I’m noticed too much as it is, with being overly tatted and always looking like I’d rather be anywhere but the event I’m attending. People pick up on that, and it usually gets a few interested.
Not tonight though.
My friend and fellow journalist, Lucian, leans over and says, “I can’t stay long. If we don’t get any bites, I gotta go.”
I glance over at him, pissed that he’s leaving me, but I completely understand. He has some loose ends to close—loose ends that should have been strangled years ago.
Lucian could be one of these models that grace the runway, but he keeps saying he’s too short. I mean, he’s five five on a good day, but he’s stunning. Clear, even medium brown skin, curly black hair, and pretty, wide light brown eyes. And those cheekbones. People pay to have such sharp and perfect cheekbones.
Then there’s me, the literal opposite of him—a shade darker than pale white, around five-ten, with brown hair, dark brown eyes, a little extra flesh on my cheeks that makes me look a lot younger than I am, and tattoos that cover most of my torso up to my throat and down my arms and hands.
Huffing, I put my notepad back in my pocket—I must be one of the only journalists in this decade to still use pen and paper—and cross my arms. “Fine. But as soon as I get a meeting with literally anyone in attendance tonight, I’m going home. I’m not talking to anyone longer than I have to.”
“I know, babes,” Lucian smiles, the cute gap between his teeth flashing. “Tell me why you decided to be a journalist again?”
“Because I was following you, toots.” He throws his head back and laughs just as the crowd of paps start yelling again, trying to get the attention of Menace Grant.
God, that’s a fine man. Taller than me, probably closer to six-five, dark hair, dark eyes and almost as covered in tattoos as me.
Since he’s stepped on the modeling scene, I’ve followed his career. It’s not common for a male model to have just as much acclaim as the women, but Menace is in a class all his own.
He’s graced most magazine covers, from fashion to fucking architectural, because apparently he’s a man of many talents.He’s even appeared in a few movies—doing a pretty good job—but hasn’t made the transition to full-time actor.
He strides down the red carpet, his head held high and his back straight, looking at us like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
Join the club.
Before I can shout for him to give me a quote, Lucian curses. I look over at him just as he peels his press pass over his head and loops it around my neck. I scowl. “I’d love to stay,” he shouts over the yelling and questions hurled at Menace, “but…never mind, I don’t wanna stay at all. Have fun.”
He leaves before I can say a word to get him to stay.
Fuck, I was hoping he’d forget to give me his press pass so I could leave without going in. It’s one thing to leave me high and dry, but another to make me actually walk around to get a fucking quote.
Most people would kill to hobnob with the rich and famous, but I’d rather be in my cubicle, working on an article. Not stuck in a stuffy event with people that will look down on me because my bank account doesn’t have as many zeros as theirs.
I’m an investigative journalist, but our boss doesn’t give a fuck about that. With physical newspapers dying to make room for internet articles, he wants us to get as many soundbites as we can before we’re taken over by technology.
Huffing, I cross my arms over my chest and look back at the man on the red carpet. He’s doing that squinty thing men do that’s supposed to be hot but only makes me think of that dog meme.
I chuckle to myself and it’s like Menace hears me over the din of voices fighting for dominance. His gaze snaps over to me and he stops squinting.
My heart rate picks up, but I can’t bring myself to shout a question at him, to try to get him to give me a few words on whathe’s doing here tonight. All I can do is stare back, willing my lungs to work like a normal fucking person and not panting like a dog in heat.
It’s like all the sound is sucked out of the room, everything dimming until all I can hear is my rapid breathing. My heart thumps hard against my ribcage as I maintain eye contact with the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like he has a hold on me, not letting me look away, even if I tried.
Of all the people here tonight, I wanted to get Menace’s attention the most. But having his gaze on me now? It’s overwhelming. Those brown eyes bore into me and a fucking smile tips up his lips. Fuck, is that for me?
Before he looks away, he fucking winks at me. Then he faces the photographers, squinting at them like he didn’t just almost make me come in my pants from a gaze.
I stumble back from the gate separating press from celebrities and three other people vie for my spot.
Shoving my hand through my hair, I swallow roughly and shake myself. I have to get my head back in the game before I’m overwhelmed as soon as I step foot in the building. I have to get in there, set up an interview or two about someone’s charity of choice this evening and why they chose it, then get the fuck home.
I can’t worry about Menace Grant and why he fucking winked at me.
A few minutes later, those with passes are directed inside and the paps break away from the gate until it’s time for attendees to exit and they can swarm them once again.
Sighing, I follow the press allowed in the event, so ready to get this night over with. Though I can’t deny that I would like to get Menace alone so I can ask him questions about his charity, and why he feels so strongly about domestic violence, I won’t hold my breath that I actually will.
