Page 92 of If Not for My Baby
“He gets everything, doesn’t he? And he’ll just keep getting everything.”
“Grayson—”
“Every fan, screaming his name each night like they’re coming for him. Every article. Every interview. Every song, just popping into his mind, fully formed.”
I try to pry his fingers from my skin but he’s got me in an iron grip.
“At least I got the women. But not you. I never really did it for you, did I?”
“I said,let me go.”
“Why should he get you, too? Look at me and tell me if you think I’ve ever had a woman say no to me. Just look at me and tell me what you think.”
My heart speeds against my ribs. My mom taught me to throw a punch when I was nine. I make sure not to tuck my thumb and let my fist fly, but he catches that wrist, too, and pushes me back into the wall.
“You’re gonna hit me?” he barks. “Are you insane?”
“You’rehurtingme—”
“You must be to let that gangly loser fuck you.” He says it mostly to himself, his grip on my wrists tightening. I try to wrench free but only succeed in tugging him closer. “Clementine,” he begs. “I could make it so good for—”
Grayson is yanked backward before he can finish the thought. In the flickering lamplight Tom holds Grayson byhis collar like a litter runt held by the scruff of his neck. He towers over him. I’ve never seen anyone as livid. “What is wrong with you?” he thunders.
I’ve hardly caught my breath before Grayson swings at him. His punch lands with a sickeningsmackand his second one is wet and crunching. I’m going to be sick. But the third blow is Tom’s and it sends Grayson down flat onto the pavement. He heaves for air on all fours before scrambling up to tackle. A gasp lodges in my throat before they go careening into the wall beside me. Tom’s longer arm span gives him an advantage and with another hard shove, Grayson lands on the asphalt again. This time Tom’s foot drives into his rib cage to keep him down.
Someone is screaming and I realize a minute too late that it’s me.
Grayson twists to his side, coughing.
When Tom whirls on me, his nose is streaming red, his eyes bright with—worry. He’s…worried. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, reaching for him. “I’m fine. Your face—”
My words are swallowed up by the sound of thudding feet echoing from the alley.
“Back here,” someone yells. “I heard screaming back here.”
“That’s his voice!” another calls out.
A cacophony of snapping, clicking, and shouts for Halloran. Paparazzi. Swarming for us.
I don’t take a single moment to think. “Follow me.”
With Tom’s hand in mine, I take off through the parkinglot and cut our first left through the alley next to Dime a Dozen. The seven or so paparazzi follow us but we don’t let up, not for a second. I can’t allow Tom’s busted nose and bloodied knuckles to be splattered all over the internet tomorrow morning. This whole awful evening is my fault.
But the alley leads to a chain-link fence and we stop cold. The photographers can’t be more than thirty seconds behind us. “Shit.”
Tom runs his eyes over me once. Then he scales the fence and throws his long legs over, hopping down the other side with ease. “You turn,” he says. His voice is calm, even as his nose gushes blood.
“I’m half your height. I’ll land on my ankle or something.”
“You think I’d allow anythin’ to happen to you?”
He’s dead serious. And we have no time to debate it. I climb the wobbling metal quickly, though not as fast as him, and swing my leg over the top. One, and then the other. Every part of me is shaking. This is so much higher than it looked from the ground.
“I’ve got you,” he says, arms out.
And I don’t think twice. I drop down and land snugly in his arms. He doesn’t even grunt.
