Page 15 of Keep Her from Them

Screams followed, and faces swivelled as people tried to spot the celebrity musician who was the darling of the music scene.

I cackled and hugged onto my bodyguard’s arm. The alcohol coursing through my veins made me bold. I wasn’t going to miss Dori’s show for the world, yet my attention caught and snagged on the feel of Raphael’s hard muscles.

As the first person I’d ever touched in the romantic sense, he’d provided the blueprint for how a man ought to be built. I’d compared everyone who came after with him, and all had fallen short. Yet he’d been a teenager then, and this body was all man. The solid chest and the arms that had held me were thick with hard muscle. He’d been strong, but now he was something else.

It tantalised me.

It woke a deep female instinct that yearned to be protected. A matter of hours ago, when the photographer had grabbed my arm, I’d considered how no one ever touched me. That was a fact. Everyone was careful around me. The few boyfriends I’d had were the exceptions, but even they were hands-off most of the time. No lover had ever held me in public.

It was as if handling me was a treasonable offence, but it only boosted my sense of isolation. I clung to Raphael a little more.

Dori prowled the railing, his lips pouted as he no doubt enjoyed the chaos he’d created below.

Raphael twisted to keep Dori in sight while using his body to block me. The arm I was holding lightly curved around me, and his free hand gently cupped my shoulder. His almost-embrace had no reason to be so familiar. Once, we’d done this, and years ago. Maybe he’d been the first man I’d touched, but he washardly the last. I snapped my brain back to the present and focused on my friend.

The photographer left the steps and slipped into an empty booth. Still at the rail, Dori eyed the man but signalled for a waitress. In an instant, a woman was at his side, a tray under her arm and her uniform the black and orange of the club.

Dori bent to whisper in her ear. Starry-eyed, she smiled at him then darted off.

My friend leant back on the barrier, the music thumping, his blond hair falling in his eyes and his posture the picture of elegant languor.

I wanted to join him. Whatever he was planning was going to be good. Yet at the same point, I was enjoying being right where I was.

The waitress appeared again, her steps brisk, and an ice bucket clutched in her hands. Inside it, a champagne bottle smoked. Oh God. I knew what Dori was going to do.

He accepted the bottle and took a swig, leaving the bucket by his feet.

The clueless photographer was still squinting my way, his camera in his hands and catching the light every now and again.

He had no idea what was coming.

Raphael put his lips to my ear. “We need to?—”

He didn’t finish that sentence as Dori moved into action. Putting his thumb to the end of the champagne bottle, he shook it.

White foam sprayed out in a torrent, soaking the photographer and the booth. The man leapt up. Dori shook the bottle again and doused him a second time, pure malice and delight in his expression.

He yelled something that didn’t reach us. People in booths either side jumped from their seats and scuttled away, the waitress watching with her hands to her mouth. The furiousphotographer scrubbed down his face, and droplets of fizzy wine dripped off him. He held up his camera and yelled at my friend.

Ha. Screw him. I hoped it was broken.

Dori shouted something back then made a third attempt with the champagne bottle, but it was empty. He set it down and picked up the ice bucket instead.

“Fuck. Now we really need to leave,” Raphael warned.

“Are you joking? The night has just become interesting.” I pushed against Raphael, but my bodyguard held firm.

“It’ll become a headline about ye if we aren’t careful.”

“Still don’t understand why you care so much,” I muttered.

Dori leapt up onto the booth’s table. He crowed something I couldn’t hear and raised the ice bucket then upended it. Ice splattered down. I squealed at the fun, wide-eyed as Dori stooped to collect the camera from the table and use it to snap pictures of the soaked and frosted paparazzo instead.

People shrieked. Ice slid across the floor and tinkled down to the dance floor below. Partygoers neared to watch the drama, and another waiter ran for the bouncer who’d had his back to the antics and hadn’t yet noticed. The photographer wiped his face and snatched for my friend.

Easily, Dori evaded the reaching hand, years of skiing paying off in his quick dodge. He slapped the hand away and took another photo, running his mouth the whole time. I needed to hear what he was saying because his taunts were clearly working. This was gold. Hilarious.

On the table, Dori twisted and presented his backside to the man. I giggled. Half the VIP dance floor was now watching, some subtly filming or taking pictures.

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