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“I think I can do that,” I nod slowly.
“You’ll be fine.”
“I know you can do this alone,” Sebastian starts carefully, “and if it were any other situation, I wouldn’t even suggest, but…”
“It’s fine. A part of independence is acknowledging when you need help.”
The last thing I needed or wanted was to get separated in an unfamiliar place with a bunch of reporters around who wanted a piece of me. Or, more precisely, who wanted me to give them a piece of Sebastian.
“I’ll just leave Henry’s work harness here for now. Can you make sure they deliver it too?”
“Of course. Give me a minute.”
Sebastian lets go of me and goes to do God only knows what. I let my hand fall, my fingers sinking into Henry’s fur as I try to calm down. I was anxious enough about the whole situation as it was, and hearing the worry in their voices did not help calm my nerves.
Thankfully, Sebastian comes back relatively quickly.
“Showtime.”
Letting out a shaky breath, I get to my feet, slipping Henry’s leash around my wrist so I don’t lose him in the onslaught. Sebastian’s hand slides around my waist, and he pulls me into his side, that familiar scent of pine and sandalwood filling my senses and calming me. But my relief is short-lived because the moment we step outside the plane I can hear them.
The reporters start to shout almost immediately, their voices echoing in the air along with the insistentclick-click-clickof the cameras, the light of the flash so bright, even I can see it through the darkness of my vision.
I almost lose my footing, but Sebastian doesn’t let go as we descend the stairs. The farther we move from the plane, the clearer the voices are as they fight tooth and nail to get his attention.
“Bash!”
“Bash, look over here!”
“Why did you disappear last May?”
“Why did you decide to hide at Blairwood, of all places?”
“Is it true that you’re off the market?”
“Who’s the lady with you?”
“Will we be seeing you at the AMAs this weekend?”
“Are you releasing any new music?”
“What happened at your last concert?”
All the questions are ringing in my head. It’s like they’re everywhere, surrounding us, and between the airport noise, the cameras, and the questions thrown at us, I can barely function.
Sebastian curses quietly, although honestly, even if he was shouting, I’m not sure they’d be able to hear him with how loud they are. Then somebody bumps into me from the side, pushing me more into Sebastian.
He pulls me closer and mutters softly, “Fucking vultures.”
My heart is thundering as we move away, and I silently pray that the car is close by.
That is until a man asks, “Are you the reason Christian Stone is dead?”
Sebastian’s whole body turns to granite under my touch at the sudden question, and I feel the blood boil inside me.
How dare he ask something like that?
But before I can say anything, Sebastian snaps out of it and pulls open the door. “Get inside,” he says, his voice hard and unyielding.
