Protection: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Read Free Page A

then I am stepping out on the street in New York. After being in the controlled environment of the TV studio, being on the rain-slicked streets is a welcome change. I suck in a deep breath of humid summer air and smile.
    I’m not alone on the street, far from it. Between the building and the street, there must be a hundred fans waiting with posters and CDs and t-shirts.
    The second I turn toward them a few of them are already shrieking with excitement. Inside, I want to wince and shrink back, memories of my attack too fresh. The Jennifers propel me forward and Brad is whispering smile and I don’t really have a lot of choice in the matter.
    This isn’t the part I like. I like performing. I like recording. I like acting, playing the part. I like getting made up and traveling the world. I like being Elly Parsons, from a distance.
    This part… having to be perfect close up, this is the hard part. But it’s also what creates slavishly devoted fans. It’s not an optional part of the job. And I’m not allowed to act like anything is remotely out of the ordinary.
    So I turn on my mega-watt grin, the one that wins Grammys and gets me minor movie roles and makes my agents and publicists love me. I push forward into the sea of sharpie-waving hands, saying hello and signing autographs and taking selfies. I ignore the way that people snatch at my hair and clothes, so insensitive to the trauma I’ve just endured only days ago. I ignore the fans that smell weird or get so excited that they can barely get a handful of words out when I ask them a question.
    Click, click, click . So many selfies. I’m the queen of fucking selfies, people actually say that about me online.
    Brad taught me that if I take the photo myself, I can control the camera angle, get my best side. Less crappy photos of me online, plus it gives the fans a good experience. They think I want to be in their photos and I make sure I look my best. Win-win!
    Click, click, click .
    “Alright, everyone!” Brad finally shouts after about ten minutes. “Elly has another event to attend! Thanks so much!”
    Is that true ? I wonder. I really, really hope I don’t have another press event right now. I’ve been up since four this morning, doing early radio shows. Yesterday, before everything , I did a record six press junkets.
    Six separate events where reporters streamed by me one after another, all asking the same questions, taking the same photos. Six events where I talk about my new album and tour, and they press me for info on my non-existent dating life. We all get what we want.
    Elly, are you loving life right now? Do you just feel crazy lucky for all this success?
    Elly, anyone special in the picture? Surely you can’t still be single, can you?
    Elly, what’s next after this? What about after the tour?
    Elly, Elly, Elly.
    Until I think my smile is so forced that it might shatter my cheeks. Until I am just totally drained and exhausted and ready to take a couple of aspirin and crawl into my hotel bed and sleep forever. I swear, I don’t mind the press. I just wish someone would ask me something different.
    How come no one ever asks what book I’m reading? I think, making myself smile. Or my position on the nuclear crisis in the Middle East?
    It’s a silly thought, but it perks me right up. It’s fun to have a secret self that few people know about. Keeps me going on the longest of days, being able to distinguish between Elly Parsons from small-town Mississippi , and Elly Parsons the international pop star .
    I actually read a ton, always have. I don’t really put it out there for other people to see, but I usually have some interesting biography or a challenging fiction novel tucked away in my oversized purse, to fill the gaps when I’m riding in cars or waiting for a press event to start.
    Today, it’s Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale ; I sure wish I was curled up in my hotel room, reading about women in that post-apocalyptic world, instead of