2. Chapter Two
Vaughn
Two middle-aged men accost me, stopping me in my tracks, hands outstretched and eager to shake mine.
“Vaughn! Great job today!” one of them beams, his grip firm as he pulls me in for an unnecessary pat on the back.
“Thanks,” I mutter, forcing a smile while my eyes scan for an exit.
Just moments ago, when I stepped out of the conference room, a wave of relief washed over me. The shoot was finally over, and all I wanted was to escape the barrage of people. Now, I am standing in front of two men who seem rather overzealous in impressing me with their chatter.
Where is Rachel when you need her?
My eyes move from the entrance and begin wandering again as I search for her in the room. I try to push out the buzz and chatter from my mind. A part of me desperately wants to wave the cane in my hand around and ask everybody to shut up.
I am in a foul mood, thanks to those bloody stairs that have succeeded in setting me back by another two months. I still curse that defender who tackled me on the field two weeks ago. Now, I am missing the entire season and caught up with two old men trying to read all my achievements back at me in an attempt to get my attention.
I spotted her in the corner. Her black hair is packed in a bun. Her green eyes twinkle in excitement as a handsome man with amazing hair towers over her, holding her hand in his. Her head tilts back, the light catching her hair, and for a moment, I forget about the crowd pressing in on me.
Another scene comes rushing back to me—Jessica, two years ago, with my best friend, or rather a former best friend, at that party. This was long before I caught them two nights after my engagement. It is one of the many reasons I am so hostile toward Rachel. She reminds me too much of Jessica.
That flowing black hair, those expressive green eyes that have a perpetual glint of light behind them, and the striking resemblance. They could easily pass for sisters, with Rachel being even prettier than Jessica. Sometimes, I catch myself admiring her as she walks away from me. Those graceful steps make her lithe body sway from side to side.
Something twists in my gut. The way she leans closer and places her hand lightly on his chest. My irritation flares as I watch them, and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
“Vaughn! Can we get a photo together?” one of the men speaks, breaking my concentration.
I force myself to nod, but my gaze remains locked on Rachel. She is still laughing, completely oblivious to everything else around her. The cameras begin to click, and I turn my gaze toward the photographer, barely able to force a smile. The men around me are striking poses when my patience runs out.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, my voice clipped, as I push past the man blocking my exit.
“Just one more—”
I ignore the pleading voice behind me as I make my way up to Rachel.
“Rachel, we need to go.” I brush past the man standing in front of her deliberately.
He is not even that tall. I make a mental note of the man standing beside me with a surprised look on his face.
“Oh, are you done?” The shock on her face is unmistakable, and for a brief second, I feel a flash of guilt because she looks terrified.
“Yes,” I grumbled, “we are leaving.”
“Alright.” Her gaze returns to the man standing beside me. “Bye—”
“I said now !” I snap the word escaping before I can pull it back. Instantly, I regret the edge in my tone as her smile fades. There is confusion mixed with a hint of hurt in her eyes.
I limp to the car with Rachel trailing behind me as we exit the building, the silence between us heavy.
The drive back to the hotel is painfully quiet, filled with unspoken words that hang in the air. I can sense she is on edge, her eyes on the window near her as we speed past buildings and people.
I glance at her, a wave of guilt crashing over me. I clear my throat and begin to speak.
“It’s not you. I just . . .” I trail off, running a hand through my hair. “It’s been a long day. I’m having a hard time adjusting.”
“It’s fine,” she mumbles, her eyes never leaving the window. “I understand the incident with your knee must have contributed.”
“Yes, yes, that.” I rub my forehead, wondering how easy it is to get out of the situation without an apology.
“We are here,” the cab driver announces as we come to a stop. I watch Rachel step out of the car with her eyes on the ground.
“I’m going for my training later in the afternoon. You can take my card and go shopping for anything you need. Make sure to buy nice things for yourself, too. I insist.”
Even though I’m trying to sound nice and empathetic, the words come out harsh and commanding, but it is the best I can do given the situation earlier. I turn away and walk toward my room.
The second I step into the suite; I feel the tension roll off my shoulders. I toss my jacket onto the couch and sit at the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over my face. Silence. Finally.
But, of course, that doesn’t last long. Two rapid knocks on my door cause me to sigh heavily.
“Come in!”
Rachel walks in with a tired expression. Her hand stretches out in front of her.
“Your mother is on the phone.”
My mother is the last person I want to speak to right now. The news of my aggravating injury must have reached her, seeing that I am limping around London all day with a stick. Surely, one of those eager journalists has taken a picture. Nothing can stop her priceless gem of a son. How else will she maintain her elite status and brag to her elegant friends?
I clench my jaw and wave my hand at her. “Tell her I’m busy.”
There is a brief pause before Rachel responds. “She said it’s important.”
“Just tell her I’m busy, Rachel. I don’t have time for this.”
“Okay.” Rachel backs away from me involuntarily, placing the phone to her ear and quietly murmuring into it.
“Anything else?” I mutter, still not turning to face her.
“Nothing,” she replies, moving toward the door, but something catches my eye—a tray on the small table near the window. I frown. A plate of food, neatly arranged, sits on the tray.
“Rachel,” I call her name, irritation already prickling at the edges of my voice, “what the hell is that?”
She glances at the tray, then back at me. “Breakfast,” she says, her tone neutral.
“You want me to have breakfast before training, or you simply want me to eat a cold breakfast when I’m back from training?” My voice raises several octaves.
Realization creeps across her face, and she moves toward the tray of food.
“Sorry, sir?” Her voice trembles.
“I don’t eat breakfast before training. You know that. It’s been two years working with me, Rachel.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but I am already too annoyed to care. “Take it away.”
Rachel nods quickly, grabbing the tray. I watch her, slightly annoyed by how she cowers in my presence, not even putting up defiance. A part of me wants her to fight back to tell me I am being a jerk, but like everyone else, she nods her head in agreement and does as I say.
“Anything else I should know?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm as she moves toward the door. She doesn’t say a word as she shakes her head slightly with the tray balanced carefully in her hands. I lean back against the headboard, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to stop the pounding in my skull.
“Go on then.”
As she reaches the door, it bursts open, slamming back against the wall with a loud bang. Rachel stumbles backward, the tray flying out of her hands, the dishes crashing to the floor as a group of fans suddenly flood into the room, screaming and rushing forward.
“Rachel!” I shout, bolting up from the bed.
“It’s him!” A group of girls scream as they charge toward me, completely ignoring Rachel on the ground. “Please sign my ball.”
“Everyone, calm down! I’ll sign outside the door to the hallway.”
They all rush out into the hallway the same way they came. I reach down and grab Rachel’s arm.
“What the hell was that?” I growl, my voice dangerously low. “How did they even get in here?”
“I don’t know.” Rachel blinks at me, clearly shaken but still trying to keep that calm exterior.
“Did you not think to ensure the security of the hotel first? What is this?”
“I . . . I’ll talk to management—”
“You should’ve done that before they barged in here!” I snap, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “This is your job, Rachel. To handle things like this. Not to stand there like you’ve got no idea what’s going on.”
Her face is pale, and she opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out.
“Just . . . get it sorted,” I mutter, turning away from her and putting on a bright smile as I step out into the hallway.