I see him scanning the area, and then he spots me, so I quickly turn on my heel and make for the door.
“Tru, wait!” he calls.
“Piss off!” I yell back.
I see people stopping to stare, and my face instantly flames.
I hear someone call out, “Hey, man, you can’t leave your car there!”
The next thing I know, Jake is in front of me, taking hold of my arms. “Just wait. I’m sorry, Tru. I’m so f**kin’ sorry. Don’t leave. Just hear me out, please.”
“I’m not interested in listening to a bloody thing you have to say!” I yell.
Okay, so maybe I don’t care too much that people are watching us right now. I guess I’m too hurt and angry to care.
I can feel tears welling in my eyes, but I refuse to cry. “I understood you loud and clear.”
“I f**ked up. I panicked and I ran, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. Sorrier than I have ever been in my life.” He shakes his head. Looking down, he blows out a breath. Lifting his head, he meets my eyes. “It’s no excuse, Tru, but I just didn’t know what to say or do. I couldn’t think straight. I’m so sorry, baby.”
“Don’t call me that!” I cry at him, his words touching a raw nerve in me. “I’m not your f**kin’ baby!”
“Yes, you are.” His tone is so low, so intense, that all I can do is stare at him. “You will always be mine, Tru. Always.”
“Hey, man, didn’t you hear me? I said you can’t just leave your car there!”
I tear my gaze away from Jake to see an airport employee walking toward us. Young guy, early twenties.
He eyes Jake, stopping in his tracks. “Hey, aren’t you…Jake Wethers?” he squints at Jake. “Holy f**k—you are! It’s you! Hey, it’s Jake Wethers!” he exclaims, gesturing to the people around, bringing all of their attention to us.
We’re out here alone, without Dave and Ben, surrounded by about twenty people who now recognise Jake.
Fuck.
I feel Jake tense, his grip tightening on my arms. He moves his eyes from me and says to the guy, “I’m not him.”
“You are,” he says, stepping closer. “I’d recognise you anywhere! Been to all your shows, man. Got all your albums. I’m one of your biggest fans! Fuckin’ love your music! Holy f**k, I can’t believe you’re here! Wait ’til Marie hears this! My girlfriend—she loves you almost as much as I do! When Jonny died, she cried for weeks. Oh man, I gotta get your autograph and a picture.” He starts moving closer, reaching into his pocket.
I can’t believe we’re in the middle of an argument and some überenthusiastic Jake fan wants an autograph and picture.
I hear the murmuring voices of the people around us, the excitement lifting their tones, and my heart starts to beat uneasily.
We’re going to get mobbed.
“We’re going now,” Jake orders in a quiet but firm voice, staring down at me.
I nod once, and then Jake grabs hold of my hand. As quick as lightning, we’re moving toward his car.
I hear people following us, voices calling.
“Don’t go, man!”
“Sign my T-shirt!”
“Can I get a picture with you?”
“Let me give you my number!”
Jake opens the passenger door and all but shoves me inside, closing it firmly behind me. I watch, uneasy, as he tries to manoeuvre his way to the driver side as people grab at him. Jake shoves people out of the way, the crowd suddenly much thicker than before.
Even if Jake wanted to stop and do autographs, the people are way too excited now, and there are way too many of them to control.
A person is rational. People are just plain crazy.
I’m scared and shaking at the crowding around the car, trapping me in.
Then Jake’s in the car. He revs the engine loudly in warning and pulls the car forward, getting us out of there.
Still trembling, I watch him make a call. He doesn’t put it on speaker but drives while on his phone. He never does that.
“There was an incident at LAX…I’ll tell you later…no, we got mobbed…yeah, we were arguing, people heard. It’ll make the news for sure, clean it up best you can…she’s fine, we’re both fine…no, I’m not being followed…I’m heading home right now…okay.” He hangs up. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“Don’t run like that ever again. I know you’re pissed with me right now, but it was a stupid thing to do.”
Anger flashes through me. I let out a sharp laugh, turning in my seat to him. “Are you f**king kidding?”
“Do I look like I’m f**kin’ kidding?” The look he gives me is harsh enough to make me shrink in my seat. “You could have gotten hurt out there,” he says in a low voice. I’m not sure, but I think I see a shudder run through him.
Then I get angry again.
I wouldn’t have even been at the airport if he hadn’t pulled a Houdini on me. This is all his bloody fault!
I shoot him a look of disgust. “Like you would even care. This is all your fault!”
One hand on the steering wheel, he turns his head, firing such a weighted look at me that I fear I may splinter into tiny pieces under the force of it. “You think I wouldn’t care if something happened to you?” His jaw is gripped tight.
I give him a hard stare back and shake my head no.