Where all the paparazzi lurk.
Well, fuck.
Chapter Ten
Waverly
Chewing on my thumbnail—my bottom lip hurts too much to chew on it anymore—I keep glancing toward the other side of the street at the towering man doing…firefighter stuff in the empty garage section of the Hartley Ridge station house.
It’s not Jake. God, I wish it was Jake.
Do you?
Yes. I do. Would I say anything to him? I don’t know. Maybe? The fact my stomach is a churning mess knowing he’s out at a fire, potentially in danger, tells me I don’t hate him.
Ha! Of course you don’t. You love him. You can be angry with him as much as you like, but you’ve fallen in love with him, and now you have to cope with that.
I shuffle my feet, nudging my small backpack closer to my ankles. The bus stop is opposite the station house, and I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes trying to distract myself by photographing the family of magpies ambling around the park it’s next to.
Unfortunately, I’m not alone.
I scowl at the five men lounging on the park benches. All of them are trying to blend in. And failing.
I know who they are. When I collected my backpack from the hostel after trekking back into Hartley Ridge, all five were checking in.
Two of them accosted me before I reached my room with almost the same question:Hey, do you know Jake Conroy? Know where he is?
Two did the same when I left the hostel.
I ignored all of them.
No way will Jake come back to the station house if they’re here. Which means I’m never going to see him again. In ten minutes, the bus to Sydney will arrive, I’ll get on it and say goodbye forever to the most amazing what-could-have-been.
“Oi?”
I tear my stare from the station house, frowning at the man on my left. “Excuse me?”
He flashes what I guess he thinks is a smile. “Haven’t seen you around before. You new? You also tryna get shots of the fireman?”
I pull away from him. “I’m not a…whatever you are.”
He barks out a laugh and jabs a finger at my camera. “C’mon sweet-tits, that’s a fucking expensive Canon hanging over your shoulder, and you’re waiting across the road from where Conroy works. You’reexactlywhat I am. Someone who makes a buck out of photographing famous schmucks who want the fucking attention even when they say they don’t. And this fucker? He wants it the most. Why else hide out?”
“You realize your logic makes no sense, right?” I pour every ounce of disdain I have into my voice. “And if Ididknow where Jake was, no way I’d tell you. You’re worse thandirofilaria immitis.”
He narrows his eyes. “Than what?”
“Roundworm.” I snort. “You’re worse than a parasite.”
He sneers. “Smart little mouth on you there, bitch. Someone should teach you how to use it properly.”
I turn away from him and see the bus approaching. I let out a loud gasp, thrust my finger toward the other side of the park, and shout, “Oh my God! Look. There he is!”
The man spins around, raising his camera at the nothing I pointed at. The other men all jolt up from the benches.
Snorting, I walk toward the bus stop even as an invisible band squeezes my chest. So I’m going. Away. From Jake. Definitely an interesting way to end this journey. And not even a photo of the Giant Dragonfly to show for the rollercoaster of?—
“Waverly Garwood.”
