I stand around and watch while he finishes his autograph session. Watch girls fawn all over him, watch him loving it, and wonder what it all means.
But I know, just like Mom, if you’re going to be in the public eye, you have to do stuff like this. So I can’t fault him for it, and I shouldn’t take it personally. It has nothing to do with our relationship.
I mean, if we have a relationship.
Regardless, he’s my friend. I should be supportive.
But then he says, “Hey, I have to, uh, run somewhere real quick.” He puts his arm up and scratches the back of his head. “I’ll be back in a few. Uh, hold down the fort.”
I’ve known Brooklyn for a really long time and can read him well. The scratching of the head. The weird look in his eye.
There’s something he’s not telling me.
Plus, as he’s walking away, he glances back over his shoulder a few times. Like he’s making sure I stay put.
I know something’s going on, so I follow him.
I lose him in the crowd for a minute, but then I spot him. He’s talking to the big-boobed girl. I’m shocked when she lays a big kiss on his lips and pulls him into a changing tent.
About ten minutes later, they sneak back out. Him looking satisfied, and her just looking like a sleazy train wreck.
And I can barely believe it.
If you would have told me this, I never in a million years would’ve believed it.
I just saw it with my own eyes, and I still can’t believe it.
It’s one thing for him to kiss girls for publicity. It’s another thing entirely for him to be doing them in cabanas.
So much for his best friend love.
I’m so done with him. Like, forever.
I walk straight up to him and the girl. “It’s a good thing all we are to each other is friends, or I might’ve been really hurt by that. And I’d say, Have fun, enjoy your tournament, but you obviously already are. I’m outta here.”
I turn and walk away.
He leaves the girl standing there and comes after me. “But, Keats.”
He grabs my arm. “Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t leave,” he says.
I flip him off and continue walking toward the car.
He doesn’t follow me any further.
I hop back inside the dark-windowed town car, turn, and look for the driver. I had told him to wait here because I thought that after I talked to Brooklyn I would run my stuff to his hotel.
A crowd is still streaming in.
I’m getting ready to text my driver when a face causes me to look twice.
It looks like Vincent.
But it couldn’t be.
I look closer.
Shit. He’s got on the same yellow driving shoes he wore the night we had dinner.
It is him!
And he’s walking straight toward the car.
Straight toward me!
My first instinct is to hide.
I drop down below the window and start to shake.
What am I going to do? Should I call Garrett?
My phone. I go to the special app and hit it three times. 911.
The driver’s side door opens. I fall to the floor and try to make myself small.
Someone pats me on my back and I stifle a shriek.
The driver says, “Are you okay? Why are you on the floor?”
“Shut the door. And lock it, please,” I whisper. “These windows are tinted aren’t they? Can anyone see me in here?”
“They are pretty darkly tinted. Someone would have to be very close to see inside.”
I peek up, see Vincent standing literally right next to the car. He stops to check himself in the window. He takes off his dark sunglasses and fixes an out of place hair.
My heart has stopped beating. I can’t breathe.
I’m still in shock. I can’t believe he would actually come all the way here to look for me.
“Don’t move,” I whisper to the driver. “See that guy there. Checking himself out in the window?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t let him see me.”
“He looks like a actor,” the driver says. “Lover’s quarrel?”
“No, he tried to hurt me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. What would you like me to do?”
“Don’t move. Keep the doors locked. Pray he doesn’t see me.”
Then I think about where he’s walking. Toward Brooklyn.
Shit.
My phone is buzzing. First a call from the spa and then one from Garrett.
I take Garrett’s call. I whisper into the phone. “Shhh.”
Garrett says, “Are you okay? Did you mean to hit the app three times?”
“I’m at Brooklyn’s surf tournament in New York. He’s here,” I whisper.
I look at Vincent. It’s hard to believe such a nice looking man could be so messed up. I can see why they let him go. Apparently he’s taken an interest in surfing. At least that’s what he’d tell anyone who asked.
He puts his sunglasses back on his face, but then he frowns and reaches in his pocket. He takes a call, walks over, and leans against the town car, talking on his phone.
“Oh my God,” I whisper breathlessly. “Please, please, go away.”
“Should I get out and tell him to get the hell off my car?” the driver says.