With a yelp, I grabbed the first book I could reach on the table and started reading. I saw him chuckle and shake his head out of the corner of my eye, but I kept my eyes on that book. The more I fake read, the more interested I was in the words on the page. Fake reading turned into real reading, and I ended up being late for class. During my lunch break, I checked the book out, and that was the start of my love for books . . .andfor Ali Mitchell.
I wished I could say we became friends, then lovers, then high school sweethearts, but that wasn’t the case. I spent my entire four years of high school yearning for a boy who barely noticed me. I wouldn’t say he didn’t know I existed, because he did smile at me when we’d lock eyes, but that was all it ever was—kind eyes, soft smile. My best friend, Jessica, would always say he never approached me because I looked away. Either way, we graduated high school, and I never talked to Ali face-to-face.
Over the years, I kept up with him, mostly because of his career. He’d become a wildly famous author, which seemed fitting. I’d read every last one of his books and supported him every way I could. Any time he went on tour, I went. I couldn’t count the amount of times I listened to his audiobooks, especially the ones narrated by Marcel Davenport, Winston James, and Midnite Michael. I was truly the man’s number one fan, and I didn’t think that would ever change.
When my editor asked for a volunteer to try and get an interview with Ali, I jumped at the chance—literally jumped out of my seat. It didn’t matter how excited I was to do it, because no one else wanted to. It was no secret that Ali had a thing about journalists, and he had a bit of a temper. Maybe I should say the paparazzi made him look like he had a temper.
Ali didn’t just not want to be interviewed, but he also had a thing about anyone talking about him without his consent.
After what happened with Tiffany and the paparazzi three years ago, it was like he dropped off the face of the Earth, and he hadn’t done an interview or event ever since. The only updates we got about him were when he was about to drop a new book, and his team handled those. I couldn’t imagine how hard it was being betrayed by those closest to you, while still being expected to be vulnerable and keep yourself exposed.
Jessica said I was crazy taking on the challenge of getting an interview with Ali. She said I was even crazier driving from Memphis to Rose Valley Hills without an invitation. It was quite sane to me actually. If I reached out to his team, or him personally, he would have declined the interview request. My logic was that he wouldn’t reject me to my face. So here I was, standing on his front door in the middle of a storm. The more I thought about it, the crazier I felt.
First of all, the man would probably think I was a stalker. It wasn’t like his address was public record.
Second, who the hell drove three hours in the middle of a storm?
And third, Ali wasn’t known for his gentle words and kind heart toward journalists and paparazzi. In fact, the last paparazzi who tried to take pictures of him after he repeatedly asked him not to was introduced to Ali’s fist. It looked like Ali had barely put any effort into the punch, yet the man had an orbital blowout fracture. Of course, the money hungry pap threatened to sue, and Ali’s team paid him off to silence him. That was all it took for Ali to go ghost.
My heart broke when I heard about that. He’d just gotten over Tiffany’s betrayal, and his team had put out a public announcement asking that his privacy be respected. Ali had repeatedly said he had no comment about the situation, and theman kept taunting him. I didn’t blame Ali for losing his cool, but unfortunately, all actions and choices had consequences, which was why I was wondering why in the holy hell I decided to pop up at this man’s door.
It was too late to back out now.
All I could do was pray he didn’t kill me. That would be a horrible headline—AmbitiousyetCrazy Journalist Killed by Psycho Author in Recluse—and it wouldn’t be nobody’s fault but mine. At least I’d be able to take pride in knowing I was the one who got Ali Mitchell back in the news again.
The moment he opened the door, I forgot how to breathe. I mean, the man was fine in high school butdamn. Grown man Ali was a sight to behold. He was tall and wide, muscular, but not obsessively. His caramel colored skin glowed. Lazy, under turned eyes looked down at me, highlighted by a pair of glasses that looked like they were rimmed in real gold and tiny diamonds. Speaking of diamonds, the ones in his studded earrings were disgustingly bright and beautiful. A part of me wanted them for myself.
His brown and pink juicy lips parted, showing off a gold diamond grill. Between the beard, tapered fade, and tattoo on his neck, my pussy was reacting to this man the same way my heart did when we were in high school.
Yeah.
This wassucha bad idea.
He invited me inside thankfully, because I was about to combust. My body wouldn’t stop shaking from being so close to him. I didn’t want to fan girl and freak out. The last thing I needed was for him to think I was on someMiserytype shit. That movie still haunted me. That woman was crazy.
It wasn’t until Ali asked me if I was lost that I realized he didn’t recognize me at all, and admittedly, that stung a little. Not sure what I was expecting. A few smiles and glances shouldn’thave made me believe he’d remember me from high school. Still, it would have been cool if he did.
“Oh, um, no. I amexactlywhere I want to be,” I replied, palming my wet forehead when I realized how creepy that sounded. “I’m not lost. I was looking for you.”
“For me?” Ali repeated, pointing at himself.
“Yes. I’ve followed your career since the start.” My head shook. “Let me start from the beginning.” With a chuckle, I ran my trembling hands down my thighs. “I love your work, and I’m kind of nervous being this close to you.” Ali’s frame relaxed as he smiled, but he remained silent as I pulled in a shaky breath. “My name is Avery Felix, and I work for The Force.”
Instantly, the relaxed smile on his face was replaced with a frown.
“You’re a journalist?” he checked.
“Well, yes, but I swear I’m not here to?—”
“I don’t know how you got my address, but you need to leave. I’m not interested in doing an interview with you or anyone else for that matter.”
“I understand. It’s just . . . with it nearing your ten year anniversary and this amazing book-to-film deal you’re working on, your fans are begging to hear from you. I know you’ve worked on a few screenplays over the years, but this will be the first time your book will be filmed, and you’re listed as the EP.”
“Are you from here?”
His question caught me off guard. I couldn’t respond immediately as I stared at him.
“N-no. I’m from Memphis.”
