All The Pretty Lights (The "A" List #1) (4 page)

Colt and I stay seated, letting them all pass briskly like there’s a race to the finish line. It’s better this way, less chance of getting trampled.

“Listen,” he finally speaks. “I’m sorry about the craziness. The pictures, the people. I—I just want you to know it was really...”

I cut him off. “Yeah. It was fun.” I don’t know why a deep sense of evasion is growing deep. I don’t want to hear his words, hear him say the polite things before I never see him again. “Listen, I—I gotta go. I’m gonna be late.”

I’m not going to be late. I’ve got nowhere to be. All I know is that I can’t stay here, putting off the inevitable, just waiting for him to walk away forever. Instead, I walk first.

“Thanks, Colt. Good luck with your movie!” I call over my shoulder as he remains in his seat, dumbfounded.

The tube-like corridor I walk through to the terminal vibrates slightly with all the footsteps. I hold my bag tighter and curse myself for feeling the way I do.

He was just being nice.

There’s no way this night could have meant anything to him. He won’t even remember my name by tomorrow,
I tell myself.

Following the crowd, we make a mass exodus into the main airport, passing security, with most people splintering off toward the baggage claim area. I’ve never flown this early in the day before, and I can’t help but notice how crowded the building is. It strikes me as odd that most of these people aren’t carrying suitcases. My eyes dart around from one to the next as I register that most of them are instead carrying cameras of some sort. Some, very expensive looking professional cameras, others television cameras.

I suddenly feel uneasy and instinct tells me to get out of here.

“There she is!” The crowd turns on a dime to where one photographer points. Directly to me.

“It’s her!” They begin to move collectively as a group in towards me, and I take a blind step back, bumping into the person who passes behind me.

My heart begins to racing, my eyes squinting tightly as the dozens of blinding lights cast onto me.

“Daphne! Where’s Colt?” One feminine voice blindly asks out, only to be drowned out by another asking “How long have you two been dating?”

The overhead lights must be powerful, strong, because they give off an intense heat that causes me to sweat.

“Are you two serious?”

“Will you be going to his premiere tonight?”

“How did you two meet?”

“Does it bother you that he dated Audrey Camden?”

“Is he a good kisser?”

“Does it bother you that everyone wants to see him get back together with Audrey?”

“Was it your idea to give your seats up to the soldier and his wife?”

Oh. My. God.

The questions keep coming. The flashes keep bursting. The people keep moving closer, circling around me.

My throat tightens. My chest feels heavy, unable to breath easily. I can’t see through the intense wall of light where to step, how to move away. I’ll be trampled over, buried under a crowd of reporters and paparazzi as they push against each other to get closer to me.

My bag drops from my shoulder, dangling down by my wrist. I have no choice. I’ve got to run, I’ve got to get away.

Just as I turn to sprint, a strong hand takes my bag as it threatens to fall from my grasp, and then takes my upper arm.

“Miss Baker?” A monotone voice calls my name. My name! How do they know my name? “Miss Daphne Baker?” He repeats himself.

I see dark, mirrored lenses reflecting my panicked state. His sunglasses watch me at least a foot and a half above, towering over me.

“Uh—yes?” I don’t know him. He has no microphone, has no camera, so somehow it sets him apart from the dozens of people gathered round.

“Please come with me, ma’am. I’ll see you home safely.”

I don’t know why I should listen to him, why I should believe that he’s anything other than another one of these crazy people, but his tall, muscular build can definitely help break through the crowd to get me passed.

“O—okay.” I give in. Somehow, over the buzz and loud questions of the gathered crowd, I hear this man speak into his sleeve as he raises his wrist to his mouth.

Huh. Odd.

Whatever. If he can get me out of here and away from these people, then I don’t care if he speaks to his shoe next.

The tall man that leads me expertly away pushes through, parting the sea of people. “No comment,” he abruptly tells person after person as they continue to hurl questions at me.

A security guard opens one of the glass doors for us to escape through. I can feel the rush of the crowd behind me, following me, even though we’re speed walking away from them.

“This is us, ma’am,” the tall man reaches forward to open the car door handle to a dark black sedan parked illegally in front of the airport exit. I stop in my tracks. Whoa, this was not part of the deal! No way am I getting into a car with a perfect stranger!

Daylight now fully hangs in the sky, all traces of early morning haze being burned away by the rising sun. I can see more of the man now, see his dark navy blue suit, his black tie. His hair is cut extremely short, almost military-like.

“I—I don’t know you. I’m not getting into a car with you,” I explain. I may be grateful to him for getting me out of the airport in one piece but I’m not stupid.

“Ma’am, I work for Colton Webb. I’m his personal security guard. He’d like for you to get in the car.” His claim is outrageous.

He must be crazy. Must be one of those crazy stalker fans I’ve seen movies about. “Oh, yeah? And how do I know that’s true? How do I know you’re not going to kidnap me and hold me hostage in some small house somewhere, to re-enact your favorite Colton movie?”

Even with his sunglasses on, I can see I’ve stumped him. He opens his mouth to answer in some way although the kind of question like I’ve just asked him has no acceptable answer.

“Because
I’m
telling you it’s true, Speedy. Now get the hell
in
!” Colt calls out, frustrated, through the window that’s moving down automatically.

I look back and forth between the two men. The tall man in the suit smirks as I piece the puzzle together. The door swings open when Colton pushes it from the inside. He disappears inside the depths of the car to make room for me to enter.

The broad daylight hides the flashes but the shuttering sounds let me know just how many pictures are being snapped as the paparazzi have gained on us.

“Uh, sorry about that whole
kidnap
thing…” I apologize to the security guard as he takes hold of the door to close it behind me.

He laughs. “Happens all the time, ma’am.”

CHAPTER FOUR

COLT

Marcus turns the car sharply just as the traffic light changes, leaving the three small cars that have been tailing us behind. Another quick turn ensures that they won’t be able to pick us up again.

“This is insane!” Daphne watches through the rearview windshield. “They were following us!”

I laugh. “Yes. And now they’re not. Marcus’ is very good at his job. He can lose the paps in seconds.”

Daphne now watches the back of Marcus’s head as I speak his praises. He’s everything rolled into one. He’s my driver, my bodyguard, and my overall go to fix-it guy. He’s paid well, and earns every single penny of it.

“They knew my name!” Daphne adds.

That part surprised me, too. I mean, I knew the news would spread. I knew once the pictures hit the web and the paps caught wind of Daphne that they’d be interested, but I had no clue that they’d take it to this level so fast.

She’d given her address to Marcus as soon as we’d left the airport, and even though we’ve taken quite the detour to get rid of the people following us, we’re headed there now and we’re running on borrowed time.

She’s right about what she said. They know her name. It’s only a matter of time before they know her address,
if
they don’t already. We’ll find out for sure in a few minutes. Daphne’s kind of freaking out from the press barraging her at the airport. I don’t need to tell her that they could be waiting at her door, too.

I’ll cross that bridge when, and if, we get to it.

“Look, I’m sorry. This all just kind of snowballed and it’s all because of me.” I apologize to her and I really am sincere. It’s not just a line, although it’s a pretty good one. “They get a picture and they run with it, becoming the story of the day. Luck just had it that they got more than one picture that could sell some headlines. It’ll die down in a couple of days, I promise. As soon as the next big star fucks up by cheating with the nanny, or some drunken reality trollop flashes her crotch, they’ll forget all about you and this’ll be nothing but a distant memory.
I’ll
be nothing but a memory.”

I’m not reading a script, I haven’t memorized lines. I’m simply speaking, and frankly I have no idea what I’m saying until the words come out. They shock her just as much as they shock me.

What the
fuck
am I saying? Do I
want
to be nothing more than just a memory to her? The last nine hours have been… I don’t know…
easy
. Talking to her, being with her, it’s just simple, and easy, and unlike the mundane, exhausting time I spend with everyone else I come into contact with on a daily basis.

Do I really want that to end?

Marcus pulls the car to the curb as we slow down in front of a tall brick building in lower SoHo. I look around, and other than a middle-aged woman walking her dog and several people passing by on their way to work, the streets are clean. For now at least.

We’ve got to move.

The car’s windows are heavily tinted, so none of the passers-by have an idea who’s inside the parked car. The second we step outside, that changes. All it takes is
one
of those people to make a call or send a text to tip off the press.

Marcus leaves the engine running in case we need to make a quick getaway. Hopefully that won’t happen, but it usually does. He opens Daphne’s door for her, and she’s fully stepped out by the time I reach her on the sidewalk from around the car.

“Have a wonderful day, ma’am,” Marcus tells Daphne as the door is closed behind her. He’s polite, nodding to her. That’s more than most people get. He’s ex special ops, lethal, intimidating.

I’ve never seen the man smile. I think I heard him laugh once, although I can’t be sure.

“So this is where you live?” I take stock of the surroundings. Seems relatively safe, clean. I follow Daphne up the old stone steps.

She jingles a set of metal keys in her hand, searching to find just the right one. “This is it. Home.” She pauses, watching me. “You got a problem with that?”

My eyes widen at her response. “Where were you born and raised?”

I can tell she doesn’t know what to make of my question, of the sudden change in direction of the conversation.

“Right here. New York. Why?” She’s hesitant.

“That explains it.” I hold the front door open for her when she’s unlocked it.

There’s defensiveness to her tone. “And what
exactly
does that explain?”

“What
doesn’t
it explain! First off, it explains the rush you’re always in. Second, it explains your accent. Lastly, it explains that whole vibe you put off.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Vibe?”

I nod. “Yup. But, don’t get offended. That’s a good thing. I once had a coach to actually teach me how to give off that vibe for a movie. It’s not easy to pull off.”

“Then I guess I’ll take it as kind of a compliment,” she turns in the doorway to face me as I stand on the top step. “Um—thanks for the ride, for getting me out of there. I’m probably gonna make a pot of coffee. Do you want a cup?”

She has no idea how temping her offer is. She has no idea how much I want to follow her inside her place, to see how she lives, to see her in her own space, behind closed doors where no one will be able to spy on us or sell us out.

But I can’t.

I can’t do that to her.

I know that the second I stepped of her building later, the media frenzy would only get worse. It would only stoke the flames, and the rumors would only get worse. I saw how she looked when she got into the car back at the airport. I saw the effect the paps had on her. I can’t condemn her to more of that.

Every morning, they’d be lined up on her sidewalk.

Every time she left her house, they’d be egging her on, antagonizing her to get a reaction for the perfect picture. She’d be objectified, villainized, scrutinized,

Her looks, how she dresses, everything.

Well, I don’t actually have to worry about those points. She’s beautiful, gorgeous, even. From what I know of her, she’s perfect and I don’t want to take the chance that others would try and tear that apart.

“No. That’s okay. I’ve got to get going. But it was really good to meet you, Daphne Baker.” I extend my hand to her.

Her hand is soft, warm, smooth. I can’t help but notice how it fits perfectly inside mine.

“It was good to meet you, too, Colton Webb.”

I don’t know what’s coming over me. I pull her in, with her nearly falling on top of me. Her lips crash onto my own and I take them, latching on, melding our mouths to each other’s.

She’s caught by surprise, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, I feel her lips begin to move under mine. They taste like cherry. They feel like velvet.

I want more. But I know I can’t take more.

I can’t help but imagine how perfect this kiss would look on camera, how most actors struggle to find the authenticity and amount of sensuality that I’m feeling. No acting coach, even the best of them, can teach you this stuff. It’s organic, it’s natural. You either have it with another person or you don’t. That’s what makes it so dangerous, so combustible.

I have it with her. She has it with me.

I need to get the hell out of here before this shit gets real.

~*~

DAPHNE

“Tell me again,” Lori begs.

Ugh. I can’t go through this yet
another
time. I’ve given her a play by play, second by second retelling of the last twelve hours of my life. Those hours included about three for sleep, so not only am I bone tired right now, but I’m also god-smacked.

My name is in bold letters on every gossip website. My picture is being plastered in the celebrity section of the newspaper. Sure, Colton is in the picture, too, but I’m right there next to him. If you Google my name, page after page of hits pop up. There’s a video of me in the airport this morning on YouTube.

How does this happen?!

Colton drove off in his chauffeured car no more than forty minutes ago. Lori popped up on my doorstep about ten minutes after that. The paparazzi showed up some time in between. Every time I push aside the drapes on my living room windows, I see the small crowd gathered below. They have their cameras at the ready. I’m trapped.

“When do you think they’ll leave?” I ask my best friend since childhood, sitting behind me on the sofa with her laptop spread out on the coffee table. She’s been perusing every single gossip sight we can think of, and, so far, we’ve found a mention on most of them.

I nearly spit out my coffee as she read the craziest of them all aloud.

There was one picture from the airport where my hand was tucked inside my pocket. I know it was from nerves, scared witless at the sea of photographers swarming around. The website actually had the audacity to wonder in big, bold, letters if I was hiding a ring.
A ring
! Are they out of their minds?!

“Don’t know, Daph. Look! Charlie Radar has you on their site now! First page!” She excitedly bounces up and over to me, carrying her laptop as if it were the Holy Grail. I don’t look at it. I don’t want to see what crazy thing they’ll have to say now.

Wait. I know
! I think to myself sarcastically.
Maybe they’ve got an unflattering picture of me and they’re wondering if it’s a baby bump?

Lori, the girl who could never be bothered to dry her hair after a shower before heading out, the girl who saves the little makeup she owns for really special occasions, the girl who thinks leggings are a wardrobe staple, is standing here, in my living room, fully made-up and dressed like I’ve been trying to get her to dress for years.

I know why, too. She knew there was a pretty good chance she’d be seen going in and out of my apartment and she wanted to make sure she looked good. Well, at least one of us is enjoying the attention.

“I still can’t believe this happened! To you! Of all people! I mean, you made fun of me every time I would go to one of his movies. You called him a male Barbie doll, Daph! Remember that? And when he dated Audrey, you said they probably deserved each other because they were both media whores.” Lori laughs as she recalls my observations of the mega-star before I had met him. “Did he talk about Audrey? Did he say anything about them getting back together? I mean,
before
he kissed you?”

Oh, God.

I can’t hear anymore of this. “Lori, Let’s change the topic
. Please
. Anything. I’ll—I’ll even talk about that stupid show you watch on TV that I still swear isn’t real. Whatever you want. Just. Not. Colton.”

As if someone above has heard my prayers and decided to cut me some slack today, my cell phone rings from the nearby kitchen table. When I say nearby, I mean
nearby
. My apartment is only about seven hundred square feet. Perfect for me, but really tight if I have a roommate. So now I use the extra bedroom as a studio. My draft table and sewing machine take up all of it but I make it work.

The phone rings again.

“You gonna get that?” Lori eyes me when I make no movement to claim the phone.

I love her. I really do. But she’s getting on my last nerve this morning. That happens every once in a while, has ever since we were kids growing up down the block from each other in the suburbs. One of us would piss the other off, usually her, and then we’d pout and stomp our feet back to our own houses. About thirty minutes later, we’d meet up at the old Sullivan tree house and act like nothing happened. We could never stay mad at each other for very long.

That’s one of the reasons we decided not to room together once we both moved into the city after college. We’d be on top of each other 24 hours a day since we both work from home.

I design from my apartment and Lori is a blogger. You should ask our parents whose daughter has the more unreliable career. I’m being facetious.
Don’t
ask them- it’ll get them going on a long-winded tirade about how kids these days don’t know how to get normal jobs. How kids these days don’t know the meaning of an eight-hour work day and feel entitled to work around their own schedules.

Little do they know that Lori probably makes more money than all of them- my parents,
and
hers. She majored in journalism from a top-notch college while I studied fashion at the Fashion Institute. At least one of our degrees is actually worth something.

“What if it’s them? The press?” I realize how paranoid I sound, but it isn’t a far stretch to imagine them finding my number since they found my address so easily.

We both stare at the phone now, like it’s some kind of bomb ready to detonate.

“Don’t be silly! And besides, if it is, all you say is
no comment
. I’ve seen it a million times on TV,” Lori rattles off. At least all that junk she watches on television is good for something.

“You—you get it,” I challenge her.