Chapter Six Bozos with Cameras
Chapter Six
Bozos with Cameras
Griffin
I’ve learned two things tonight: Beverly is a snapshot of everything kind in the world, and Beau is the biggest asshole alive. I knew he’d cheated on someone while on his first tour, but this is that someone? He’s a damn idiot.
Beau’s pale-blue eyes widen in shock. “Girlfriend?”
Oh, right. That.
Jimmy hates that sometimes I just say things. It gets me into trouble. But I feel a little zip of pleasure when Beau’s mouth starts to open and close like that of a gutted fish.
“Yeah, for a while now,” I confirm, simply because it makes his eye twitch.
“That’s…news,” Beau says. His gaze jerks to Beverly. “Big news, I’d say.”
I follow his line of sight to her. But when I meet her green eyes, she’s focused on me instead.
Beverly wears her expressions like a human cartoon. Even if I hadn’t heard her say We dated, her wide eyes and little breathy scoff at his lie told me everything I needed to know. Now she looks like she’s in shock.
Friends, my ass.
She didn’t seem angry. She looked surprised. Hurt.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, crossing one ankle over the other knee.
Maybe I shouldn’t have lied. I don’t know her relationship with Beau.
But I didn’t like that he walked up to our table so confidently.
I didn’t like that he felt comfortable putting her down in front of someone else, despite having no relationship with me, like she was trash beneath our expensive rock star boots. No wonder she doesn’t trust musicians.
Beverly swallows, looking down at her lap, then back up to me. She cocks her head to the side in question, as if to ask Well? Now what do we do?
“Sorry, baby,” I say. “You know I’m a possessive man.”
Her cheeks flush pink. It’s pretty.
Beverly is undeniably an attractive woman. The long eyelashes. The soft blond hair and bouncy bangs. Those familiar green eyes that sparkle despite the dark restaurant and the lines underneath, betraying a lack of sleep.
You and me both.
Yet she has a gentle curve to her face—in her lips, jaw, and down to her slender neck. She’s soft. But I can also tell that behind it there’s strength, a determination to succeed and to do it her way, the way she feels is right.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “That’s right. That’s definitely…um, what you are. Possessive. Always have been.” Adding with wide, expressive eyes, a pointed “Baby.”
The corner of my mouth tilts up.
Well, she’s not that soft.
“One of my many flaws,” I agree.
“Many,” she emphasizes. It sounds more tense than playful. There’s enough uneasiness to make my smile fall and my stomach twist.
I turn in the booth toward Beau, clearing my throat. “So, I need you to apologize to Beverly.”
Beau folds his arms across his chest, squinting. “This is…Wow, you’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious that I need to hear that apology.”
“No, I mean…huh. You’re dating.” He points a finger between us. “You two. Her.”
My jaw tightens again. I don’t like how he says that.
Beau scoffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “This is just—”
Suddenly, a bright light flashes, illuminating the booth and blinding me. I blink through the spots, only to be greeted by another.
A man’s voice, giddy with excitement, almost giggling through a sentence, asks, “Griffin, when did you start dating?”
Ah shit.
The man sitting across the aisle rises from his booth with a camera. The strap tugs on his gangly neck, bunching up the shoulders of his polo tee. The paparazzi knew I was here. Or, just like running into Beau, it’s a terrible twist of fate, as is life in LA sometimes.
Another camera flash. Another shutter snap.
“And what’s your name?” the paparazzo asks, pointing his bulky camera at Beverly.
Blood rushes from my chest up my neck to sizzle at the top of my head.
They’re absolutely not bringing her into this.
I rush to stand, stepping in front of the camera right when it flashes again, blocking his view with my body. I grab the lens of his camera in my fist, whipping it down to point at the floor.
“Watch it before I break your gear.”
On instinct, he steps back. Smart man.
I turn around to lean into Beverly’s booth seat. Her palms cover her face. It looks practiced. This must not be her first run-in with the press. I hate that for her.
“Bev.” I gingerly reach out to remove her hands from her cheeks. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” she murmurs, almost in a whimper. It’s like all the shine in her sunny cheeks was sucked out of her. I don’t like this change of demeanor. Not one bit.
“Anywhere,” I answer.
I hold out my opposite hand in assistance. She blinks at it, swallows, then nods, sliding her fingers into my palm. I wrap our hands together, tugging her up from the seat. Shifting my other hand from her forearm to around her waist, I steady her beside me.
The man’s camera lens is raised and pointed at us again.
“Griffin, tell us about your secret girlfriend!”
Secrets. Always after my secrets.
If Robin could see me now…she’d say she was right. And I couldn’t disagree.
I grit my jaw and clench my fists. Beverly grabs my flexed forearm.
“Don’t,” she says quickly. “Let’s just go.”
I freeze, blinking at her hand trailing away from my forearm as she takes the tension with it. Her eyebrows are raised, nearly hidden under her wispy bangs. Her lips are in a solid line, and she’s staring at me tentatively, like I’m a caged animal she’s taming.
Did she think I was going to hit him?
I don’t have time to consider. Another camera flash goes off. She covers her face, but I don’t know if she was quick enough. Her purse slides down her arm. I catch it and sling it over my shoulder.
“Nice! So protective!” the paparazzo croons. “How did you meet?”
Another photo snaps.
I ignore him.
Beau stands there in shock with his head like a Ping-Pong ball, bouncing between me, Beverly, and the camera. When I tuck Beverly into my side to walk out, he’s in our way, so I shoulder check past him. He stumbles onto his back foot, encased in brown oxfords and high wool socks.
What a pretentious prick. You’re not at a college; you’re in LA.
I hurry us down the aisle. Heads poke out from their curtained booths. It’s so dark, I can barely see. Christ, they need more lamps in this place.
“Griffin?” Beverly murmurs into my chest.
“Yes?”
“I have a place we can go where they won’t find us.”
I don’t ask questions. I admire a woman with a plan. I squeeze her hand in confirmation.
“I’ll call my driver, and you tell him where to go.”
I turn around to look at our abandoned table one last time. As we turn the corner, I see Beau talking with the photographer. This is far from over.
My driver whisks us away to Beverly’s secret hiding spot.
I text Jimmy about the ordeal to see if he can stop any leaks, but a photo of me and Beverly is already on social media making the rounds.
Poe, Dom, and Royce all text me in waves of What the hell happened?
but I can’t figure out what to tell them. I barely understand it myself.
Beverly must see the photo, too, because her fingers race across her phone screen. I don’t know who she’s texting—only that it feels like a lot of people because she doesn’t look up once in our thirty-minute drive.
We journey down roads that slowly become more potholes than street until we stop in front of a dingy little apartment complex. It reminds me of my grandma’s old place, with its stone stairs sprouting weeds and the cracks I’d draw on in chalk.
Beverly climbs out of the back seat, still focused on her phone.
I silently follow her into a side stairwell that doesn’t require a key card and up three flights of stairs with matted-down carpet and the overwhelming smell of mold.
We stop outside a bruised door, and Beverly finally tucks her phone into her pocket, ignoring a buzz as she wiggles the key in the lock.
It doesn’t open until she shoves her shoulder into the door.
Inside, the two of us enter through a small kitchenette.
At first, it seems to transition into a big living room.
But then I realize it’s actually the only room.
A bare mattress is in the corner. A single doorway on the left leads to a tiled bathroom (fine, there are technically two rooms).
In the middle of the bare floor are two large suitcases.
One is propped open. Familiar blue feathers poke out.
“I know this guy,” I say, taking a stroll over and then crouching down to see Bernie Bird in all his glory, beak open and lounging on top of rolled-up skirts and corduroy pants.
Beverly gives a weak smile, then shuts the door behind us, locks the dead bolt, and pulls out her phone once more.
“Is this your place?” I ask.
“Only for another day,” she says. “Figured this would be safer. The guy won’t think to look here. And, if somehow he does, it won’t really matter.”
Beverly lets out a deep sigh and tosses her phone onto the counter. It buzzes again. She doesn’t answer.
I lift an eyebrow. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Just…my family group chat is blowing up.”
“Because of the photos?”
“Yeah. My nana thinks you’re cute, by the way.”
I scratch my fingers over my beard. “Good to know.”
She sighs and shakes her hair off her neck. The scent of grapefruit wafts over before she walks away, toward the window facing the street. She leans closer to the glass as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail. It’s messy now, just like her wind-blown bangs brushing over her forehead.
“Where’d your driver go?” she asks.
I avert my eyes from her delicate wrists turning and flexing as she ties off her hair.
“He wanders,” I say, staring at the bare carpet. “He’ll be back whenever I call him.”
“Fancy.”
“It balances out the whole paparazzi thing.”
When she doesn’t respond, I look up at her again. She’s already watching me as her hands curl by her sides, absentmindedly chipping at nail polish with her thumb. Her ponytail sways behind her, driven by the slight bouncing on her knee.
“Do secret photographers happen often?” she asks.