“Maci!”
We both jumped at the sound of Raph calling my name. I swung my head toward his shout to find him almost running toward me from Mackellar House’s front door.
“Jesus, Maci,” he said, drawing closer. “I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay? I made Horn go back for you but we couldn’t—”
Brendon’s fist smashing against his jaw shut him up and sent him staggering backward.
“You took off and left her, you fucking prick!” Brendon snarled, bearing down on Raph. “What kind of idiot moron does that?”
“What the hell, Osmond?” Raph gaped at Brendon, hand pressed to the side of his mouth. I was horrified to see a little trickle of blood oozing past his fingers. “You hit me. What’s your—”
“Of course I hit you,” Brendon cut him off, storming straight for him again. “You abandoned her to a pack of frenzied paparazzi. Stress like that is the worst thing someone with Parkinson’s can be exposed to. She spent the afternoon in hospital, you privileged, arrogant fuck—”
Four things happened at once. Four horrible things. All in messed-up, terrible slow motion.
One. Raph swung around to stare at me, the stunned confusion on his face giving way to open pity.
Two. Three scruffily dressed men came running at us along the sidewalk, expensive-looking cameras in their hands, all shouting Raph’s name and asking if he was going to sue.
Three. Heather ran up behind Raph, mouth open, agog with shock.
And four. Mr. Horn, still dressed in his somber blue suit, came out of nowhere and slammed shoulder first into Brendon, driving him across the footpath and to the ground.
I flinched when a warm hand wrapped around my wrist.
“What’s he saying?” Raph stood in front of me, concern swimming in his dark eyes as he gazed down at me. “Parkinson’s?”
“Jones!” one of the paparazzi called, shoving the lens of his camera in Raph’s face. “Why’d the big guy punch you? Who is he? Are you sleeping with his girlfriend?”
Raph ignored him, his stare fixed on me.
Heart pounding, I snatched my wrist free of his grip. “I’ve got to go.”
Heather bounded up beside me. “Maci, are you okay?”
“Maci?” the second paparazzo shouted, shoving at the crowd amassing around us in an effort to get closer. “Are you cheating on Jones?”
I turned my stupefied stare—yes, I was shocked into inactivity at this point—to where Brendon and Raph’s bodyguard were trying to beat each other to bloody pulps. I don’t know who was winning, but based on the fact Brendon was steady on his feet and Mr. Horn was lurching about somewhat, I was putting my money on Brendon.
“Maci?” Raph grabbed my wrist again, alarm in his voice. “Do you have Parkinson’s disease? Is that why your hand shakes a lot? Are you sick?”
It was that last question that got me moving. Not the paparazzi hurling insulting questions at us as they photographed every damn second passing. Not Heather gasping at my side. Not the people—my fellow Mackellar House occupants and curious passersby—watching the ridiculous spectacle. Not the sight of Brendon and Mr. Horn punching into each other like rabid grizzlies.
But the last question Raph had asked. And the last word of the last question.
Sick.
I looked up into his worried eyes and yanked my wrist from his fingers. “Yes,” I said, the word flat. Empty. “I’m sick. But don’t worry. It’s not catching.”
And with that, I turned and ran straight for the safety of Mackellar House’s open front door.
Thank freaking God, I made it without falling over.
If that had happened, I really do think I would have curled up in a shaking, trembling, vibrating ball of self-contempt, and died.