Faith's Lens (BWWM)

Chapter 3

Jhonny ^^^^

I pushed my way through the manic crowd , shoving and squeezing the best I could to Creed's office.

People in power suits with strict ties wore their businesses faces as they no doubt made deals and negotiations. Women stood farther back into the large room off to the side chatting and bragging about their boyfriend's wealth and comparing assests, of both kinds.

I looked for Creed but he was nowhere to be seen. Pulling out the key card I placed my equipment in the corner of the room, near his desk.

The sound of the door unlocking made me jump and I turned only to hit my head on the edge of it.

"Shit!"

"I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. I was looking for Dominic Creed." A tall slender man with graying hair gelled back walked into the room. His voice dull.

"He's not here. He should be around here somewhere though," I stood up rubbing the spot I hit and felt a cut on my eyebrow.

His lips pursed and he spun on his heels out the door without another word.

"Fuck!" The cut was bleeding. I turned around and looked into the mirror Creed had beside his file cabinet. The cut went straight through the edge of my eyebrow. I knew it was gonna scar over.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆FL☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

"Mr. Hope! Mr. Hope over here! I have a few questions." A thin young woman with a neatly pressed pant suit shouted over the exuberant crowd.

Creed told me to wait near the back entrance until questioning was over. Afterwards I was supposed to take some pictures of him and the kids before heading back upstairs for a quick dinner and then a bubble bath.

I had been standing here for nearly half an hour listening to reporter after reporter questioning Hope on his victory for the night. They asked the usual questions--you know, the ones that were worded carefully to ask the right questions so that if he answered the wrong way his career and reputation could be ruined.

But he never faltered. A few glances and nudges here and there with the man from earlier, who I assume to be his manager or PR, and he answered all of his questions confidently with ease.
His voice shocked me. I didn't expect the accent that his voice held. I couldn't place where exactly it was from but it was definitely somewhere European, perhaps Russian. His gruff responses held just the right amount interest and confidence that he the reporters weren't put-off. But I could see through that act of his any day. I could spot it miles off.

"Last one. Mr. Hope promised a meet and greet with some very anxious little ones." He gave a laugh worthy of an Oscar.

He pointed to a woman who had shoved her way through the throngs of journalists and anxious reporters. Her pressed pantsuit was immaculate and fitted to her dancer-type body. Her blonde hair was in a tight and low ponytail, pulled down to the nape of her neck. It fell pin straight down her back and her eyes were a piercing gray. 

"Hello, Mr. Hope. Janice Prism from Nevada News Channel 8. You said in an interview before that your motivation to keep boxing is your fans, correct?"

Hope nodded.

Her smile turned shark-like. "Then can you please explain why, if your fans mean so much to you,  you refuse to let your fans into your life? You outright refuse to acknowledge any questions about your past, which, shall i remind everyone, is skeptical at best? Yet, your fans, your loyal and trusting fans, motivate you to keep going on and continuing pushing harder. But you can't return the same generosity...?"