Distracted, Tessa looks over at a commotion happening within the crowd. Fans stand with their phones in the air above their heads, pointing toward whatever ongoings are happening.
“Hey, Tommy, can you go check that out, please?” she asks our new security guard who eagerly nods and heads in the direction of the upheaval. The crowd parts willingly by the behemoth of a man. Biceps and thighs armed with muscles more massive than most of the onlookers’ waists and a rugged tattoo wrapping around his bald head.
While he goes to handle the racket, I head onto the set and prepare myself against the opposite actor. We’ve practiced the scene enough times that it flows fluidly, each of our punches and kicks seeming so natural that even I’m almost convinced that it hasn’t been choreographed.
We go through two more takes before a bright light from the corner of my eye seizes my attention. It can’t be. There is no way that she is here. Like an unexpected vision, she draws my awareness and I take a kick in the stomach, but I feel no pain. All I see is her.
Larsen’s body is wrapped in a yellow dress, the color standing out amongst the crowd of grays and blues. It’s a shade darker than her pale yellow hair waving around her head like a veil. Every male in her vicinity takes notice and tongues drop from their mouths like an animated cartoon character. I’m confident that I have bright red hearts in my eyes and swirling around my head.
I float toward her, leaving the set without a backward glance. I’m drawn to this woman in the worst kind of way. A dependency that floats through my veins.
The crowd pushes and surges forward around her, and that’s when I notice the stiffness in her body. Her anxiousness. Her fear. She reaches up to gather her hair and drape it over her right shoulder to cover her facial scar, releasing her hold of her suitcase, which Tommy promptly takes in his grip as he takes hold of her other arm.
Finally, the puzzle pieces set into place. They’re forced, not making the intricate pattern as designed, but squished and molded to fit as desired. Larsen is the cause of the commotion as she tried to push through the crowd. Tommy is doing his job and holding her back from me and the set, obviously worried that she’s a crazed fan with something equally as crazy in her suitcase.
I’m unaware of my steps, but as I get closer to her, I feel as if I’m weighed down by concrete. I can’t get to her quick enough. I’m moving at a slug’s pace and as if I hold the powers of an empath, her fear becomes palpable, surrounding me like an infectious disease.
I arrive at where she stands, Tommy tightening his grip around her arm. Afraid that she’s a mirage, I tentatively reach out to touch her cheek and when I feel the warmth beneath my palm I nearly collapse in contentment. Larsen follows my lead and places her hand on top of mine, keeping my touch against her soft skin, the wetness building against her lower lashes shimmering in the sun.
“Are you really here?” I’m frightened that she’s going to disappear as quickly as she arrived.
“Yeah.” Her voice quivers at her response. She tries to take a step closer, but Tommy’s hold doesn’t waiver, and she looks down at his hand settled around her wrist. A sensation explodes through me – possession.
Dominance surges through me as I glance down at my guard’s hand still wrapped around her thin arm. “Tommy, I suggest you let go of her right now.” The man smartly unravels himself from her and takes a step back, giving us a semicircle of space.
I don’t notice the cell phones raised above the crowd taking in our reunion or the evil glare and confusion coming from across the set.
“Are we done?” I shout to the director, and just like Tommy, he quickly answers that it’s a wrap.
Gazing back down at Larsen, still not one-hundred percent sold that she’s not an angel sent from heaven, I run my thumb across the corner of her mouth. “Come with me.” It’s not a question, but a command and she knowingly nods her head. “Tommy, can you take her bag?” I leave the remainder of the order hanging in the air. He knows to deliver it to my room.
Sliding my palm down the column of her neck, down her arm, and landing on her hand, I intertwine our fingers and give her a gentle tug. “Follow me.”
I walk briskly from the set heading directly for the hotel a block down the road, we were lucky to be able to block off this portion of the Chicago downtown for filming, and I’m incredibly thankful at its proximity to where we’re sleeping.
The photographers are busy clicking away. I can hear the snaps of their greedy little fingers on the buttons of their digital cameras. But I don’t let them deter me. Once we escape the crowd, I make sure to pull Larsen close to me and tuck her against my body. I don’t want her exposed to the public without her consent. She didn’t ask for this. I only tolerate it because it’s part of my job. She remains silent during our trek, as do I. Neither of us wanting to spoil this moment with unnecessary words. The time for that will come.
The entrance to the hotel comes into view and my pace quickens, my arm nearly lifting Larsen’s feet off the ground in my haste to get us away from the prying eyes.
Glass doors whisk us inside. The bellman guarding the door nods in our direction as we pass, but I can barely muster a smile, my mind focused on the woman pressed against me.
The chandelier in the oversized lobby looms above us, glittering its crystallized light onto our bodies and the floor, sheltering us in its warming glow.
“Ah, so I see we took the bait,” a voice sounds from behind us and I immediately turn on the brakes to our motion. Turning my gaze toward the noise, I find Quinn standing a few feet away, a tender smile gracing her classic face that the world loves.
“Hi, I’m Quinn,” she says as she extends a hand toward Larsen whose eyes are wide in surprise, her mouth hanging open in awe. “I’m glad to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Larsen mumbles as she seizes Quinn’s hand, hers shaking in shock.
It only takes me a moment of watching Quinn’s knowing grin taking in Larsen face-to-face to realize that she’s the reason that this woman is here today.
Holding back my gasp, I ask, “You did this?”
“I may have sent a plane ticket anonymously when I noticed the look on my friend’s face in those pictures floating around the internet. Sorry I couldn’t arrange to pick you up myself at the airport, but we had a problem on set. I hope that the valet was sufficient.”
“Quinn,” I groan, and she replies by echoing my tone with my own name.
“Thank you,” Larsen whispers beside me, her gratitude weaving around us like fresh air. “With nursing classes starting soon, I wouldn’t have had a chance to get away.”