OVER AGAIN

EXPOSED

At 6:00 AM, vans blocked the street, many photographers and nightcrawlers gravitated on Weston's doorstep. The man did not even dare look out the window. Instead, it was on the net, where Weston read how six clichés got his house under siege.

Weston could hear Tilda talking from the living room; he got up from his desk and walked to stand and lean on his bedroom door frame. Tilda sat on his bed, fingers lightly tapping on her lips as she spoke.

"I'll be ready in 15min; no, I don't know how many they are. I can't approach the window." She was right; the paparazzi shot thousands of snaps per second at any moving shadow behind the curtain.

"Okay, I'll be ready," Tilda said and hung up.

"Agent?"

"Yes, she's coming to get me," Tilda got up and walked to where he stood. She grabbed and locked her hands in his while searching to make the man's fleeing stare meet hers, "are you angry?"

"No, it's just I didn't expect them to find out this quick. There are so many photographers outside; I can't even count," Weston replied, freeing one hand to scratch the back of his head.

Until now, Weston lived a discreet life avoiding public exposure, and there he was on the brink of having his routine explode.

Ever since Tilda walked into his existence, that's how he felt. His life, heart, body, and soul exploded because and for this woman. And Weston did not care as long as he had her; it was enough. The vultures could rummage through his dustbins; the man could handle it.

"I'm sorry, Westー."

Tilda had no time to finish, "it's okay, I'm fine, are you okay?" Weston asked, pulling her hair away to see her expression. Her eyes twinkled, displaying both worry and sadness.

Weston noticed how Tilda's humor was fragile like still waters; it rippled by the slightest impact. For some reason, life as a celebrity didn't seem to fit Tilda's personality, talented she was, but something didn't add up.

The doorbell interrupted their embrace, "it must be Theresa. Can you please open for her while I get dressed," Tilda said.

Weston went downstairs to help the woman who barked at the paparazzi.

"Do you know who I am? I'm Theresa Kingsley, Google me, and you'll find I'm known to have cannibalistic behaviors, so don't mess with me," the woman said while adjusting her profile in case someone snapped a shot at her.

There was no lie in her statement. Theresa broke material, fractured arms, bit, and ran over a foot or two to get her celebs out of sticky situations. Not caring less about lawsuits, her motto was: If you're not happy, sue me."

Many did, and they lost their teeth, for she was ruthless. Seeing the gap Weston left open, Theresa ran and squashed herself in while Weston held the door from the photographer's pressure.

"Good lord, aren't they snappy for the morning," Theresa said as she straightened her clothes before looking at Weston.

"Tilda was right; you do have that je ne sais quoi," Theresa added while she twirled her hand in circles in front of Weston's face. "Gosh, you're tall, anyway. Where is she?"

"Hmm, she's upstairsー."

Before he could finish, Theresa was dashing up the stairs, eyes darting everywhere like a ferret.

"Wow, I can't believe I'm standing in Gabriel Saint Clair's apartment, oh don't make that face I forced her to tell me; she didn't betray whatever trust you put have in her," Theresa said as she visited the house as if she was prospecting to rent.