I ignore him and turn to look at BJ. His jaw’s tight, fists clenched, ready to throw down for my honour any day of the week. “Let’s go,” I tell him, but he doesn’t move. Beej glares past me at Calloway and I take his face in my hand, turning it towards me, ignoring the flashes of cameras swirling around us and for a second I don’t care if the Daily Mail runs a piece on us because it’s all bullshit anyway. Everything is. They all go to black. All I can see is him.
