Page 30 of Dedicated
Chapter 22
We were walking along the downtown strip after dinner a few days later when Les bumped his shoulder against mine and leaned in, breath falling warm across my neck as he murmured, “Don’t look now, but we’re being followed.”
“What? Who?” I resisted, just barely, the urge to crane a look around.
“Who do you think? That photographer.”
My hands reflexively balled into fists at my side, but I forced them to relax, forced my shoulders to relax. Forced everything to relax. I couldn’t do jack about my blood pressure, though. It was simmering. “That wasn’t on the list, though, right? Just dinner?”
“Just dinner.” Les nodded, seeming considerably more at ease with this situation than I was. The boundary overstepping annoyed me. For God’s sake, we’d just spent two hours in a booth at an Italian restaurant doing something I was pretty sure the tabloids would call “canoodling.” Touches to the arm, sitting next to each other, gazing deeply into one another’s eyes. I’d drawn the line at kissing because we were in public. In the South, beyond the somewhat protective boundary lines of the bigger cities. And while our publicist from New York might not understand that, Les and I did.
It had actually been kind of fun, though, and we cracked ourselves up at least a handful of times playing our parts. Once when Les leaned in to whisper that I was staring at him so intently he was worried I was about to have a stroke. Another time when he smeared a bit of oregano on his teeth and smiled smarmily, saying, “Kiss me, you fool.” When I shoved my breadstick in his mouth instead, he bobbed his head on it lewdly. I figured that was the picture that would end up online. Then Les had reached under the table and dropped his hand ever so casually on my thigh and I froze up. Reading the tension in my expression, he’d let his hand fall away with one last light squeeze. His features were contemplative, though, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
All of that should have been enough for the photographer, so I wasn’t sure why she was still following us.
Les took his ball cap off and riffled a hand through his hair as I scoured the street beside us, searching for a cab we could duck into and make our escape. Ahead of us, a cluster of girls leaned against a storefront, peering into the glass. They glanced up at us as we closed in on them, then returned to ogling whatever was on the other side of the windowpane. Except one. Her eyes narrowed at the two of us just as I grabbed Les’s elbow and started to cross the street.
“Where are we going?” he asked as we stopped in the center lane while a slow stream of traffic passed. An orange car braked for us, and I nudged Les forward until we hit the curb below a neon sign.
“A wax museum? Feeling the need to be among some fellow stiffs?” he quipped. He’d had more wine than I had at dinner because, well, it was Les, and he spoke with a jaunty smile that told me he was buzzed.
“There’s an entrance fee, and it’s dark inside. Not optimal for photos.” I shoved a twenty-dollar bill at the sleepy-eyed attendant in the booth and pushed inside, dragging Les with me and mentally congratulating myself on my quick thinking.
Les touched the tip of his nose. “Aren’t you clever?”
“Very. You’re just better-looking, which apparently trumps in interviews.”
“And life, really.” He snickered.
“Sad truth.”
The museum was broken into two rooms, and there appeared to be only one other couple wandering through it at this hour, which was exactly what I’d hoped for. It was dark and quiet and there was no one to pay any attention to us. My breaths came easier as we made our way from statue to statue. Dolly Parton, Kenny Chesney, Willie Nelson, George Jones. All the country greats. Tom Cruise. Taylor Swift. Les stopped in front of Dolly Parton, folding his arms over his chest and leaning in to inspect her like he was looking for flaws.
“I swear you’re obsessed with her tits.”
“Nah. She’s got great legs, too.” He gave me a flippant smile as he slung an arm around her shoulders, then pecked her on one waxen cheek.
“You know, if we ever get to meet her, you’re going to embarrass us both.”
Les arched a brow. “Please. If we ever meet her, I’m going to tell her that I can’t think about my childhood without thinking about ‘Yellow Roses’ because my mom used to sing it every night before she put me to bed. And that ‘Coat of Many Colors’ is what made me want to write music.”
My lips parted in quiet disbelief. Fuck him for surprising me with his sudden depth and sincerity. I was trying to think of what I’d say to her when Les glanced backward and said, “Three o’clock.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.” But nope, when I glanced over my shoulder, the chestnut-haired photographer from dinner was making a beeline in our direction, camera already on the rise. I stalked into the next room, looking for an exit, Les laughing as he trailed after me.
“I’m glad this is so funny to you.”
“I don’t get why you’re so pissed about this. Let’s just see what she wants, because she’s clearly after something.”
“A bigger paycheck. And we did our fucking part. She needs to go away.”
I wound around the displays and pawed through the thick curtains that draped the walls of the museum. There had to be an emergency exit, and I didn’t care if it set the alarms off. Maybe the photographer could explain it to the owner. I just wanted to get back to the cabin.
Les hooked me by the elbow, velvet dragging across my face as I was pulled behind a curtain.
“This isn’t an exit,” I protested. We were in some kind of storage niche, and it was creepy as hell. A wall sconce emitting a pitiful amount of light revealed wax statues surrounding us in various states of undress and dismemberment. The headless torso of what I could only assume was Arnold Schwarzenegger flexed behind Les, who looked around with interest.
“She’ll probably assume we found one, though, when she sees we’re not out there. Then she’ll go, too. Easy.” He spoke in a low voice. “Ohhh, Demi Moore. Remember when she was married to Ashton Kutcher? I always thought that was fake, because I’d never have let that woman go. Take my picture with her!” He fumbled in his pocket for his phone.