Waltz This Way (v1.1) Read Free Page A

judge of the show?
    Mel’s breath quickened when a male reporter she vaguely recognized from Hollywood Scoop turned to the crowd, froth but a bead of saliva away from forming in the corners of his mouth, and yelped, “Holy shit! She doesn’t know! Back off, you bunch of piranhas. I got her first!”
    Not to be out-frothed, a salivating blonde from another tabloid show with makeup too harsh for daylight hours gave the Hollywood Scoop guy an elbow to the ribs and jammed a microphone into Mel’s face.
    There was a flash of pity in her overly charcoal-lined eyes, and then she went all viper. “How does it feel to be left for a woman almost half your age? Have you seen this? It was taken by a fan of the show.” She shoved a picture of Stan and Yelena in Mel’s face.
    At some Wisconsin cheese festival. At least that was what the banner said. Holding hands while Stan swallowed Yelena’s lips whole.
    It was clear they’d been caught off guard. Stan’s eyes were wide with surprise in the shot.
    The ground beneath Mel wobbled and shifted, her vision becoming blurry and distorted. Thankfully, her tongue neither wobbled, nor blurred.
    She forced her shoulders to lift in an indifferent shrug. Like it was no big deal Stan was sticking his tongue down Yelena’s throat while experiencing the splendor of aged sharp cheddar. “How does it feel to spend a good portion of your paycheck from Satan on all that per-oxide?”
    The blonde’s eyes narrowed for only a second before she regained her composure. Just as she was gearing up to lob another question at Mel, another reporter shoved the blonde to the side while yet another crowded her up against the building until she almost couldn’t breathe from their close proximity.
    Fighting down a sob of rage, she stooped, hoping to gather the rest of her things and run as far away as she could, but they had her packed too tightly against the building.
    Fuck her antibacterial soap. She grabbed at the important stuff, her wallet and her keys, her fingers scraping the concrete as she did.
    Mel rose, sucking in a harsh breath at the head rush that assaulted her, and in stoic silence, began to push against the cluster of hands holding microphones, her heart crashing out a painful rhythm in her ears.
    Some of the neighboring store owners had begun to gather along the sidewalk, their obvious curiosity stung just as good as any sharp slap across her face. Their whispers made her sad. No one made a move to help her fight her way out of the throng of cutthroats.
    And she’d once thought they were all sort of like neighbors. Like the kind that always had each other’s backs when vulture reporters were breathing down your neck? Nice neighbors, the lot of ’em.
    Definitely not Mr. Rogers approved.
    Biting her lip, while making a conscious choice not to let the scourge of humanity get one single word from her, Mel went at them headfirst, bulldozer style.
    Her yelp was warrior-ish and meant as a warning when she lunged into the crowd, caring little if she stepped on toes.
    Then Tito Ortiz, twelve, and on his way to a brilliant Latin ballroom dancing career if his father would get over the “dancing is for girls” thing and let him, grabbed her hand. “Ms. Mel! Hurry, follow me!” He gave her the last yank she needed to break free. Mel crashed into a cameraman, hissing when their shoulders made hard contact as Tito tugged her to freedom.
    She clung to his sweaty hand, tripping on the edge of the sidewalk while trying to keep up. The distinct crunch of her toe, encased in canvas slip-ons, forced her to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out.
    “I know a shortcut, Ms. Mel! Run faster, they’re catching up!” he yelled, dodging and ducking until they reached an alleyway she was unfamiliar with. Tito stopped short at the end of it, gasping for breath in unison with Mel.
    He took her forearms in his hands and squeezed them. His dark eyes, filled with concern, pierced hers. “You stay