Take Hold of Me

by Arell Rivers

  Lizzie’s voice draws me back to the conversation, “In our business, it’s always a good idea to keep looking forward and your options open.” Her entire demeanor transforms when a guy in his forties, wearing a button down opened at the collar and no blazer, approaches us.

  “Grady. There you are.”

  He kisses her on the lips and whispers something in her ear that causes her to tap his chest. “This is my fiancé, Grady.”

  We exchange pleasantries. He seems like a nice, normal guy. He runs a travel agency. I wonder how he deals with having the world’s elite supermodel on his arm. After a few more minutes, they go to the sofa to snuggle. Doesn’t seem to bother him much.

  Emilie takes my half-empty glass from my hand, puts it with hers on a nearby table and urges me toward the dance floor.

  Oh no. Not happening. Planting my feet, I shake my head. “I don’t dance,” I shout above the music.

  “That is okay,” Emilie shouts back. “I do!”

  She shakes her shoulders in front of me. My heartrate picks up with her antics, my eyes following her movements. She’s magnetic. When she pulls my arm again, I can’t stop myself from giving in and follow her to the dance floor.

  The DJ changes the track to a huge hit by Ozzy Martinez, Cole’s friend, from a few years ago. Emilie moves in time to the fast rhythm, throwing her arms around my shoulders while I shuffle to the beat, count to ten and try to ignore all that’s going on in front of me. She moves to stand back-to-back with me, wriggles her hips and then turns to face me. Her hands are always touching me—my arms, fingers, chest.

  Damn.

  The song changes to “Prowling,” my favorite one of Cole’s. Our smiles are for our friend. During the chorus, I can’t stop myself from pumping my fist in the air with Emilie and all of the other dancers on the floor.

  Lost in the music, I grab her hand and spin her around, holding her back against my front. My hands run up her sides and down both arms. Sparks fly where our skin touches. Or is that the DJ’s light show? Emilie turns around and faces me, her pupils dilated.

  My breath catches. We stand stock-still while everyone dances around us. Her hazel eyes draw me in.

  Until someone shoves me from behind, jolting my sanity. I shout, “Drink?”

  Her face falls but she nods and I gesture for her to leave the dance floor. We return to where we were talking with Lizzie and Grady, but they’ve moved to the other side of the bar and are chatting with a group of people, so I steer Emilie toward an empty hi-top table. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Neil’s off to the side, watching Emilie. He’s chatting up another woman, but at least has eyes on his client. One of the several bartenders takes my drink order. While I’m waiting, Grady joins me. “I hope I’m not out of line, but you give me the impression that you’re into Emilie. Not because of what she does, but in spite of it.”

  How did he glean all that from our brief meeting?

  And I cannot be into her. For her own sake.

  Ignoring my silence, he continues, “Take it from someone who knows. She may look like she has it all going on, but she needs you as much as you need her. Remember, what you both do is not who you are. Took me a while to learn that.”

  “Well, ah—”

  Grady barrels forward. “I love everything about Lizzie. And she gets me, ugly-ass warts and all. Don’t be afraid to let Emilie get you.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  He chuckles. “That’s what I used to say.”

  I can’t let her see all of my warts. They’re not just ugly. They’re grotesque. Relieved when the bartender returns with our drinks, I nod at Grady and make my way back to Ems.

  Emilie.

  Emilie Dubois, supermodel.

  She’s deep in conversation with another woman, so I remain in the periphery.

  I hear the name “Rinaldo” and my stomach hardens. Her ex-boyfriend. The Spanish soccer player is the perfect match for Emilie. Same high profile, same circles. She met up with him during recent shoots according to the tabloids—not that I’ve picked them up, but they’re always in the supermarket check-out lines.

  Overriding my original decision to let the women talk, my feet take me to her side in less than five strides. Extending a vodka tonic to her, I say, “Here you go.” My eyes land on Emilie’s friend.

  “Merci.” Pursing her lips, she says, “Wills, this is Belinda.”

  I raise my own glass to her. “A pleasure.”

  Belinda looks me up and down as if I stowed away to the VIP Room on the bottom of a server’s tray. From my bodyguarding days, I’m used to being treated like hired help. I bet Rinaldo’s never treated like this. Emilie never made me feel this way, though.

  Emilie barrels forward. “Well, it was … interesting seeing you again, Belinda. Enjoy the evening.” After taking a rather large swallow of her drink, she grabs my hand and drags me to a secluded spot across the room. “I do not like Belinda,” she says, grimacing.

  Her reaction makes me chuckle. I take a sip of my drink.

  She eyes my glass. “Martini?”

  “Yes. Vodka, dry. I usually stick with beer, but this is my favorite mixed drink.”

  At my rather mundane admission—although why did I share it?—she breaks into a full-on grin. I place my thumb on her lush bottom lip, rubbing it away from her teeth. “What’s this for?”

  “I am so happy. Like I just won a MOTY.”

  My eyebrows pull into a frown and I drop my hand. Why is she so happy? And what the hell is a MOTY? “A what?”

  “A MOTY. The Models.com Model of the Year Industry Award.”

  I shake my head. “I really don’t know your model lingo.”

  She reaches up to bring my head closer to hers. In her sexy-ass high heels, I’m barely taller. “I will be happy to brush you up.”

  Her English translation mix-up is adorable. Our bodies face each other, almost close enough to touch. Like a gravitational pull, I cannot stop myself from closing the gap between our foreheads. “Not a good idea,” I mumble.

  She pulls her head back and looks directly into my eyes. “Au contraire. I think it is a very good idea.” She plucks my glass out of my hand and deposits it onto a nearby table, next to hers.

  Her French accent. Her lavender scent. Her positive attitude. Everything. Her.

  Ripped from the bottom of my soul, I utter, “Ems.”

  My hand cups her cheek and directs her lips toward mine. Inches apart, I freeze. Coming in strained gasps, our breaths mingle. Hot wisps of air kiss my cheek.

  The music pounds around us, a living creature urging us forward.

  She darts her tongue over her bottom lip.

  With a groan, my body overrides my brain. Pulling her to me, my mouth covers hers, molding her lips to mine. Lips I haven’t tasted in nearly a year. Like a lightning bolt hitting water, the positively charged particles in my body detonate and obscure the DJ’s music. Nothing exists outside of our kiss.

  My hands plunge into her loose hair and run over the little braids, all the while my lips learn hers. Her palms connect with my chest and travel upward, over my shoulders and encircle my neck.

  My tongue touches the line of her lips and she opens for me. Barely a breath later, our tongues intertwine with a heady mixture of want.

  When someone brushes by us, our kiss breaks. I bracket Emilie in my arms to steady her on her feet. My chest expands at the private knowledge that I was the one who made her unsteady.

  “Do you want.” I clear my throat. “To stay or go?”

  She whispers, “Go.”

  Her whisper slices through my overheated body. The kiss we shared here far exceeds my buried memories from before. She is so sweet, so giving. I don’t deserve such goodness, but maybe just once won’t hurt her. “Then go it is.”

  I seal our departure with another blistering kiss, exploring her mouth. When she sucks on my tongue, the top of my head nearly explodes. I have to get us out of here, fast, before
I can’t stop my hands from pulling her tight.

  Step back, Wills. I hold my breath and break our contact. Unfocused hazel eyes that appear more green than brown call to me. I allow myself one more quick peck and then take her hand to lead her back downstairs. Neil’s engrossed with some woman across the room, but I manage to catch his eye and he walks toward us, smirking.

  “Enjoy the evening with your … toy.” Belinda’s whiny voice cuts through the club music.

  Next to me, Ems stops. I bend to her ear and say, “She’s not worth it,” then place the delicate shell between my teeth and close softly.

  She shudders, takes a deep inhale, and we continue our exit without looking back.

  The stairs are filled with people. This must be a fire hazard, but fire marshals aren’t around. Stepping back, I allow Ems to go in front of me, my fingers rubbing my lips where hers just were.

  Slowly, we descend from the VIP Room. At the bottom of the stairs, she points toward the coat check. I nod and track her progress while staying in the background. Paparazzi are huddled at the door. Her exit will be chronicled as part of her contracted job for tonight, and I don’t belong in those photos.

  While keeping tabs on Neil, who has now joined Ems at the coat check, I watch as she’s being assessed by many of the club’s patrons. No red flags wave danger. The women eye her with envy, mostly fixated on her shoes and dress. The men, on the other hand, undress her with their eyes and check around to see if she’s with anyone. A couple of them look like they’re going to act on their desires. I better move around the room to get a closer look.

  “Excuse me,” I say to a group of ladies blocking my path.

  One in the group squeezes my tricep. “Ohh, strong. Me likey. Want to come inside with me?” Her head gestures toward the first floor of the club. The other women snicker and look away from their drunk friend.

  “Thanks, but I’m on my way out. I’m with someone.” Why did I say that?

  She smiles and says, “Lucky girl.” Before I step away, she’s already looking for her next victim.

  Ems, in her pink coat, makes her way to the front door. A crush of paparazzi and club patrons engulf her. Mostly male. Unlike before, the energy has changed and my lust-filled body switches over to high alert. Neil is back a few rows, talking with yet another woman. He should be next to her. I can’t waste time on his failings as a bodyguard—my gut tells me to clear the area.

  I gulp shallow breaths, rubbing clammy hands on my pants. My eyes rove over various men eyeing her like red meat. Assessing. Discarding the safe ones.

  There.

  One red-headed man seems to be fixated on her. Now, I’m fixated on him.

  Skirting a bunch of people jamming up the lobby, I track Emilie’s movements out the door. Neil managed to get alongside of her and they both smile for the cameras. Redhead ducks into the throng of paparazzi at the exit.

  My already shallow breathing accelerates. My eyes don’t lose his red hair, which gets closer to Emilie. Purposeful movements, not by chance.

  He’s after her.

  Getting closer to her.

  My eyes roam his frame for weapons. No bulge of a gun. His hands are empty. But some weapons can be hidden.

  Grunting my apologies, I slip my way through the maze of cameras—the red-headed man my single focus. About ten feet separates him from Emilie. Another fifteen between him and me.

  Emilie smiles at the photographers. Stay in the light, Ems.

  Unintelligible shouts turn attention to the exit, where the next celeb is leaving. Flashbulbs abandon Emilie in favor of the next departure. Emilie and Neil head to a side street where the limo waits, in almost near-darkness.

  Redhead closes the gap. I’m behind you, fucker. I inhale deeply to quiet my thundering heartbeat.

  He steps right behind her, his arm outstretched.

  History will not repeat itself on my watch. My vision narrows as I spring forward. Grabbing the perp’s arm, I twist it upward and behind his back. Fast. Hard.

  He grunts in pain.

  I corral him to the ground, ramming my knee into his back.

  Under me, the red-headed guy half-moans, half-yells, “What are you doing, you lunatic?”

  “Wills!”

  I refuse to look up at the woman shouting my name. She’s safe. I swivel my knee to keep the red-headed guy immobile. The cops will take the writhing asshole away, and I can rest easy knowing that I got to him before he was able to get to my Ems.

  Next to us, Emilie bends down and picks up a Sharpie. She places her hand on my shoulder. The only word I can make out is “Autograph.”

  What the hell?

  Oh. My. God.

  I jump off the red-headed guy as if scalded. You dumbfuck.

  7

  Emilie

  The ride back to my house is tense. Wills sits with his jaw clenched, his shoulders set in a rigid line. Neil, sitting opposite me, tried to engage Wills a couple of times before he gave up. I did not try, as I know Wills would not open up in front of an audience.

  My heart breaks for the torment he is putting himself through. The man he attacked was just trying to get an autograph. I called the Agency and they are all over clean-up.

  Wills is out the door almost before the limo stops. “It was nice meeting you, Neil,” I offer as I slide across the seat.

  Always the gentleman, Wills stands on the pavement with his hand outstretched, waiting to assist me out of the limo. I place my palm in his and rise, stroking my thumb over his skin. He pulls back and uses that hand to close the door, leaving me to drop my arms by my side. After he bangs on the limo’s roof, it pulls away.

  My heartrate picks up. I need to get him to open up. Otherwise, I fear he will disappear and I will never see him again.

  “Wills, can we discuss tonight?”

  He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his keys. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Leaving me, he heads toward his Jeep.

  “I want to help,” I blurt.

  He stops as if he hit a brick wall. “I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”

  I rush over to him. “This cannot be healthy for you. Let us talk about it.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to go over it. You’re home. Safe—not that you ever were in any danger. I’m going to let you be.”

  “Not like this,” I cry.

  We are both breathing as if we ran a four-minute mile. We need to find a neutral place to talk. “How about we take a walk on the beach?” Knowing that my permit status does not let me drive after dark, I try to interject some humor. “I will even let you drive there.” I touch his forearm. “S'il vous plaît.”

  I suck in my breath while I wait for his response. The slumping of his shoulders is all the affirmation I need.

  Given the time of night, the drive to the beach is shorter than the usual twenty minutes. I leave my Jimmy Choo’s in his Jeep and enjoy the sand soothing my feet after dancing in the high heels. The almost full moon casts a silvery beam across the ocean. It would be romantic out here on the deserted beach. If only.

  After a couple of steps, his cell phone rings. He glances at the screen and then looks at me. “It’s the police.”

  I nod and he picks up the call. We continue walking toward the ocean as I listen to his side of the conversation. Which consists mainly of “yeses” and “I see’s.” Arriving at the shoreline, I follow him as he turns left. The water rushes over my feet, causing me to jump from the cold.

  Next to me, Wills puts his cell into his back pocket.

  I need to break through his walls. “What did the police have to say? Is the man going to press charges?”

  He stares straight ahead. “No. He said he understands my role as your so-called bodyguard and how his actions could have been misconstrued.”

  I release a pent-up breath. Publicity will be contained—which is good for both his and my careers. “At least that is one worry off our plates.”

  He nods once and slips his hands into his pockets.<
br />
  I run my fingers through my hair. His kisses told me that he feels the same way about me as I do for him. How can I get him to open up and let me help him? Obviously, the trauma Cole’s stalker inflicted is very raw. I have a niggling suspicion that I may be out of my depth.

  Stormy blue eyes meet mine for a second before flicking back to the sand. His hands remain in his pockets. “All I saw was an unknown man pursuing you. He was after you, and it was my job to stop him.”

  “Well, you certainly did that.”

  His jaw tenses. “I was wrong about him.” He bends down and picks up a shell. Throwing it into the waves, he says, “I can’t trust my instincts anymore, Em.”

  “You just need to relax and stop beating yourself up.”

  He increases his pace, fists flexing. Next to him, I lengthen my stride to keep up with him. “Please. Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  He swallows, causing his Adam’s apple to bob. The silver chain he wears glints in the moonlight.

  As the silence lengthens, I keep reliving our kisses. So much passion. I rub my upper arms trying to figure out a way to reach him. “What about us?”

  “Emilie.” He stops, grabs my shoulders and faces me. “There is no ‘us.’ There can never be any ‘us.’”

  “But what happened at the club? Our kisses—”

  His fingers flex on my bare skin. “Were a mistake. Won’t happen again.” He drops his hands as if the moonbeams scalded him. Turning on his bare heel, he retraces our footsteps.

  I do not believe him. They were my lips his were pressed against. Our kisses were many things, but a mistake was not one of them. Everything in my body screams that he is wrong.

  “Liar!”

  He halts. His spine stiffens to ramrod straight, straighter than any male model on set trying to impress. From a few meters away, he turns to me and says, his tone even and low. “I am no good for you.” Then he repeats, “There is no ‘us.’”

  I cross the sand and stop before him. How can I make him see he is so wrong? “But what happened? I was there. I know…” My hand reaches toward him.