No, no, no, no. Everything had been going so well. Wes stiffened further.
“Uh, yeah. Glad to be home. It was good meeting you, Dr. Hoffman and Brandy.” He shook both of their hands like the professional he was. “Unfortunately, we need to get back to work.” On that note, he sat down. The editor handed him a pair of earphones, and Wes locked his eyes on the screen.
Conversation closed. I waved noncommittally at the duo, sat down, and repeated Wes’s steps exactly. Eventually, Dr. Hoffman said something, and the door closed. shutting us back into our world of stay-at-home-moms and living beautiful. I put my hand to Wes’s rigid back. I could almost feel the tension pumping off him like a living, breathing animal hiding just under the surface. At first, he shook when I touched him, but as I slid my hand up and down his back and asked him questions about this or that on the screen, he began to relax once more. When we turned the segment in, the executive producers loved it on the spot. We went back to the editing room, grabbed our stuff, thanked the editor, and moseyed into the catacomb that was Century Productions.
I thought we’d dodged a bullet. Unfortunately, I was wrong. So damn wrong.
Chapter Eight
For the entire week, we’d managed to avoid all contact with the press. The only time Wes had left the house was to go with me to the Ryans’ shoot, which was in bumfuck, Egypt, as far as the Hollywood media were concerned. Unfortunately, it looked like someone at Century Productions—the doctor, the producers, or maybe Brandy-spelled-the-normal-way—had tipped them off. They must have thought it would look good for Wes to be seen coming out of their offices with someone associated with the celebrity doctor. So it made sense why Dr. Hoffman and his supermodel wife were standing right outside the office doors when we attempted to leave. The moment we stepped outside the door, the flashes were staggering.
I’d experienced fame and some serious paparazzi encounters with Anton while in Miami, but this was a far cry from a handful of cameras and smarmy men with fat bellies hanging over their belts with their beefy fingers clicking a million miles a minute to capture the worst possible image for their smut mags. This was a convention of media personnel. A fucking feeding frenzy.
“Weston, what was it like being held by terrorists?” one screamed.
“Did you kill anyone while you were there?”
“Where did they hurt you?”
“What did it feel like watching Trevor die in front of you?”
“Did they hurt Gina, your girlfriend?”
“Who’s Mia Saunders to you?”
Dr. Hoffman approached the crowd with his wife. She went from stupid bimbo to top paid supermodel trophy wife in less than a breath, standing by his side, clutching his bicep.
We were standing behind them, looking for an out.
“Now, now, shush. Our friend Mr. Channing and his fiancée, Ms. Saunders, deserve a little privacy after what they’ve been through, don’t you think? Have a little decency.”
Fiancée? The word rolled like a wave through the crowd of media mongrels, whispered, spoken, and yelled at so many decibels, it was impossible to keep up. This was not at all how I anticipated anyone finding out I’d be marrying Wes. I didn’t even have a ring yet.
“Dr. Hoffman, Dr. Hoffman, are Mr. Channing and Ms. Saunders on your show talking about his captivity?” a reporter screamed at the top of his lungs.
The doctor smiled wide. Motherfucker. Douchebag. He loved this additional press and planned it for sure.
“Now, now, Ms. Saunders is an employee on my show. She will be doing a segment every Friday. You all should watch. It’s brilliant, especially because her fiancé helped her with it.”
“Is that true, Mr. Channing?” The sharks went wild. “You’re already back to work after a dozen of your men were killed?”
That was it. I grabbed Wes by the hand, and we pushed our way through the crowd and ran. Ran for our lives. So many photographers chased us it was hard to see the forest through the trees, or in this case, the parking lot where my bike, Suzi, sat.
I jumped on her, revved her up as Wes plopped my helmet on my head and looped an arm around my waist.
“Don’t go home. Just drive, baby,” Wes growled in my ear, holding me tight. “Just drive.”
I was so going to marry this man. Period.
* * *
That night, Weston woke with a startling cry. This time, he shook the bed, and both of us came awake startled. He was panting as I turned on the light and popped out of the bed, not knowing what I’d find or if I should stay within arm’s reach. His eyes were black sunken-in holes. Both nostrils were flaring, and a snarl curled his lips. He stared at me as if I were his next meal and he hadn’t eaten in days. No. Weeks.