Fresh out of the shower, I tug on a clean pair of fatigues. The material clings to my damp skin as I pull it up. I snick the zipper, and fasten the button, then freeze. A strange noise meets my ears, but it's not coming from inside the apartment.
Click, click, click.
I cross Josephine's bedroom, and look out the window. The fire escape leads to an alley. Other than an array of dumpsters smoldering in the heat, the area is empty.
Click, click, click.
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A car door slams, and yelling ensues. I don't understand the conversation, but I hear Josephine's name a number of times. I sprint from the room, race down the hall, and barrel out of the apartment. Heart pounding, I take the stairs five at a time, using the turns to gain momentum. On the main floor of the townhouse, I burst through the front door, adjusting to the cameras flashing in my face.
"You're all so fucking gullible!"
Josephine is trying to exit the back of a hired car, but she's stumbling so badly, even Cabrera can't stabilize her. Photographers have surrounded the vehicle, and are holding their cameras over their heads to get a shot. One man sits on the ground, trying to get a shot up her sweater. Jo glances down, sneering at the paparazzo.
"Why is your beard so long? You look like an Ewok that got hit by a dump truck," she snaps at him, peeling her lip back in disgust. Her words are slurred, and I can smell the alcohol from here. "When you get a haircut, do they charge you for a bikini wax?"
"Does your family worship the devil, Josephine?" the man asks, snapping pictures of her face. I jog down the steps, shoving cameras aside. "Is that why you're all so famous?"
"Oh, yeah! I love the devil," Jo exclaims, pretending to pump a dick in her mouth. "Every Sunday, I get on my knees, and suck his big, juicy, red—"
I approach her from behind, clamp my hand over her wet lips, and lift her off the ground. Cabrera blocks the reporters from the porch, and I carry Josephine back to the townhouse. She shrieks and flails, but I hold tight, determined to get her somewhere private.
What the hell is going on? I spoke to Jo a little over an hour ago, and she was fine.
"Who's your new conquest, Josephine?" another man asks, aiming his camera around Cabrera's shoulder. A flash goes off, and the lens nicks by brow. "He seems handsy. What will Arthur King think when he sees this?"
I grab the camera, and rip it down. It's attached to the paparazzo's neck by a strap, so the man falls along with his device. He cusses at me, but I power through the remaining photographers. Josephine's kicks are so wild, she clears a path up the stoop. Once we're inside the vacant lobby, Cabrera slams the door behind us, and I set Jo on her feet.
"Fucking hell!" I boom, my breathing hindered by adrenaline. "It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Why are you shitfaced, Josephine?"
The exhausting woman laughs so hard, she loses her balance. I reach for her, but she catches herself just in time, sinking onto the concrete floor. She lays backward, splaying her limbs. The laughter turns into hysteria, and tears slide down her temples, wetting her hair. I kneel beside her with a heavy sigh, trying a gentler tactic.
