Page 27 of Sing For Me

She narrows her eyes. “I can get you through a press line-up in sixty seconds flat if I need to,” she snaps. “But that’s not thepoint.”

We’re almost to the front of the line, which means the time for making a decision is at hand. I can either ask the driver to get the hell out of here, or I can get this over with. Marissadoeshave mad skills when it comes to dealing with the press. I don’t have to approach the fans. I can give a few waves, pose for a few pictures, and hurry inside.

I steel myself, determined. “We can do this.”

She studies me, her expression filled with apprehension. Maybe she sees some of my determination reflected in my face, though, because she straightens suddenly, getting into game mode.

“You have any problems, you just signal me and I’ll get you inside immediately.”

I nod, heart beating madly now, mouth dry. We pull to a complete stop and Marissa reaches for her door handle, swearing softly to herself as she climbs out. I take a last steadying breath, waiting for my door to be opened from the outside. I bend over to run a hand down to my ankle, brushing my fingers over the still-healing tattoo.Calm, I remind myself, picturing the lavender in my mind’s eye.Just be calm.

Of course, touching the tattoo also has me thinking about Will, who apparently decided he didn’t want to use my number after all, because I sure as hell haven’t heard from him in the nearly two weeks since. But I have no time to worry about that now. The driver is opening my door, immediately overwhelming me with the sound from the madness outside.

You’ve got this.

I fix a smile on my face, the camera-ready expression feeling stiff and rusty, as out of practice I am. Then I take a breath and accept the waiting hand of the driver.

As soon as I step out of the car, a rush of noise rises up to meet me. A few feet away, the waiting fans go absolutely nuts. Every photographer in the line turns to me, shocked expressions registering on their faces just before they swing their cameras up and start taking shots.

“Eve!” Reporters call out to me, their voices mixing with the screams of the fans. “Over here!”

I ignore all of it, holding up a hand to wave at the fans who get, somehow, even louder. A few feet away, I hear Marissa barking out instructions to the press coordinator. “Two minutes of pictures,” she says, her tone offering zero room for argument. “She’s not talking to any reporters. No interviews, no shouted questions. Nothing. No trip to the rope line. Pictures and then she’s inside. Got it?”

I take comfort in Marissa’s no-nonsense competence. She really is good at her job. The coordinator nods, speaking into her headset, and Marissa reaches for me. “You’ve got this,” she says, moving me along the carpet to where the reporters and photographers wait.

My face feels numb and I can no longer tell if I’m smiling or not. In fact, most of my body feels numb, all except for my heart, which is pounding painfully in my chest. A flash goes off right in my face and I wince before plastering my pro smile back in place.

The reporters and photographers are shouting questions my way, the overlap of noises making me confused. Bright lights are hot overhead and I can feel my body temperature ticking upwards, a drop of sweat slipping down my back.

An image flashes through my mind without warning. Screams. Strong arms pushing me down. Weight on my chest, cutting off my breath. The air too hot.

I dig my fingernails into the skin of my palm, hard.This is not like that,I remind myself. Out in the blur of photographers, I find Marissa’s face, expecting to see a look of horror there as she realizes what’s happening in my head. Instead I find the same no-nonsense, work-mode expression she’s been wearing since the limo stopped. Apparently my mini-flashback wasn’t obvious even to her.

But I know I’m treading on thin ice right now. If I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself, now is the time to leave.

I nod at Marissa and she snaps into action, muttering into the coordinator’s ear and nudging the woman towards me. I smile towards the photographers and reporters, wave at the fans, and allow the handler to guide me away from the throng.

Curious looks follow me into the hotel lobby as gala attendees recognize me. But the light and the noise aren’t so overwhelming here, and I pull in several long lungfuls of air.

“Well done,” Marissa says, taking the handler’s place at my side. “I’m impressed.”

“Really?” I let out a weak laugh. “I couldn’t even tell if I was still smiling by the end.”

“Muscle memory is a hell of a thing. You looked great.” She watches my face, the way my chest heaves with every rapid breath. I don’t bother trying to hide my nerves now. “You need a minute.” It’s not a question and I don’t argue with her, instead allowing her to grip my elbow to lead me towards a bathroom.

We take a minute in the nearly empty room, Marissa standing in front of me to block any curious eyes so I can run my wrists under the cold water. “Better?”

“Much,” I tell her. “Now I could really use a drink.”

She grins. “That can be arranged.”

I was expecting the cookie cutter charity event set-up, so I’m surprised when we step into the ballroom. The lighting and decor make the space look more like a night club than a stuffy hotel ballroom. Instead of formal dinner seating, high top tables dot the space while waiters circulate with trays of fried shrimp and what looks like mini sliders. Instead of the typical elevator music, a jazz band is set up on the stage, a fifties pin-up styled woman crooning softly into the mic.

“The Ransome family knows how to throw a party,” Marissa mutters next to me. “Is that an ice cream sundae station?”

“I’m going to gain five pounds tonight,” I say, watching a teenaged kid piling crushed candy bars onto a mountain of ice cream. “But liquor first, please.”

But one look at the bar has me grimacing. Apparently, that’s where half the guests have gathered to network. Half of the men, at least. The thought of trying to push my way between all of those tall, broad bodies has me sweating again.