Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Farrow almost laughs, but we both suddenly grow quiet and serious. Two paparazzi SUVs flank my sides and abruptly cut me off from a right turn.
“Get off Market Street,” Farrow suggests.
“That was my plan.” I speed forty over the limit just to pass the SUVs. But they have a Honda friend ahead of me. The blue Honda slams on its brakes. Causing me to slam on mine.
Fuck.
I’m now boxed in. Like a rat in a trap.
I reach into my cup holder for my sunglasses, but Farrow is already handing me my black Ray Bans. Reminding me that he’s trained for these situations. He slips on a pair of black aviators.
Arms and cameras stick out of paparazzi’s rolled-down windows. I’m forced to drive at their speed, and flashes pierce me from nearly every direction. My sunglasses dim the brightness but not my frustration.
Most days, I coexist with paparazzi fine. I’ll answer their harmless questions, sign their photographs that they then sell on eBay, and we respect one another enough.
Then they pull stunts like this and I question the percentage of decent cameramen to the ones that’d run my family into a ditch for a grand.
“Do you want me to help you?” Farrow asks. “Or would you rather just let them capture photos of you glaring?”
I gesture to the windshield. “There’s nothing left to do.”
“I’m not Declan.” Farrow unbuckles, and he leans over the middle console. Towards me. My breath cages in my lungs, and I watch his arm slide across the back of my seat. With his other hand, he slams the heel of his palm on the wheel’s horn.
Blaring into the morning sky.
He extends his body even more over me. While I drive, he’s careful not to block my vision of the road, but I’m more concentrated on the fact that his shoulder brushes up against my chest. And one of his knees sits between my legs.
Farrow rolls down the driver’s side window. He turns his head, just slightly, our faces literally a breath away. Focusing on the paparazzi, he yells, “Tell the Honda to drive off or I’ll shutter Maximoff’s windows!” Shutter, meaning he’ll tape up sheets to block their money-shots.
The cameraman says, “One more minute! Get out of the way!” He makes a shoo motion to Farrow.
“Hey! Now or never,” Farrow threatens, his tone so caustic that I’m not surprised when the cameraman disappears inside his SUV. Moments later, the Honda takes a left.
Freeing the road.
Freeing us.
I speed off as quickly as I can. Declan never had that kind of affect on paparazzi. It stuns me silent for a minute.
Farrow eases back in his seat, and I roll up the window. He picks up his papers, and I glance at him, then the road, then back to him.
He arches his brows. “Want to say something?”
“Where’d you learn that?”
Farrow snaps his seatbelt locked. “When you’re the bodyguard to the most famous woman in the world, you can’t be a passive bystander.”
My mom.
My mom is the most famous woman in the world. She’s the reason her sisters are famous. The reason I’m famous.
The reason we’re all famous.
Lily Calloway is the origin to the public scrutiny, the media harassment, the paparazzi invasion in Philadelphia of all cities—but it’s not her fault.
It’s never her fault.
I wish I could say our fame derived from a pure act of love, of kindness, of rainbows or motherfucking magic—something other than what actually happened.
But it was a scandal. Years before I was born.
Someone leaked information when she was only twenty-years-old.
Lily Calloway, the heiress of Fizzle soda empire, is a confirmed sex addict. The headline about her addiction rocked the globe. A salacious, shocking headline—that’s all it took. The news caused every Calloway sister to go from rich obscurity to instant notoriety.
Our fame burns. And burns. None of us need to stoke the flames for it to stay lit.
And me—fame is my friend and foe. It’s a part of me. A tangible thing that lives inside of me. This is the only life I’ve ever lived.
It’s the only life I know.
These days, I currently reside with Jane in an old, historic Victorian townhouse that’s just shy of 900 square feet. All hardwood floors. Interior brick walls. And a kitchen so cramped that a third person has to play Indiana Jones and scale the counters to fit.
I’d live a more minimalistic lifestyle if I could. I don’t need much.
And I’d say the three-bedroom, one-bath is extremely modest for someone with my bank account, but I’m well aware that living in Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse-Fitler Historic District isn’t cheap for most people.
I may be obnoxiously wealthy, but I try my best to understand what I have, what I can give, and what others need.
I drive into a three-car garage, which is a real luxury in this Philly area, and I park next to Jane’s baby blue Volkswagen Beetle.