Authors: Tina Reber
I decided to pass up the leather jacket instead; an easy choice at eighteen hundred euro. I really didn’t need to spend that kind of money; not when I had to replace an expensive bar refrigerator. After all this time, I still couldn’t bring myself to feel comfortable using Ryan’s credit card. While most women would think nothing of spending his money, money that I didn’t earn or that we had pooled together, I could not. It went totally against the grain for me. Maybe if he were here with me I’d feel differently. It would have been something we did together. A twenty-two-hundred-dollar jacket would feel like a gift. But alone, it just felt like I was abusing his generosity.
After about an hour of meandering through the surrounding shops, and with no signs of my two unwanted friends, I headed straight back to the hotel with my meager purchases. No sooner did I reach the first intersection than I spied the two men I was trying to avoid spring up from seats at the outdoor café across the street.
Shit.
I felt the cold sweat break out. They were able to cross in my direction; traffic was hindering me from crossing at my corner.
I stepped closer to a tall man who was dressed very Euro-chic; when he glanced down at me I smiled, hoping to attract a new, safer sort of friend. I practically jogged to keep up with his long strides, but I was determined to stay next to him. The two assholes were a few paces behind me.
Just as I started to feel relieved that the hotel was in sight, a new panic swelled. The front of the hotel was surrounded by a mob-sized crowd. Police were cordoning off the sidewalks as more people continued to gather.
I squeezed my way through the tightly packed crowd, trying to avoid the two creeps following me. When I finally made it to the end of the line, a police officer stopped me, blocking my way to the front doors.
“No, I’m a guest of the hotel. My fiancé is inside.” I tried to keep my voice down and dug into my purse. “My name is Taryn Mitchell. I am engaged to Ryan Christensen.”
My admission was instantly refuted as if I had just told the biggest joke. “
Oui, mademoiselle,
as are all of these women as well!”
I was incensed at being the focus of his ridicule. I frantically searched my tiny purse, only to realize that I never got an ID badge for the event, nor did I have my passport.
“Unless you have proof of your stay, I cannot let you enter. Back away from the gates,
s’il vous plaît
.”
I tried to plead one more time, as this situation was turning dire. Several officers gathered, obviously intrigued by my issue; however, I was quickly dismissed as some delusional fan.
The officer’s tone became harsh. “Mademoiselle, back away. Now! I will not warn you again.”
I tried calling Trish but the call immediately rolled to voice mail. I didn’t have David’s number and calling Ryan was out of the question. Panic and a low-battery light were causing my nerves to twitch.
Mike, please pick up. Why is no one answering their damn phones?
More women were gathering. The crowd was getting unruly and my two hours were just about up. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes were gathered, all jockeying for the best view and spot to get autographs. The closer I got to the door, the less friendly they became, behaving like starving animals protecting their hunting grounds.
I looked over my shoulder to see that the two creepy men were just a few feet away and narrowing. Where the hell could I go? They didn’t appear to be paparazzi, so what the hell did they want? Would they dare try to accost me while here in this thick crowd? Perhaps hold me for ransom, knowing that someone as rich as Ryan could well afford to pay? One stick of a needle filled with a knockout drug and I could find myself being carried out of here only to wake up duct-taped in the trunk of a car. Screaming wouldn’t solve anything in this loud crowd and the police would probably arrest me if I tried to rush past any of these wooden barricades.
I squeezed in between several girls, receiving hostile glances in the process. The creepy man with the bad comb-over hairstyle stared at me like a hungry tiger ready to pounce. His squat face was pockmarked and unshaven and was probably on the first page of France’s Most Wanted List. His tall friend with the newsboy cap was eyeing the police, nervously glancing back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. I needed to put as much distance between us as possible.
Terror clenched my stomach as I saw him raise the black item in his hand. Panicked, I froze. I couldn’t look away. And then he aimed and started to take my picture. I shoved my sunglasses over my eyes and ducked, trying to get closer to the hotel entrance, hiding my face while contorting my body through the narrowest of human passages. Come hell or high water, I was getting back inside that door.
I called Ryan’s cell, only to land in his voice mailbox. Finally someone answered my frustratingly slow international call. “Mike! Oh thank God! I’m out front of the hotel, but they won’t let me back in.”
No sooner did I get the words out when someone touched my shoulder. “Aren’t you Taryn Mitchell?” some young woman asked in a thick French accent. I could see her getting very excited about the prospect. I didn’t know what to do.
“You are, aren’t you? Do you think I could get a photo with you?” she asked with much enthusiasm.
Several other women near her all turned their attention on me and I felt like the mouse that had just been spotted by the starving cats. “Mike! Please come get me. I’m getting—”
“May I have your autograph,
s’il vous plaît
?” Pens, paper, and cameras seemed to appear from out of nowhere.
I tried to back up to get some space between me and the rising commotion, but I accidentally stepped on someone’s foot. I turned to apologize, but the girl was less than forgiving, making her angry point by spouting off and giving me a hard shove.
I muttered a curse and without thinking, I pushed her back, defending myself. I was tired of taking random shit from his fans. After almost a year of enduring snide comments, insults, and threats combined with all the other random bullshit from everyone else who felt I didn’t belong with Ryan, something in me snapped.
That’s when her friends got involved and the shoving match started. Three against one. The girl in the black jacket palmed my face, scraping my sunglasses off. I didn’t know what was more important—defending myself or retrieving the glasses, which were a gift from Ryan.
Someone grabbed my hair and yanked me off balance. One more hard push and gravity and inertia took over. I lost my grip on my small shopping bag.
Blunt-force pain cracked into my side as I clipped the edge of a wooden barricade, knocking a good bit of air out of my lungs. I tried to slow my fall, clawing desperately at the waist of the large male form in front of me. I felt skin tear when my arm scraped over the holster holding his gun.
Next thing I knew I was flat on my stomach with wood tangled around my legs, surrounded by men yelling in words I didn’t understand.
Someone grabbed the back of my jacket and pulled me forward.
I tried to haul myself up on my arms, only to have them fold underneath me as I was pressed flush with the street. A sharp, crushing pain that felt like two hundred pounds of mayhem made my spine crack. Someone’s knee was holding me down. Cinders scraped my cheek like jagged shards of glass when I tried to stop this horrible misunderstanding.
Panic swelled inside me and I screamed for them to stop and listen to me. Instead, a hand knotted into my hair and slammed my face back to the pavement, stunning me into silence.
The coppery taste of blood flooded into my mouth as I was dragged from the ground and placed in the backseat of a car.
Never in a million years would I have guessed that by 11
A.M
. I’d be in handcuffs.
Bruised
I could tell that my bottom lip had been split open. It stung like hell when I drifted my tongue over it, even though a rough scab had already formed to close the wound. The rancid coppery taste that lingered in the back of my mouth was enough to turn my stomach.
The front of my shirt was speckled with brown spots of dried blood.
My entire left cheek ached and I wished I could wipe my face.
The last time I’d felt nearly this battered was when I was sideswiped by an SUV, but my mortification level this time was off the charts. How lucky for me to feel this bad twice in one lifetime. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t fracture the same wrist for the third time.
I stared in a daze at the stacks of paper and files piled on the inspector’s desk, and tried to stifle the spins and the full body tremors, desperately wishing I could rewind the last few hours of my life. This wasn’t just an “oopsy,” this was a monumental fuckup.
I knew I needed to be calm. An attempted explanation that I was shoved unwillingly, instead of their assumption that I actually meant to incite a riot and attack and assault the officer, was also better delivered if I wasn’t babbling through tears. Needless to say, being detained by the police in a foreign country was beyond terrifying.
The scant contents of my small purse were strewn about on the inspector’s desk. He scrutinized my lip gloss as if it were a chemical weapon.
It’s cherry-flavored, asshole.
“I don’t remember the name of my hotel,” I repeated with renewed frustration. “Our travel arrangements were made by Ryan Christensen’s agent. We were driven by a chauffeur to the hotel from the airport. I’m telling you I don’t know.” My last words cracked from my throat as the handcuffs pinched my wrists. “Please, just let me make one phone call so we can clear up my identity.”
My request was ignored.
Tired of looking at his smug face, I glanced up the wall at the large, round clock, snuffling back my tear-induced runny nose. Ryan’s interviews should be over by now. Surely his team ushered him on to the next item on his agenda—the open photo call. I could only imagine how angry he’d be with me once he discovered where I was.
My thoughts were swirling. Would this incident be a deal-breaker for Ryan? Too embarrassed by my getting arrested to want to continue a relationship with me? Heck, if standing on a table to propose to me was enough to incite panic in Marla, what the hell would me getting arrested in Paris do to him?
Once they throw me in a cell, would Ryan be forced to leave for Barcelona tomorrow without me? What choice would he have? I knew nothing about France’s laws or how long I’d be sent to prison. If the lengthy forms the inspector was filling out were any indication, surely that’s where I was headed next.
The inspector continued to toss his false accusations to the point of madness.
“I was
not
reaching for the officer’s gun nor was I attacking him,” I strained with urgency. “Why won’t you believe me?”
My brain kept repeating,
five to ten for assaulting an officer.
God, I should have listened to Ryan. I should have stayed in the fucking hotel when he said no to my request. Waves of remorse were coursing in like the tide, pressing hard on my chest with each surge.
“You have no passport, no identification. You claim your information is at a hotel which you cannot name,” the inspector continued to drone.
Damn, he was irritating. This was the first time I was ever out of the country. I didn’t even think to grab my passport this morning when I changed purses. I almost left with nothing on me, deciding a credit card and lip gloss were my only necessities. I wanted to slap that accent right out of his mouth. I glanced at the antiquated computer sitting on his desk. “My name and signature are on my credit card. And if you don’t believe me, just search my name on the Internet. That ought to give you enough photographic proof.” My glare was definitely a challenge, hoping that a few hundred pictures of me and Ryan would be enough.
The slight smirk on his face indicated he really didn’t care. His callous attitude morphed my sadness into anger.
“Remind me to never come back to Paris if this is the way you treat foreign visitors. Do I have the right to call an attorney, or is that against your laws, too?”
The bastard ignored me and kept writing.
“The paparazzi took plenty of pictures of your officer’s knee in my back. That ought to do wonders for your tourist business once that hits the media.”
Inspector Clueless tore his eyes away from his paperwork long enough to glare at me and snip something under his breath in French. I could tell by the slur in his tone that whatever he said, it wasn’t meant to be pleasant.
My pinched shoulders were starting to ache worse than where I nailed my knee on the macadam. “What happened to the women who assaulted me and stole my shopping bags? Why aren’t they in handcuffs?”
He was still glaring when his telephone rang. I made out the word
interrogé
in his reply.
“Well, it appears that someone has arrived to collect you,” Inspector Jerk-off said.
My heart lodged in my throat, seeing that first glimpse of Ryan being led through the office doors by several men in dark suits, followed by Mike, Trish, David, and Aaron. I had heard his raised voice arguing and insisting to see me and I knew he was going to take one look at me and be livid. My head dipped in shame.
“Taryn? Are you all right?”
Ryan dropped down on his knee next to my chair. His eyes were wide as he took my chin in his fingers, trying to be gentle in his angered state. “Sweetheart, what the hell happened to you?”
Only sputters came out first. “I tried to tell them who I was, but they said I was resisting arrest. My passport . . . I forgot it in our suite.”
I managed to tell Ryan how I was followed, surrounded by fans, shoved over a barricade by angry women, and then dog-piled and slammed by the police.
Shock, concern, and a whole lot of fury crossed Ryan’s face as he assessed my injuries.
The inspector attempted to give his version of the circumstances but Ryan abruptly cut him off. He stepped right up to the edge of the inspector’s desk.
“Four grown men against one woman? She’s like a hundred and twenty pounds, for Christ’s sake! You needed four men to fucking subdue her?”