Love Unrehearsed
Page 24
You are losing focus on what your job is.” Ryan scoffed. “That’s it. We’re done.” He started to walk away, towing me by the hand, but then stopped abruptly and turned one last time, squaring his shoulders. “Marla . . . you’re fired.”
I gasped from the surprise. So did Marla.
“Ryan, don’t be like this,” she continued, trotting behind us as Ryan picked up our pace. “David?” she called out, looking for help.
“Ryan, you don’t want to do that. Not in the middle of a press tour,” David rebuked.
“Come on, pal. You need to relax. Come with me. Let’s take a walk and cool down. Nobody’s getting fired.”
Ryan pushed David’s hand away. Mike immediately stepped in, making a hole between Ryan and his manager.
“I don’t believe this! Who calls the shots around here—me or you? Or am I just your pawn? I meant what I said. She’s fired. And you . . .” Ryan pointed at David’s face. “Shit changes— now— or you’re next. You’re on my payroll, remember? You work for me. Don’t you ever forget that.”
David was treading lightly. “You’re under contract with her firm, Ryan.”
“Then do your goddamned job and get me out of it.”
A few cars came screeching to a halt at the end of the road. Paparazzi sprinted from their open doors.
Ryan cursed under his breath. “Taryn, let’s go. Dad, take Mom back to the car—now,” he barked. I rushed toward the open car door with Ryan’s hand on the small of my back.
“Ryan,” Marla breathed out condescendingly.
“Go home, Marla,” he instructed as he held my door. “You don’t work for me anymore.”
Paparazzi swarmed our car on both sides, taking picture after picture. We both shielded our faces, blocking their intruding flashes as best as we could.
“Let’s go! Drive!” Ryan ordered. Paparazzi continued to run alongside our car as we slowly rolled away; they shouted out our names, hoping we’d actually look at them.
My heart was racing frantically. This was like a scene right out of a bad thriller movie with zombies and high-speed car chases. It was a relief when we were back out on the street.
With traffic, it took almost twenty minutes to drive back to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.
Ryan squeezed and kissed my hand as I tried to get him to calm down and focus, thanking him for loving me and apologizing in between. My poor man was spun up and in worse shape than I was and it was time for him to put his game face on. Our car was pulling up to the curb.
This is it. Go time. I have never been this nervous in all my life.
Ryan left out a long, laborious breath, locking his eyes on mine. “Remember what I said. Eyes and ears open. Ready?” As soon as Ryan’s foot hit the sidewalk, fans started screaming. I froze from the shock of hearing the deafening volume coming from the crowd. Ryan waved quickly, fastened the button on his jacket, and then turned back to my open door to give me his hand.
Holy shit.
There are no words, no preparations that could ever be instructed, for what I was experiencing at that very moment.
Thousands of people, like a thrashing sea of undulating bodies, were screaming, packed in tightly behind the barricades that barely held them back. Many of them were waving posters, books, and pictures for Ryan to sign, shrieking at the top of their lungs to get his attention.
The words “frantic mob” and “oh my God, I’m going to die” quickly came to mind.
No wonder Ryan panicked earlier. Having so many people in such close proximity, shrieking for your attention, was ten steps beyond terrifying. I feared that at any moment the dam could give way, allowing the horde to breach our small plot of land and stampede us to death. I started to shake. My first survival instinct clicked in and I found myself desperately searching the rolling red carpet for all possible exits.
There were so many others inside the confines of the barriers, wandering, looking, it was confusing and overwhelming. Huge movie posters for Reparation were standing like statues, towering overhead.
A few people were speaking into Ryan’s ear already, instructing him where to go and leading him forward. Hand in hand, we took our first steps, forever protected by our faithful bodyguard, Mike Murphy.
Photographers lined the other barriers, pushing, flashing, and yelling for us. Not only did they have expensive cameras, but I noticed there were quite a few with laptops as well, beaming the first pictures of us instantly to their tabloid and press feeds.
Trish hurried to Ryan’s side. “I just received a call from Marla . . . she said I’m supposed to leave? I . . . I don’t understand.” Her eyes toggled back and forth between Ry-an’s face and questioning the cell she held in her hand.
I gasped from the surprise. So did Marla.
“Ryan, don’t be like this,” she continued, trotting behind us as Ryan picked up our pace. “David?” she called out, looking for help.
“Ryan, you don’t want to do that. Not in the middle of a press tour,” David rebuked.
“Come on, pal. You need to relax. Come with me. Let’s take a walk and cool down. Nobody’s getting fired.”
Ryan pushed David’s hand away. Mike immediately stepped in, making a hole between Ryan and his manager.
“I don’t believe this! Who calls the shots around here—me or you? Or am I just your pawn? I meant what I said. She’s fired. And you . . .” Ryan pointed at David’s face. “Shit changes— now— or you’re next. You’re on my payroll, remember? You work for me. Don’t you ever forget that.”
David was treading lightly. “You’re under contract with her firm, Ryan.”
“Then do your goddamned job and get me out of it.”
A few cars came screeching to a halt at the end of the road. Paparazzi sprinted from their open doors.
Ryan cursed under his breath. “Taryn, let’s go. Dad, take Mom back to the car—now,” he barked. I rushed toward the open car door with Ryan’s hand on the small of my back.
“Ryan,” Marla breathed out condescendingly.
“Go home, Marla,” he instructed as he held my door. “You don’t work for me anymore.”
Paparazzi swarmed our car on both sides, taking picture after picture. We both shielded our faces, blocking their intruding flashes as best as we could.
“Let’s go! Drive!” Ryan ordered. Paparazzi continued to run alongside our car as we slowly rolled away; they shouted out our names, hoping we’d actually look at them.
My heart was racing frantically. This was like a scene right out of a bad thriller movie with zombies and high-speed car chases. It was a relief when we were back out on the street.
With traffic, it took almost twenty minutes to drive back to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.
Ryan squeezed and kissed my hand as I tried to get him to calm down and focus, thanking him for loving me and apologizing in between. My poor man was spun up and in worse shape than I was and it was time for him to put his game face on. Our car was pulling up to the curb.
This is it. Go time. I have never been this nervous in all my life.
Ryan left out a long, laborious breath, locking his eyes on mine. “Remember what I said. Eyes and ears open. Ready?” As soon as Ryan’s foot hit the sidewalk, fans started screaming. I froze from the shock of hearing the deafening volume coming from the crowd. Ryan waved quickly, fastened the button on his jacket, and then turned back to my open door to give me his hand.
Holy shit.
There are no words, no preparations that could ever be instructed, for what I was experiencing at that very moment.
Thousands of people, like a thrashing sea of undulating bodies, were screaming, packed in tightly behind the barricades that barely held them back. Many of them were waving posters, books, and pictures for Ryan to sign, shrieking at the top of their lungs to get his attention.
The words “frantic mob” and “oh my God, I’m going to die” quickly came to mind.
No wonder Ryan panicked earlier. Having so many people in such close proximity, shrieking for your attention, was ten steps beyond terrifying. I feared that at any moment the dam could give way, allowing the horde to breach our small plot of land and stampede us to death. I started to shake. My first survival instinct clicked in and I found myself desperately searching the rolling red carpet for all possible exits.
There were so many others inside the confines of the barriers, wandering, looking, it was confusing and overwhelming. Huge movie posters for Reparation were standing like statues, towering overhead.
A few people were speaking into Ryan’s ear already, instructing him where to go and leading him forward. Hand in hand, we took our first steps, forever protected by our faithful bodyguard, Mike Murphy.
Photographers lined the other barriers, pushing, flashing, and yelling for us. Not only did they have expensive cameras, but I noticed there were quite a few with laptops as well, beaming the first pictures of us instantly to their tabloid and press feeds.
Trish hurried to Ryan’s side. “I just received a call from Marla . . . she said I’m supposed to leave? I . . . I don’t understand.” Her eyes toggled back and forth between Ry-an’s face and questioning the cell she held in her hand.
