Page 27 of Rough Daddy
An hour later, the brothers have dispersed, Dolores has kicked us all out, and we’re walking down the postcard main street of Wildfire. There's a hardware store, a diner that looks like it hasn't changed since 1955, and a small park with a gazebo where music is floating on the air and it all feels like a Gilmore Girls episode.
The melody swims through my ears and around my heart as I watch couples sway and spin in the little town square.
"Dance with me," I say impulsively, turning to face Beau, hoping a direct request will be hard to deny.
I need to break through this no-touching nonsense before my ovaries melt down.
He freezes. "I don't dance."
He didn’t say no.
"Neither do I. Not really." I step closer, emboldened by the happiness and the way his eyes are tracking my every movement. "But there's music. And we're here. And I want to remember this."
"Tina..." He half moans.
"Please?" I reach for his hands, threading our fingers together, holding my breath to see if he jerks away. He doesn’t. "Just one song."
For a moment, he just stares at our joined hands like they’re a new alien life form landed right here in Wildfire. Then, slowly, he lets me pull him toward the gazebo.
The first touch of his palms at my waist steals my breath. His face looks pained but he's so careful. And when I press closer, close enough that our bodies brush with each movement, something shifts in his expression.
"Jesus," he breathes, and suddenly his hands are firmer, fingertips starting to dig in. He’s guiding me, leading me, holding me like he’s never going to let go.
We move together like we've been doing this for years. His thigh brushes between mine, his hand slides lower on my back, and I forget everything except the heat of his body and the way he's looking at me.
Like I'm his whole world.
"I could get used to this," I whisper, tipping my head back to meet his eyes.
"Yeah?" His voice is barely a rumble. "What else could you get used to?"
You. Everything about you. This life, this town, this feeling of being wanted for who I am, instead of what I represent.
But before I can answer, a camera flashes to my left. Click, click, click in quick succession as a guy heads toward me.
I freeze. Horror washes over me as my trauma response kicks in.
Beau growls, and steps between us. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
He grabs for the camera but the guy steps back. "Hey, it's a free country, mate." British accent. Slicked back hair. Just another creep with a camera who very likely recognizes me. "Just taking some photos of the pretty lady."
Click, click.
"Let's get out of here," I mutter, my heart about to pop through my chest.
Paparazzi are a hazard of having a social following bigger than some rock stars, but this could be anyone. A creep, a wannabe photographer, someone hoping to post photos and tag me for traction and money. Or he could just be some guy, taking photos of his vacation in Wildfire, Michigan.
How am I going to explain my panic to Beau?
"Please?"
The guy raises the camera again. "Come on, beautiful. Don't be shy now. You're too gorgeous not to share with the world. How about a smile for me? Blow a kiss. Those lips are famous—"
“Beau! Let’s go.” I pull at his shoulder as the spinning starts. My therapist said it’s a dissociative fear response. My brain disconnecting from my body as fight or flight kicks in.
Hormones flood my system. This is exactly what I ran from. Being reduced to an object, a collection of assumptions and predatory attention. Being treated like public property.
Click, click, click.
