes people back, and Marissa follows at the back, shielding Rosie from disappointed fans who try to push into her path for their own shot with her.
My stomach churns, head whipping this way and that as I look for potential threats, terrified that I’ll never see them coming as the press of people grows thicker and louder. My hackles suddenly rise, intuition telling me that we need to get Rosie out of here. Someone lurches forward, getting too close, and I raise an elbow to drive him away.
“Get back!” I growl, keeping a hand raised to allow Rosie room to breathe.
Another person darts past me on the far side, getting close enough to Rosie that his fingers get close enough to brush her skin. The way he lunges is too similar to the way Rosie’s stalker threw himself into her hotel room in New Orleans. I snatch the guy’s wrist and twist his arm back, then shove hard enough that he stumbles into the person behind him.
“Keep your fucking hands to yourself,” I growl.
“We need to move,” Marissa says, sensing that I’ve lost some control and knowing that we need cool heads to keep a situationlike this from getting dangerous. “No more pictures, Miss Thorne. We’re done here.”
Rosie bows her head and shifts her body closer to mine, seeking my protection as we follow John’s bulky body to the car. I usher Rosie onto the back seat, then follow her in. I buckle her seat belt as John slams the door behind me, and as soon as he’s behind the wheel with Marissa beside him, he edges away from the curb.
“Miss Thorne?” John glances at Rosie in his rear-vision mirror. “Are you all right?”
I look at Rosie. She’s a little pale, her hands very still in her lap, and I fold them up in mine.
“You’re safe, Songbird,” I tell her, needing to hear the words myself. “John—take us home.”
John nods grimly, but Rosie lifts her face like she’s waking from a dream. “But—”
“Please, Rosie. That’s enough for today.” I swallow and school the emotion from my expression, hoping she can’t see my fear simmering so close to the surface. “Let me take you home and we can argue about it there.”
Rosie’s fingers twist in mine, and she glances up with uneasy eyes. And maybe she reads me too well now, or maybe I’m worse at hiding my emotions and she recognizes the terror I’m trying to keep at bay. Maybe she feels it too because her shoulders fall, and she nods slowly.
“Okay, Finn. Let’s go home.”
twenty-nine
Finn
