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Adam
This is the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done some insane shit. The tabloids managed to catch me doing most of it so they could print it up for the entire world to see. Every fuck up documented. Not this time, though. Dax’s assistant, Zane, managed to set this up without a single reporter catching on.
“This way, Adam.” He gestures toward an alcove. “We don’t want the airport paparazzi to see you.” Zane takes my elbow as we leave our plane and walk across the terminal until we’re standing in front of an unmarked door in the tiny alcove that wasn’t visible from the main area. “3-3-4-2,” he mutters as he punches in a code that unlocks the door.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Staff rooms,” he answers curtly. “We’re getting a backstage tour to baggage claim so we don’t have to pass through the rabid pack of photographers.”
Heathrow is widely known to have a permanent, and quite aggressive, contingent of paparazzi. They lie in wait at the end of the secure area and pounce on any face they recognize as they emerge, exhausted, jet-lagged, and looking like crap. I’ve been the victim of their attentions before, and it’s not fun. Plus, I still have a massive bruise on my face from where that fucker Forrester decked me for kissing Sydney. I deserved it, so I didn’t hit back, but God it was the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done. I wanted to unleash on that bastard.
“Great, how come we’ve never done this before?” I ask grumpily.
Zane rolls his eyes as if the answer is obvious. “Because you’ve always been coming here for a tour or a promotion. You want to get snapped by the paparazzi when you’re on a working trip. It’s all part of the game to sell albums.”
Of course. How stupid of me to not realize that I should be pimping myself out at all times. Certainly those are Ross’ words. He loves it when we show up in the red tops, embarrassing or not, it makes no difference to him.
The door opens behind us and an airport employee enters with a baggage cart. “Here are your bags, Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Bailey.” He holds out his hand to introduce himself. “I’m Stu Bennett, if you’ll follow me, we’ll get you out of here and in your car in a jiffy.”
Stu starts off down a long hallway, pulling our luggage along. Zane and I obediently follow through several turns until we reach another door.
“This leads to the main terminal for international arrivals. You’ll be meeting your party here.” He turns to Zane, “Have you contacted your driver?”
Zane looks up from his phone where he’s been rapidly texting since we landed. “Yes, our driver is here waiting.”
“Okay, do you want to go out first so Mr. Reynolds doesn’t have to spend time in the terminal looking for your friend?” Stu asks.
Zane shifts his eyes to me, silently asking me what I want to do.
“No, let’s just go. I’m sure no one will see me,” I say with little confidence. “I’ve got my hat and my sunglasses on, so it’s as good as it gets.”
“If it helps, the paparazzi don’t hang out here,” Stu says. “They usually wait at the end of the secure area on the other side of the terminal. If anyone sees you, it’ll just be a regular fan and you’ll be out of here before the professionals can get to you.”
“Good enough.” I turn to Zane. “Let’s go. I guess I’ll follow you since you know where we’re going.”
“Okay, we need to go to…” he checks his phone again, “the exit where the hire car desks are.”
Stu smiles, “Perfect, that’s right outside this door. Follow me.”
Stu shoves open the door and heads out into the loud baggage area. Zane follows behind, presumably scanning the space for our driver. I keep my head down as much as possible, focusing on Zane’s legs so I don’t trip on anything or bump into anyone.
“We’re going to meet up with our contact and go straight out to the car,” Zane says as we walk quickly across the space. His phone buzzes. “She’s seen us and is going to lead us outside to where the car is parked. Stu’s spotted her so we don’t have to stop.”
We move so fast it’s practically a sprint through baggage claim and outside to the curb. Before I know what’s happening, Zane has shoved me into the backseat of a sedan and Stu is loading our luggage in the boot. Doors slam shut all around me and I finally meet the organizer of this little excursion who has settled comfortably behind the wheel and is pulling out into the heavy airport traffic.
“Hello Adam, nice to finally meet you in person,” she says from the front seat.
“Right, you must be Gemma. That was without a doubt the smoothest, fastest airport pick up I’ve ever experienced.” I laugh in a weak attempt to calm my frayed nerves.
She turns slightly so I can see her smile. “I’m just that good at making things happen.”
“That you are,” I mutter under my breath as I settle back on the seat and try to get comfortable. “So,” I say self-consciously, “how did you manage to get my personal mobile number?”
“I have my ways. I would tell you, but then the American government would have to kill you.” I can see the side of her face and know that she’s grinning. “I’m still shocked that you didn’t hang up on me.”
“I thought about it,” I chuckle. “Then you kept talking and you were so believable I figured I give you a listen and hang up on you after.” I pause, my demeanor becoming more serious. “When you texted me a picture of Ellie, I knew you weren’t just a crazy fan.”
Gemma had rung me last week claiming to be a good friend of Ellie’s. I wanted to hang up on her right away, the shock of hearing Ellie’s name after so l
