Protecting Rayne

by Emily Bishop

  “No, you’re not going to bring anyone else down with you,” I whispered.

  It wasn’t much further now. Just past the General Store, another five minutes and I’d be at the RV park. So far, so good, relatively speaking.

  But my mind skipped back to those images on the TV screen in Jarryd’s room, and I flushed red. The moments that had held the most intimacy for me displayed for everyone to see. Not just everyone in Moondance or even in Wyoming. Everyone in the United States, even people from other countries.

  They knew my name. They knew I’d had sex with Jarryd Tombs. And they thought they knew what type of person I was: a slut who slept with an engaged man and broke up Hollywood’s hottest couple.

  I passed the General Store and didn’t dare peek inside—I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them in there. People I’d known or recognized staring at me as if they’d never seen the truth about me before.

  The door of the store clacked behind me, and I stepped quicker. My heart was caught in a constant loop—whoop-thump, whoop-thump. I massaged my chest and swallowed again and again, but my mouth had gone as dry as sandpaper.

  Whispers behind me, or were they in my head? No, those were definitely footsteps crunching on the sidewalk behind me, and they gained fast.

  I didn’t look back, couldn’t even bring myself to swivel my head an inch to the left or right.

  The RV park was three minutes away. Just three minutes.

  “Yeah, it’s her,” a man croaked behind me. “Go, quick, around the front.”

  I broke into a run.

  “Follow!” the guy croaked.

  This time, I did look back, and my heart nearly stopped entirely. Two greasy dudes chased after me, with cameras hanging bouncing from the straps around their necks—it wasn’t difficult to guess who they were or what they wanted.

  “Aurora,” one of them called and swiped sweat from his forehead. “Yo, you’re Aurora Bell, right? Slow down, honey, we want to talk to you.”

  The other guy, at least a ham thicker than his friend, wheezed and raised the camera. “Come on, sweetie, stand still for a second. We want to talk to you. You’re going to be a big star.”

  I tightened my grip on the strap of my handbag, gritted my teeth, and broke into a dead sprint.

  “Christ. Trust Tombs to fuck a runner. Look at that bitch go.”

  I ignored the rhetoric—though, a small part of me, the part that hadn’t buried itself in shame and regret found the sentiment funny in a sick way—and made for the entrance to the park. It was ahead. Right there. Within reach!

  I rushed at it then under the sign and down the dirt path toward the lot. The reporters trundled after me, kicking up stones and swearing under their breaths. The fat guy wheezed harder.

  I wound between the RVs, past people out cleaning them or simply reading on lawn chairs, enjoying a beer. Some of them looked up as I blew by, others didn’t even notice—the latter were fine by me.

  I arrived on the front steps of the RV and fumbled my keys out of my pocket. “Come on, come on, come on.”

  Mistress wormed out from underneath the RV and meowed at my legs. I’d left food and water out for her when I’d left for my shift yesterday, but she was probably hungry again.

  “Not the time, sweetie,” I whispered and rammed the key home into the lock with a horrid grating of metal on metal. I twisted it, opened up then thundered into the RV. Mistress entered at a much more leisurely pace.

  The two reporters approached, both at a jog rather than a sprint. The fat one was pale. The greasier one raised his camera.

  I whapped my door shut and locked it from the inside then backed up. “Oh, god,” I said, and raised shaking fingers to my lips. “Oh, god, oh, god, what the fuck. What the fuck is happening right now?”

  Mistress meowed her answer.

  I leaned against the kitchen table for support. “This can’t be real.” But it was. I’d made this choice. I’d been part of everything that’d happened, and this was my punishment for it.

  Mistress wound between my legs, rubbing her warm furry body against my jeans. I sat down beside her then pulled her into my lap and stroked the back of her head, scratched between her ears. The soft brush of fur calmed me. I shut my eyes and breathed in and out.

  This wasn’t irreparable. There had to be a way to deal with this.

  OK, I could never see Jarryd again. That much was clear. I couldn’t even consider it, because I lost whatever dumbass senses I’d had whenever he was close.

  I’d run.

  I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to do anything but settle down in the only home I’d ever known, but the option had been yanked out of my grasp. James had bought the cabin. Everyone I knew and even those I didn’t believed I was a homewrecker.

  That was the situation.

  “Breathe.” I inhaled and exhaled, stroked Mistress’s fur, and she purred against me, bringing a little comfort, at last.

  Mistress had liked Jarryd, too. She’d been there on the afternoon I’d brought the crystals back from Mama Kate’s, around the back of the RV where—

  “Shit!” My eyelids opened. “Double, triple shit!”

  The tag! I’d never cleaned the tag, and those paparazzi assholes would go crazy snapping pics if they found it.

  I put down Mistress then lurched to my feet, shuffled for the door. I stopped with my fingertips on the handle. What was the point? If I ran out there and stopped them, they’d snap photos of me anyway, they’d probably take one of me with the tag, confirming everyone’s suspicions.

  Jarryd Tombs had cheated with a gypsy whore.

  “Do it, just do it,’ I said, and opened the door.

  I braced myself for the questions, the photos, but the space in front of the RV was clear, just green grass, a couple leaves, and that breathtaking view of the forest beyond, trees still and silent beneath a bank of gathering clouds.

  I trundled down the two front steps and held my breath. Where were they?

  The crunch of footsteps around the side of the RV gave me the answer. They’d found the tag.

  “Get another shot. A long shot. Man, Clive, this shit is gold.” The reporter’s voice was wet, phlegmy.

  I tiptoed toward it, keeping close to the side of the RV, breathing only through my nose. I shouldn’t have come out here, but now, faced with the soft click-click of a camera shutter, the whispers, and the excitement, I couldn’t turn back.

  Seeing them fluttering around the tag, snapping pics, would help me process the truth.

  People knew, and they hated me for it.

  I halted and peeked around the corner.

  There were four reporters, now, and one of them held a microphone, facing his cameraman. “Is it a good shot?” he asked and patted his coifed, blond hair. “You got that slogan in there?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Good,” he said.

  The cameraman held three fingers, ticked them off then pointed at the reporter. “I’m standing here outside what appears to be Jarryd Tombs’ lover’s RV. As you can see, someone has already painted a nasty message on the vehicle.”

  My insides curled up into nothingness, into a black void. This was mortifying. A nightmare made flesh, holding a microphone up to the end of my hopes and dreams to hear its final kicks and screams.

  “The woman in question, Aurora Bell, appears to be a local fortune-teller, or at least a magician of some sort. We have it on good authority from her neighbors that she’s a famed scam artist.”

  I sucked in a breath. That’s bullshit! Everything I do comes from the heart. From the soul! But I couldn’t tell him or anyone else that, and even if I did, it wouldn’t make a difference.

  “Apparently, Mr. Tombs initially came to Moondance to be with his new lover, while he was still in a committed relationship with Felicity Swan. Or should I say, not so committed, ha.”

  The cameraman gave Mr. Coif another thumbs up for the joke.

  “Our information indicates that Jar
ryd Tombs is staying in a local motel. We’ll be heading over there to get the scoop shortly.”

  The cameraman lowered the camera. “Got it!”

  “Great work, Henry. Great fucking work. All right, now, let’s get a few artsy clips for the show. The audience eats that shit right up. I’m gonna head around the front and see if I can draw out the whore.”

  I shuffled back, and my heart thumped, did a funny skip-beat. I backpedaled, turned, and dashed up the front steps of the RV again then slapped the door closed behind me and locked it. I retreated to the bedroom and shut that door, too.

  The knocking started seconds later.

  “Miss Bell? Are you in there? We want to talk to you. It’s Ronald Hart with Heat News.”

  I lay back on the bed and stuck my fingers in my ears. Sure, it wasn’t the most mature of solutions, but it did the job.

  Except, now I couldn’t hear them, but I could hear my thoughts loud and clear.

  Gypsy whore. Why does this keep happening? I wanted this to be real. I wanted Jarryd and me to be real.

  I rolled over onto my stomach and took my fingers out of my ears. The shouting and banging had stopped, but low murmurs and the occasional burst of chatter emanated from the back of the RV. They were still out there, and they probably wouldn’t leave any time soon.

  I scooched forward on my belly, all the way up to my pillow then rested my head and squeezed my eyes shut. The tears that wormed beneath my lids were hot. They burned all the way through to my soul.

  “Stop it, stop crying,” I whispered, but I couldn’t stop.

  Even now, all I wanted was to be with him again. To smell his skin, and taste him, to kiss him again. He’d felt so good beneath me and inside me, inside my heart, and now, it was all over, and the pain in my chest, right below my left breast, hurt so bad it was as if I’d broken in two or someone had stabbed me.

  I sniffled and despised myself for it. What would Mom have done? Surely, she wouldn’t have taken this lying down. No, she would’ve picked herself up again and come up with a plan.

  I punched the pillow once then sat up.

  “A plan,” I said. “That’s all I need. Number one, never see him again. Number two, get out of Moondance. Number three… Number three.” What then? Spend my life traveling?

  The buzz of my cell phone on the built in bedside table drew my attention from the issue at hand. I lifted it and winced.

  Jarryd’s name flashed on the screen.

  My thumb hovered over the red phone icon but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t cut him off like that. He was a part of this, too. It wasn’t his fault things had blown up in our faces. Not really.

  I answered. “Hello,” I said.

  “Aurora, I’m sorry.” Just the sound of his voice made me tighten up and brought another fresh pang in my chest. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “I know,” I replied. “But it has happened. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  “No. I won’t accept that. I’m calling because I don’t want you to run from this,” he said. “You don’t have to hide from these assholes. We can face this. Together.”

  “We can’t. This will ruin Pride’s Death, possibly your career. It’s better I bow out now.” Before I fucked up his life like I’d done to mine.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I won’t accept that answer. Our relationship has nothing to do with my career or the movie, and the press will know that soon enough.”

  The talking outside intensified. No doubt, more of the paparazzi had arrived. “I’m afraid it’s already too late. And I’m not set up for damage control. This is over, Jarryd,” I whispered. The walls of the RV weren’t paper, thin but I wouldn’t put it past the assholes outside to push glasses against the side of the vehicle and try listening in.

  “It’s not over,” he replied.

  “It is,” I said, and my voice broke. “Don’t make it harder than it already is. This has been amazing, but it’s time to move on.”

  “Aurora,” he grated.

  I tugged the phone from my ear, my eyes already screwed up to hold back the howl building inside, and hung up on him. That was it. It was over.

  The cell buzzed in my palm, right away. Jarryd again. I laid it down on my pillow then got up and looked around the room. My life was in here, and it wasn’t as if I had to pack up much. All I had to do was start the engine and make my way over to the fairground. Then, I’d pack up the cards and crystals, I’d be ready.

  A knock rattled my door again. “Miss Bell!? Please, open the door, we just want to talk to you.”

  I stood frozen. What could I do? I had to wait for them to leave before I started the van. But staying still meant thinking about Jarryd and the ache spreading through my chest. No, I had to move, and I had to move now.

  After all, wouldn’t it be pretty hilarious? The looks on their faces as the “gypsy whore” RV rolled through town?

  It should’ve been. The old Aurora might even have laughed it off, but this one couldn’t get past the loss.

  Chapter 25

  Jarryd

  I paced back and forth in my hotel room, the TV silent now, because I couldn’t stand the sight of our romance splashed across the news for public consumption. They’d taken something special, wrapped it up in glitter and bullshit, and pushed it out to the public. They’d cheapened it.

  And now, Aurora wanted out.

  “I won’t let it happen,” I said and halted in front of the desk. On it lay a copy of Pride’s Death. I lifted the script and flipped through the pages, words scrawled across the pages, blank space, and nothing. Nothing, no emotion.

  I hadn’t put enough into this. Or the kernel, the seed that had started it, hadn’t been sufficient to create something that mattered.

  The irony of this all? I’d stayed in Moondance for Pride’s Death even though I’d wanted to get away from this town and my own heartbreak. Now, I had the chance to drop the movie—possibly ruin my reputation but drop it, still—and I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Aurora lived here.

  And she’d changed my god damn life.

  I tossed the script onto the table and balled up my fists. “I won’t let it happen,” I said and stormed to the door. I wrenched it open and let myself into the hall.

  No reporters out here, no flashes from cameras or desperate questions in voices raised to be heard above all the other queries thrown heedlessly. Just a warm carpeted hall and closed doors.

  But out there, oh, damn, that was a different story. Out there, the wolves waited.

  Well, those wolves were about to get a taste of what it was like to come head to head with a lion.

  I marched down the hall, iron bumping through my veins, now, steel stiffening my spine. I had to get to Aurora, and if anyone got in my damn way, they’d pay the price. If I ever got my hands on who’d taken those photos of us…

  I entered the lobby and, for once, ignored the receptionist. Outside, the photographers and fuckwits had gathered. One of them spotted me, pointed, and the cameras rose in unison. Photos flashed, people jostled to get a better view.

  I was a lion in a glass cage, now, but what would they do when I ran wild?

  “Let’s find out,” I grunted and walked to the door.

  The paps worked themselves into a veritable froth, a snapping frenzy. Guys and gals with microphones raised them, checked their hair, and beckoned to cameramen.

  I opened the door, and a burst of sound deafened me. Light flashes redoubled. I stood there, waiting for deluge of questions.

  A moment of silence, and then—

  “Mr. Tombs, is your girlfriend in there, too?”

  “What do you have to say about the allegation that you cheated on your fiancée with Aurora Bell?”

  “Do you plan on asking Aurora to marry you?”

  “Mr. Tombs, are you in love?” That one from a woman, high-pitched and squeaking the words out.

  I held up a palm, and finally, the questions simmered dow
n. A few more called out but were soon shushed by the others near the front of the pile.

  “I have never and will never cheat on a partner,” I said, loud and clear.

  They paid rapt attention, microphones aimed directly at me.

  “Any insinuation other than that is a bald-faced lie. I didn’t cheat on Felicity Swan, but yes, I am currently involved with someone else. I ask that you respect her privacy.” I paused, cleared my throat. “That’s all I have to say.”

  The questions exploded into the afternoon, immediately. “Mr. Tombs, if you didn’t cheat on Felicity Swan, why would she claim that you did?”

  “Are you going to confront Felicity over what’s happened?”

  “What are your plans for Pride’s Death? Will you still go ahead with the movie? Will Felicity be the star?”

  Question after question, lobbed at me like hot fucking potatoes. I didn’t answer any of them but pushed forward through the throng. They parted around me, I held out my elbows to thwack ones who got in too close, and I walked to the side of the road.

  Luke’s Porsche was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps my buddy had skipped out after the new reports. I didn’t blame him. This was a media shitstorm, and everyone needed breathing room.

  The reporters tailed me, snapping at my heels for morsels like starved dogs.

  “Are you going to see her, Jarryd?” one of them asked. “Does Felicity know what you’re doing?”

  I tamped down my anger. These fools wanted a reaction out of me, and I wouldn’t give it to them. I’d dealt with the press for years, and I understood how to handle them. Tearing shit up and going on attack mode with a reporter was the worst idea imaginable. They’d eat that up and regurgitate it for the views.

  “What’s she like in bed?” a man asked.

  I froze and looked over at the peon—a bald, skinny guy wearing stained jeans and a shirt that’d seen better days—there was a hole near the hem. His camera hung from a strap on his neck, and he grinned at me, grinned as if what he’d asked was the most reasonable thing in the world.

  “Eh, Tombs? What’s the gypsy like in bed?”