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.”
Avery Woods is the most famous singer in the world. She has a string of hits longer than the list of men she’s supposedly dated. We met at an awards show years ago, but I’ve never even had a conversation with her, despite the rumors.
I don’t want to talk about some singer, though. And I sure as hell don’t want to be told that Layla only wants to sleep with me to win a bet, or as an ego boost for besting a bigger celebrity. I pull her flush against me with a little more force than usual.
Something behind her eyes flares to life. So, that’s how she likes it. Noted.
“Are you sure you want this?” I ask her. “I don’t do anything besides casual.”
She laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not looking for some guy to put a ring on it. I’m at the top of my career right now and having way too much fun. Casual is how I like it.” She rubs her hand up and down my dick through my pants.
I kiss her hard and deep. One of my hands roams her firm, angular body as the other wraps in her hair, pulling her head back. She moans. Yeah, she likes it a little rough—and a lot dirty, I’ll bet. If anyone could get my disinterest to dissolve and carnal pleasure to take over, it should be her.