Follow Me(43)

“Not now, Lawrence.”

“I need to talk to you about something,” he continued as though I hadn’t spoken, still making extreme eye contact. I fervently wished we weren’t alone in this darkened office space.

“Later,” I said firmly. “I’m busy right now.”

“Come on, Audrey,” he said softly, reaching out to touch my hair. “Let’s stop dancing around the obvious. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“Excuse me?” I recoiled, wincing in pain as some strands tangled in his fingers and were yanked free from my scalp.

“There’s no point in denying it,” he said, closing the short distance between us and breathing heavily on my face.

“I haven’t been looking at you like anything,” I snapped, rubbing the sore spot on my head and taking a step backward. Annoyed, I added, “Except maybe with ridicule because that bow tie looks like some sort of bad joke.”

His expression flickered through irritation, anger, and finally settled into amusement. “I’ve always liked that you’re not afraid to say what’s on your mind.”

“This conversation is over,” I said, and moved to step around him. He shifted his body to block mine, and even though he wasn’t a particularly large man, the motion forced me backward. I stumbled, surprised when my shoulders hit the wall behind me.

I’m literally cornered, I thought. A glimmer of fear ran through me before it gave way to anger. There was no way I was letting some grabby jerk ruin one of the most important nights of my career.

“Back off!” I ordered, planting my hands on his tangerine-colored shirt and shoving him away from me.

Lawrence recovered quickly, laughing as he grabbed my bare upper arms tightly. “Come on, Audrey—”

I jerked my arms from his grasp and brandished my cell phone. “Don’t touch me again or I stream this live.”

He smiled playfully as though this was all one big joke to him. “Audrey—”

“I’m serious,” I said. “Get out of my way, or I go live in three . . . two . . .”

His grin faded and he straightened his bow tie. “What’s gotten into you? I was just messing around.”

“Ha ha,” I said sarcastically before stomping around him and out the door.

? ? ?

I WAS STILL trembling with anger as I pushed my way through the crowded gallery, searching for Cat. Sequins scratched at my bare arms and I caught elbows to my collarbone, but I pressed on, muttering apologies as I stepped on people’s feet. I needed Cat. Where was she? For the ten millionth time in my life, I wished I were just a few inches taller so I would have a better vantage point.

In the center of the gallery, a crowd had formed around the diorama where Rosalind first arrived in Los Angeles. It was one of the more hopeful scenes in the otherwise dark series: a tiny spotlight simulating the sun shone down on Rosalind, her red lips grinning and blonde ponytail high as she stood proudly beside a doll-sized U-Haul truck. In one of her tiny hands, she clutched a miniature tabloid, its headline—“Dead at 24!”—hinting at the horrors that would come. I paused my search for Cat and lingered on the crowd’s edge, eavesdropping—immaculate details, how about the use of lighting here?, God I hate knowing how this ends—and searching for the best candidate for a quick Live. My eyes had just settled on Lena engaged in a deep conversation with a pastel-haired woman dressed completely in white when I felt the sensation of being watched.

I whirled around, expecting to find Lawrence staring at me from across the room. Instead, I saw only a sea of unfamiliar faces, none of which were looking in my direction. I scanned them anyway, paranoia growing as I searched for someone, anyone, who may have been paying me undue attention. I froze as I caught a glimpse of a bulky figure wearing an incongruous baseball cap. That creep who was always lurking around the halls. Still riled up from my encounter with Lawrence and spoiling for a fight, I curled my hands into fists and started toward him. I was going to tell that loser to leave me the hell alone once and for all. I was not going to let another stupid man intimidate me at my workplace.

“Hey,” I said, my voice crackling with anger as I tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

He turned around, licking his lips when he saw me. “Hello there.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

He adjusted the brim of his hat and cocked his head at me. “Checking out the exhibit. You know I’ve been interested in this one.”

A memory of the shock I felt when I saw him in the gallery on that first day flashed through my mind, and I clenched my hand into a fist at my side. “I seem to remember you helping yourself to an early glimpse. Now, as this preview is exclusively for donors and members, you’ll need to leave.”

He laughed slightly. “I’m not leaving.”

Furious, I jabbed a finger at him—the second man to ignore my request to leave me the hell alone in the last thirty minutes—and snapped, “Listen, I don’t know who you are, how you got in here, or what it is that you want, but I am sick and tired of you showing up and ogling me when I’m just trying to do my goddamn job.”

A large, vaguely familiar-looking man with a ruddy complexion lumbered up to the creep’s side and placed one of his hefty hands on the creep’s shoulder. Glowering at me from underneath bushy gray eyebrows, he asked, “Is there a problem here?”