Gemma leaned closer. “No one needs to know about us,” Gemma whispered. “Not Tish, not Wesley. That’s our business. Let Wimbledon pass.”
“And what happens after Wimbledon?” He held her gaze. Why would they go through so much to hide something so natural?
Gemma finally blinked. “Just bear with me for now. I don’t need the distraction.”
He slid closer. “I understand your request and will honor it. But by playing these games, are you crushing the distractions, or bringing more attention to it? This is a risky move. Whoever is the source of the rumors may already know more. And if new pictures show up? Or more details slip out? What then?”
They gazed at each other for a few moments.
“Okay, that was Wesley,” Tish said as she hung up. “He’s already throwing hints through his sources.”
“That’s good to hear,” Andre said, trying to hide his sarcasm.
Andre’s phone rang. It was Roger.
He was on vacation. Why was that so difficult to understand? He tapped the Ignore button.
The limousine pulled up to the red carpet. The flashing bulbs throttled like an uninterrupted cascade of blinding thunderstorms.
“All right, Tish,” Andre said, “give me your hand. We need to make a good showing of this.”
“Shite. I need a drink.”
Gemma’s door opened. As she stepped out, a roar of cheers, questions, and lights engulfed her. She was a silhouette against the blinding beam of fame. She was a portrait of calm and composure.
He and Tish stepped out holding hands. Dozens of cameras swiveled, and questions were hurled at them. He scanned the crowd and absorbed the situation. Too many people, too many voices, faces, movements, and flashes.
Andre and Tish remained silent and stood near Gemma, who was asked to pose over and over again. She was asked about him, but she smiled and offered nothing, as if the question wasn’t even asked.
More pictures, more lights, more questions, and fake smiles–everyone wanted something from her. The needy begging for handouts.
The press were not expecting him to be holding Tish’s hand. He hated the games, the lies, the stupidity of it all. Why would she–
Andre’s headache burst from his right ear. Every single word came in Technicolor. With effort, he raised his hand to his ear, wanting to push the headache around, spread the sharp pain. He tried to shut out the chaos surrounding him. He wanted it to end, but it was no use.
“Are you okay?” Tish asked.
He forced a smile. “Headache.”
“Migraine?” Tish whispered.
He blinked and held his posture, hoping to wait out the torture.
“Let’s go in. Gemma can handle them.”
She tried to walk quickly, but his balance was suspect. Tish supported him as they stepped into the venue. He stumbled into the restroom, ran cold water and drenched his face, meditating away the enemy within.
After a few minutes, color returned to his skin. He studied his eyes and regulated his breathing before he stepped out. Tish and Gemma were waiting for him.
“Are you okay? You scared me,” Gemma said, her eyes bloodshot, cheeks red.
“Just a headache.”
Gemma placed a hand on his chest. “Do you want us to leave?”
“I’m fine–” Andre started, but a frantic looking woman cut in.
“Miss Lennon, we need you backstage now. The video starts in twenty seconds.”
Gemma glanced at her and nodded. “I’m ready.”
The woman rushed Gemma around the back as Tish and Andre moved into the main reception area. A large silver screen showed a countdown.
Three, two, one.
To the music of AC/DC’s Back in Black, the new Nikon commercial rolled.
In black and white, the shot started from Gemma’s shoes, up her lean powerful legs, all the way up to her face. The lighting and gray tones gave her body the appearance of a statue. First sign of color: Gemma’s ice-blue eyes. The camera paused on her face. “I’m back,” Gemma said.
With that, cleverly edited footage of Gemma hitting one winner after another thundered by. Spliced in-between the shots was a spinning, gunmetal black Nikon camera. Finally, a tight shot of Gemma’s black bird tattoo. The camera then zoomed out and spun around Gemma for a head-to-toe shot of her glistening, powerful body. “Yes, I’m back,” she said, and the commercial ended.
The invitees and press broke into a roar of applause and cheers. At that moment, through a cloud of smoke, Gemma walked onto the stage to a raucous crowd.
Andre had to hand it to her: she knew how to work her sexuality and her story. She was definitely back.
The rest of the evening dragged. Tish held his hand a little tighter now, remaining close, like a personal cane. They mingled, always a cluster away from Gemma. She was the sun, and all flocked to her.
From the body language of those in the ‘respectable’ media, they obviously had expected him to be with Gemma. And the way Tish held him tight to her added to their confusion. Most intriguing was Gemma. She never made eye contact with him. Not once. Yet another version of Gemma.
The evening wore on for another two hours. He waited for her to speak to him or something, but nothing came. Speeches, platitudes, announcements, small talk, cocktails, and more stares.
“You seem to be doing better,” Tish said.
“I am. Didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Well you did, you dumb ox.”
Andre observed Gemma. “Why isn’t Gemma talking to us? Did I miss something?”
“It’s all part of the act.”
“What act?”
“This is the celebrity Gemma.”
“Hmm. Interesting. How many Gemmas are there?”
“That’s an odd question. I don’t know. A few. What does it matter?”
“I’d like to know which ones I can speak to, so I don’t inadvertently bring down this house of cards you guys have built. There must be rules to this game.”
“The rules are simple: don’t screw up.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Eventually it was time to leave.
When Gemma stepped out, staff photographers and paparazzi jumped and rushed the velvet rope. More bulbs, more cameras, more questions, and more rain. The air was cold now. Steam rose from the press corps.
Andre studied the press then tapped Tish’s shoulder. “Looks like this plan of Wesley’s worked for today,” he whispered. “They’re definitely confused. Just hope it’s sustainable.”
“Hope you’re right. She doesn’t need the distraction. Maybe we should make sure they don’t second-guess what they’ve seen.”
“And what do you–” he started, but did not finish. Her kiss came without advance notice or warning. It was his turn to keep his eyes open. It was a quick kiss, but it left him stunned. “Well,” he said, “that’s one way.”
She laughed. “You ‘Mericans are funny.”
He glanced toward Gemma. She was locked onto Andre, unblinking. The same pose from her commercial.
“And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
~Friedrich Nietzsche
he rain rattled against the car’s roof. The windows were streaked with droplets that in turn picked up the city lights. Tish was on the phone with Wesley, while Andre focused on the world outside.
Gemma didn’t know what had happened between Tish and Andre. Whatever the reason, it was making her nauseous. She would remain calm for now. She’d get to the bottom of this once she could ask privately. But the itch to understand was too much to bear.
She pulled out her mobile and sent him a text.
“What was that? With Tish,” she wrote.
He studied his mobile then typed, “Her idea of leaving the press with no doubt.”
“I see,” she wrote.
“No, you don’t. Why are you hiding us? When they win, we lose,” he wrote, then dropped his mobile in his co
at pocket.
She read his note a few more times, then glanced at him. She wanted to go to him, but how could she? If she had told Tish the truth, that kiss would never have happened. And what if the truth came out? What was the worst that could happen?
I’m sorry, she mouthed.
He didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the streets.
Her heart sank. This was why. This was why she didn’t want a relationship. She hadn’t asked for this. She hadn’t wanted to fall in love, but it had happened.
Love?
Heat spread across her cheeks. She continued watching him, the seconds ticking away.
“Wesley’s all over it,” Tish said as she hung up. “He’s calling his contacts to give them the scoop that there is no scoop after all.” She studied both of them. “Did I miss something?”
“No, just exhausted,” Gemma said.
A few moments later, Andre sat up. “There’s the hotel now. I’m going to stay away for the next few days. Let’s not give the media more raw meat.”
Not a question. A statement. She wanted to argue, disagree, but she couldn’t. That was his plan, wasn’t it? He was forcing her hand. He knew she would not say anything in front of Tish. He was testing her. She had lied about them, even to her best friend. She was left without options.
“But you will come to the matches, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Andre, look,” Tish said, pointing to the hotel entrance. “Paparazzi are camped out in front of your hotel.”
“Okay,” he said, and without a second thought, stepped out and closed the door.
Gemma watched him walk away. No kiss. No hug. Not the slightest touch.
Once home, Gemma tried Andre’s cell, but it went directly to voicemail. Gemma’s head sagged. Why wasn’t he answering his phone? She had marginalized their relationship, but knew she could clean it up. They would talk and all would be okay again. Because that’s what they had; they could fix anything.
She tried again, with the same result. Had he shut off his mobile?
He had not been given a choice. He was told to play along in the games she had been party to for nearly five years now.
I am an idiot.
At midnight, Andre went to the hotel gym, hoping a good run on the treadmill would release the tension in his neck. It took forty-five minutes for the headache to finally exit his skull. Sweat dripped off his body, his shirt was drenched, and his veins pumped with blood.
What was he to Gemma, he wondered? What was more important to her? Their relationship, or some obscure concept of privacy? He could have been a flowerpot there. Why even invite him, if that’s what she was going to do?
He ran faster. The machine whined under his thundering clip.
How could he have been so wrong? He had been willing to do anything to make it work. Now, he wondered how he could have been so off base. She wasn’t ready. He wondered if she ever would be.
Almost finished, he assured his legs. His thighs and calves were numb. His lungs were unable to take in deep breaths, only shallow, small gasps of oxygen through gritted teeth. Pure adrenaline and momentum pushed him on.
The treadmill’s display showed thirty seconds remaining.
The music that blared through his headphones was now overpowered by his thudding heartbeat in his throat.
Sixty minutes flashed on the display. He slammed the Stop button and tumbled off.
Andre collapsed, one knee on the floor, head bowed. Sweat ran down his face. Eventually, he summoned the energy to stand and walk back to his room for a much-needed shower.
Under the steaming water he wondered where their relationship would go from here. Maybe a few days apart would clarify what she wanted. He had a full day ahead with the DCI. He’d spend Saturday and Sunday investigating. Monday was Gemma’s first match. Maybe by then she would know what she wanted.
He stepped out of the shower, haphazardly dried himself, and wrapped a towel around his waist.
The next move is hers, he thought as he stepped out of the bathroom.
“Dream as if you’ll live forever. Live as if you’ll die today.”
~James Dean
he bathroom door opened. Gemma straightened, and reminded herself to breathe.
Andre stepped out of the bathroom with a large towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still wet, and droplets of water rolling off his chest, arms, and back. Her heartbeat quickened.
He stopped dead in his tracks and glanced up, registering her presence for the first time. “How’d you get in?”
She rose, adjusted her skirt, then found the strength to move toward him. “I have a card key. The room is under my name.”
“What are you doing here?”
She stopped in front of him and peered into his eyes. “Today was not a good day. I wanted to–”
“What?” he asked. “What did you want?” His eyes hardened. “Are you allowed to talk to me now? Are we safe enough?”
“I wanted to apologize,” she said, then placed her hands on his chest. Momentarily her breath caught when she touched his wet, hard body.
“Gem, apologize only if you don’t plan on repeating the same mistake. I don’t know what game we’re playing and somehow I doubt you do either. What are we doing? Where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Can I be allowed to not know?” She stepped into him. “I want to be with you. When we’re together, alone, everything is perfect.” Her body met his and warm jolts ran down from her navel to her knees. “You asked me to live in the moment. I’m trying.”
His eyes softened
They gazed deep into each other’s eyes. Their bodies pinned, breathing in harmony, their chests rising in unison. Warm water dripped from his body onto hers.
He ran his wet hand through her hair. “This will not end well.”
“No, you’re wrong. Tonight ends well. We’ll figure out tomorrow when tomorrow comes.” She kissed him, tasting his lips again.
She wanted–needed–everything of his. His lips, his chin, his neck, his touch. She slid her hands over his chest then along his back. Her nails raked his skin, causing a slight groan to escape his mouth.
He tugged off her jacket, exposing a white tank top. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She kissed and nibbled his chest while her fingers teased the skin just above the towel. They stumbled against the wall. His lips burnt into hers. He grabbed the back of her thigh, lifting it, bringing her tight into him. While the other hand slid under her shirt, over her breast.
She gasped for air, writhing and whimpering. Her chest was on fire. She couldn’t focus anymore. Her vision blurred as the room spun, and the lines disappeared. Only primal hunger raged with clarity. Unlike anything ever in her life, she needed him.
His warm mouth devoured her neck then found her ear. Her hands slid down, below the small of his back, squeezing in until the towel snapped loose and dropped. Her nails dug into his flesh. His body tightened.
He reached behind, grabbing her hands, then pushed them up and above her head, holding her there momentarily when he swiftly peeled off her shirt. He worked her lips, bit her chin, kissed her throat and down her chest, and hovered over her navel.
Kneeling in front of her, he glanced up into her eyes. Her knees bounced when he unclasped the skirt and the garment slid down slightly. She ran her fingers through his hair. His hands on her skirt, he kissed the flesh just above her waistline, then slowly tugged the garment and underwear down. She trembled. With each inch, he kissed the newly exposed skin, down her hips, over her thighs until she was completely bare.
He rose and slammed his mouth onto hers. She threw her arms around his neck, then wrapped her legs around his hips. The world spun as he carried her into the bedroom. He lay her down but then stepped away. When she heard the tearing of foil, her heartbeat quickened. Moments later he slid next to her. The sheets were soft, his body hard, damp, on fire. As they kissed, he rolled on top of her, his
weight, presence, and warmth enclosing her. He bore into her eyes, communicating without words.
She answered him.
Their bodies melted into one.
In that instant, lightning illuminated the skies, thunder rolled, and hail covered the streets of London.
The tap-dancing of the rain against the window was therapeutic. The room’s lighting cast a glow on Gemma’s skin. She slept, at peace. Andre lay on his side, memorizing her smooth skin, the dimple below the small of her back, and her curves. He wanted to remember everything about her.
Without touching, he traced the tattoo of the graceful black bird on her shoulder blade. As if by the suggestion of his touch, she stirred. He moved in and held her tight, her soft flesh against his. He nuzzled her hair, the faint smell of jasmine still detectable. She faced him. Only a whisper of air separated their lips.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” he said, and kissed her.
“I better call Glen,” she said, her voice barely audible. She covered herself with the bed sheets then sat up. She glanced over her shoulder as she stepped toward the pile of clothes sprawled across the suite. She found her phone, then entered the restroom.
He lay back and watched the ceiling, daring to imagine a life of happiness, when distant thunder growled.
He could hear her soft voice. A few moments later she came back, the pile of white sheets still engulfing her like clouds embracing a rainbow. She crawled into bed.
She was a young girl now. Joy, innocence, and uncertainty transformed the face of the fierce competitor and shrewd athlete. She was a different person, and he had to protect that innocence from the people in her world who tried so hard to break her.
She scooted tight next to him, inches away from his face. He held her gaze. They remained silent, the sounds of breathing, accompanied by the percussive rhythms of the rain infiltrated the room.
“I don’t want this to end,” she said, her voice strained, “but I’m afraid it will. Like all good things in my life, this will end too. Don’t let it end.”
Game of Love Page 20
