Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(5)

That all ended when he turned eighteen. In the time-honored child-star tradition, he made up for lost time with a free flow of women, gambling, drugs, and liquor that ended in wrapping his car around a tree. A long stay in rehab, swearing off drugs, and a starring role in The Wanderers gave him a second chance to rebuild his career. But lately, the edges around his carefully constructed comeback have been fraying.

I shift uncomfortably and pull my hat down lower. Sebastian loves attention, while all I want is to blend into the crowd. My black cap isn’t much of a disguise, but it serves its purpose. It hides my hair and shades my eyes, both of which are the subject of an endless array of articles, memes, and fan-made videos.

A group of girls giggle and point their phones toward us. They’re trying to be subtle, but spotting an iPhone at a thousand paces is a skill I’ve honed over the years. Photos will appear on social media in minutes, and a crowd of fans will arrive soon after. A story will trend in the morning. We frequent this bar because of its exclusivity and no-picture policy, but this shit still happens.

Sebastian remains oblivious to the cameras. “We just finished filming after six gnarly months of freezing our asses off in Canada. You need to relax and enjoy the ride, bro. It doesn’t get better than this. If you don’t want to bang the fangirl, what about Layla?” Sebastian turns his attention away from the starstruck blonde and nods toward a tall brunette across the bar. She makes eye contact, a standout among her almost-as-beautiful friends.

“You can trust her.” Sebastian nods as I eye the famous model. “Her parents don’t want her in the tabloids. She won’t risk losing Daddy’s trust fund.”

Sebastian’s right. Since Layla’s the daughter of a famous billionaire known for his privacy, she knows how to be discreet. I’ve never heard of any drama or scandal attached to her name, which is rare. I tilt my head, and her lips curve into an inviting smile.

I should feel something, but I’m numb, barely interested. I already know it will be like all the others, just another casual fuck with someone who likes me because I’m famous, a bragging point to friends. Regardless of who her daddy is, after we hook up, I’ll spend the next week worrying if it’ll come out in the tabloids. I don’t need any more stories about my technique or the size of my dick, no matter how flattering they are.

I throw back another shot and look at my phone again, at the last message I’d left my… What is she? Long-distance friend sounds weak. She’s so much more.

It may seem fucked up that my best friend—the first person I think of when I wake and the last I text before bed—doesn’t know my real name. But that’s precisely why our relationship works. I never have to worry if she’s friends with me just because I’m a celebrity. She doesn’t go starstruck and get me confused with my character from The Wanderers.

And if I just keep my distance, she won’t get ravaged by trolls, ambushed by paparazzi, splashed over the tabloids. And I won’t have to face the terror of wondering when she’ll get her first death threat. All that happens to any woman who enters my orbit.

My Typewriter Girl exists outside all of that.

We work precisely because of the rules we drew up, like lines in the sand for boundaries.

No real names.

No real-life meetups.

No dick pics. (That was her rule.)

But those lines can erode with time.

Too often lately, I find myself just as I am tonight, wondering where she is, who she’s with, and fighting the overwhelming urge to tell her the truth, to hell with the consequences.

But I can’t do that to anyone who hasn’t signed on for my kind of crazy. If I really care about her—and I do—I need to stay the hell away.

As much as I hate to admit it, Sebastian is right.

I need perspective. I need to get laid.

Using the intense stare I’ve perfected in The Wanderers, I make eye contact with the model. It’s a mask I put on for photographers and fans—and women in clubs, apparently.

Layla responds with her own sexy, come-hither stare. I’d be willing to bet also perfected for the cameras. We could film a perfume advertisement on our way to the bedroom.

She does a hair toss and laughs with her friends, looking back at me with a flirtatious glance. She’s putting on a show, but it’s a good one.

“Why the hell not?” I say, as much to Sebastian as to myself.

I’m overanalyzing. It’s been too long since I accepted one of the invitations that’s thrown at me like so much confetti.

One last shot for good measure, and my world is hazy around the edges. Her smile glitters in the dark, smoky room in a silent invitation.

“Finally!” Sebastian laughs, patting me hard on the back and shoving me in her direction.

She propositions me within five minutes, and then it’s all about logistics. Not romantic, but necessary.

Avoiding the paps involves evasions worthy of secret agents, but we make it to my place undetected.

She follows me to my bedroom and strips before me, her body tanned, sleek, and clad in black lace. There’s nothing soft about her.

“My friends bet me I couldn’t sleep with you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“You turned down Avery Woods,” she says with a shrug. “No one turns her down. We thought you were gay. Or secretly dating someone else.”