“We’re leaving.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Raelynn
Leaving the club isn’t easy. We can’t just march through the crowd and out the front door. Ben coordinates with security before we say our goodbyes to everyone. I barely have a second to hug Leanna before we’re led through the back of the VIP section and down a long hallway that leads to a side door. Even though we’re surrounded on all sides by security, once we’re outside, camera flashes still seep through, blinding me as Ben’s hand grips my waist, keeping me close to him as I lower my head and block my face as much as possible. A bright flash to my left makes me flinch. It’s jarring and disorienting, and my fight-or-flight reflex wants me to run. My heart pounds as I’m directed, redirected, and shuffled along.
Ben lifts me up into a car, the door slams, and silence ensues.
But outside, the world is chaos.
Paparazzi swarm the front of the SUV, snapping photos and trying to get Ben to answer their lightning round of questions.
“Who is she?”
“Ben! Are you dating?”
“What does your ex think about your girlfriend?”
“Ben!”
“What’s her name?”
Security pushes them back, allowing him to get to his driver’s door and fling it open. He slides in and slams it closed, starting the engine in one fell swoop.
I hear him curse under his breath. I know he feels bad about all of this. I want to assure him that everything is okay and I don’t mind, but truthfully, words confound me. I must be in shock. My hands sit perfectly still on my lap as I watch two photographers shove each other while trying to get closer to my window so they can snap more pictures of me.
Of me.
There are video cameras recording too, and I make eye contact with a guy filming. He shouts, “Smile!” and I blink slowly…dazed.
Through it all, Ben is calm and collected. He reaches over and takes my hand, pulling it onto his lap as he starts to drive us away from the club, moving slowly through the horde.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding pained, but I stay silent.
I feel incredibly naive. I knew of Ben’s fame. On campus, I was bombarded by it on all sides all the time, and yet, I had somehow compartmentalized that part of his life as if it would never touch me.
A phone rings and I jump out of my skin. Ben sighs and squeezes my hand before letting it go so he can answer the call through the car’s speaker.
I listen halfheartedly as he speaks with a man who must be on his security team.
“Head straight home,” the man says. “I’m not sure if you were planning to take your friend somewhere else, but not tonight. We didn’t coordinate this well. Had I known you wanted to go out after the game, I could have pulled in more guys. That was reckless to say the least.”
“Right. I apologize. It was a last-minute change. We’ll head back to the house.”
They shift into discussing routes that mean nothing to me. I stare out the window, blinking the remnants of the flashes out of my vision. After they hang up, Ben peers over at me. I can feel him studying my profile, but I’m too busy looking out onto the road, worried about something I can’t quite name.
“Raelynn,” he says, trying to get my attention. “There are a few cars tailing us. Likely paparazzi just wanting to get more photos. My security suggested we head back to my house since it’s secure. No one will make it past the guard house at the front of the neighborhood. If I take you back to your place, I worry about them bothering you.”
Can they just do that?
Follow us like that?
Surely that’s illegal. Surely we have some kind of recourse.
I want to pester him with a thousand questions, but I swallow them down and simply nod so he can turn his attention back to driving. I don’t miss the fact that he constantly checks his rearview mirror or that he drives in the slow lane on the highway, careful at every turn. We’re quiet on the drive, and the anxiety in the air is draining, especially once the initial burst of adrenaline starts to wear off. My limbs feel heavy and weak, and by the time we pull up to his neighborhood, my eyelids are fighting against gravity.
I perk up some when Ben waves to the man stationed in a guard house, and once we drive through the gate and the heavy iron bars close behind us, I see Ben visibly relax. We start to wind through quiet neighborhood streets that look like wide Parisian boulevards. Trees dot the median, placed strategically along a well-manicured running trail. The houses we pass are more like mini resorts sitting on obscenely large lots, and they only get bigger as we continue driving through yet another restrictive gate.
I appreciate how secure it all is. I might have thought it was a little pretentious had I not been with Ben at the club a little while ago. Now, I understand the need.
We eventually pull up to a third and final gate that opens to a private circle drive outside a sprawling two-story stone mansion. Ben’s home. It looks like it was plucked from the French countryside. Symmetrical wings span off to the left and right. Cast stone surrounds a large doorway flanked by ornate bronze lanterns. Despite the sheer size, there’s a tangible charm to it. The pale blue shutters that frame each window and the antique wooden front door are so inviting my mood lifts just a little.
Ben parks near the front door and leaves the car running as he gets out to meet me on the passenger side. The security guard from the other day—the older man with the shaved head and the gun on his hip—greets us at the front door.
Despite the hour, he’s still dressed in a sharp black suit.
He nods in greeting at me before directing his attention to Ben. “I’ll have Nikko take the car around, and we’ll do a perimeter sweep just to confirm all is well.”
Ben thanks him then drops his hand to my lower back, guiding me inside and through the grand foyer. Yet again, I’m swept into a world I never thought I’d inhabit—first the private box at the game, then the VIP section of the club, now Ben’s lavish home. In the center of the marble floor, there’s a circular antique table with a large vase overflowing with flowers. We curve around it and Ben leads me forward into the shallow light of the hallway. We pass dark rooms, and I lament the fact that the dim light doesn’t stretch into them. I can only imagine what each one holds. We walk by a small gallery wall filled with black and white photographs, and as Ben guides me along, I catch a quick peek at two: an old photograph of a couple on their wedding day, and a headshot of a man wearing a military uniform. Ben’s grandfather, I assume—they look so much alike.
“Are you hungry?” he asks me.
I shake my head.
“Thirsty?”
“No.”
We turn another corner and head down another hallway, and the main suite, Ben’s room, unfolds before us. It’s stunning to say the least, a room that should exist solely on vacations, not in real life. Just like out in the hall, the light is dim in here. Two bedside lamps cast a shallow glow over the four-poster bed, topped with crisp white linens that have been thoughtfully turned down. On one side of the room, huge double doors lead out toward a balcony, though Ben walks over and tugs the drapes closed so I can’t see where it leads.
There’s an antique dresser and beautiful modern art on the walls, an intimate seating area with cognac brown leather chairs.