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I’m about to pay for my cup of coffee at the counter when I hear a gasp to my right.
“Is that who I think it is?”
“Oh my God, you’re right.”
“Dude, go ask for an autograph.”
I pay them no mind and pay quickly, not bothering to stick around for the change. It’s been a while since I’ve been out in such a public place. Navigating the downtown area is like trying to get through a minefield. There are cameras everywhere courtesy of tourists, scoop-hungry paparazzi, and vloggers of all social media varieties out and about. The thing people forget is that celebrities —whether they be actors, singers, directors, models,whatever— are still humans, too. Just because we’re often in the limelight doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate our right to privacy.
I leave the coffee house in a hurry, but it’s too late. I can feel the buzz following me, eyes glued to my back as I go. People swarm around celebrities like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They group up, they follow. My only two choices are to escape or drown.
For obvious reasons, I have a preference for the first option.
“Mr. Stride!” someone shouts. “Can I please have your autograph?”
This starts a domino effect; several people start calling and chasing after me. I’m surrounded on all sides, some people recognizing me from my red carpet appearances, while others join in, merely curious what the commotion is all about.
By some miracle, I make it back to my car and manage to drive off without hitting anybody. I’ve considered hiring a bodyguard or two in the past, but it’s never been bad enough for me to warrant any serious action. I don’t get out often, and when I do, I go to places normal folks don’t have access to.
The only reason I’m willing to venture off studio grounds or leave the safety of my mansion is because Eden needs a ride. I’d rather not have her hail a cab with some sketchy driver up front or be left stranded somewhere because her roommate’s clunky car broke down on the side of the road.
I know I’m protective of her. Maybe more than I should be of my personal assistant.
Except she’s notjustmy personal assistant. Eden’s so much more than that, yet…
The unspoken question of what we are has crossed my mind a time or two. It was supposed to be all fun and games, but now I am thoroughly addicted to her. It’s a problem, really. Every waking thought somehow loops back to thoughts of Eden. Sometimes they’re innocent thoughts, like wondering about her day, if she’s eaten a nice meal, if she remembered to bring a jacket because it’s chillier than usual out today.
But more often than not, they’re thoughts that have no right occupying so much of my time. I think about those cute little skirts she wears, the look of her plump lips wrapped around my cock, how I could easily sneak us off to some quiet, private corner of the studio set to have my way with her before coming back to direct the next scene.
Eden is quickly becoming a problem and I don’t know what to do about it.
I don’t know if Iwantto do anything about it.
I make it back to the testing center and park in the same spot where I dropped Eden off earlier that morning. She should be just about finished now. With any luck, I’ll be able to pick her up and whisk her away before anyone else notices that I’m—
“We got ‘im!”
Several flashes go off at once, the snap and click of camera shutters going off like gunfire. Did these sons of bitches seriously follow me?
“What are you up to today?” one of the photographers shouts.
“Look this way, Mr. Stride!”
“Can you tell us anything about your new project?”
“Are we ever going to get aTarantulareboot?”
They’re in my face. Pushing and shoving. It takes all my self-control not to snap at them because I know they’d love to make a meal out of a sudden outburst—warranted or not.
In that exact moment, I see her.
Eden steps out of the building, watching the chaos with a mix of confusion and concern. Our eyes lock. I want to tell her to go back inside, to stay away, but one of the photographers notices our eye contact and points his camera in her direction.
“Is this your new lady?” he asks me.
It’s too late for me to do anything. They swarm Eden like the piranhas they are. They don’t even know if there’s a story here. Leeches like these willmakea story as long as they manage to get a good enough picture. They crowd her, circle her, bump and jostle her without an iota of respect for her personal space.
“W-wait a second,” she gasps.
