Roomies - Christina Lauren Page 0,78

places me back on my feet and the front of my body drags along the front of his. He’s half-hard for me beneath his dress pants, and it’s almost impossible not to wrap my legs around him and shimmy myself back up.

Just over his shoulder, I catch Brian as he looks away from where we’re tucked into the shadows. I see the tail end of his disgusted sneer, and the expression communicates so much that I feel, for a second, like I’ve been punched.

I can practically hear his voice: You are such a fucking fool, Holland.

I close my eyes, press my face into Calvin’s neck.

This is real. It is.

“I’ll go for a few minutes.” He looks down when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

“It’s Lulu,” I tell him, “asking ‘where the fucking hell’ we are.”

“She’s so demure,” he says, deadpan. “I can’t wait for her to come out of her shell and be more assertive.”

This makes me laugh. “Go sign some autographs and I’ll meet you out front in ten.”

“I don’t want to stay out too long.” He brushes his lips over mine, lingering meaningfully. He shaved this morning but his chin is already rough, and I’m strung like one of his guitar strings—tight and vibrating—knowing how that stubble feels between my thighs.

We’re meeting Lulu only about a block from the theater, at Dutch Fred’s for burgers and drinks, but when I slip out the side door to grab Calvin twenty minutes later, he’s still surrounded by fans, and looks up at me with wild, helpless eyes.

I’ve never seen him look overwhelmed before.

“Sorry, everyone! Five more!” I yell, pretending I have the authority.

But sometimes pretending is all it takes. Calvin signs the last one, and apologizes to the twenty or more people holding their programs. We duck down the alley, escaping via a secret route I use all the time when I don’t want to run into Brian on my way out at the end of the day.

“This way.” I tug his sleeve, and he follows. There are a few puddles we avoid, and the smell down here isn’t exactly fresh, but it will be a quick walk to the bar, and easy to avoid the crowds.

After only a few steps, though, we hear footsteps and I realize . . . people are following us.

I turn to look over my shoulder, and Calvin does the same; it’s a mistake. Cell phone lights flicker blindingly as soon as he shows his face. At least a dozen iPhones are tracking our every move.

I hear him mumble a bewildered “What the fuck?”

“Where did Ramón go?” I ask.

“He left in a car a few minutes before me!”

There’s nowhere for us to go but straight ahead or back into the mob. The alley narrows toward the end, where it makes a ninety-degree turn behind a Chinese restaurant, and from the right side of that building you can shimmy out onto Ninth. Are they going to follow us the entire way?

We start to jog.

“Calvin!” someone cries out, and a few teenage girls scream, and within an instant the moment crumbles into mayhem. The group begins to run after us, and I feel a few bodies pressing up on our heels.

He leads, and I follow, both of us sprinting as fast as we can, shimmying along the grimy wall between the theater and the restaurant before pressing into the narrow space between Ying’s Dumplings and a launderette. A girl reaches past me, catching Calvin’s sleeve and jerking him out of my grasp so she can snap a selfie. I get a glimpse of it—she looks maniacal and he looks terrified; I have no doubt she’ll still post it on every social media account she has.

“Easy,” he says, trying to smile. “I always hit the side door. Every night. Please just come another time.”

They press forward, their hands all over him, and he’s trying to be polite but sweet Jesus I am suddenly furious.

I pull the closest hand off his jacket. “Don’t grab him. Don’t chase us. Come back another night and my husband will sign your program—if you’re calmer.”

The girl apologizes, staring wide-eyed at Calvin’s face. It’s like looking at someone in the height of Beatlemania. I know she isn’t herself. She has that saucer-eyed, on-the-verge-of-tears air about her. But Calvin appears genuinely disturbed; and of course he is. There are at least fifteen girls standing not ten feet away from us, taking pictures of him every few seconds. A few are already crying.

I slide my