The Redhead Plays Her Hand (Redhead #3)(22)
Author: Alice Clayton

“Don’t take the piss out, Mikey my man. Just having a bit of fun. That’s allowed, right? This is Hollywood, after all. We’re supposed to be sloshed and having a great time!” Jack yelled, planting a big kiss on my mouth at the end of his speech.

Holding him up between the two of us, I laughed in spite of myself as we guided him through the gates and toward the street.

Tan sedan.

Tan sedan.

Flashbulbs.

Yelling.

“Jack! Jack Hamilton!”

“Jack! Over here? How was the party?”

“Hey, it’s the redhead! Grace, right? Hey, Grace, look over here!”

“Jack! Jack! Jack! How much did you have to drink tonight?”

“Hey, Grace, did you get him that drunk?”

“Hey, Adam? Where are you and Jack heading tonight?”

I literally couldn’t see. I could make out images and silhouettes behind the cameras, I could tell the general direction they were yelling from, but I had no idea how many people were shouting at me. In between the shouts I could hear the clicking, the fast-speed lenses capturing everything. Jack piss drunk and hanging off me and Michael, and Adam somewhere behind us, probably smiling big.

I froze. I froze and stood still, gaping like a fish at the cameras. I didn’t know what to do, move him forward, bring him back inside, hide him in my shoe? I panicked.

Michael luckily still had his wits about him, and he herded us to the right, holding his hand up in front of Jack’s face. Now I could hear Lane calling us to where he had brought the car up, his voice rising above the loud photographers who were asking personal questions to try to get a reaction out of us. Holly had warned me before that paparazzi could and would ask rude questions to try and get a different shot. But knowing it and actually hearing it are two very different things.

“Hey, Jack, your girl’s got a sweet ass!”

“Grace, Grace! Over here, Grace! How big’s his dick?”

“Grace, how’s it feel to know all the women in the world want to f**k your boyfriend?”

My face flaming, I kept my head down and followed Michael as he led us in the direction of Lane and my car. Oh my God, how were we going to drive away in this? My heart beat fast, and I was legitimately in over my head.

How had they known we were here?

Once near the car, Michael and Lane put Jack into the front seat, and I managed to get around to the other side. But I couldn’t drive. I was petrified. I pleaded with Michael with my eyes. I needed help. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want anything I had to say to be heard by these people. Luckily, Jack was quiet. But he had heard everything, and his eyes met mine. They looked dead.

Michael came around to my side after whispering something in Lane’s ear and taking my keys. Adam stood near the car—close enough to make sure he was in the shot, I noticed. Michael opened the driver’s side and ushered me into the backseat. The photographers were on my side now, so I made sure to keep my dress tucked around my legs, not wanting to flash anyone. Once inside, I looked back at the house and saw Lane walking up the sidewalk, making sure Adam came with him.

My instinct was to reach out for Jack, but that would make for a better story, so I sat back, low in the seat, my hands over my face as I was on the verge of tears.

As Michael got in and turned the ignition on, Jack spoke into the back of his hand. “I f**king hate this.”

Two hours later, and I mean two solid hours later, the three of us made it home. Jack sat in the backyard, slouched into the love seat under a thick cashmere blanket, coffee in hand. I kept sneaking a peek at him from the window off the kitchen. He hadn’t moved or spoken since we got home.

We called Bryan after we left, because we didn’t know where to go or what to do. I didn’t want to lead them back to the house, even though at this point I was pretty sure the press knew where we lived. Michael didn’t want to keep driving around up in the hills. The hairpin turns at night were sharp enough without a legion of tan sedans keeping pace. Finally, after speaking with Bryan, we arranged a switch. We drove to a parking garage over by the Beverly Center, where he was waiting with his Suburban, the dark-tinted windows making it difficult to see inside. The ride had sobered Jack somewhat, and we were hurried into the SUV and back on the road within moments, leaving my car behind to pick up the next day. We had managed to lose the photographers just long enough to get our cars switched. As we were pulling out I saw tan sedan after tan sedan drive in, looking for my car.

They were good.

Now Bryan had gone, Jack was bundled on the patio, and Michael and I were nursing cups of coffee, which had been nicely complemented by a heavy splash of Jameson. A very heavy splash—essentially it was Jameson with a shot of coffee and not the other way around. As the Irish whiskey hit my tummy, I warmed considerably, beginning to unwind a bit and let my body process everything that had just happened. My hands finally stopped shaking when it became almost impossible to get the cup to my mouth without spilling. My hands knew never to waste Irish whiskey, so they behaved.

I leaned against the counter, sipping and staring but not really seeing anything in front of me. All I could see were those flashbulbs, hear those terrible things they were shouting, and then Jack’s words as we pulled away.

“How’re you doing?” Michael asked, raising the bottle once more and adding another substantial splash to my cup and his own.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.” I sighed, holding my head in my hand.

This was Jack’s life, my life, and how we chose to deal with this now would dictate how we handled things in the future. It was so easy to think this kind of thing would be something you could easily get past, that the money we were making and the spoils this kind of industry provided made up for it. But no amount of money, no amount of special VIP treatment and swag-bag goodies justified the treatment we had just received. Jack had already been in one accident. So was I being dramatic when my brain went to the worse possible scenario? No.

I loved this life, however. I loved the work and the opportunity, the high that I got performing again. And the paycheck was nothing to sneeze at. Jack was right: we could take what he had already made and the money I had in savings, plus my new income, and we could disappear. Seychelles? Sure. East end of London? Of course. Farm in Iowa where I could grow my own salads and put up jars of jam and beans for us to survive the hard, lean winter?

Okay, you’re not Laura Ingalls . . .

Regardless, Iowa had its own appeal, and there’s no question Jack would look fantastic in overalls with a pitchfork.