“What about her?” Oliver asked sotto voce, inclining his head toward me.
Gabe lifted a shoulder. “It’s up to you.”
“Can we trust her?”
I was ninety-five percent sure that this wasn’t sexual. That five percent, though…
“I don’t know.”
Gabe turned to me.
My throat went dry. Oliver was gorgeous but if I had the choice, I’d choose to be with Gabe. Alone.
“Can we trust you?” Gabe asked me.
Ninety-five percent.
“Yes,” I said.
THE_JAM_DOT_COM.BLOGSPOT.COM
FAILING AT FRIENDSHIP
If there’s one sin that I’d like Hollywood to atone for, it isn’t bolstering the belief in love at first sight or having one true soulmate. It’s in convincing me that the kinds of friendships I saw on the screen were possible in real life.
You know the types of friendships I’m talking about.
The secret-handshake kind of friendship. The watching-movies-snuggled-under-a-blanket, shared-pint-of-ice-cream kind of friendship. The talk-on-the-phone-for-hours-after-already-spending-the-day-together kind of friendship.
The unconditional-love, endless-well-of-support, mutual-kinship kind of friendship.
I’m pretty sure those types of friendships are completely manufactured by Hollywood.
Because if those friendships really exist, I’ve never been part of one.
xoChani
Chapter
14
It took me ten minutes to figure out where we were.
“Is this…are we in a gay club?” I asked.
I blamed the alcohol because it was very obviously a gay club.
We’d bypassed the front of the building, coming in through a side entrance where we were taken immediately to a velvet-roped VIP area just off the main dance floor. The music should have tipped me off—they never played the good pop music at regular clubs.
And then there were all the half-naked men making out around me. The men who weren’t otherwise engaged were eying both my dates equally, but it seemed that only one was eying them back.
I wasn’t sure I could blame the alcohol for my being oblivious to the fact that Oliver was gay. Isabella Barris had clearly been used as a very beautiful red herring tonight, and I’d bought it—hook, line, and sinker.
“We are in a gay club,” Gabe confirmed.
Both he and Oliver had left their jackets somewhere. I imagined that one of the perks of being a celebrity was being able to abandon articles of clothing and knowing they’d be fine. Or just not caring.
The music was so loud that the floor was vibrating.
I didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that I was at a gay club with Gabe Parker and Oliver Matthias. And that both of them knew I was writing an article on Gabe.
“Are you…？” I asked.
“No,” Oliver answered for him. “He’s just a very, very good friend.”
He was leaning over Gabe’s lap, so “very, very good friend” could have had a lot of meanings. Oliver registered my raised eyebrows and quickly clarified.
“He comes here to support me,” he said.
“It’s not a big deal,” Gabe said. “I like the music too.”
Both Oliver and I gave him a look.
He shrugged.
“Do you want Jell-O shots?” he asked. “I think we need some Jell-O shots.”
Unfolding his lanky frame, he got up from the couch and headed to the bar.
“He’s going to get swarmed,” Oliver said.
He wasn’t wrong. Everywhere heads were turning as people noticed who Gabe was. There were quite a few looky-loos slowing down as they reached our section as well.
I felt a twinge of concern. It seemed impossible that news wouldn’t get out.
“Is that a problem?” I asked. “For either of you?”
Oliver looked at me.
“I don’t know,” he said evenly. “Are you going to make it a problem?”
This wasn’t a story. This was the story.
Gabe Parker and Oliver Matthias spending an evening out at a gay club? It would be everywhere.
Right now, I barely had an article. After our interview yesterday, I’d spent an hour in front of my computer trying to find my angle. Trying to find the heart of the story. In the end, all I had was proof that Gabe was exactly as handsome and charming as everyone wanted him to be. It would be great for his career—another fawning, adoring puff piece—and exactly the kind of article that everyone would forget in a couple of days.
I’d written those kinds of pieces before. I was tired of writing them. Tired of seeing my name next to headlines—headlines I never wrote, of course—that read like the same thing over and over and over again.