I don’t know how to respond to that. “See you there, Anfisa,” I mutter, and she hangs up. I turn to Matt, irritation buzzing through me. “Nice job,” I say flatly. “Now she’s right where he wants her, and she doesn’t even know that the bastard threatened to blow her up.”
All the colour drains from Matt’s face.
Forty-Two
Briar
?
The premiere is beautiful. The studio pulled out all the stops for the event. Going along with the 1920s murder mystery theme, they picked out an old-style cinema in the middle of LA for the screening, and cordoned off a square in front of the building with heavy velvet ropes.Bright lamps are erected throughout the square, illuminating massive hanging posters, each depicting one of the characters clutching a weapon and spattered in blood. There are ushers dressed in traditional red uniforms handing out goodie bags full of merch. The sweet, buttery smells of popcorn and candyfloss drift through the evening air from the complimentary concessions stand, and crackly, old-timey music plays through hidden speakers.
It’s definitely one of the more tasteful premieres I’ve ever attended, but as I step away from the photography pit and start trailing down the press line, I feel like I’m in a haze. I answer journalists’ questions robotically, barely taking in my surroundings.
I’m hurt. Really hurt.
Last night was a big deal for me. I don’t ever open up to people. Ever. I hate talking about growing up in the industry. I hate talking about how much it broke me down. Last night, it felt like I was showing the men all the chinks in my armour. But I did it, because for a moment, I actually thought they cared. But of course, they don’t. If they cared, they’d be here, doing their damn jobs.
As I say goodbye to one reporter and turn to the next, hands suddenly grab me from behind. I bite back the urge to scream, spinning to see a young man in a dark hoodie, clutching a crumpled t-shirt. For a moment, my heart drops to my stomach. It’shim.He’s found me.
“Let me go,” I whisper, ice dripping down my throat. “Please.”
The man grips me even harder, raking his fingernails down my arm. “Briar, oh my God, I’m your biggest fan,” he chants, specks of spit flying through the air.
I force myself to take a deep breath, really looking at him. There’s no way this is X. I remember the security footage; this guy is smaller and heavier than the man on the tapes.
He keeps babbling. “Please please please sign my merch oh my God I can’t believe you’re finally here I can’t believe I’mtouching you.”
“Neither can I,” I say flatly. “Let go of me.” I try to shake him off. When he doesn’t let go, I grab his fingers and yank them back, hard, until he howls in pain, dropping my arm. “Get back in line.”
His bottom lip trembles. “Please, Briar!”
I shake my head. “Wait in line like everyone else. You don’t get special treatment for assaulting me.” I twist, looking in disgust at the red lines his fingernails left down my arm. “And clip your fucking nails. What is wrong with you?”
“B-but—”
I glance back at my temporary bodyguard, Chris. He’s engrossed in his phone. “Excuse me,” I say flatly. “So sorry to interrupt. Can you please get rid of this guy?”
He blinks up from his phone, looks around owlishly, then waves the fan back, reaching for his gun.
“Jesus, don’tshoothim!” I snap. “Just get him off the damn carpet!”
God, he’s useless. Julie said that he’s from one of the best close protection services in LA, but as far as I can tell, he’s spent the whole night trying to beat his high score on Candy Crush.
It makes me nervous, not having the men around me. I miss Kenta’s calm eyes watching over me, Glen’s silhouette shadowing me a few steps behind. Hell, I even miss Matt’s hand on the small of my back as he leads me through the reporters.
Matt mentioned that they thought X might be here tonight. Since he refused to tell me any reasonswhyhe thought that, I’m assuming he was just trying to scare me. If it is true, though, I might be screwed. Chris here wouldn’t notice if someone leapt out of the crowd and held a gun to my head.
Shaking off the dread stroking down my spine, I screw my smile back on and turn to the next interviewer. The guy is gross-looking; greasy hair covered by a backwards baseball cap, and jeans hanging so low over his hips that I can see his underwear.
We exchange pleasantries, and he asks me the same, overused questions that everybody else asked.What’s it like working with a female director? You look great in all the promo shots, what was your diet plan? Did you have a personal trainer? Was your co-star a good kisser?
Same old, same old.
The reporter shuffles his question cards and leans in. I can smell his onion breath. “You had an almost all-female cast—how did that work? Was there any cattiness in the group?”
I notice the cameraman focussing on my cleavage and fight the urge to slap him with my clutch. “Oh, you know, only when all of our periods synced up.”
He gives me a bright smile, not sensing the sarcasm in my tone. “Yeah, wow. I imagine that was a bit of a bitchfest.”
