Page 3 of The Hitman
“Fucking paparazzi,” she breathes.
My eyes widen in shock. Shae almost never curses. But then my eyes drift to the small cluster of photographers milling about in front of the hotel entrance, just far enough away not to bring hotel security out of their offices, but close enough to get a good shot of me looking devastated or of Trisha’s walk of shame. Whichever. My stomach clenches.
“You want to go around the back?” the driver asks.
I take a deep breath. I should say yes. I’ve become uncomfortably comfortable with sneaking around to meet up with Ryan. When we first started dating, we hadn’t wanted to tip off the celebrity media since his whole PR schtick at the time was the young Hollywood heartthrob, but also because I was terrified of getting on his fans’ radar. I’d seen how they’d run his last girlfriend off. Going “around back” is second nature by now, and I almost tell the driver to do just that, but I stop myself.
In the cold light of my ruined wedding day, I begin to ask myself questions I should have considered years ago. If Ryan was trying to be the single heartthrob, why did it seem like he was always going on publicity dates with his co-stars? Why didn’t his fans attack those actresses, but they did attack me? And why did he allow it? Why had I allowed it?
“No,” I say in a brittle voice. “You can let us out right here.”
I don’t know why I did so much to protect Ryan’s reputation in the past, but what’s the point now? He’s blown years of good PR work to smithereens in a single drunken night. What I do from here on out doesn’t matter at all, so I’m going in through the front door.
Shae’s hand covers my tightly balled fists. She squeezes gently. “Can you wait for us here?” she asks the driver. Great question.
“Sure thing,” he replies casually as if this kind of thing happens to him every day. Maybe it does.
The driver gets out of the car, and I watch as the paparazzi turn to him with interest. Their hands move to the cameras around their necks as they get ready, just in case the person in the back of the limousine is interesting. It doesn’t even need to be me; I know that from prior experience. They eye the driver as he walks briskly around the car to the back door.
He pulls the door open and offers Shae his hand. She steps quickly from the car, and they both have to help me maneuver myself and my big, heavy ass dress onto the sidewalk. By the time I’m standing on the curb, my pristine white dress is wrinkled and dragging along the dirty New York streets — and heavier than when I climbed into the car, I swear — and the sound of the camera shutters is deafening.
They start calling my name, excited at the sight of me in what is hands down one of my worst moments. I tuck my chin against my chest and ignore them. Shae laces her fingers with mine and pulls me toward the hotel entrance. The doorman and our driver hold the doors open for us and try to block the paparazzi’s view of me with their bodies, not that it matters now.
In the lobby, the sound of the paparazzi screaming my name thankfully fades away in the cavernous room. I normally love hotel architecture and décor — I’m not sure why — but I don’t even get to appreciate all the marble and carved wood. This room could be a dank cave, and I would still feel grateful that I can’t hear the commotion outside. I also appreciate that no one who accidentally makes eye contact with me pretends not to know what’s going on or why I’m here. And the next thing I’m grateful for is that Shae and I don’t even make it to the check-in desk before a concierge intercepts us and leads us to the elevator bank.
We step into yet another elevator car. I feel as if none of this is real, that is, until I make quick eye contact with the concierge as the elevator door slides closed.
She smiles sympathetically at me and winks. “Fuck him up, sis,” she whispers. I have no idea why, but those few words from that complete stranger buoy me.
Shae’s nervous laughter fills the elevator as we head up to the penthouse. “VIP treatment to get into my first fight. This is the weirdest fucking year.”
I don’t look at her or reply just in case it makes me cry, but I do smile to myself at her adorable enthusiasm. I can’t speak, but I feel very grateful that she’s here.
I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to hold myself together just long enough to make it to the penthouse and face whatever awaits me there.
3Zahra
When we reachthe top floor, I straighten my back, square my shoulders, and lie to myself that I’m a brand-new person right now. I’m not whoever I was when I woke up this morning. I’m not the kind of person who’s going to take this. I’m some new person — some person more like Zoe — and this new version of me is mad as fuck.
When the elevator doors open, I rush across the short hallway to the penthouse door. I bang my fist against the wood so hard it hurts, but I can’t stop, and I can’t knock less forcefully. Or I should say I don’t want to soften my blows. The pain is cathartic.
“What?” someone yells on the other side in a dry, scratchy voice.
I can’t immediately tell if it’s Ryan or Trisha or hell, maybe even someone else I don’t know about, but when the door opens, I come face-to-face with the woman who I thought was my best friend and the person who should have been in my bridal suite twenty minutes ago, holding me while my life fell apart, not helping the destruction along.
When she sees me, her eyes widen in shock. She starts shaking her head side-to-side as if that can erase what’s happening.
“It’s not what you think,” she mutters, because that’s what they all say, isn’t it? I stayed up on weekends to watchCheatersin high school like everyone else; I know the script.
My mind cobbles together as many of those episodes to concoct all the ways this moment could unfold. I could talk to her, listen calmly as she tells me what this is, since it’s apparentlynotwhat I and the gossip news sites think. I could push past her and find Ryan. Or I could punch her.
I’m a rational human being.
I punch her.
“Oh shit,” Shae yells in a shocked, excited gasp behind me.
I’m not proud of myself, but when my fist collides with Trisha’s face, I feel…well, not quite free, but light. She stumbles back and crumples to the ground, her hand covering her right eye. I look down at her and exhale a breath. Yes, light is the right word for how I feel. And then I lift my dress and step demurely over her, the sound of Shae’s cackling laughter following me into the room.