Page 54 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

He bows his head to her with a mock-apologetic smile and lifts his hands in the air as if to say it’s not his fault he’s a clown, he was born like that or something.

“So, you understand English, dude.” I pull at his clothes. “Get out.”

He gives me a scrutinizing look, then whistles his happy melody and spreads his long legs on the couch.

I pull at his weird, pointy shoes. “Come on.”

Behind me, the crowd cheers, and I can sense the cameraman hovering over my shoulder. I don’t know what stops me from elbowing him in the gut and getting him out of my space.

I tell the girl, “Mira-Me, I’m gonna be pissed, and you don’t wanna see that.” I’ve never used such a severe tone, but she’s only a kid, so for once the parent in me takes over.

She purses her lips, but I’m pretty sure she can see I’m not joking.

“We really don’t have time.” I try to sound persuasive. “You gotta help me get him out.”

Her face lights up. “Oh, I know what we can do,” she exclaims, voice high-pitched. She slips past him and out onto the street, where the crowd meets her stunt with a loud cheer.

To my relief, he follows her out, but fakes hitting the roof over the door before holding his forehead with a hurt mime.

She laughs and shows him her phone. “Photo!”

He whistles excitedly, jumping up and down like a kid. The stupid influencer is so damn smooth with him. She knows how to use the situation in her favor.

When they’re done taking a selfie, he turns to me and grabs my sunglasses. There’s an odd moment of hesitation where he stares into my eyes, his pupils a sparkling green amid the white makeup, a reaction so confusing I forget to protest. Then he seems to pull himself together and turns to give my sunglasses to someone in the crowd.

Several hands reach out, people shouting, “Robin! Aquí!” Here!

But instead of handing them, he takes another man’s sunglasses and pretends exchanging them, then changes his mind with a big smile admitting he’s naughty, and returns mine to me.

Everyone laughs. In other circumstances, I might consider the situation funny, too, but now the clown is just plain irritating. And he’s making me the laughingstock, which only fuels my anger.

“Enough.” I grab his arms from behind and turn him against the car door. I’m trained to use cop force, so it’s no biggie plastering him to the metal and crossing his arms behind his back. Though I gotta say he’s got some damn strong muscles working beneath the fabric of his clown costume. He obviously has physical training of some sort, like lifting weights. Intriguing. But I’m not in the mood to dwell.

He resists a little, but not as much as he probably could. Instead, he whistles a panicky, ear-piercing sound and bobs his head back and forth, mimicking fear. No doubt using the situation to his advantage to turn his fans against me.

“Leave us the fuck alone, you freak of nature,” I sneer to his ear. “I’ve had enough of your stupid clown act.”

Mira-Me shouts from my side, “Oh, my gawd, Zane, you’re such a bully!”

I shoot her a sharp glance, ready to bark something at her, too, but she stands there with her hands on her hips and pouts like a spoiled three-year-old.

That’s when the clown changes his game, suddenly rubbing his ass backward against my crotch and whistling that wolf tune again, like he’s trying to seduce me. The crowd digs his improvisation and cheers loud. Mira-Me claps her hands, thrilled to bits.

Now I know he’ll stop at nothing to make fun of me. Swallowing a grunt of annoyance, I pull him away from the car and spin him around on his feet. His long, pointy shoes cross each other so he loses his balance and does a clumsy dive into the crowd with a squeal-whistle of terror. Some people jump aside, hands flailing, others reach out to catch him.

Good riddance. With the whole street booing at me, I push the equally annoying bimbo back into her limo and get behind the wheel.

Chapter Two

Circa 11:00 PM

A long, stressful day is over, and I’m in Mira-Me’s hotel suite watching a rugby game on a living room couch while she sips a third margarita and scrolls through her notifications in a connecting bedroom. Although she didn’t make a personal performance today since it was more of a have-you-seen-me gathering of celebrities before the film première, she got her fill of camera flattery and, I quote, “super cool” response from fellow artists before she ended the evening celebrations by herself here at the hotel. By herself but not alone, as she keeps her zillion-something Instagram followers updated about important details such as dresses, hairstyles, shoes, purses, earrings, handsome young men, and the scandals everyone’s going to talk about in the next few days.

She’s in her happy place now, but she’s not happy with me. After the annoying situation on the street earlier, she has seized every chance to criticize my “bullyish behavior” and call me “the worst person ever.” She literally regrets employing me. I’ve got to hand it to her, for someone so fake and self-centered, she can offer great empathy and compassion to a stranger when she wants. Why? Because the clown charmed the crowd, because she thought he was funny? I have no idea. Young people nowadays only do or say certain things if they see a profit.

Her constant criticism bothers me. One, because she’s been nagging me like an old hooker and I’ve had enough harassment for a day, and two, because deep inside I know she’s right. She argues that the clown was only doing his job and it’s not his fault we were late for the première or happened to be in the line of cars passing through that street. It’s true. It wasn’t anybody’s fault and yet the situation happened. Do I regret it? Kind of. I don’t like to think of myself as a bully. I don’t want to be that man. Maybe I should take an anger management course. Or stop drinking.

Yeah, but first, the bad memories need to fade.

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