Anyone But You

Chapter 3

We raced to the bathroom but when we got there, a 'Do Not Enter' sign was blocking the entrance.

"Can we come in?" Jack asked the woman inside.

She looked up at us and shook her head. "Rather don't." She looked particularly frazzled. "Not until I've cleaned up the vomit. Party seems to be starting early today," she said sarcastically. God, I felt sorry for her.

"Where can we go?" Jack asked, tightening his grip on my hand and me not letting go of it, even though in the back of my mind, I knew I probably should. 

She pointed down the passage. "You can use the toilet at the end of the passage. No one goes there anymore."

"Thanks," he replied and started turning away again, but before we could leave, her voice stopped us.

"Hey, wait!" She had a high-pitched excited tone in her voice now, a far cry from the one she'd had a few moments ago. We turned. "Aren't you Jack Emory?" she asked, her cheeks going a bright shade of red.

Jack took a step closer to her and I rolled my eyes before I even knew I was doing it.

"I am." He said that in a smooth, velvety voice and my eyes did flick flacks.

"Oh my God! Oh My God!" She practically jumped at him now and I couldn't help the long, loud exasperated moan that came out of my mouth.

"I love you. I watch you every night on TV." She looked like she was going to melt into the floor now; a pathetic puddle of raging female hormones.

"Why, thank you," he said in very sotto tones. God, he was an asshole. Did he really need to flirt with every single woman on the planet? Could he not have one conversation that wasn't smeared with sexual innuendos? Was that so hard?

"Please can I have a selfie with you? My friends will never believe me," she gushed, and now I just groaned. I let go of his hand as he squished his face up close to hers and flashed that toothy, too-white smile of his that looked so perfect; as if it had been sculptured by Michelangelo himself.

She clicked the phone, swooned some more and then he gave her an autograph too for good measure. When he was done charming the pants off her, he took me by the hand again and marched me down the corridor. I sighed, loudly.

"What?" he asked innocently as we walked. "Have to keep the fans happy."

"Not too happy. I hope," I said with a strange tone in my voice I hardly recognized.

He laughed. "You know, without you in my life, there's no one around to criticize me."

"I bet," I replied, thinking about how everybody in his life probably pandered to him and told him exactly what he wanted to hear all day.

"It's rather refreshing," he said, as we passed the kitchen.

"Don't get used to it." I looked into the kitchen; busy-looking chefs and waiters were putting the final touches on the plates of food that were about to go out. The wedding coordinator looked stressed, talking into her earpiece frantically. I didn't blame her. My sister was a real bridezilla.

We finally reached the bathroom at the end of the passage and Jack pushed the door open and flicked the lights on. "Here, come inside." He held the door open for me and I reluctantly walked inside. Honestly, I didn't really want to be in a bathroom with Jack bloody selfie-taking, fan-flirting Emory. I looked around. I could see why no one used this toilet. The entire place looked like it was getting married. The actual toilet was covered–cistern to bowl–in a white crocheted doily. The vanity had a little white, tulle curtain underneath it hiding the pipes. This must be the unrenovated part of the venue. The forgotten bathroom that had never gotten a make-over.