Chapter 36 #2
From the corner of my eye, something catches my attention. I shift my gaze away from Keira’s and catch Joey waving at us.
“Come on, we’re holding up the press line,” I say.
“Okay.”
Cranking up the charisma, I smile at the men and women who will become disciples in helping us spread the gospel about SCORE Yours. I wrap an arm around my girl’s slender waist and pull her into the throng of the media.
“Keira, over here.” We turn in the direction of a black woman.
Her fashionable bright blue suit, black strappy heels, slicked back straightened hair, bright red lips, and stylish black glasses that frame her dark brown eyes make her stand out.
“You left LA as an unknown artist and you return to the City of Angels like a reigning queen. How does it feel?”
My girl laughs. “That’s a tall order.”
“So is he.” The reporter brushes her eyes down the length of my body. “But that also seems to play in your favor. Congratulations on scoring Rhys Hartford. What I’d give to be in your designer shoes.”
“Pretty witty play on words,” Keira says. She glances up at me, but the twinkle in her eyes tells me she’s flattered and amused by the reporter’s remark.
I laugh it off.
“Well, thank you,” the black woman says with a beaming smile. “FYI, Rhys, fan girl over here.” She points at herself.
“I was unaware I still had fans,” I say.
“Nonsense,” she says. “It’s a shame you only had one hit, but I was a huge fan of your flow. And the way you spit those rhymes… kickass.”
“I’m humbled. My career lasted a nano second and I’m always surprised when fans remember me.”
“You’re selling yourself short, Hijinks,” the reporter says. I smile at the mention of my stage name. For a beat, I’m transported back. “Your song reached the top 10 on the Billboard Hot 100 in the US, hit number one in nine countries, and was in the top 100 songs for that year.”
I’m impressed she remembers.
“Subsequent songs failed to chart,” I say. “It was a fly-by-night success.”
“Yet, it had a lasting impression on me,” she says.
“I like you.”
“Don’t they all,” she says with a wink.
“Seriously, you’re great,” I say.
“Right back at ya, Hijinks.”
“Keira, over here.” A curvy redhead with a cascade of hair and a noticeable British accent calls our attention.
Since tonight isn’t about me, I bid goodbye to the reporter-slash-fan and pull my girlfriend along so we keep walking the press line.
“Love, love, love the dress. The color on you… so perfect.” The redhead gushes all over my girl. “Who are you wearing?”
“Angel Suárez,” Keira says.
“An American?”
“Yes. Angel is an LA based Cuban American designer.”
“His style is flawless,” the curvy redhead says.
“You stole the words right out of my mouth,” Keira says.
Even though Angel’s dresses have been featured in a handful of fashion magazines, it’s not until my girl’s photoshoot A-listers and socialites started paying attention to him.
Angel considers her responsible for turning him into one of the most coveted designers in the country.
Photos of the now famous white dress had such an impact on his career, he’s declared her his muse.
Tonight, she’s wearing a gorgeous fitted light-purple dress with a strapless neckline that hits her below the knee, accompanied by a killer pair of white python high heels with red soles.
My girl is still sporting short blonde hair.
It’s becoming her trademark. The edgy hairstyle and her bare shoulders accentuate her long neck and showcase her tattoo.
She’s truly gorgeous. And the best part is she owns it tonight.
She had me waiting downstairs as she was getting ready.
When she hit the last step, I was transfixed by the sexy goddess standing before me.
As much as I wanted to drag her back up the stairs and ravish her one more time before we hit the road, I knew it would be inconsiderate of me to fuck up her perfect makeup and hair.
“Wow. The jewelry is breathtaking.” The redhead’s brown eyes shine bright with admiration.
“I’ve never worn anything this expensive in my life.” Keira brings a hand to her chest. “To say I feel like a million dollars would not only be a cliché, but it would be an understatement.”
Keira poses to show off the rocks—all part of the client’s expectations. It’s unfathomable how much money the jeweler was willing to pay her for this photo op.
A few members of the press oooh and ahh.
“I’m sure,” the redhead says. “Do you get to keep the diamonds?”
That question gets old fast.
“Only if I’m willing to fork out the money,” Keira says. “And that’s unlikely to happen.”
The reporter moves her attention to me and gives me a onceover before staring me square in the eyes.
I resent the insinuation I read in them.
“Rhys is my boyfriend, not my sugar daddy.” Keira answers the redhead’s silent question. “The jewelry isn’t mine to keep.”
That’s my girl.
The redhead inhales before shooting off another question. “Rumor has it your former record company is looking to piggyback on all the media attention you’re getting. Were those video clips teasers? Are you considering a duet with Trinity after vanishing for so long?”
“SCORE Yours is my focus right now,” Keira says.
Great answer.
Good for her for being unperturbed by the redhead’s comment.
Her former record label put the duet offer on the table again. Like the first time, my girl rejected it. Two group mates are dead. The group is defunct.
As a last-ditch effort, the label threw the press a bone—a recording of Keira and Trinity in the studio. The song—and performance—fell flat. Still, the media is turning the old clip into breaking news. It’s laughable.
“Don’t you think it’s a shame to keep your voice bottled up?” The redhead soldiers on.
“I haven’t made any decisions yet in regard to my career as a singer. Right now, I’m having fun being a model.”
“That, and having a lot of fun with…”—the redhead’s eyes fix mine with a sharp stare—“one of SCORE Yours’s sexy billionaire executives. It’s a coveted position to be in. Lucky you.”
Holy fuck, she’s out of line.
“If by that remark you mean I have a pretty kickass boyfriend who happens to be the COO of the company, then yes, I agree with you, I’m a lucky woman.” Keira’s smile is tight. “If you’ll excuse me, I see another reporter who’s trying to catch my attention.”
Bravo.
Keira grabs my hand and pulls me forward, our bodyguards matching our steps.
We’re blinded by a thousand flashes, too many mics are shoved in our faces and we’re bombarded with a deluge of questions, but it’s not like we didn’t expect it.
Most of the questions are addressed to the dazzling blonde hanging from my arm.
Tonight, I’m not as fascinating as my girlfriend. I’m okay with that.
We keep moving down the press line and soon, we’re so close to the entry, I could reach out and grab the door handle.
Finally.
This isn’t my first red carpet walk, but it’s a lot of pressure to keep your cool.
You’re under intense scrutiny. You have to keep a stoic face and bite your tongue no matter how stupid or far-fetched the question.
If the press gets a reaction out of you, you become easy prey. So far, my girl is doing a bang-up job.
A middle-aged, bald guy lifts a finger up. “Keira, one question before you go inside, please.”
“Sure.”
“My name is Jedd Maitland and I’m with the Hollywood Herald,” he says.
“Hi Jedd,” Keira says. “What’s your question?”
“In a tell-all interview we’re about to publish in our magazine and online, Chelle’s mom claims you’re partially responsible for her daughter’s death. How do you respond to that?”
Keira’s body goes rigid on my arm.
My brows crease with concern when my eyes connect with hers.
What the fuck?
She shifts her gaze, returning it to Jedd.
“Chelle’s mom refuses to budge from her erroneous assumptions.” Her tone is icy.
I search the crowd to see if I can catch Joey’s attention. She’s standing by Arianne and Beckett’s side as they grant WNN—Wire News Network’s Enews entertainment program—an interview.
Shit.
I don’t want to ring the alarm, but I have a bad feeling about this guy.
“Fair enough.” Jedd pretends to accept Keira’s answer, then fires off another one. “Care to elaborate on the jealous feud between you and your best friend over British trust fund baby Paxton Foley? What better time than now to share your side of the story.”
What is he talking about?
“There was never a feud between Chelle and me over a guy, so I don’t have anything to say about that,” Keira says.
All this is news to me.
“Is Chelle’s mom lying?”
Keira’s gaze narrows. She’s about to answer Jedd’s question, but I squeeze her hand to silence her.
She squeezes back.
“She answered your question,” I say.
“Oh, you’re her boyfriend, her publicist, and her guard dog?” He smirks. “You wear too many hats, Mr. Hartford.”
I’m about to wrap your tongue around your fucking head if you don’t stop hounding and pestering her.
I take a deep breath, my nostrils flaring. “Tonight is about SCORE Yours. If you have questions relating to Keira representing the brand, we’re all ears. However, if you’re here to cause problems, I have a serious issue with that, so yeah, I’m doubling as her guard dog.”
“Something tells me these guys have the publicity angle for SCORE Yours covered.” The bald guy points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the mob of reporters.
I stare him down, willing myself to keep my composure.
“No doubt they’re all dying to report on the designer Keira is wearing, or take photos of the diamonds on loan, or request you two lock lips on the red carpet for the perfect photo op old Hollywood style.
I’m more interested in digging into the past. Her murky past, to be precise.
” His head jerks to my girl. “That’s real news.
” The corner of his lip lifts into a smirk, a precursor he has no intention of playing nice.
“She decamped London like someone who has something to hide. There’s a lot of unfinished business––”
I let go of Keira’s hand and take a step forward so I’m standing toe-to-toe with him on the other side of the red velvet rope. I tower over him by easily ten inches. “Let it go.”
“Or what?”
The defiance in his eyes suggests he won’t back down easily.
I glance to my left then my right.
I can’t chew his head off without having a hundred cameras pointed in my direction.
This could turn ugly—and viral—real fast.
I suck it up and step back, my eyes still shooting daggers at him.
Asshole.
“You want to know who killed Chelle?” Keira’s question breaks the tense standoff.
“Finally, you’re willing to talk,” Jedd says, moving his attention away from me.
What I’d give to punch the smirk off his face.
“Piranhas like you,” she says, lifting her chin, her voice coated with anger.
“You pretend to be a reporter, but in reality, you’re nothing more than an ambulance chaser who gets his kicks from fishing for lies, ready to twist anything in your favor for more website views or to sell more magazines filled with half-truths.
It’s all about the money. Never about the people you hurt…
” She shoots him a contemptuous glare. “Or worse, the people you kill. You want to believe Chelle’s mom’s story, knock yourself out. ”
With that, Keira heads for the door, the two officers in tow.
What the hell just happened?