Somewhere Only We Know(2)

She scrolled through her ever-present phone. “We’re going to do a meet and greet for about an hour, so be sure to drink some water.”

“What? A meet and greet?” I had stopped doing those a couple years ago. They were more for beginner pop groups. Once you reached a certain level, it got unwieldy.

“Yeah. Since it’s your final show, we thought it would make a good photo op.” She handed me a bottle of Evian.

“So, I’m going to be here for another hour?” I tried to keep the whininess out of my voice.

“It’ll be fast. In and out. Do you not want to do it?” Ji-Yeon asked, peering over her glasses.

Don’t be lazy. I shook my head. “No, it’s fine.”

“Okay, good. Now, let’s get you out of this outfit and into something more comfortable for the fans,” Ji-Yeon said with a slight twitch of her nose, making her glasses shift up and down on her pale face. “Except the shoes, of course. Gotta keep those on.”

Of course.

Minutes later, I was sitting behind a table signing albums, posters, whatever the fans had brought with them. And even though I had wanted to crawl into bed mere minutes before, the excitement of the fans zapped me with a familiar energy. Interaction with them was so rare lately.

“Can I get a selfie?” I looked at the girl with braces and a pixie cut and was about to say yes when my head bodyguard, Ren Chang, stepped in front of me and shook his head.

I threw the girl an apologetic look before the next fan approached me with a poster to sign.

In the early days, I had wanted to give a hug and speak to everyone who had waited in line to see me. But the bigger my fan base grew, the more nebulous and faceless they became. I battled the instinct to give canned and wooden responses. “Thank you for coming,” I said with a smile at the older man as I signed his poster with a fat black Sharpie.

He nodded, not making eye contact with me. But his hand grazed mine when I returned the poster, and he got in close. I could smell the meal he’d had, feel the heat of his body. Without missing a beat, Ren pushed him back with a firm hand. Again, I smiled apologetically at the man, even though my entire being recoiled. Most of my male fans were perfectly fine—but there was an overeager, sweaty subset that approached me with an intensity that frightened me. In those moments, I still had to act gracious. Always grateful for what I had.

The line was cut off eventually and I stood up and waved and bowed to the crying and cheering fans. They roared when I threw out a peace sign and I was whisked away through the back door.

The second I stepped outside, the paparazzi and fans descended.

Camera flashes, voices yelling out my name, a crush of humanity.

Ren and a few other bodyguards closed in around me like a protective membrane. When people pushed against them, the force made the circle of security undulate as we moved through the narrow alley toward the van.

“Lucky, I love you!” a girl screamed. My instinct was to look toward the voice, to say, “Thank you!” But doing that would open the floodgates. I learned my lesson a long time ago.

Instead, I looked down, watching the steps of Ren in front of me. Keeping my eyes on his firm footsteps slowed my racing heart, gave me focus. I liked having something to focus on. Otherwise, I would spiral into sheer panic at the thought of being trampled, enclosed by a million people who all wanted a piece of me.

My guards slowed down, and I glanced up. The car was near, but people were blocking it. The police had arrived and the energy was feeding on itself—that stage of mania where absolutely no one had control. Where grown men with huge arms fought back teenage girls with dazed expressions, helplessly watching as the girls climbed over them as if they were trees, feral and hungry.

My heart raced, my palms grew sweaty, and a wave of nausea came over me.

“Stay close,” Ren said in a low voice, stretching a thick arm across my torso.

“Like I have a choice?” I asked, my voice raspy from overuse. Feeling annoyed at Ren for no reason.

“Or you could get trampled,” he replied mildly. Ren was my dad’s age but had the fitness level of an Olympian. And the sense of humor of a Triscuit.

So I kept close—and within seconds, fresh air burst through the circle, breaking through the wall of bodies to reach me.

My heart resumed beating back to normal and I lifted my face up to the bright Hong Kong skyline. It flashed at me for a second before I was tucked safely into the van.

The first thing I did was take my freaking boots off.





CHAPTER TWO


JACK


I watched the president of Hong Kong Construction Bank wax on about quarterlies or something equally boring until my eyes started to water with general eyeball ache. Human eyeballs were not meant to be fixed on one thing for this long. I glanced at the time on my phone. Oh my God. It had been thirty minutes? Thirty minutes! How long could a person talk about bank stuff for?

“Dad,” I whispered, nudging him with my elbow.

Keeping his dark eyes fixed on the guy talking on the ballroom stage, my dad didn’t respond. His square jaw was set stubbornly, and his meticulous hairline met the starched white collar of his shirt. Sitting up straight in his hotel banquet hall chair, an uncomfortable one covered with a cream-colored satin fabric.

I poked him until he finally looked over at me with exasperation, furrowing his brow. “What?” he whispered.