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I realize that might be the case when his hand only warms the small of my back for half a second as he guides me toward the café.
“Eat in or takea—”
Laken is interrupted by a familiar set of chants.
“Nicole, is it true Rise Up went on a European tour so they’d miss your public humiliation?”
“Nicole, would you like to comment on claims you’re pregnant with Nick’s child?”
“Nicole, have you seen the video blowing up on social media about you?”
Although there are only half a dozen paparazzi for Laken to remove from the café, I’m swarmed by members of the public in less than a nanosecond. The paparazzi linked my name with Rise Up. That type of exposure only ends one way.
With me almost being trampled.
The crash is immediate. Within seconds, I’m overwhelmed by requests for autographs and selfies.
“Move back,” Laken demands before he curls his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his chest. “Keep your head down.” He’s not ashamed to be photographed with me as the Rise Up band members should be but aren’t. He’s trying to protect my head from the number of phones and cameras shoved in my face during our short walk from the café to our hotel. “Get the fuck back!”
As he seeks the assistance of the security team in the foyer of the hotel, I’m grabbed at the side by a man double my size and yanked out of Laken’s grip.
“Nicole!” Laken’s voice is as stern as the panic that grips my throat when the crowd realizes I’m in the open.
They race for me so fast they knock me over.
I’m certain it is over, that today was my last hurrah, but Laken arrives out of nowhere and pulls me into his arms before I’m trampled alive.
His heart thuds in my ear as he barges through the crowd with no concern about how many phones and cameras he breaks. He is a man on a mission, and after thirty heart-whacking seconds, he breaks us through the hotel entrance and the security team assigned to the foyer takeover and subduing the crowd.
“What the fuck was that?” Laken asks, his focus not on me.
When I wiggle, requesting to be placed down, he sets me on my feet before marching to stand chest to chest with a man he seems to know.
“You couldn’t see them swarming her?” Anger seethes in his words as his eyes bore into the blond gent who is wearing the same outfit as the rest of the security personnel, just flashier. “She almost got fucking trampled.”
“Mr. Samson instructed that we were not to intervene in any exchanges between Ms. Reed and members of the media,” the man fires back, his tone not as tempered, his stare not as raging.
“I don’t give a fuck what Knox told you! He’s not in charge of Nicole’s safety.” I’m expecting him to say, “You are,” so you can picture my shock when he bangs his chest while adding, “I am. And I’m telling you to do your fucking job or stand down so someone not willing to compromise on morals for a couple of measly dollars can do the position right.”
The man tries to make out he’s not accepting bribes from Knox. He stammers and splutters, but the only words he eventually gets out are, “It won’t happen again.” He peers at me over Laken’s shoulder. “You have my word, Ms. Reed.”
His word means nothing to me, but I accept it purely with the hope it will weaken Laken’s anger enough for us to return to our suite without blood being spilled.
It takes Laken a few seconds to walk away, but once he does, the tension amplifies instead of lessens. That might have more to do with him curling his hand around mine to walk me to the elevator than anything.
I’ve always seen hand-holding as intimate. It is above a man’s hand on the small of a woman’s back, or him taking the lead to ensure she doesn’t face any encumbrances during their walk.
It is a man standing at his woman’s side, supporting her and showing she is his equal.
Only floors from the penthouse suite, Laken loosens his hold. It isn’t what you’re thinking. He’s not snatching his hand away because the wetness between our palms has exposed my like of hand-holding. The hand I used to cushion my fall is cut up and bleeding.
“You’re bleeding.” He sounds as devastated now as he did when he shouted my name after I was ripped from his arms.
“It’s just a scratch,” I assure him, hoping it will lower the angst on his face.
You’d swear my arm was scheduled for amputation when he says, “On your playing hand.”
Before I can speak another word, he scoops me into his arms like he did outside the hotel and exits the elevator on our desired floor.
