Page 113 of Taste of Addiction

“Something is obviously wrong. I can tell you don’t want to talk about it right now. But just know that I really wish you would let me know anyway.”

He tosses his trash into the paper bag and leans back in his chair. “Let’s just enjoy these last few moments together.”

“And pretend nothing is wrong?”

“Excellent idea.”

I am no longer hungry, so I gather my scraps and toss them into the trash near the main doors of the shop.

“I think I’ll just hang out at our place if that’s okay? I really need to focus on my article. The semester is winding up, and I have to just wait for my professor to let me know when I can submit my work for the final review. Plus, all of my notes and files are at the penthouse already.”

“You can work in one of the empty offices at HH. You can have an entire floor to yourself if you want quiet. We can swing by and grab what you need.”

I shake my head. “I just need to spread out comfortably.”

“Okay,” he says with a nod of his head. “I’ll have one of the men drop you off.”

“Thank you.”

Graham guides me through several corridors and doorways until we are on the west side of the building. Idling at the curb is Collins, followed by a fleet of other similar looking vehicles.

I glance up at Graham and get thenot nowlook. There are way too many cars here to take just me and him to our separate locations. Collins is out of the SUV, cell to his ear, and walking around the front to retrieve me from Graham’s hold on my arm. What is going on now?

I am flanked until I am safely inside the backseat.

“Hi, Miss McFee,” Austin greets from the passenger side.

“What’s going on?” I ask directly. “Something is obviously going on.”

“Nothing that we can’t handle, ma’am. Do not worry.” He passes me a bottle of water, which I accept.

“Being in the dark makes me worry,” I snap.

Sipping my water, I watch Collins and Graham chat on the sidewalk. I glance to the end of the street and see a mob of photographers rushing toward us. The men disperse and Collins throws himself into the front seat. He pulls from the curb within seconds, doing a three-point turn and speeding off in the opposite direction.

I turn to look out the back window and see another SUV not in our fleet following us. Collins whips through the Portland streets and manages to get us into the parking garage without being noticed. He escorts me up to the penthouse and alerts whomever is on the receiving end of the Bluetooth device in his ear that I am home safely.

The adrenaline charging through my veins makes my head feel like it is going to burst. Something obviously happened this morning that is making the paparazzi want to attack me—again. I am not some movie star, so it is hard to justify to myself why they even care.

I flop down on the couch in the living room and text Claire.

Angie: I was just a part of a high speed chase and have not a clue as to why.

Claire: Google your name and today’s date.

Angie: Is this going to stress me out?

Claire: Just go see for yourself. And I’m sorry.

Oh shit. I close out the text app and open up the search engine, doing as she suggested. There are so many articles that are time stamped within the past four hours that I don’t even know where to begin. “McFee is a McFake” is one title. “Drug Addict Turned Charity Case” is another. But the one that slashes my heart the most is the one with the title, “In the Life of a Hypocrite.”

Damn. These are brutal. When I click on the articles, I see myself at the charity event that Graham and I attended yesterday. My red silk dress. The cause in which we went to support.

Society once again shits all over me, and I have no way of rising above it. Graham said he handled the press with money. However, there is no stopping photographers when the chance of becoming famous is at stake. I guess that’s why the streets surrounding Hoffman Hotel were bustling with excitement at the chance to confront me face-to-face. How much more of this can I take?

I sink into the cushions and close my eyes. Why does a night full of amazing memories have to be tainted with the morning after dosage of reality? Last night, nothing could touch us. No wonder why Graham didn’t want me to come back here and have time to think and clear my head. He knew I would have this opportunity to sulk and do the whole why-me thing.

I guess, like most things in life, I have two choices—feel sorry for myself or feel sorry for them.

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