Ryder’s face twisted, blood on his teeth. “That all you got, old man?”
He lunged back. His elbow caught my side. I shoved him, hard. He slammed into the wall.
Not a clean fight. Not cinematic.
Messy. Hands grappling. Elbows flying.
We were scuffling like idiots in a glass hallway, framed by fluorescent light and studio glass.
I tasted blood.
I felt hands pulling at my jacket, someone trying to wedge between us. Phones were out. Cameras flashing. Pedro, the guard I’d brushed past earlier, was shouting something, but it didn’t register.
All I could hear was the pulse in my ears and the echo of that laugh.
That damn laugh.
It wasn’t about me.
It was about her.
And I’d warned him.
“She’s not yours to speak about,” I growled as someone finally yanked me back. “Not now. Not ever.”
The last thing I saw before they dragged us apart was Ryder’s smug expression cracking for the first time—fear behind the fake bravado.
And I knew, deep in my chest, this wouldn’t be the end of it.
But I didn’t care.
Because the world had heard me loud and clear.
The sirens cut through the shouting before I even processed what was happening.
Somebody must’ve called them the second I swung.
I was still breathing hard, shoulders heaving, when two uniforms pushed through the glass doors. Not movie cops. Real ones. Cold eyes, clipped voices.
“Hands where we can see ’em.”
I froze, palms out. Still staring at Ryder sitting on the floor dabbing his lip with a napkin like some wounded king.
One of the cops was already turning me, wrists caught, metal sliding home.
Not cinematic. Not heroic. Just cold steel and fluorescent light.
I heard a camera whir somewhere behind me. Not the big broadcast rigs — a smaller one, probably a field producer, indifferent as a drone. A thousand little LEDs blinked as phones went up. I knew exactly what it would look like: Kieren Walker, the guy kids lined up to watch, now being cuffed in a lobby that smelled like burnt coffee and spilled sanitizer.
“I want my rep. Call Reid. Call Cam.” My voice sounded strange — too loud, too rough.
One officer guided me toward the exit, one hand on my arm, like I was already a case file. Another voice behind me, “Assault on private property. Misdemeanor. We’ll sort it at the precinct.”
I twisted my head toward Ryder. “You're a pussy, Blake.”
He smirked, holding an ice pack to his jaw. “You're the one leaving in cuffs.”
Phones everywhere now. Producers in headsets trailing behind. Someone on the show’s staff whispering, “We’re still rolling.”
