The Scholar and the Star

Ch. 11: Skyler

My hands struggle to unknot my strangling bowtie as Mitchel's car comes to a screeching halt beside me. The sound echoes through the art center's underground parking garage.

Turning around in alarm, Mitchel is rolling down the passenger side window. His jaw is clenched. His eyes burn right through me.

"Get in the car, Skyler." His voice brooks no argument.

Glaring back, I open the door and drop into the seat, pulling the door shut firmly. "How did you know where I went?"

Mitchel huffs. He puts the car into drive, and we jerk forward. "Figured you'd go to your car, like last time when we ran out of a party."

The car turns sharply up around the bed, following the exit signs.

"So," Mitchel spits out. "I walked the red carpet alone."

I turn to face him and the determined set of his jaw. "What was I supposed to do? You were pushing me out in front of the cameras. I panicked."

The car comes to a dead stop right before the street. Mitchel rolls his eyes at me, one hand clenched on the steering wheel. "You panicked?"

He pulls out into traffic, weaving through the late-night rush. I clutch at the door's armrest, my eyes widening as Mitchel easily handles the car.

"Or did you already get what you needed?" He continues. "I played nice in front of your mother, and that's all that matters."

"That's not it," I insist, my teeth clamped together. Mitchel doesn't respond, changing lanes with barely a look.

"Where are we going?"

"My house," he states. My jaw drops, startled. Mitchel doesn't take his cold eyes off the road. "Since it looks like my date ditched me tonight, at least there can be some photographs of you spending the night."

Frowning, I turn and look out my window. Mitchel's skilled and fast driving keeps my hand tight on the door.

More pictures. Is he going to post us in bed on Instagram or something?

I remain silent throughout the rest of the drive. Mitchel slows down when we enter his neighborhood. Turning on his street, I sit straight up and peer forward.

Over a dozen reporters are stationed in front of his gate or leaning against their cars. They perk up as we approach, more cameras going off as he pulls up to the gate's keypad.

Frowning, I watch them through the tinted windows. Blinding lights flash furiously when Mitchel rolls down his window and enters the code. He doesn't say anything, but it's clear how he will show the world I went home with him tonight.

The gate opens, and we drive through. "Have you changed your PIN yet?" I mutter.

"It's on my to-do list," he returns sharply. The gate swings close, shutting out the cluster of people standing in the driveway. Mitchel parks inside the garage and turns off the engine.

I break the silence first. "Is it always like that? The paparazzi?"

Mitchel blows out a breath and leans his head back against the seat. "The paparazzi are a part of my life, my career. The more I'm in the headlines, the more they're around. At my house, the agency, restaurants, shopping...even going to the dentist. They find me."

Out of the corner of my eye, I study him. That must be suffocating, but he acts as if it's as natural as water.

Doing my best to speak civilly, I tell him, "I would have liked a little notice beforehand...with the reporters. I wasn't expecting it."