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Glancing over at the bar, I see that Shawn is out of the bathroom and chatting with a couple of girls who are all around a famous actress from a sitcom. We’ve been here for almost thirty minutes, and I’m already bored. But I can’t pull Shawn away, because he looks like he’s having fun. Plus, it’s not like he gets to be around this kind of setting very much.
I leave the room, head toward the stairwell, and jog down the six flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. The building sits right on the Venice boardwalk, so walking outside of the building, I run into a group of paparazzi. They’ve been covering the building for two hours. They all started shouting when the door opened, but as soon as they saw I was a no one, they quieted down.
Crossing the small sidewalk, I take a seat on a bench that sits in the sand. The cool breeze from the beachside air floats over my face and hair. Zipping up my hoodie, I shove my hands in my pockets. I hope Shawn doesn’t take very long.
Even though I’ve been to these parties and functions, I’m still not super comfortable around them. It’s not the celebrities or the glitz and glamour of it all. I put up with them, and I can talk to anyone who wants to talk, but it’s all so … much. Maybe the reason I’m not inclined to be around this atmosphere is that I know it’s everything my father represents.
Not just the rich and the powerful, but the chasing of the limelight. The continuous clawing for attention from those in the business. It’s fickle, but I’ve seen so many artists chase after it, regardless of what they might lose.
I take another deep breath from the ocean air and see what appears to be a group of friends hanging around a bonfire. I’d much rather be doing something like that than putting up with flashing cameras and people fawning over the allure of celebrities.
“Over here! Jade, right here!”
I hear a scream behind me. “Just leave me alone!”
“Jade, over here!”
“Stop!”
Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as Jade swats the air, trying to shoo away the photographers. She spins around, looking for something, only to throw her hands over her face. Gone is her hoodie and sunglasses disguise, replaced with dark blue jeans that are ripped and a form-fitting, small, pink shirt, with the sleeves cut short. She looks more dressed up than I’ve seen her, but not as dressed up as some of the stars I’ve come across tonight.
The paparazzi continue to yell, trying to take their photos.
“Leave me alone!” she says again, tucking her head between her shoulders, still covering her face.
“Hey!” I yell, hopping off the bench and running over to her.
I’ve seen her happy and nervous, and that day after her fight with her brother, I saw her upset. Right now, she seems freaked out.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Austin,” she breathes out, instantly wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in my neck. “Please get me out of here.”
“Come on,” I whisper to her, taking her hand.
