Page 70 of Enticing the Enforcer
His lips graze the corner of my mouth, teasing. “That’s the idea.”
When we stepout of the arena, the quiet, sweet bubble we’d built on the ice pops.
“Ingrid! Over here!”
“Give us a smile, Ingrid!”
“Jefferson! What’s it like dating the most famous pop star in the world?”
“Selfie? Please, just one selfie?—”
They’re everywhere–press, fans, cameras, phones held high. It’s a wall of noise and flashing lights, the air thick with the sharp tang of perfume, coffee, and winter air trapped under too many bodies.
The crush closes in fast, microphones thrust forward, cell phones shoving into my face. A pen nearly jabs my cheek. Someone yanks on my sleeve. A camera flash blinds me white.
My heart races, panic rising in my throat. I can barely breathe.
And then Jefferson moves.
His whole body shifts, hard and deliberate. He plants himself in front of me, broad shoulders cutting a path like a shield, arms coming back until he’s wrapped me fully against him. A fortress of muscle and heat. He doesn’t flinch when someone shouts his name, doesn’t even look at the flashing bulbs. He just keeps his focus on me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, low and steady, a sound meant only for me.
The crowd doesn’t stop. “Jefferson! Are you her new boyfriend?”
“Is this for real or just publicity?”
“Ingrid, what about Jake?”
“Back up!” Jefferson snaps, voice rough and commanding, the tone of a man used to being in charge. He tucks me tighter into his side, one hand firm on my hip as if he could haul me straight out of here if he had to. “Give her space.”
But they don’t. They never do.
The flashes keep coming. The questions grow sharper, louder, messier. Everyone’s shouting over one another–“Ingrid, is it true you’re quitting the tour?”“Jefferson, are you sleeping together?”“Ingrid, look over here!”
Hands wave, cameras jab forward, bodies crush closer. My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. The only thing keeping me from unraveling completely is the steady weight of Jefferson’s arm, the way his big frame shields mine, like he’s daring them to try to get through him.
Then it happens.
A man lunges, hand snagging my shirt. There’s a sharpripof fabric, the neckline tearing down my shoulder. My scream catches in my throat.
Jeffersonsnaps.
One second, his arm is wrapped around me, the next he’s exploding forward, shoving the guy so hard he crashes to the ground. His camera cracks against the pavement, the plastic splintering. All around us, the crowd gasps, stumbling back. Jefferson’s voice booms over the chaos, raw and furious: “Anyone else want to fuck with me and my girl?”
For a beat, everything stills–just Jefferson, chest heaving, towering over the swarm, eyes blazing like he’ll take on every single one of them if they so much as breathe wrong in my direction.
The tension is disrupted by the sound of wheels screeching to a stop at the curb, horn blaring. The crowd startles, scattering back like pigeons, because whoever’s behind the wheel clearly has zero concern about mowing them down.
The window cranks open, and Coach Bryant leans out, face red and furious. “Get in the car!”
Jefferson doesn’t hesitate. His big hand closes around mine, and he yanks me with him, cutting a path through the stragglers. The door groans as he shoves me up into the cab, then crams himself in after, shoulders so broad he takes up half the space.
The photographers find their nerve again and rush forward, but Coach slams his foot on the gas. Gravel spits. The truckfishtails once before lurching forward, and the mob disappears behind us.
“Thanks, Coach,” Jefferson says, his arm still locked around me, holding me tight against his side like I might shatter.
I can’t stop shaking. My teeth chatter even though I clamp my jaw shut. I focus on breathing in, breathing out, trying not to tip into full-body tremors.
