What was I thinking, wanting to kiss him in front of everyone?
I hand the woman the microphone and head off the stage, but we’re barely down the steps when a blinding light flashes in our faces. We whip our heads around, and there stands a man with a camera, aiming it straight at us. Seeing our intense, angry stares, he slowly lowers it, but it doesn’t matter. The photo remains.
Then, he darts off like a mouse spotted by a cat.
Kingsley grips my biceps, eyes pointed. “Has he been taking pictures this entire time?”
My eyes narrow as he runs. Well, I should say jog, because he’s slow as fuck. “Probably.”
Kingsley doesn’t spare a second before he’s power walking toward him, and I’m right on his heels.
It’s not a night with Kingsley if I’m not jeopardizing the mission.
27
Kingsley
I’m power-walking across the rooftop like it’s nobody’s business.
No one is supposed to know me. We’re over an hour out of the city, yet someone still knows enough about me to take pictures. God fucking dammit.
The picture cannot get out. It’s one thing to be seen with Rip, but the way he talked next to my ear, how we kept looking at each other’s lips… No one can see that.
Sylvie passed away only a year ago. It’s too soon for me to pop out with another partner, especially a man, at that. The last thing I need is for people to get suspicious, or the media will have a field day. After Aralynn’s arrest, we need no more headlines.
I’m pushing past people and chairs to reach him. He’s still in my line of sight, which is honestly pathetic. The guy with the camera is sprinting, but my power walk is way faster than his.
Rip’s right on my tail, immensely ticked off. He doesn’t want this to get out as much as I don’t.
Tired of the cat-and-mouse chase, Rip catches up with the freighted reporter in seconds. He looms over the other guy,making him stop. Everyone’s looking this way, and we’re still outside, so we can’t exactly do anything to him right now.
“Let’s chat in the restroom,” I offer a smile, but my words come out strained. He eyes the bathroom nervously, then, with a tremble, he heads in.
Rip locks the door behind us, and the man cowers against the wall, unable to meet our intense gazes. Pretty funny how he acts so bashful after he had the guts to snap a picture of us.
“Give me the camera,” Rip orders, stretching his hand out.
“No,” he mumbles. His tone is unsure, as if he’s asking for permission, but he won’t budge.
Rip faces him, eyes wide with disbelief. The guy with the camera is so audacious, I have to hold back my laughter. Does Rip strike him as someone who takes no for an answer?
Rip gets in his face, practically spitting as he speaks. “Give me the fucking camera.”
The man swallows hard. “I said no.”
Rip towers over the guy, his brows pulled so tightly together I’m half convinced he’ll pop a vein. He struts around each day like he’d strangle anyone who even breathes wrong in his direction. At first, I figured it was an act to scare people off, but now I realize that’s just who Rip Wright is. Because the way he’s glaring at the cameraman, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen, like he’s genuinely about to do something he shouldn’t, is nothing like he’s ever shown me before.
With a powerful shove, he throws the man against the wall, and his head slams against it. With his fist balled at his side, Rip’s arm muscles strained, betraying his desperate effort to resist the urge to punch the man. Part of me wants to let him, but beating the man in the bathroom of an establishment for an unsolicited picture of us is not the right move. If I don’t do something about Rip, he’ll have a lawsuit on our hands.
I yank Rip away from the man before he snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Rip doesn’t pull his glare off the reporter. He takes pictures of us to post and profit from like the sneaky creep he is, then refuses when I tell him to delete them. He’s lucky I don’t break his jaw.”
“Do you want us to be the headline in the news? ‘The son of Beaumont Grand and an unhinged idiot assault an innocent, scared reporter after taking pictures of their secret relationship.’”I move my hands as if to broadcast the news. “Is that what you want?”
Still fuming, I grip his bicep and squeeze, signaling him to chill out. Only when the gravity in my eyes becomes clear to him does he let his guard down, even as he continues to glare at the other man.
“Calm yourself, darling. Violence isn’t a personality trait, y’know,” I say with a playful smirk. Then I turn to the reporter. “If you took a picture of me, you know who I am, correct?”
