He’s such a dickhead. What a complete and utter waste of space. I follow in tow because it’s the only path to escape.
But I jump out of the frying pan right into the fire.
Outside, a feeding frenzy of cameras and microphones awaits us, more aggressive than any mob I’ve faced before.
They swarm the moment we step through the door—a wall of flashing lights and shouted questions and bodies pressing close. I flinch back instinctively, but Grayson’s hand clamps around my wrist, pulling me forward into the chaos.
“Smile,” he hisses. “You wanted attention. Here it is.”
“Grayson! Charlie! Over here!”
“How’s the relationship going?”
“Charlie, any comment on the tour? Are the rest of the dates locked in?”
“Grayson, is it true you’re up for the Tarantino project?”
The barrage of questions melts into a single deafening roar. I’m blinded by the strobe-like assault of camera flashes, each burst leaving ghost images floating across my vision. Elbows and shoulders dig into my sides as the crowd constricts around us like a python, and the terrible realization hits me: there’s no escape route. We’re completely hemmed in.
“Grayson.” I try to keep my voice steady. “This is too much. We need to get to the car.”
He ignores me. He’s posing now, one arm around my waist, pulling me against his side like a trophy.
“I want to leave,” I insist again, pulling away, but his grip becomes punishing.
“In a minute.”
A photographer collapses to the ground in front of me, his body flat against the pavement. The lens of his camera tilts upward, seeking the shadows beneath my hemline. My stomach turns as I realize what he’s hunting for—an invasive angle no woman should have to endure.
“Hey!” I try to step back, but there’s nowhere to go. “What the hell are you?—”
And then, out of nowhere, a hand reaches down and grabs the shameless photographer by the collar, hauling him up off the ground like he weighs nothing.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The voice is familiar.Furious.“You’re fucking disgusting.”
Taio.
He’s here. In Atlanta. Standing in the middle of my nightmare, holding a paparazzo by the scruff of his neck like a misbehaving puppy.
“Who the fuck are you?” someone shouts.
Taio shoves the photographer away and turns to face the crowd, his body shifting automatically into a protective stance between me and the cameras. “Her bodyguard.”
His eyes find mine and for a moment, everything else falls away. The flashing lights, the shouted questions, the hands reaching for me—all of it fades into background noise. There’s just Taio, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
Then his gaze drops to my waist.
The waist that Grayson’s still wrapped around like a python with a vendetta.
“Let her go.” I’ve never heard three words sound more menacing. Even Grayson’s ego doesn’t want to stand up to the hulk-fire burning in Taio’s eyes. Grayson releases me.
“We don’t need you tonight,” Grayson seethes. “In fact, you’re dismissed.”
Taio’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flash with a cold, lethal quality. He turns to Grayson, and when he speaks, his voice is dangerously calm. “You may not need me. She does. What the hell are you doing? You brought her into this shark tank, and now you’re what—letting them feast?”
Grayson puffs up, clearly not used to being challenged. “Excuse me?”
“There’s a perverted fuck on the ground trying to take photos up her skirt, and you were just standing there posing. You’re supposed to be protecting her, and instead you’re—what? Checking your reflection in the cameras? What kind of man are you?”
