Not If I Date You First

Chapter 4

I focus all my frustration on the so-called 'Paparazzi Queen' standing in front of me.

"I was going to apologize," I snap when the girl finally notices me glowering at her. "But it looks like I should be congratulating you. Those shots will make one hell of a payday for you. That's all you bottom feeders care about, right?"

There's an intake of breath from the crowd like they're a well-trained audience at a play. The girl stares at me for a beat, and I watch as the stars in her eyes wink out. Any admiration she might have held for me has vanished.

She wipes a hand over her face, flicks the juice from her fingers, and glares at me like I'm the bad guy here.

"If you hate having your picture taken so much, maybe you shouldn't get into screaming contests with your girlfriend in the middle of the freaking sidewalk." Her tone is blistering, ratcheting up the temperature of my own indignation.

"Seriously? Are you even old enough to be a dirtbag stalkerazzi?" I sound like a condescending jerk, especially since she's got to be about the same age I am, but I don't care.

"Are you even old enough to be such a cliché? I mean, a celebrity who hates photographers? How original." She rolls her eyes. "And it's paparazzo."

"What?"

"Paparazzo is singular. Paparazzi is plural." She runs her fingers through her slimy ponytail, making the strands stand straight out.

"Are you really giving me a grammar lesson right now?"

"You know, you wouldn't even be famous without us." She says 'us' with so much pride it makes me want to smash something. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Listen to the baby photog." I give her a slow clap. "You actually think you're doing me some kind of favor, don't you, Ace?"

She straight-up sneers at me. "I'm surprised you were able to get your t-shirt on over that giant chip on your shoulder, Superstar. Also, people usually use the term 'ace' to refer to reporters. Not photographers."

I open my mouth to tell her where she can stick that camera of hers, but I'm cut off by a deep voice booming from behind me. "Liam! Liam, over here!"

Fuck. My. Life. I turn. A dozen paps are descending on us, lenses trained on me. "This way, Liam! Look this way!" "Liammmm!"

"Great. Your friends are here." I practically spit the words at her.

"Yeah, watch out for those cameras. They might do something awful like—I don't know—make sure you stay relevant."

"Go back to paparazzi preschool."

If what Faye said is true, I'm on the verge of losing my job because of the paps. Sure, they keep my face on magazine covers, but there wouldn't be any bullshit rumors about me if it weren't for them.

Everyone laps up the stories about me smashing cameras or punching photogs. They all want to see me snap, to witness my "perfect" life going up in flames. That's the kind of trash that sells magazines. No one ever bothers to ask what the paps did to push me to the breaking point—not that I could tell them anyway.

"I'm pretty sure I got the cover shots for every tabloid in the country." The girl pats her camera bag. "So, I think I'm good on the paparazzi preschool." The sarcasm is strong with this one.

She's right about one thing, though; those pictures will be everywhere. I give it an hour, two at the most, before the rags start snapping them up. The door to the coffee shop bangs open, and a girl with her hair piled in a knot on top of her head comes barreling out, shoving her way through the swarm of bystanders. She sees me watching her and stops running so suddenly, her shoes skid on the concrete. It would be comical if I weren't so pissed off.

She looks from me to the photog girl. "Okay, I don't know what is happening here, but Ada, you're gonna be late!"

The photog looks down at her watch and gasps. "No! No! No! No! No!" Without another glance in my direction, she takes off running, leaving a path of green splatters across the sidewalk as she disappears into the throng.

"Liam! Who was that girl?" one of the paps shouts.

I turn away, reaching to cover my face on instinct, but that doesn't stop them. The incessant flickers of light flashing behind me reflect in the juice shop window as the paps hurl questions at me. They call my name again and again until the word becomes meaningless. The syllables nothing but an echo of the pounding in my head.

"Anders, the car's here." Briggs's voice cuts through the clamor.

I school my expression into practiced indifference before turning and shoving my way through the crowd to the town car idling at the curb.

Cameras fire inches from my face, flashbulbs erupting, making spots dance in my vision.

"Yo! Let's get some space in here!" Briggs hollers, gesturing for them to back off.

A few fans have managed to worm their way to the front of the pack. They hold out pens for autographs or ask for selfies. I ignore them, keeping my eyes glued to the ground. Briggs holds the mob back as I swing the car door open and dive inside. He follows after me, slamming it shut and muffling the tumult of voices outside.

"Where to?" asks the driver.

"Just get me the hell away from here." I collapse back on the cool leather seat, rubbing my temples.

It's barely nine in the morning. If this is how my day is starting, I can only imagine the dumpster fire it's going to become when those pictures hit the internet.