No, Mr. Thunderclap doesn’t look like royalty after all.
He looks like a rogue playing at being king, languid as a lounging panther, smirky and all-knowing and just waiting for someone to figure out his ruse.
And when his eyes move, he’s looking right at me.
Of course he is.
One minute, he’s staring numbly at the wall, so far above the peons he’s practically in the stratosphere.
The next, those blue eyes flick toward me. The jagged gaze makes my heart shiver and shrink back with something that isn’t quite fear.
More like this annoying and reluctant sense of awe.
I hate that I catch my breath—and immediately slam my eyes shut.
Nope.
This isn’t happening today.
I’m old enough to know that staring contests with tall, dark, and handsome strangers never lead to anything good.
I don’t dare release the breath in my lungs, hoping he’ll look away now that he’s had his fun catching the rude weirdo mid-stare.
I wait, counting to ten as my chest implodes.
Yeah. I realize I look absolutely ridiculous, stretched out in this chair with my head propped against my arm, completely frozen for the next thirty seconds.
I can feel my face going red, needing oxygen.
...what am I even doing?
Why am I acting like a sleepy little girl who got caught up past her bedtime?
Pursing my lips, I push myself up, arching my back and opening my eyes, intent on ignoring whatever weird thing is happening across from me.
Only to stop cold, my arms lifted high in the air mid-stretch.
My heart does a barrel roll inside my chest.
The man across from me isn’t draped across the chair anymore like he owns the entire airport.
Now, he’s facing forward, legs spread, hands clasped with his elbows propped on his knees.
And he’s looking dead at me, totally ignoring the people around him to beam a cunning—mocking?—stare into my soul.
Jerkwad.
I swallow hard, ignoring my fluttery chest and prickly skin. I try lowering my arms, glancing away, and brushing my hair back like I hadn’t even noticed him.
Like I’m not giving this stuck-up suit the attention I’m sure he lives for.
...but why is he staring at me like that?
Now that I’m repositioned without an ear sandwiched against my hand, I can hear what his courtiers are saying a bit better.
“So did you hear?” a girl with glasses pipes up. “That divorce case is heating up and now there’s talk about custody of the kids—”
“Not interested. You can do better,” the human storm cloud murmurs.
“Okay,” another man tries nervously, a guy with a voice so shrill he just screams newly hired intern. “We’ve got Milah Holly’s latest nip slip. How about...”
He trails off.
Thunderclap rakes him with a dull look like he’s staring at a bowl of plain rice.
“The world is as bored of Milah Holly’s nipples as Milah Holly is,” he answers dryly—again looking at me.
Oh, God. Like I have anything to do with a conversation about anyone’s nipples.
“Considering her rather drastic reformation,” he continues, “I don’t doubt this was a genuine accident, and wardrobe malfunctions are rarely scandalous. Give me something interesting, Kyle. The whole lot of you have no instinct for a good story.”
I’m not looking.
I’m not.
But I listen with growing horror.
Rather than rebelling against his bossy indifference, they all scramble to please him, throwing out new ideas. Each suggestion seems more crass than the last.
An aging actor turned silver fox and a sex tape with a rising starlet half his age.
The guilty fast-food runs of one of the biggest food snob critics in Chicago.
The loss of a thousand-year-old castle to a fire caused by a royal bridezilla whose name the tabloids barely dare to whisper.
Holy crap.
It hits me.
These people...they’re freaking paparazzi.
They write for some gossip rag, the kind that take pleasure in prying at private lives and hacking them up into bite-sized morsels for hungry consumers.
I know.
I also know a lot of celebrities play into this insanity. It’s a dark trade off—privacy for notoriety, a skyrocketing career, parasocial relationships with fans who are addicted to these naked glimpses into their idols’ intimate moments.
The tabloids have made a lot of careers. Sometimes their “targets’” are in on the scandals.
But they’re not always consenting.
And when they end up shattering lives, it can be irreparable.
Maybe it’s a little too personal to me with Dad’s woes.
But I can’t help feeling this boiling irritation as I listen to these gremlins bartering off human experiences like human dignity is an afterthought.
Especially when I still feel that man’s wolfish eyes on me.
And especially when one of his sycophants straightens up and practically spits, “Oh, oh! What about Billie Hicks? Her career’s over, right? Her last album bombed. She should’ve quit while she was still young and pretty. They’re saying her voice is ruined from decades of smoking, and she’ll never have a chart topper again. She’s a waste of everybody’s time now.”
My eyes narrow as my blood goes molten.