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“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding pained, but I stay silent.
I feel incredibly naive. I knew of Ben’s fame. On campus, I was bombarded by it on all sides all the time, and yet, I had somehow compartmentalized that part of his life as if it would never touch me.
A phone rings and I jump out of my skin. Ben sighs and squeezes my hand before letting it go so he can answer the call through the car’s speaker.
I listen halfheartedly as he speaks with a man who must be on his security team.
“Head straight home,” the man says. “I’m not sure if you were planning to take your friend somewhere else, but not tonight. We didn’t coordinate this well. Had I known you wanted to go out after the game, I could have pulled in more guys. That was reckless to say the least.”
“Right. I apologize. It was a last-minute change. We’ll head back to the house.”
They shift into discussing routes that mean nothing to me. I stare out the window, blinking the remnants of the flashes out of my vision. After they hang up, Ben peers over at me. I can feel him studying my profile, but I’m too busy looking out onto the road, worried about something I can’t quite name.
“Raelynn,” he says, trying to get my attention. “There are a few cars tailing us. Likely paparazzi just wanting to get more photos. My security suggested we head back to my house since it’s secure. No one will make it past the guard house at the front of the neighborhood. If I take you back to your place, I worry about them bothering you.”
Can they just do that?
Follow us like that?
Surely that’s illegal. Surely we have some kind of recourse.
I want to pester him with a thousand questions, but I swallow them down and simply nod so he can turn his attention back to driving. I don’t miss the fact that he constantly checks his rearview mirror or that he drives in the slow lane on the highway, careful at every turn. We’re quiet on the drive, and the anxiety in the air is draining, especially once the initial burst of adrenaline starts to wear off. My limbs feel heavy and weak, and by the time we pull up to his neighborhood, my eyelids are fighting against gravity.
I perk up some when Ben waves to the man stationed in a guard house, and once we drive through the gate and the heavy iron bars close behind us, I see Ben visibly relax. We start to wind through quiet neighborhood streets that look like wide Parisian boulevards. Trees dot the median, placed strategically along a well-manicured running trail. The houses we pass are more like mini resorts sitting on obscenely large lots, and they only get bigger as we continue driving through yet another restrictive gate.
I appreciate how secure it all is. I might have thought it was a little pretentious had I not been with Ben at the club a little while ago. Now, I understand the need.
We eventually pull up to a third and final gate that opens to a private circle drive outside a sprawling two-story stone mansion. Ben’s home. It looks like it was plucked from the French countryside. Symmetrical wings span off to the left and right. Cast stone surrounds a large doorway flanked by ornate bronze lanterns. Despite the sheer size, there’s a tangible charm to it. The pale blue shutters that frame each window and the antique wooden front door are so inviting my mood lifts just a little.
Ben parks near the front door and leaves the car running as he gets out to meet me on the passenger side. The security guard from the other day—the older man with the shaved head and the gun on his hip—greets us at the front door.
Despite the hour, he’s still dressed in a sharp black suit.
He nods in greeting at me before directing his attention to Ben. “I’ll have Nikko take the car around, and we’ll do a perimeter sweep just to confirm all is well.”
Ben thanks him then drops his hand to my lower back, guiding me inside and through the grand foyer. Yet again, I’m swept into a world I never thought I’d inhabit—first the private box at the game, then the VIP section of the club, now Ben’s lavish home. In the center of the marble floor, there’s a circular antique table with a large vase overflowing with flowers. We curve around it and Ben leads me forward into the shallow light of the hallway. We pass dark rooms, and I lament the fact that the dim light doesn’t stretch into them. I can only imagine what each one holds. We walk by a small gallery wall filled with black and white photographs, and as Ben guides me along, I catch a quick peek at two: an old photograph of a couple on their wedding day, and a headshot of a man wearing a military uniform. Ben’s grandfather, I assume—they look so much alike.
