Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (18 page)

I stand, grabbing my little clutch purse. Jackson moves so he’s standing between me and the photographer and wraps a protective arm around my shoulders.

A waiter comes near and speaks quiet words to Jackson, then walks away.

“Fuck,” he says. He takes off his coat and helps me slide my arms through. “There’s more outside. They must have followed us from the hotel. We’ll wait until the car is out front.”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re like fucking rats. One shows up and starts attracting more. They all want to see what the story is, and be the one to get the winning shot.” His phone lights up and he puts a hand on my back. “The car’s here. Walk to the car, and get inside. You don’t have to look at them or answer their questions.”

My heart quickens, and nervousness runs through my belly. This is so bizarre.

We walk through the lobby and the host opens the door for us. Flashes go off and a press of people surge forward.

“Jackson, is this your mystery woman?”

“Jackson, is this your new girlfriend?”

“Can we get a shot of you with sassy girl?”

“Sassy girl, what’s your name?”

“Who is she?”

Jackson keeps his arm tight around me. The few feet from the door to the edge of the sidewalk feel like a mile. The driver helps me in and I scoot across the seat. Jackson follows and the door shuts, cameras still flashing outside the car.

“Fuck,” Jackson says. He puts a hand over his mouth and looks out the window, his brow furrowed.

“What the hell was that?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer—just stares out the window. The car pulls away and I shift in my seat, hugging his coat around me.

“Does that happen to you often?” I ask.

“It’s been a while since they were interested enough to follow me around,” he says. He pauses again for a long moment, the lines of his jaw tight. “Fuck. It’s because of you.”

“Me?”

“Because of me tweeting about you,” he says. “I’m sorry, Melissa, I should have been prepared for that. I would have brought security if I’d known. We’ll fly back tonight. Seattle won’t be as bad.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

He looks away and gets on his phone. I hear things like
security
,
privacy
, and
keep the fuckers off my property
.

I’m just glad it’s over.

We arrive back at Jackson’s condo in the early hours of the morning. No photographers are waiting outside, so either they aren’t following him in Seattle, or his angry phone calls did the trick and someone chased them off. A man in a dark suit stands in the lobby. I don’t remember seeing security in Jackson’s building before, but the man’s presence makes me feel better. We crash out in the king-sized bed and enjoy a leisurely morning, sipping coffee on his balcony and enjoying the view.

I stay another night—there doesn’t seem to be any reason to leave. In the morning, I wake to his voice through the closed bedroom door. He sounds angry.

Dressed in one of Jackson’s t-shirts, I creep out of the bedroom and go to the kitchen to make coffee. He’s pacing up and down the balcony, his movements controlled, but he’s clearly agitated. His voice rises again and he hangs up, pocketing his phone.

“Everything okay?” I ask when he comes inside.

“Not really,” he says. “I have to fly to fucking St. Louis.”

“When?”

“In a couple hours,” he says.

My heart sinks. “How long will you be there?”

“A few days, probably. I have to go bust some heads before things get worse.” He runs his hands up and down my arms. “I can have my driver take you home. Or you can stay here if you want.”

I glance around. I don’t feel comfortable staying at Jackson’s place without him. “Thanks, but I think I’ll go home.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says.

Does he look disappointed?

He steps in, leans his head down to my hair, and takes a deep breath. His hands slide around my waist and he presses my body close.

“I don’t want to go,” he says into my ear.

His hand runs down my back and slips beneath my panties, grabbing my ass.

“How long do we have?” I ask, grabbing his cock through his pants.

He groans. “Long enough.”

***

His driver takes me home that afternoon. I call Nicole on the way and tell her about the craziness of the paparazzi. She can’t believe it, and quite honestly, neither can I. It feels like something I read about happening to another person. They can’t have been trying to take pictures of me.

As we drive into town, the familiarity of Jetty Beach is an enormous relief. It’s a place where things don’t change very much, and I need my hometown’s solid ground beneath my feet.

My stomach drops when we turn onto my street. Cars are parked outside my house, lining the street on both sides. People get out as soon as the driver pulls up. They’re all holding up cameras.

The glass partition lowers and the driver turns around. “I’ll get you inside your house, okay?”

I swallow hard and nod. I send a quick text to Jackson, although I know there’s nothing he can do. He’s probably in the air, on his way to St. Louis.

Paparazzi outside my house. WTF.

The driver opens my door. I slip a pair of sunglasses on my face and grab my bag. He puts an arm around my shoulders and guides me toward my front door, amid at least a dozen people with cameras trying to get close.

“Melissa, are you Jackson Bennett’s infamous sassy girl?”

“Melissa, look at me!”

“Melissa, how does it feel to be Jackson Bennett’s flavor of the month?”

“Melissa, how does a small town girl nab the most eligible bachelor in the country?”

“Melissa!”

I bite my lip to keep from yelling obscenities at them. The driver stands close behind me while I fumble with my keys. He nudges me inside and closes the door. I turn to find him gone, already making his way back to the car. No one followed up to my porch, but they all linger outside on the path from the sidewalk. I quickly shut the curtains and retreat to my bedroom.

My phone rings. Jackson.

“Hi,” I say.

“Don’t go in,” he says, his voice urgent. “I’ll get you a hotel.”

“I already did,” I say. “Your driver was really nice. He helped me to my front door.”

“Fuck,” he says. “How many are there?”

“A dozen, maybe?” I say. “I didn’t stop to count.”

“Son of a bitch,” he says. “Listen, don’t go anywhere. I’m arranging for private security, but no one can get to you for a couple of hours.”

“Private security? Jackson, this is insane.”

“I know,” he says. There’s so much rage in his voice, it scares me. “Just, stay where you are. I can’t get there right now, but… fuck. You know what, I’m sending my driver back. He’ll take you back to my place. I don’t want you there alone.”

“What? No, I just got home,” I say. “They’ll get bored and leave.”

“No, they won’t,” he says. “You’re not staying there by yourself.”

“Jackson, this is my home. They aren’t going to chase me out of my own house, and you don’t get to order me around.”

“This isn’t optional, Melissa,” he says. “I can’t… Fuck, I can’t be there right now, and I don’t want you there by yourself. Please, let me get you somewhere safe.”

“Safe? They have cameras, not handguns,” I say. “I’m fine. I don’t know how I’m going to go to the fucking store later, but I’m fine.”

“Goddammit, Melissa, don’t go to the store,” he says. “Fuck it. I’m coming back.”

“No,” I say, my voice emphatic. “No, you’re not coming here. You have shit to do, and it’s a lot more important than a bunch of douchenozzles camped out on my front lawn.”

“It’s not more important,” he says.

I slump, putting a hand to my forehead. “Will you go to your meetings if I get a hotel?”

“Yes, but don’t go anywhere yet. Wait for Curt.”

“Who is Curt?”

“Security,” he says. “He’ll get you where you need to go safely. What hotel do you want?”

“I… I have no idea.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Tammi will text you. Just, fuck, don’t move. Wait for Curt, okay? He’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Jackson, seriously, I don’t think these photographers are going to hurt me.”

“They better not lay a finger on you or I’ll rip their fucking throats out.”

His voice is so cold, I have no doubt he’s serious. It sends a shiver up my spine.

“Okay, it’s fine,” I say. “I’ll wait here for Curt. I’ll watch
Firefly
or something.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Close the curtains and lock all the doors,” he says.

“I already did.”

“All right,” he says, his voice softer. “I’ll take care of things out here and I’ll come back as soon as I can. If things get worse, Curt will take you to my place. Fuck, I wish you’d just go, I’d feel better with you there.”

“Jackson, I’m fine.”

“Okay, baby. I—” He hesitates. “I’ll call you in a little while.”

He hangs up, and I let the phone drop to the bed. What the fuck is happening? Do I actually have paparazzi outside my house? This cannot be real. I’m no one. Just a girl from Jetty Beach who stumbled into a world where I do not belong.

I lie down, letting my head hit the pillow. This is his world, his life. Black tie galas and photographers and fucking celebrities. Part of me desperately wishes he was here, but another part wonders what the fuck I’m doing. I’m waiting for private security to whisk me off to a hotel. I can’t even stay in my own house.

My private moments with Jackson have been amazing and wonderful, but that’s only one part of his life. This—the chaos, the questions, the pictures—is as much a part of his life as the rest of it.

I don’t think I can handle it.

The crisis in St. Louis takes four days to fix. I spend the entire trip worried out of my fucking mind for Melissa. She assures me she’s fine, and I check in with her security multiple times a day. Maybe I’m acting like a lunatic, but I don’t give a shit. It’s killing me that she’s thousands of miles away and I can’t be there to keep her safe. The entire thing is my fault.

I stopped tweeting about her after San Diego, but the damage was done. I turned her into a mystery, and once it caught the attention of the gossip writers, it was over. They had to know who she was. And of course, they found her.

I’ve had plenty of run-ins with paparazzi over the years. Occasionally something stirs them up, and I’ll find them outside my building. Once a guy sneaked into one of my parties and I had to have him forcibly removed. In the past, I’d tighten my security for a while, or maybe disappear in the middle of the night to some random city. The attention dies down and they move on to someone else. Life goes on.

But knowing they’re camped outside Melissa’s house makes me panic. I almost fired my fucking driver for leaving her, but it turned out he parked his car up the street and waited, watching her house until Curt arrived. Sending her to a hotel is better than having her stay at home, but I wish she’d go to my place—I can lock that place down like a fucking bunker. But when I bring it up again the next day, it only makes her mad.

In fact, she sounds mad every time I talk to her, but I’m not sure what else I can do.

After one final morning meeting, I fly back to Seattle. I have the Bugatti brought to the airport—I’ll probably get pulled over ten times on the drive down, but fuck it, I don’t care. There are still a hundred fifty miles between us, and I’m determined to get to her.

I check in with her security when I get close to town. I’m livid when Curt tells me she isn’t at the hotel, so I drive to her house. A few cars are still parked on the street, and I notice another following me. I pull up to her house and get out, ignoring the assholes who lean out of their car windows to take pictures. They’re lucky they don’t rush me. I’ll hit the first person to get near me, I’m so pissed.

Curt lets me in, and I find Melissa sitting at her kitchen table. The curtains are all drawn and she has blankets up over the windows.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.

Her mouth drops open and she lets the pen she’s holding drop. “Excuse me? I’m fine, thank you. Nice to see you.”