“I left a bottle of champagne and a double chocolate fudge brownie cupcake in your fridge before I left because I knew you would never buy something special for yourself. You can toast your nanna while you read the letter.”
“How did you get into my house?”
“The key you hide in your flowerpot. You really do need a better hiding spot.”
I laugh and say goodbye, digging into my bag for my key. Once inside, I flick on every light to make the dark old house feel more cheerful, though the emptiness still echoes across my soul.
CHAPTER 3
Chase
She stands before me, her body trembling, breath coming in gasps.
My female fans do that, responding to me as if they’re in the throes of sex, even when all I’ve done is glance their way.
“She’s hot and begging for it.” Sebastian Blake, my costar from The Wanderers, nods toward the hyperventilating girl.
Her large blue eyes widen at having two of Hollywood’s hottest stars focusing on her. I turn away, fearing she might pass out if I keep watching.
“Not interested,” I say and down the shot in front of me.
The shots have been arriving all night, though I haven’t ordered any of them. It’s dangerous. I’ve lost count of the number I’ve tossed back.
Sebastian is right; the girl is pretty. Twentysomething with a good body and a cute face from my quick glance at her. I could ask her to take off all her clothes right here, in this crowded club, and she would. Not that I’d ever do that, but the power of my celebrity unnerves me. I don’t need to make a move to have a willing woman in my bed. But the more willing they are, the less I want them.
There’s only one girl I want to hear from tonight.
What’s she doing now? I wonder. Is she with some guy? Just the thought makes acid churn in my stomach. The years of writing to each other, first in typewritten letters and then in texts, and she’s never mentioned a hookup or a date.
“James, every chick in this place is panting for you, but you’re like a fucking monk. What the hell is the point of all this”—Sebastian gestures around the bar to the women staring at us—“if you don’t enjoy the spoils?”
“Like you do? Not all of us want to whore it up every night,” I say, bored with this conversation. It’s one we’ve had more than once.
“Being a manwhore is underrated,” he slurs, downing another shot of Patrón. “It’s the Hollywood way of life.”
If there’s one thing Sebastian knows, it’s Hollywood. Sebastian’s parents are movie-star royalty, a legacy they passed down to him. Sebastian had his first TV role as a three-year-old, his first movie role at six, and a Disney contract by eight. With his blessed genetics, he’d gone from cute kid to teen heartthrob with zero awkward phases and a perfect reputation.
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.