Page 32 of Your Rhythm
“Where is Ace now?”
“Who’s this, Matt? Is this your girlfriend?”
“Tell us, Matt!”
I feel like I’m being suffocated, like the walls are pressing in around me. Kay’s backing away, still hiding her face, but for every step she takes the reporters just move closer.
“Back off!” I roar. “You all need to back the fuck off!”
As quickly as the reporters arrived, a team of hotel security steps in and starts herding them towards the door. A tiny guy in a suit behind the huge guards is screaming at them.
“For the last time, this isprivate property!Wewillbe contacting the police!”
I watch, stunned, as the reporters give in and slink away. The suit guy turns around and smoothes his hair, striding towards me and Kay.
“I am so, so sorry for the disturbance.”
He goes into a rambling apology and starts offering me things like a free night’s stay and a late check out for today.
“Yeah, thanks,” I cut in. “That’s great. Just keep those assholes out, please.”
“Absolutely, sir. The authorities are being involved as we speak.”
He heads off and I turn to Kay. She still looks wide-eyed and panicked.
“Does that—Does that happen a lot?” she stammers.
“It’s never happened before,” I answer truthfully. “With fans every now and then sure, but never the press. You okay? You look really freaked out.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” she mutters, glancing around the room like she’s expects more cameras to pop up.
“Kay, it’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal!” she snaps. “Of course it’s a big deal if pictures of us together get leaked. If they see that before my article gets published they’ll know exactly who I am and—”
She cuts herself off.
“And what, Kay? Who’s ‘they’?”
“Look, I have to go. This was a bad idea.” She whirls around to where the guy in a suit is still talking to his security team. “Does this place have a back door?” she demands.
“Absolutely, Miss. I’ll have a security agent see you out. Or I could call you a cab?”
“It’s fine. Just show me the door.”
She doesn’t even look back at me as she goes.
* * *
“So,”JP reaches over to the passenger seat and claps me on the shoulder, “we saw the sock, man.C’était qui?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Pourquoi?” he demands. “Whiskey dick?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it. Just pay attention to the road.”
He shrugs and keeps driving, turning up Les Cowboys Fringants on the stereo. We spend the rest of the ride to Montreal in silence, Ace snoring in the back as he tries to sleep off his hangover. We’re so late we have to go straight to the meeting with Atlas.
