by Tina Reber
Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes were gathered, all jockeying for the best view and spot to get autographs. The closer I got to the door, the less friendly they became, behaving like starving animals protecting their hunting grounds.
I looked over my shoulder to see that the two creepy men were just a few feet away and narrowing.
Where the hell could I go? They didn’t appear to be paparazzi, so what the hell did they want? Would they dare try to accost me while here in this thick crowd? Perhaps hold me for ransom, knowing that someone as rich as Ryan could well afford to pay? One stick of a needle filled with a knockout drug and I could find myself being carried out of here only to wake up duct-taped in the trunk of a car. Screaming wouldn’t solve anything in this loud crowd and the police would probably arrest me if I tried to rush past any of these wooden barricades.
I squeezed in between several girls, receiving hostile glances in the process. The creepy man with the bad comb-over hairstyle stared at me like a hungry tiger ready to pounce. His squat face was pockmarked and unshaven and was probably on the first page of France’s Most Wanted List. His tall friend with the newsboy cap was eyeing the police, nervously glancing back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. I needed to put as much distance between us as possible.
Terror clenched my stomach as I saw him raise the black item in his hand. Panicked, I froze. I couldn’t look away. And then he aimed and started to take my picture. I shoved my sunglasses over my eyes and ducked, trying to get closer to the hotel entrance, hiding my face while contorting my body through the narrowest of human passages. Come hell or high water, I was getting back inside that door.
I called Ryan’s cell, only to land in his voice mailbox. Finally someone answered my frustratingly slow international call. “Mike! Oh thank God! I’m out front of the hotel, but they won’t let me back in.”
No sooner did I get the words out when someone touched my shoulder. “Aren’t you Taryn Mitchell?”
some young woman asked in a thick French accent. I could see her getting very excited about the prospect. I didn’t know what to do.
“You are, aren’t you? Do you think I could get a photo with you?” she asked with much enthusiasm.
Several other women near her all turned their attention on me and I felt like the mouse that had just been spotted by the starving cats. “Mike! Please come get me. I’m getting—”
“May I have your autograph, s’il vous plaît?” Pens, paper, and cameras seemed to appear from out of nowhere.
I tried to back up to get some space between me and the rising commotion, but I accidentally stepped on someone’s foot. I turned to apologize, but the girl was less than forgiving, making her angry point by spouting off and giving me a hard shove.
I muttered a curse and without thinking, I pushed her back, defending myself. I was tired of taking random shit from his fans. After almost a year of enduring snide comments, insults, and threats combined with all the other random bullshit from everyone else who felt I didn’t belong with Ryan, something in me snapped.
That’s when her friends got involved and the shoving match started. Three against one. The girl in the black jacket palmed my face, scraping my sunglasses off. I didn’t know what was more important—defending myself or retrieving the glasses, which were a gift from Ryan.
Someone grabbed my hair and yanked me off balance. One more hard push and gravity and inertia took over. I lost my grip on my small shopping bag.
Blunt-force pain cracked into my side as I clipped the edge of a wooden barricade, knocking a good bit of air out of my lungs. I tried to slow my fall, clawing desperately at the waist of the large male form in front of me. I felt skin tear when my arm scraped over the holster holding his gun.
Next thing I knew I was flat on my stomach with wood tangled around my legs, surrounded by men yelling in words I didn’t understand.
Someone grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me forward.
I tried to haul myself up on my arms, only to have them fold underneath me as I was pressed flush with the street. A sharp, crushing pain that felt like two hundred pounds of mayhem made my spine crack. Someone’s knee was holding me down. Cinders scraped my cheek like jagged shards of glass when I tried to stop this horrible misunderstanding.
Panic swelled inside me and I screamed for them to stop and listen to me. Instead, a hand knotted into my hair and slammed my face back to the pavement, stunning me into silence.
The coppery taste of blood flooded into my mouth as I was dragged from the ground and placed in the backseat of a car.
Never in a million years would I have guessed that by 11 A.M. I’d be in handcuffs.
Chapter 7
Bruised
I could tell that my bottom lip had been split open. It stung like hell when I drifted my tongue over it, even though a rough scab had already formed to close the wound. The rancid coppery taste that lingered in the back of my mouth was enough to turn my stomach.
The front of my shirt was speckled with brown spots of dried blood.
My entire left cheek ached and I wished I could wipe my face.
The last time I’d felt nearly this battered was when I was sideswiped by an SUV, but my mortification level this time was off the charts. How lucky for me to feel this bad twice in one lifetime. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t fracture the same wrist for the third time.
I stared in a daze at the stacks of paper and files piled on the inspector’s desk, and tried to stifle the spins and the full body tremors, desperately wishing I could rewind the last few hours of my life. This wasn’t just an “oopsy,” this was a monumental fuckup.
I knew I needed to be calm. An attempted explanation that I was shoved unwillingly, instead of their assumption that I actually meant to incite a riot and attack and assault the officer, was also better delivered if I wasn’t babbling through tears. Needless to say, being detained by the police in a foreign country was beyond terrifying.
The scant contents of my small purse were strewn about on the inspector’s desk. He scrutinized my lip gloss as if it were a chemical weapon. It’s cherry-flavored, asshole.
“I don’t remember the name of my hotel,” I repeated with renewed frustration. “Our travel arrangements were made by Ryan Christensen’s agent. We were driven by a chauffeur to the hotel from the airport. I’m telling you I don’t know.” My last words cracked from my throat as the handcuffs pinched my wrists. “Please, just let me make one phone call so we can clear up my identity.”
My request was ignored.
Tired of looking at his smug face, I glanced up the wall at the large, round clock, snuffling back my tear-induced runny nose. Ryan’s interviews should be over by now. Surely his team ushered him on to the next item on his agenda—the open photo call. I could only imagine how angry he’d be with me once he discovered where I was.
My thoughts were swirling. Would this incident be a deal-breaker for Ryan? Too embarrassed by my getting arrested to want to continue a relationship with me? Heck, if standing on a table to propose to me was enough to incite panic in Marla, what the hell would me getting arrested in Paris do to him?
Once they throw me in a cell, would Ryan be forced to leave for Barcelona tomorrow without me?
What choice would he have? I knew nothing about France’s laws or how long I’d be sent to prison. If the lengthy forms the inspector was filling out were any indication, surely that’s where I was headed next.
The inspector continued to toss his false accusations to the point of madness.
“I was not reaching for the officer’s gun nor was I attacking him,” I strained with urgency. “Why won’t you believe me?”
My brain kept repeating, five to ten for assaulting an officer. God, I should have listened to Ryan. I should have stayed in the fucking hotel when he said no to my request. Waves of remorse were coursing in like the tide, pressing hard on my chest with each surge.
“You have no passport, no identifica
tion. You claim your information is at a hotel which you cannot name,” the inspector continued to drone.
Damn, he was irritating. This was the first time I was ever out of the country. I didn’t even think to grab my passport this morning when I changed purses. I almost left with nothing on me, deciding a credit card and lip gloss were my only necessities. I wanted to slap that accent right out of his mouth. I glanced at the antiquated computer sitting on his desk. “My name and signature are on my credit card. And if you don’t believe me, just search my name on the Internet. That ought to give you enough photographic proof.” My glare was definitely a challenge, hoping that a few hundred pictures of me and Ryan would be enough.
The slight smirk on his face indicated he really didn’t care. His callous attitude morphed my sadness into anger.
“Remind me to never come back to Paris if this is the way you treat foreign visitors. Do I have the right to call an attorney, or is that against your laws, too?”
The bastard ignored me and kept writing.
“The paparazzi took plenty of pictures of your officer’s knee in my back. That ought to do wonders for your tourist business once that hits the media.”
Inspector Clueless tore his eyes away from his paperwork long enough to glare at me and snip something under his breath in French. I could tell by the slur in his tone that whatever he said, it wasn’t meant to be pleasant.
My pinched shoulders were starting to ache worse than where I nailed my knee on the macadam.
“What happened to the women who assaulted me and stole my shopping bags? Why aren’t they in handcuffs?”
He was still glaring when his telephone rang. I made out the word interrogé in his reply.
“Well, it appears that someone has arrived to collect you,” Inspector Jerk-off said.
My heart lodged in my throat, seeing that first glimpse of Ryan being led through the office doors by several men in dark suits, followed by Mike, Trish, David, and Aaron. I had heard his raised voice arguing and insisting to see me and I knew he was going to take one look at me and be livid. My head dipped in shame.
“Taryn? Are you all right?”
Ryan dropped down on his knee next to my chair. His eyes were wide as he took my chin in his fingers, trying to be gentle in his angered state. “Sweetheart, what the hell happened to you?”
Only sputters came out first. “I tried to tell them who I was, but they said I was resisting arrest. My passport . . . I forgot it in our suite.”
I managed to tell Ryan how I was followed, surrounded by fans, shoved over a barricade by angry women, and then dog-piled and slammed by the police.
Shock, concern, and a whole lot of fury crossed Ryan’s face as he assessed my injuries.
The inspector attempted to give his version of the circumstances but Ryan abruptly cut him off. He stepped right up to the edge of the inspector’s desk.
“Four grown men against one woman? She’s like a hundred and twenty pounds, for Christ’s sake! You needed four men to fucking subdue her?”
“I understand you are upset—”
“No! You have no fucking clue how upset I am. She’s sitting here bleeding! And what if she were pregnant? Did your men consider that while they were assaulting her?”
A very distinguished, slender man in a dark blue suit and tie placed a heedful hand on Ryan’s shoulder.
“Monsieur Christensen, please, allow me.” The man pulled a wallet from his inside coat pocket and flashed his ID. “Gérard Bertrand, Personal Attaché to the Prime Minister. I am here on his direct orders regarding this matter and I have heard enough. Let me have the file and remove those handcuffs from her at once.”
My breath stuttered with overwhelming relief. Ryan brought the freaking cavalry with him. I guess the prime minister fully expected us to attend dinner with his family tonight, after all.
So many people packed the small office, all speaking at once in a blur of French and English. The handcuffs were removed, much to my relief. Ryan continued to fuss over the blood on my chin. Trish’s phone was fused to her ear.
I knew he was angry. “I’m so sorry,” I pleaded desperately, hoping they both would find the grace to forgive me. As social errors go, this was way beyond using the wrong fork at dinner or mispronouncing a translated word.
“Shh. Everything is going to be okay,” Ryan whispered, pressing my hair back from my cheek to wipe a new tear away.
A tall man with a thick mustache and wiry gray eyebrows approached. “Monsieur Christensen, Mademoiselle Mitchell. Please accept our most sincere apologies for this misunderstanding.”
Ryan blocked the hand outstretched to me. His own hands balled into tight fists again.
“Misunderstanding?” he growled at the audacity. “Look at her! You call this brutality a misunderstanding?
How about I beat the shit out of one of your boys like this—”
Mike pressed a hand into the center of Ryan’s chest.
The man tucked my file under his arm, unabashed. “I assure you, I will personally investigate this matter. You have my word.”
“Your word means nothing to me,” Ryan spit out angrily. “Your investigation can’t possibly begin to right this wrong.”
I stood and interrupted, wanting nothing more than to get Ryan and myself out of this potentially explosive situation. “Excuse me. Am I free to go?”
The man’s eyes darted to mine and a faint smile crinkled his lips. “Oui, mademoiselle. You may depart.
No charges will be filed.”
I nodded, brushing my fingers over the numerous scrapes on my face as if that would hide them better.
“Can someone please take me back to the hotel?” I was done being humiliated and scared out of my mind. The need to grab my passport, dark sunglasses, and an airplane ride out of hell was driving me toward the door.
Ryan covered me with his jacket and with his hand pressed low on my spine, guided me outside and into the backseat of a waiting sedan.
Trish was busy, calling in favors and sending texts to God-knows-who to cover this up. I wanted to curl up into a ball and die.
David was obviously distressed. He glanced at this watch. “We need to get you back to the Hotel Britannique for your photo call, Ryan. There’s still time. We can put this setback behind us and still stay on schedule.”
“No,” Ryan said flatly, pulling me tighter to his chest when I tried to squirm away. I presumed we’d end up in a fight once he got me alone.
“Listen, I know this has been traumatic,” David continued. “The Burberry thing was just a filler.
Everyone else is at the photo call waiting for y—”
“I said no,” Ryan spat. I felt the tension in his grip on my shoulder. His lips were pressed to my forehead when he breathed, “We’re going back to our hotel.”
Despite Ryan’s declaration, David was still trying to persuade him to continue on with his scheduled obligations when we entered our lavish suite. “Okay, so what do you want me to tell the producers when I have to explain why you weren’t at the photo call? And the premiere is at six. Our car has to leave here by five thirty.”
“I’ll handle dealing with the studio execs,” Ryan’s agent, Aaron, said. “Under the circumstances, it’s unfortunate but they’ll understand.”
David was unrelenting. “But if we intend to cover this up properly, he should make it to all of his scheduled appearances. Being a no-show only confirms the suspicions. He needs to be there, Aaron. You know it as well as I do.”
Ryan wasn’t listening to anyone. He marched off to the bathroom.
Trish had every electronic device known to man fired up and was multitasking her ass off trying to counterattack all the negative press before it surfaced.
I sat on the sofa, wallowing deep in guilt for causing all of this, wishing I could disappear back into the quiet of my apartment. I just couldn’t shake it no matter what I tried to do. The fear and mortification were swirling in my chest like an angry tornado, suckin
g up every other emotion in its wake.
I’d never been in any trouble with the law, not even as a kid, and having my first taste of it was terrifying. Hanging out with Marie and my other best friend, Thomas’s sister Melanie, I came damn close a couple of times, but somehow, some way we always came out in the clear.
Several times Thomas and I came close to getting busted, like the time the cops pulled us over when we were driving back from a keg party at North Bay beach. God, I shook all the way home from that near
miss. Or the time we were interrupted by shore patrol having insane sex at two in the morning out near the bluff.
Despite that, nothing as bad as this had ever happened before. And the ramifications that would stem from this were too numerous to even begin to comprehend.
Ryan sat next to me, scrutinizing my injuries. My breath hissed uncontrollably from the sting when he rubbed a warm washcloth over my cheek.
His eyes were so repentant. “Sorry, honey. I’m trying to be gentle, but we have to clean these cuts.”
As much as I loved him tending to me, I wanted to pull the cloth from his hand. I felt like I didn’t deserve that gentle hand.
David ended a phone call. “Marcia Gay Harden’s assistant is going to come up and stay with Taryn while you’re at the premiere, Ryan. Jenna’s people are all busy.”
“I’m not going,” Ryan said softly, wiping my lip with the utmost care.
All eyes landed on him—even mine.
David became overly animated in the midst of his talent-manager meltdown, ranting on and on about not believing what he had just heard.
“I said I’m not going,” Ryan repeated. David started arguing but Ryan paid no attention to him. An eerie calm was over him. The calm before the storm. perhaps?
I felt Ryan’s hand tremble lightly when he tipped my chin up. “I need to call the concierge and get some medicine for you,” he said softly. “I got most of the dirt out of the cuts but I’ll be able to do a better job once I get you in the shower.”
