Chapter 51
Josephine
As soon as we step out into the sun, I feel lighter.
Brighter. Proud of myself for standing up to Misty.
Hopeful that this feature coverage won’t be a big deal and that any chatter about my relationship with the guys will blow over quickly.
By the time I step fully into the light, I’m practically skipping down the steps that lead from the upper deck to the beach.
But then lightning strikes, sending a bolt of panic through me.
It’s out of place. Illogical. Lightning should be impossible on such a cloudless, sunny morning.
But then there’s another flash. Then two more in quick succession.
I blink back the tears I didn’t invite and swallow past the panic clogging my throat.
The flashes, they’re real. But they aren’t lightning.
“The fuck?” Kendrick growls, spotting the photographers holding a massive reflector down by the lake. The group consists of two men with cameras, a woman who’s waving her arms as though she’s directing their movements, and a fourth person who’s angling the reflector.
Shit on a crumbly cracker.
Light. Sunshine. Freedom. That’s all I wanted.
Yet I walked out the door of one nightmare and stepped firmly into a fresh version of hell.
I need space. Shelter from the cameras. I’m desperate to put distance between us and the house.
“Can we go out on the boat?” I call back to the guys. Without waiting for a response, I dip around Kendrick and jog down the stairs ahead of them.
I’m okay.
I am here. This is now.
Once I get a little space, I can catch my breath. I can take a minute to make sense of this morning without the prying eyes and flashing lights of—
“Whoa!”
There’s another flash, this one much closer. Black spots dance in my vision, but they don’t block out the sight of a man who seemingly came out of nowhere and is now standing only feet from me.
He’s holding a massive camera, not even looking through the viewfinder as he snaps away.
Picture after picture. Shot after shot.
The panic slams into me at full force. Because this asshole is taking pictures of me.
He’s just one stair below me now, so I cut right, attempting to go around him.
But instead of moving out of the way like any decent human would, he steps directly into my path.
Not only that; he shifts so we’re on the same stair, making it impossible for me to step around him without falling.
He’s so close I rear back to avoid coming into contact with him, and in the process, I lose my balance. Throwing my arms out, I try to steady myself, but I’m too late.
I close my eyes, bracing for impact.
But I’m not falling after all.
Blunt nails dig into the tender skin on the underside of my upper arm. I yelp at the sharp pain and wince when the man’s grip tightens.
“Josephine? Or is it Joey? Jo? Or maybe I should call you Jolene?” he sneers.
I step back, yanking my arm to shake him loose. But his grip just grows tighter the more I struggle.
“Let her fucking go!”
A blur whizzes into my field of vision, and a second later, the fingers digging into my arm disappear. Relief is instant.
Blinking, I home in on the commotion, taking in the scene before me.
It’s Locke.
It’s Locke, on the ground below me, straddling the man who had his hand wrapped around my arm.
It’s Locke, screaming “don’t you fucking touch her! I saw you! I saw you, man! I saw you make her stumble. I saw the way you grabbed her!”
It’s Locke, pounding into the face and chest of the asshole who had his hands on me, even as blood seeps from the man’s nose.
It’s Locke, being pulled off the offender by Kendrick and Kylian but fighting against their hold, lunging toward the man, hell-bent on continuing what he started.
It’s Locke, being photographed by the people on the beach—the colleagues, I assume, of the jackass photographer—as they scramble to come to their friend’s aid and document the altercation.
It’s Locke, looking at me with the most heart-wrenching expression as we overhear one of the other photographers calling 911.
It’s Locke, who finally wraps his arms around me, and whispers, “Baby, please don’t cry.”
In that moment, his words sound like a goodbye.