The premiere is beautiful. The studio pulled out all the stops for the event. Going along with the 1920s murder mystery theme, they picked out an old-style cinema in the middle of LA for the screening, and cordoned off a square in front of the building with heavy velvet ropes. Bright lamps are erected throughout the square, illuminating massive hanging posters, each depicting one of the characters clutching a weapon and spattered in blood. There are ushers dressed in traditional red uniforms handing out goodie bags full of merch. The sweet, buttery smells of popcorn and candyfloss drift through the evening air from the complimentary concessions stand, and crackly, old-timey music plays through hidden speakers.
It’s definitely one of the more tasteful premieres I’ve ever attended, but as I step away from the photography pit and start trailing down the press line, I feel like I’m in a haze. I answer journalists’ questions robotically, barely taking in my surroundings.
I’m hurt. Really hurt.
Last night was a big deal for me. I don’t ever open up to people. Ever. I hate talking about growing up in the industry. I hate talking about how much it broke me down. Last night, it felt like I was showing the men all the chinks in my armour. But I did it, because for a moment, I actually thought they cared. But of course, they don’t. If they cared, they’d be here, doing their damn jobs.
As I say goodbye to one reporter and turn to the next, hands suddenly grab me from behind. I bite back the urge to scream, spinning to see a young man in a dark hoodie, clutching a crumpled t-shirt. For a moment, my heart drops to my stomach. It’s him. He’s found me.
“Let me go,” I whisper, ice dripping down my throat. “Please.”
The man grips me even harder, raking his fingernails down my arm. “Briar, oh my God, I’m your biggest fan,” he chants, specks of spit flying through the air.
I force myself to take a deep breath, really looking at him. There’s no way this is X. I remember the security footage; this guy is smaller and heavier than the man on the tapes.
He keeps babbling. “Please please please sign my merch oh my God I can’t believe you’re finally here I can’t believe I’m touching you.”
“Neither can I,” I say flatly. “Let go of me.” I try to shake him off. When he doesn’t let go, I grab his fingers and yank them back, hard, until he howls in pain, dropping my arm. “Get back in line.”
His bottom lip trembles. “Please, Briar!”
I shake my head. “Wait in line like everyone else. You don’t get special treatment for assaulting me.” I twist, looking in disgust at the red lines his fingernails left down my arm. “And clip your fucking nails. What is wrong with you?”
“B-but—”
I glance back at my temporary bodyguard, Chris. He’s engrossed in his phone. “Excuse me,” I say flatly. “So sorry to interrupt. Can you please get rid of this guy?”
He blinks up from his phone, looks around owlishly, then waves the fan back, reaching for his gun.
“Jesus, don’t shoot him!” I snap. “Just get him off the damn carpet!”
God, he’s useless. Julie said that he’s from one of the best close protection services in LA, but as far as I can tell, he’s spent the whole night trying to beat his high score on Candy Crush.
It makes me nervous, not having the men around me. I miss Kenta’s calm eyes watching over me, Glen’s silhouette shadowing me a few steps behind. Hell, I even miss Matt’s hand on the small of my back as he leads me through the reporters.
Matt mentioned that they thought X might be here tonight. Since he refused to tell me any reasons why he thought that, I’m assuming he was just trying to scare me. If it is true, though, I might be screwed. Chris here wouldn’t notice if someone leapt out of the crowd and held a gun to my head.
Shaking off the dread stroking down my spine, I screw my smile back on and turn to the next interviewer. The guy is gross-looking; greasy hair covered by a backwards baseball cap, and jeans hanging so low over his hips that I can see his underwear.
We exchange pleasantries, and he asks me the same, overused questions that everybody else asked. What’s it like working with a female director? You look great in all the promo shots, what was your diet plan? Did you have a personal trainer? Was your co-star a good kisser?
Same old, same old.
The reporter shuffles his question cards and leans in. I can smell his onion breath. “You had an almost all-female cast—how did that work? Was there any cattiness in the group?”
I notice the cameraman focussing on my cleavage and fight the urge to slap him with my clutch. “Oh, you know, only when all of our periods synced up.”
He gives me a bright smile, not sensing the sarcasm in my tone. “Yeah, wow. I imagine that was a bit of a bitchfest.”
“A bloodbath,” I agree. “Hey, do you have any not-sexist questions? Those are my favourite kind—”
A hand closes around my arm, and I jump, spinning to see Matt looming over me. He’s dressed sloppily, his suit wrinkled and his tie crooked, but he still outshines pretty much every man on the carpet. For a split second, happiness sparks in my belly. He changed his mind. He came.
Then I register the anger hardening his sharp features. “You’re leaving,” he rumbles. “Now.”
“Matt?” I squawk. “What are you doing here?”
He ignores me, pulling me away from the journalist and across the carpet to the exit. I try to shake him off me, but his grip is like iron. “Get off me! Don’t pull me around!”
I see my co-stars look away from their interviews, concern crossing their faces. Liam, the movie’s villain, actually steps away from his journalist and reaches for me.
“Briar? Are you alright?”
“Out of my way,” Matt barks.
Liam frowns, putting his hands up. “Look, man, it doesn’t look like she wants to go with you—”
Matt just tightens his fingers on my arm and drags me away.
“Ow!” I dig my heels in. “Stop! You’ll leave marks on me! And then I’ll be in a domestic abuse scandal! For God’s sake, what is wrong with you? Let me go.”
“You promised,” he mutters, his eyes fixed straight ahead as we plough through the crowd. He’s seething; anger is rolling off his body like physical heat. “You promised you would trust me.”
“I promised I would try,” I hiss back. “How the Hell am I meant to trust you when you constantly belittle my work? You don’t treat me like an equal, you keep me in the dark about my own safety—” I trip over my heels, and he grabs me, gently righting me. I shove him off. “You’ve done nothing to earn my trust. All you’re doing is shit-talking my job and ordering me around! I’m sick of it! You might think my contract isn’t important, but I’m going to do my useless, meaningless job whether you approve or not, so you might as well—”
He turns a corner and presses me up against the brick wall of the cinema.
“He’s made bombs, Briar!” He snaps out. “He’s here, and he’s made bombs. This has nothing to do with your job, and if you say one more word about it—”
He keeps talking, but my ears are full of static. Everything in me freezes. For a second, I can’t breathe. “What?” I whisper, interrupting his tirade.
His blue eyes burn into mine. “He’s threatened to blow up the whole event if he can’t get his hands on you. We have to get you out of here, now.”
I stagger a step back, almost tripping in my heels. Horror is flooding through me. “D-did you know?”
“The FBI found traces of explosives in his motel room this morning,” he says stiffly.
“This morning?!”
He reaches for me again, but I push away from him. My head is spinning.
“Why? Why wouldn’t you tell me?” I look around the red carpet. Fans scream and press up against the barriers, waving phones and posters to sign. There must be three hundred people invited to watch the screening tonight. Nausea rises up in my throat as I see a handful of tween girls huddled together. “There are… children here,” I gasp. Matt says something, but I can’t hear it. Panic is sweeping through me in a strong, sickly wave. “Get me out,” I whisper. When he doesn’t move, I throw myself at him, shoving my body into his chest. “Get me the Hell out. Now!”
Matt puts his arm around my shoulder and keeps leading me along the edges of the carpet towards one of the exits. We pass the wide-eyed studio director, who hurries to follow us. “Briar, sweetheart, you’re not leaving, are you? The screening is in fifteen minutes, we need you ready to make your speech!”
We both ignore him, swanning right past.
“I hate you,” I whisper. “How dare you do this to me? How dare you put me in a position where I could get all these people hurt without even realising it?!”
“You can fire us when we’re out of here,” he grinds out, looking around. His radio crackles, and I hear a woman’s voice rattle off a string of numbers that I don’t understand. Some kind of code.
“Oh, trust me, I will. What the Hell is wrong with you?” I shake my head. “When we get home, I never want to see you again.”
His hand tightens on my wrist. “Fine.”
I don’t even realise I’m crying until tears start rolling down my cheeks. We reach the edge of the carpet, and Matt tugs me to a stop, pulling me behind a hanging sign. “Here.” He grabs his radio. “I have Princess. Bring the car to exit point two,” he barks. “Now.”
I yank my wrist out of his grip, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why the Hell wouldn’t you tell me?” I demand.
He takes a deep breath. “Because you have a shitty track record. You care more about your pride than your own safety.” He glares at his radio, like it will make the car get here faster.
Tears catch in my throat. “Fuck you! I stand up for myself, but I would never, ever put someone in danger just to protect my pride. Why the Hell would you—”
Something snaps. He whirls on me. “Because I’d die for you!” He bellows.
My whole body jerks. “Excuse me?”
“I’d die for you,” he repeats, his chest heaving. The streetlights light him up from behind, drenching him in bright highlights and sharp shadows. “I’d do anything to keep you safe. Anything. I’m sorry if you don’t like the way I did it, but every decision I make, I make to keep you safe! Because the idea of losing you fucking terrifies me!”
“That doesn’t give you an excuse to lie to me!” I shout back. “This is inexcusable, Matt! You can’t hide this shit from someone! You can’t let someone accidentally endanger hundreds of people, just because you don’t trust them with the truth!”
He opens his mouth to respond—then his eyes travel over my shoulder, widening. He wraps his arms around my waist, yanking me into him.
I try to struggle away. “No, no, I don’t forgive you, don’t touch me—”
And then all of the air leaves my lungs as he throws me to the ground and slams his body on top of mine, right as an explosion rips through the square.
