Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
A short olive-skinned guy is next. He approaches Maximoff with an armful of Superheroes & Scones paraphernalia. Maximoff pops the cap to a Sharpie—the lights go out.
Darkness cloaks the conference room. Power cutting, voices blaring in my ear. Fans shouting, “What happened?!”
I block out every distraction, every possible threat or what if in the pitch-black, and I move urgently.
“Maximoff.” I seize his waist and direct him towards an exit. SFO marked Ballroom E as a “safe area” in case these situations occur.
We can’t see two feet in front of us, but I whip out my cellphone like a few other people and point my camera light.
“Jane.” Maximoff tries to turn back around.
My hand cuffs his forearm tightly. “She has two bodyguards. Don’t stop in the crowds.”
There are five jaw-droppingly famous celebrities to one thousand adoring and semi-crazed fans. The lights could switch on or he could get stabbed in the dark. We’re not sticking around to find out which.
A tour organizer uses a microphone to speak. “We’ll have this all figured out soon. Please, stay calm and stay where you are.”
“They’re leaving!” a fan shouts, riling some people to chase after the celebrities and catch them before they go. Maximoff and I move assuredly in the dark, step-for-step, and I touch my earpiece as Akara speaks.
“Technicians are looking at the power. The entire first floor of the hotel is dark,” Akara informs us. “Lights won’t return for at least another five minutes.”
“Still go to Ballroom E,” Thatcher orders.
We push through a double-door exit, and sure enough, it’s dark everywhere. Phone lights swing back and forth. I’d say that I guide Maximoff, but I’m sure he’d tell everyone that he’s guiding me.
“MAXIMOFF!”
That’s a fan.
I can’t see the person, but it sounded like a “wait up” wail.
“Take one picture with me, please?! I didn’t get one!” Hands are about to grab onto his shirt. I slip behind him and cut people off.
“Move,” I tell Maximoff.
He’s stopped to speak to them, and he’s hesitating. Because he would genuinely place giving a fan a picture above his safety. Knowing it’d make their day, their month, year, or eternal existence.
Lucky for him, I don’t give a shit.
I only care about his life.
“Maximoff,” I say through my teeth. “Move. Or I’ll drag you—” There we go.
He faces forward, our strides lengthy and hurried. “I could’ve taken one picture.”
“No, you couldn’t.” I fixate on two guys ahead of us. They beam their phone lights on Maximoff. He shields the brightness with his hand.
“Hey, that’s Maximoff!”
I step in front of him while we walk. “You can see him later,” I tell the guys casually, but their lights have already created a giant spotlight on Maximoff.
“Maximoff!!” too many people scream and they’re running towards him.
We’re still far from Ballroom E. “Three-o’clock, there’s a bathroom,” I say to Maximoff and lead him by the shoulder—someone grips his shirt.
I shove the person back, and the fabric rips.
And that’s when the sheer amount of people dawn on me. We may as well be at a concert venue, and he may as well be a singer stuck in the pit. Almost a hundred bodies swarm us.
All wanting close. All wanting to say they “touched” Maximoff Hale. All happening at one time.
In the dark.
I physically pry hands off his shirt, his biceps, and he pushes forward. When I tear off one more set of hands, he breaks through and sprints to the bathroom.
I’m right behind him.
I shut and lock the door. They bang and shout. No lights, still.
“Maximoff.” I redirect my phone light on his body for a split-second. He’s clutching the sink edge. Slightly hunched forward, abnormal for him.
I can’t focus on him yet. It’s killing me not to.
I click my mic and swing the light to the entire bathroom. I kick open stall doors. Empty, empty. “Farrow to Omega, we’re not making it to Ballroom E.” Empty, empty, empty, empty. This is a girl’s bathroom, about twelve stalls.
Empty, empty.
Outside, fans start chanting, “Maximoff! Maximoff! Maximoff Hale! Maximoff! Maximoff! Maximoff Hale!”
Empty, empty, empty. I click my mic. “We’re in a secured bathroom.” I run to Maximoff in two strides, and I shine my light on him. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes are tightened close, jaw clenched. And he swallows hard.
He’s in pain.
My stomach backflips. “Maximoff—”
“Where’s Jane, Sulli, Beckett—are they okay?” He opens his eyes, only severe worry in them.
I click my mic. “Farrow to Omega, where’s everyone?” I listen to their replies and examine his build, easily noticing the bone popped out of his shoulder socket.
“Farrow,” he prods for the answer.
“Sulli and Beckett are in Ballroom E, safe. Crowds cut off Jane, but Thatcher and Quinn took her outside. She’s safe in a cab.” I gesture him to turn towards me. “Let me see your shoulder.”
He says, “I’m fine.” He wants to be.
“You’re not fine.”
People must’ve grabbed his shoulder and held on, pulling back while he moved forward. I should’ve shoved them off faster.