All the Feels, page 9
No stab wounds. No gunshots. Just a lot of—
“Lauren!” Alex was on his knees beside her, his hand unsteady but firm on her cheek as he tried to get her attention. “Lauren, answer me. Where are you hurt?”
“Bruises,” she managed to say. “Just bruises. You’re okay?”
“Pristine,” he said with awful, bitter sarcasm.
Deep breaths, one after the other. No one was bleeding or broken. Not him. Not her.
The excited conversation all around them was a disorienting tide of noise. It rushed through her head, dizzying her.
Flashes of light, so many of them. People were taking photos. Of her. Of Alex.
“If you’re not injured, it’s through no fault of your own.” Whipping off his jacket, he used it to wipe the saliva from her arm, his cheekbones ruddy with high color. “I want you looked at, and I don’t want a single fucking argument from you. He took you down like a bowling pin, and he kept swinging his fucking—”
With a violent jerk of his head, he looked around and yelled, “Where’s Desiree? I want a medic here right now!”
“I don’t need—” she began.
The sound he made in response to that . . .
Undiluted rage. Directed at her. It shocked her into silence.
He leaned his head close and hissed in her ear, and the heat radiating off him scalded her. “You just got between me and a fucking attacker, Lauren, so if I say you’re going to see a fucking medic, you are going to see a fucking medic. Do you understand me?”
His chest rose and fell in rapid pants, and when he pulled away, his eyes were narrowed, hot slits on hers, and she nodded numbly.
“Good.” The word was a snarl.
Alex brushed Lauren’s tumbled hair back from her forehead in a surprisingly gentle stroke, then spat out a vicious, abrupt fuck and got up on his knees.
“Where the hell is Desiree?” he bellowed, and then the publicist was running toward them both, wide-eyed and frantic. “Lauren needs medical attention. I’ll help you take her—”
“No,” Lauren said.
He swung on her, jaw jutting and bunched, and again. That sound.
“I’ll see a medic.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, desperate for him to hear her. “But I’m really fine. You need to stay here and give your interviews.”
He dismissed that with a violent shake of his head. “I don’t give a fuck about interviews.”
“Charity.” She kept her voice calm and low, her hand tight around his. “This is for charity, Alex. Women and children who need help. You’re the host. The big star.”
He dropped his chin to his chest, his upper body still heaving with every breath.
“I’ll personally take care of her,” Desiree assured him. “One of my assistants can guide you to the right media outlets along the carpet and at the step and repeat. And as soon as she’s been checked out, Lauren can rejoin you inside the ballroom.”
A minute passed, and they waited for him to calm. To decide what to do.
At long last, Alex raised his head and met her gaze. “Lauren? Do you want me with you?”
Yes. Shockingly . . .
Yes.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine on my own. You go ahead. Desiree will take good care of me.”
With a chiding tsk tsk, he bent close to her ear again.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he breathed, then moved far enough away to help ease her to her feet. His hands on her were firm but gentle, supportive as she locked her shaky knees beneath her and found her balance.
She thanked him with one more squeeze of his hand before letting go. “Don’t say anything we’ll all regret.”
He grunted in response. Then, after a final, stern look at Desiree, its message clear—do what you said you’d do, or else—he followed a hovering young man with a headset to the next interviewer.
Desiree guided Lauren down the peon side of the carpet and into the hotel, and Alex disappeared from sight. Her bruises began to throb in time with each heartbeat, each step away from him.
“Do you happen to have any ibuprofen?” she asked the event publicist.
“If I don’t, I’ll find some.” Desiree’s lips quirked. “Otherwise, Mr. Woodroe is likely to feed me to the lions as tonight’s grand finale.”
Dazed and hurting, Lauren didn’t respond to the other woman’s wry remark.
But she thought about it as the medic examined her. She thought about all of it.
Desiree’s words. Alex’s volcanic fury at Lauren and for Lauren. Her own response to such fierce protectiveness.
In that moment, in his enraged concern, he’d put her first. Even above his own charity, his own professional obligations.
It felt . . . odd. Disorienting.
No one ever put her first.
Not even her.
Not until now.
9
BY THE TIME LAUREN MADE IT TO THE BALLROOM, HAIR combed, dress straightened, ibuprofen swallowed, the event was well underway, and Alex was nowhere in sight.
Desiree paused and listened to someone speaking through her earpiece, murmuring something in response. Then she turned to Lauren. “I need to go, I’m afraid. Are you okay on your own?”
Lauren nodded. “Thank you for all your help.”
“No, thank you for making sure our guest of honor remained unscathed.” The publicist’s smile looked genuine. “Your table is at the front of the room, right in the center. A woman with a clipboard would normally check your name against the list for the VIP section, but I’m sure she knows who you are by now. You’re kind of a big deal.”
Lauren winced.
Her fame might be fleeting, but it was also unwelcome. She didn’t want scrutiny. For her own sake, but also to protect Alex’s privacy. No one outside the show needed to know she was serving as his minder.
“According to my assistant, the intruder is now at the police station, and officers there have your information if they need to get your statement. In the meantime, you shouldn’t have any more trouble, and if you do, just ask to speak to me.” Desiree shook Lauren’s hand. “Take care, Ms. Clegg, and I hope the rest of your evening is significantly less eventful.”
When the other woman strode away, Lauren followed at a more leisurely pace, allowing herself a moment to study her surroundings. The expansive ballroom was entirely filled with auction attendees, most of them already seated at the round tables dotting the space. Others still clustered near the silent auction pieces displayed at the back of the room, lined up for the open bar, or stood chatting in small, sparkly clumps of humanity. A small army of discreet servers wound between tables, offering hors d’oeuvres to the assembled crowd of people who were—in general—much wealthier and more beautiful than she was.
For a moment, her feet slowed almost to a stop, as her disorientation dizzied her.
Then the chandeliers overhead dimmed, and the chatter began to hush as stragglers returned to their tables and everyone in attendance turned their attention to the stage. Without further delay, Lauren hustled to her assigned spot, locating it without trouble. As promised, the clipboard-wielding woman near the front tables waved her along without a word, and Lauren sank at last into her cushioned seat with a sigh of relief. She’d made it in time, if only by seconds.
The other seats at her table were filled with familiar, famous faces. Carah Brown. Maria Ivarsson. Peter Reedton. A couple of other people she vaguely remembered from movie screens at her favorite local theater.
She didn’t pay them a bit of attention beyond a single glance, because she’d finally spotted Alex. He was walking beside Desiree and ascending the steps to the stage. Just a few words from him, and the publicist began laughing as she took her position at the edge of the platform. Because he was a natural-born charmer, that man. The Pied Piper of too-serious women.
He stood behind a lectern on the brilliantly lit dais, the microphone positioned perfectly for his height, his midnight suit sleek, his face and body beautiful enough to make her teeth ache.
He was brighter than any spotlight.
The wattage of his star power left afterimages behind her eyelids, and that was before he even opened his mouth.
“Good evening,” he said, voice rich and confident and amused. “I suspect you know who I am already, but if you don’t, please let me introduce myself. I’m Alexander Woodroe, and I play Cupid on Gods of the Gates. If you haven’t seen the show, you likely think I fly around in a diaper for a living, but no. I save that for the weekends.”
The guests chuckled, attention rapt on him.
He cleared his throat, and that wicked smile faded. Gripping the edges of the lectern, he looked out over the audience. “I got involved with tonight’s charity five years ago, and there’s a reason I’ve put nearly all my efforts and donations into this one organization. They do good work. Real work. I’ve toured the shelters and offices, I’ve met their employees and clients, and before I ever joined their cause, my friend Marcus forced me to do my research.”
She frowned. Where was Marcus?
“With his help, I made certain the organization ran as efficiently as possible, so any money donated could go as far as possible,” he told the sea of tables before him. “I also made sure they reached out to LGBTQIA+ women—especially trans women—and women of color, because we all know our most vulnerable communities often find themselves excluded from the support they desperately need and deserve.”
At that point, she began to calculate how much of a donation she could realistically afford, because Alex was a damn effective spokesperson for the charity.
He continued, “The workers are kind, and they treat their clients—abused women and children, people with urgent needs on so many levels—with respect. They—” From this close to the stage, she could see his throat bob as he swallowed. “They listen. They pay attention to what those women and children say, so they know how best to help. How to reach more people in need, and how to support those people in rebuilding lives free from violence.”
His knuckles were white with strain as he held on to the lectern.
“In our world, not—not everyone listens.” His voice—it cracked a bit. Wavered. “Not everyone pays enough attention.”
He looked down at the floor of the stage for a moment, silent, and Lauren couldn’t hear a single whisper of sound from the audience either. As a group, they seemed to be holding their breath as they watched him struggle with . . . something.
This was personal. She recognized guilt and grief when she saw it.
She wanted to rush up onstage and comfort him. Protect him, as yet another threat—this one invisible—tried to take him out at the knees tonight. But she was his minder, not his actual date. They’d known each other approximately eight days, and she had no right to demand his story, no right to offer herself as a bulwark against his pain.
He was a distant star in a midnight sky, and she could do nothing.
When he raised his head again, he flashed that sharp-edged, sardonic smile. “I mean, we’re Hollywood types, right? We’re self-absorbed. At least, I certainly am. I miss things. Even crucial things. Like, say, when I should stop drinking and leave a bar.”
He leaned in close to the microphone, speaking in a faux whisper. “Hint: It’s before the fight breaks out.”
A few gasps, and more laughter.
She rubbed her temples. Had Ron approved a reference to Alex’s arrest? If not, if that was an ad-lib, she and Alex were sure to hear about it in the near future.
“In just a minute, Mariela Medellín, our local director, will tell you more about what the organization does, whom it helps, and how it works, because that’s important information.” He inclined his head toward the dark-haired woman standing to the side and slightly behind him on the stage. “But I’m here tonight as a representative of self-absorbed Hollywood. I’m here to tell you what’s in it for you if you donate and donate big.”
Was Alex self-absorbed?
When they’d first met, she’d have said yes. Without hesitation.
Now, she wasn’t so sure.
“I’ve played heroes on television and movie screens. Demigods. Firefighters. Doctors. Spurned lovers of French mimes.” More laughter. “But I’ve never felt more like a hero than the day I associated myself with this organization and handed them my first check. The day I realized more money meant more resources for those suffering abuse. My money—your money—ensures local survivors know their options, know how to get help, know they can leave, know how to build a new life, and know they can do so safely and with ample support.”
He raised his brows and leaned forward again, and most people she saw at surrounding tables leaned forward too.
“So here’s what’s in it for you.” He flicked a finger, indicating everyone in the room. “With the money you donate tonight, you can feel like a hero too. Even better, you can be a hero to someone who desperately needs one.”
His next words were slow, paced so every single one of them sank in. “And I may be a self-absorbed Hollywood brat, but even I understand the most important part: With the money you donate tonight, you can help an abused woman be her own hero.”
He let them sit with that for a few seconds before speaking again.
“Thank you for coming tonight, and remember: I know how much you made on your most recent films, and I know what you spent on those sharp-looking suits and shiny dresses, so I expect some damn big bids tonight. Lookin’ at you, Carah Brown. You owe me for that ‘delightful asshole’ jab.” As Carah laughed and the crowd tittered, he turned on his heel to face the charity’s director. “Now please welcome Mariela Medellín.”
When the audience applauded, Lauren sat back in her chair and stared at him.
She’d thought she’d figured him out. Maybe not all the details, but at least the basic contours of who he was and what she could expect from him.
She hadn’t. She didn’t know him at all, and he certainly didn’t know her.
But that could change, if she wanted.
And she did want. Entirely too much.
10
AFTER THE LIVE AUCTION ENDED, ALEX HAD TO WADE HIS way through crowds of attendees who wanted to chat, praise his speech, brag about the size of their donations, and/or take selfies. In the end, over an hour passed before he could make his way back to his table.
He’d missed the dinner, but he didn’t give a shit about that. His thudding skull and thundering heart took precedence over his empty stomach.
Alex greeted his friends with curt apologies and a promise to chat later in the evening. Then he immediately turned to Lauren, seated in her upholstered chair and picking at the remains of her cherry cheesecake as she listened to Carah swear loudly about something.
He should wait until they got home.
This wasn’t the sort of conversation to have in public, but he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Not after hours spent biting back the words that needed to be said in favor of smiling and making idiotic small talk and persuading people to empty their wallets.
Once Desiree had assured him that Lauren really was fine, his fury toward his minder had ballooned, and it hadn’t shrunk since. Instead, it had only expanded as he’d watched her walk into the ballroom and study her surroundings with that sharp gaze; as he’d watched her quietly take her seat, black lace teasing the pale skin of her collarbones; and especially as he’d watched her watch him during his speech, her attention rapt and . . . proud, almost.
It had caught at his throat, that look. It had made speaking difficult.
At one of his stupid jokes, a rare laugh had turned her beautiful eyes bright, and—
All of that, all of who she was, could have been gone, all because she didn’t give a damn about herself.
It was intolerable.
Bending at the waist, he spoke into her ear, quietly enough that no one else could hear. “How badly are you injured?”
“I’m fine.” She flicked a hand in dismissal, her voice as low as his. “Just a little bruised.”
Lauren would say that if someone had lopped off one of her limbs, but since Desiree had told him the same, he chose to believe both of them. “Good.”
Without further ado, he gently clasped her arm and raised her to her feet, and guided her out of the ballroom and down a random hall, then another and another, until they were lost somewhere in the depths of the hotel.
Her forehead creased as she looked up at him, but she didn’t resist, and she didn’t ask where they were going. She trusted him, evidently. Somehow that only stoked his rage further.
In a deserted, dimly lit alcove, long after they’d last seen another human being, he released her arm and his faltering grasp on his temper.
“Never do that again.” When he rounded on her, her eyes widened, but she didn’t shy away. “If some motherfucker comes rushing at me, you get out of the fucking way.”
Her brow furrowed.
How the fuck was she confused? Hadn’t he made himself perfectly fucking clear?
She gave her head a little shake. “But it was your event. You were the host, and all those cameras and journalists were—”
“I don’t fucking care where we were or what we were doing, Lauren.” He flung his hands wide, so frustrated his skull was throbbing in time with each furious heartbeat. “You didn’t know if that asshole had a gun or a fucking knife or—”
“But he didn’t,” she said soothingly. “I’m fine.”
He was definitively not soothed.
“You didn’t know that when you shoved me aside and used yourself as a fucking shield, and let me be clear, Lauren. I would rather die than watch you get killed on my behalf, so if you care about what I want at all, you’ll keep yourself safe and run if this ever happens again.” He gripped his hair with both hands, pulling hard enough that his scalp stung. “Jesus Christ, woman. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I . . .” She was still staring at him, apparently dumbfounded by the novel notion that she should care about her own safety. As always, she was the worst. “I didn’t think, really. I just reacted.”
