Page 31 of Trusting Blake
The sound of his voice alone has me smiling already. “That’s how you answer calls from strange numbers?”
“Mila?” Blake says in surprise as his polite, chirpy tone instantly switches back to his usual low huskiness. “I always hope when new numbers call it’s someone finally calling me back about my requests for a gig at their bar. But no luck so far. Anyway, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling for days.”
“Hell is about right, but never mind that.” Then I blurt, “I want to see you,” but for once I don’t feel embarrassed by my upfront honesty.
“I’ll come meet you at the wall.”
“No,” I say. “I can’t leave. And they know I climbed the wall last time.”
“Then how are you getting out?”
My gaze wanders to Sheri, who is now grooming one of the other horses at the opposite end of the stables. She is already doing too much by letting me call Blake, but a phone call isn’t going to cut it. I need to see him, to get out of this toxic ranch and enjoy a normal summer with him. It’s going to mean trouble for me. A lot of trouble. But the very sound of his voice fills me with longing. I’ve had enough. “The same way as everyone else,” I finally answer. “The gate.”
Sheri knows this is a terrible idea, but surely as my aunt, it’s her duty to let me make decisions that my parents would never agree to. She doesn’t promise to lie for me or distract Ruben from the security cameras, but she does scrawl her number on the back of my hand in case of an emergency. She knows that my parents are the last people I’d want to call if things go wrong during my forbidden journey outside the ranch – again.
“Are you sure you can handle them on your own?” Sheri asks in a low voice, grimacing toward the gate in the distance. We can hear the faint buzz of voices, the press still here days later, though admittedly the crowd is dwindling as time passes and new headlines steal everyone’s attention. That’s the one thing about Hollywood you can always rely on: the spotlight is forever moving.
“Head down, lips sealed,” I say, pretending to zip my lips shut.
“Okay. I’m off to grab a shower so that I can say I didn’t witness you leave,” says Sheri. She gives me a hug, brushes the straw off her jeans, then heads inside the house.
This is my moment. Blake should be here by now, my parents are wrapped up in another one of their intense conversations, Ruben is pacing the kitchen on a phone call, and Popeye is upstairs in his bedroom with his head in an old western novel – something he has resorted to doing every day as an excuse to stay clear of Dad and Ruben.
I race down the porch steps and sprint toward the gate, fully aware that my every move is being captured on the Harding Estate’s security cameras, but by the time anyone notices, I’ll be out of here. Pointing the remote at the gate, I unlock it and tip my sunglasses down over my eyes.
And then I brace, brace, brace.
“MILA, HOW IS YOUR RELATIONSHIPWITH YOUR FATHER?”
I hug my arms around myself, arrange my features into a nondescript expression and force my way through. Cameras flash and the shuttering of lenses drills into me.
“ARE YOUR PARENTS CONSIDERING A DIVORCE?”
Bodies close in around me. I can see Blake’s truck idling down the street, waiting. My path gets blocked by a pap barging in front of me, video camera rolling.
“IS ITTRUE YOU’VE BEEN HERE IN FAIRVIEW FOR THE PASTMONTH?”
Obviously, the press has been prowling around town finding locals willing to dish some dirt. Nice. It’s unsurprising, really. After all, it’s basically public knowledge at this point. But I still don’t give the media the satisfaction of having me confirm it.
“Excuse me,” are the only words that leave my mouth. My tone is polite, but incredibly firm. There are other phrases I wouldn’t mind saying, but I’d like to keep my dignity – and, anyway, Ruben would throttle me if I got caught on video telling the paps to, well, you know.
I only need to reach Blake’s truck, and then he’ll whisk me off to safety. Only twenty yards to go. So close. I just need this menace of a pap to get out of my way. I can barely take another step and I’m starting to feel claustrophobic, like the oxygen around me is being sucked into a vortex.
“Let her through!”
Through the tint of my sunglasses, I see Blake barge his way through the crowd, elbows pointed outward like weapons. He grasps my hand and pulls me with him, forcing his way forward with me close behind him, protected. I bury my face into the back of his T-shirt and trust his guidance, but someone else has grabbed my arm.
“MILA, DO YOU BELIEVE LAURELPEYTON PURSUED YOUR FATHER?” a gruff voice yells into my face, so close to me his camera whacks my shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” I scream, freaking out and shaking my arm in an attempt to loosen his grip.
But his fingernails dig into my skin, making me flinch, and my heart skips a beat in panic and fear. The paparazzi usually respect some kind of boundaries, but after days of no activity at the gate, they are clearly growing desperate.
“HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT YOUR DAD CHEATING ONYOUR MOM?”
“She saiddon’t touch her,” Blake growls, and before I can even register what he’s doing in time to stop him, his fist spirals through the air.
Blake slugs the guy square in the jaw with such force that he stumbles back a few steps and drops his equipment to the floor. Cameras flash at lightning speed, voices erupt, other photographers surge forward to steady their colleague. My mouth hangs open, stunned, as there’s a break in the thickly packed crowd and Blake seizes the opening to haul us both out of here.
