All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(27)
He helped her out of the car while she straightened her dress and desperately tried not to flash anyone, and then there were flashes blinding her in little bursts all around as she followed the tug of his grip.
The publicist greeted them both, then gestured for them to move toward the hotel. “I’m here to help, Mr. Woodroe. Let me know if you need anything along the way.”
Beneath Lauren’s uncomfortable wedge heels, red carpet suddenly appeared. The publicist said something Lauren couldn’t hear and guided them over to a journalist with a pleasant but firm “Two minutes, Ted.”
The man introduced himself and asked about the final season of Gods of the Gates while a camerawoman filmed the interview, and Lauren belatedly let Alex go, inching away from his side. But there were flashes behind her too, and, yes, photographers yelling at her.
“Move! Move!” they screamed, and she would gladly go down the other side of the red carpet, where more-normal-looking people were hustling toward the hotel ballroom, but she couldn’t. It was her job to stay by Alex, no matter what—Ron had sent a peremptory email emphasizing that very fact earlier today—even though she couldn’t control what came out of that endlessly moving mouth, no one could.
“Move! Move, lady, come on!”
Up ahead of her, talking to another journalist, was Carah Brown. Behind Lauren and Alex, just entering the red carpet, Maria Ivarsson and Peter Reedton strolled arm in arm, as a woman in a skirt suit and yet another headset spoke and pointed them to a specific news outlet.
Oh, shit, this was absolute chaos, and she was sweating now. Even trembling a little.
Before Lauren quite knew it, the publicist was ushering them to the next reporter, who actually glanced at Alex’s companion before beginning the interview. Lauren was blinking against the bright spots in her vision when she heard Alex say her name.
“—Lauren Clegg, who works for the production. So, no, she didn’t win a fan contest, although she certainly loves my character.” Then he was winking at her, the asshole, and drawing her closer to his side with a warm hand on her arm. “Tell him, Ms. Clegg. Tell them how much you adore Cupid. Not to mention the actor who plays him with such glorious talent and commitment.”
She was about to answer, about to say heaven only knew what, when she saw it.
Movement, where there shouldn’t have been. Acceleration.
After the hurled tray that broke her nose, after all those patients high or angry or hurting and volatile in their pain, her instincts were sound, and they were fast. She was fast. And even amid all the flashes and shouts and sparkly cocktail dresses and various celebrity interviews occurring all around her—
When a pale man with dark hair and dark clothing rushed onto the red carpet, accompanied by the sound of dismayed, panicked shouts, and half leaped, half crawled toward Alex, she didn’t have to think. She simply used her body as a battering ram, shoving Alex out of the way, and took his place for whatever this intruder intended.
The man slammed into her thighs, and she toppled, doing her best to land on top of him and hoping like hell he didn’t have a knife or a gun. People around them were screaming, and so was he, something about men’s rights and red pills, and oh, shit, that elbow in her ribs hurt, and he was clawing at her, spitting at her, and Alex was there too, struggling and scrabbling, trying to get between her and the attacker, both men red-faced and shouting words she couldn’t make out, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until she knew everyone was safe.
Then security came rushing onto the scene, just like in the hospital, and she rolled aside as soon as they had the man incapacitated. From her prone position on the red carpet, she watched him get dragged off to goodness knew where while she panted and evaluated all the places she hurt.
No stab wounds. No gunshots. Just a lot of—
“Lauren!” Alex was on his knees beside her, his hand unsteady but firm on her cheek as he tried to get her attention. “Lauren, answer me. Where are you hurt?”
“Bruises,” she managed to say. “Just bruises. You’re okay?”
“Pristine,” he said with awful, bitter sarcasm.
Deep breaths, one after the other. No one was bleeding or broken. Not him. Not her.
The excited conversation all around them was a disorienting tide of noise. It rushed through her head, dizzying her.
Flashes of light, so many of them. People were taking photos. Of her. Of Alex.
“If you’re not injured, it’s through no fault of your own.” Whipping off his jacket, he used it to wipe the saliva from her arm, his cheekbones ruddy with high color. “I want you looked at, and I don’t want a single fucking argument from you. He took you down like a bowling pin, and he kept swinging his fucking—”
With a violent jerk of his head, he looked around and yelled, “Where’s Desiree? I want a medic here right now!”
“I don’t need—” she began.
The sound he made in response to that …
Undiluted rage. Directed at her. It shocked her into silence.
He leaned his head close and hissed in her ear, and the heat radiating off him scalded her. “You just got between me and a fucking attacker, Lauren, so if I say you’re going to see a fucking medic, you are going to see a fucking medic. Do you understand me?”
His chest rose and fell in rapid pants, and when he pulled away, his eyes were narrowed, hot slits on hers, and she nodded numbly.