Despair In The Apartment Lounge

33| she's punched a paparazzi and she's run, run, runnin' away

Song title from:
Knock a door run

01:00 a.m.

"You ready?" I ask coming out of the bathroom, freshened from the smell of margarita and sweat.

Robert had bumped into a couple of people he knew when we were on our way out, so naturally I excused myself to the bathroom so I could avoid any conversation with the new comers. Having a two hour long conversation with someone is all the social energy I'm equipped with for one night.

"Yeah, it's pretty late so, I don't think we have to worry bout the papz."

The way Robert spoke was both calming and humorous for me, his voice always held its deep soothing and gentle tone, but over the course of our time together every time he spoke it would soon be followed by a small chuckle or, depending on what I've said beforehand, a loud roar of laughter. His smiles and laughter was contagious as he made me, and probably every single person he's spoken to; comfortable.

The way he articulated his thoughts and feelings displayed his intelligence. But he was proven wrong of his assumption when just walking a few steps out of the Grand resto, we were both swarmed by flashing lights and constant yelling asking us to look their way, followed by questions about whether we were now dating or whether I was cheating on Harry. We broke up like years ago, so I let out an instinctive laugh at that one.

The number of papz following us weren't that many, well compared to all those red carpets and Hollywood nightclubs lined up with them at least it wasn't. But the proximity of their loud cries and flashing cameras thrusting so near to our faces was overbearingly overwhelming. Almost a decade in this business and never had I undergone this type of intensity, by each step I took I felt I was bound to have a panic attack.

Realizing that I was starting to get left behind by Roberts quite well-trained fast pace walk, I try to imitate his long strides but fail to do so with my 2 inch heels holding me back. Salute to those models that walked the runway last night, they were rocking 4/5 inches and I can't even do 2, I can barely walk steadily without shoes.

With me falling behind, it separated the paparazzi into 2 groups; one following in front of Robert and another group following in front of me, making it much more of a hassle figuring out where Rob was and how far he was from me, aside from the blinding flashes of lights. I'm guessing he's also trying to figure his way to the parking lot, where I've parked my car. Not long after, a large hand trailed itself around my waist, pushing me gently yet firmly forwards. In a panic, I grabbed the hand around my waist and was just about to elbow the paparazzi, well I was guessing, with my free arm. But when I turned my head I was reassured to find it was just Robert, he was trying to help me out of this fucking frenzy.

The moment the paparazzi appeared, I walked with my head down and my gaze on the grey sidewalk, only sneaking a few glances to make sure I knew where I was going. So I probably missed the few seconds it took him to stop in his tracks and wait for me to catch up to him, finally reuniting us and forcing the two groups of paparazzi to merge into one, all of them now following quickly in front of us or by our side.

We were almost at my car, aside from I assume staff cars and my own, the large parking lot was mostly deserted, helping us to easily spot our target.

"All big and famous, but you don't even have your own bodyguard?" I say loud enough just for Robert to hear. His hand was still placed gently on my waist, I could feel the soft leather of his jacket brushing against my shoulder as he let out a laugh muffled by all the chaos around us.

"I could the same to you." He replies just near enough to my ear to send shivers down my spine.

"Woaheee! You guys gonna go home and mess around or something?" A loud and distinctive voice said from our right. The voice was of a Brooklyn accent, an annoying one at that, in addition it was pitchy and sounded like it belonged to a pre-pubescent boy. From the sounds of it, he wasn't standing far from me.