Fame (Not Like The Movies #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  ***

  Tate

  Mikaela stands before me, tears running down her face. She shakes her head slowly back and forth. “You can’t … you can’t end it like this.”

  I steel my features and gaze into her blue eyes. “You haven’t given me any other choice.”

  Mikaela grabs at my wrist and pulls it to her chest, a rack I’d spent a long time idolising just three short years ago. Madison is almost the same size as her. I stifle the grin that threatens to tug at my lips as I think of her bikini incident the day prior. Despite my chivalrous words, I’d totally tried to look. Of course I did. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Oh yeah.

  The scene.

  My lips press together and I swallow. Mikaela’s skin is cool, so unlike Madison’s sun-warmed body yesterday. “You’ve already done enough.”

  Turn left, walk five steps, freeze.

  “Cut. That’s a wrap. Great job, guys.” Trevor wraps the scene, and I roll my shoulders back.

  Mikaela stills, then dabs at her cheeks. She sometimes takes a moment to come out of a scene—it’s very cool to watch. Madison should check this out. I bet it’d be interesting for her to see this kind of—

  Whoa. Where did that thought come from? I shake my head to try and clear it. The problem is, Madison has been too often on my mind.

  “Here’s a water, Mr Masters.” One of the crew hands me a bottle of icy water, and I unscrew the lid and take a big gulp. It’s so cold it burns as it travels down my throat. “Thanks.”

  “No problems, sir.” He scurries away, and I walk over to Mikaela, who’s also brandishing a bottle of water.

  “So, ready for our second interview session?”

  She touches the bottle of water to her temple and holds it there for a moment. “I’ve got a migraine. Any chance you can handle it alone?”

  Sweat. Somehow, I go from just a mild coat of it to drowning in 0.5 seconds. “I … I don't know. It’s supposed to be a feature on us as a couple, right?”

  Because this is a bad idea. Spending time alone with the girl I already can’t get out of my brain sounds like the mother of all bad ideas.

  “So? Just talk about me a heap. Show her some photos. You’re an actor.” Mikaela flicks her hand as if brushing me off. “Act.”

  “I don't know. I think I’ll just call her and cancel.”

  “Who’s cancelling what now?”

  Janie. I swear, my sister has the gift of being in the right place at the wrong time, on every single occasion.

  “Mikaela’s got a headache, so I’m canning the interview. We can finish it when we do photos tomorrow,” I explain.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can still do the interview this afternoon, and we can add in some stuff with Mikaela tomorrow. After all, what if she has follow-up questions? We don’t have time to add her to the schedule after Thursday. From then on in, you’ll be on set full-time.”

  She’s right. We’re filming to a tight deadline, made even tighter by the volcanic ash cloud. For continuity, we need to get a bulk of the outdoor location shots done in the next week. Otherwise, the light could change too rapidly, and the movie will appear disjointed.

  “Don’t act so hard done by. You have nothing to hide. You didn't sleep with Shade, remember?” Mikaela rolls her eyes.

  Her words are true, but they still hit far too close to the truth for my liking. “I know, I just—maybe it’d be better if you do the interview with me, Janie.” Because after yesterday, I don't trust myself to be left alone with her.

  My sister raises one eyebrow. Yep, it’s a family trait. “Do you have a problem with Madison, Tate?”

  I do.

  A very big problem.

  A very big, hard problem that I’m usually far more in control of.

  “No.” I manage to speak, and she nods.

  “Good. I’ll have security escort her to your room when she arrives.”

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, I’m like a nervous damn housewife. My socks and jocks have been stowed in the bag, ready for housekeeping to take them out to wash. The balcony doors have been opened and shut three times as I decide it’s too hot with just the ocean breeze wafting in, then too stuffy without the fresh air. I have water, sparkling and still, some in the fridge, some on the table, just in case she prefers room temperature.

  I’ve not been this nervous about a chick since high school.

  “Get a grip, Masters,” I mutter, then run a hand through my hair. “You got this.”

  The knock at the door sees me jump, and one of the bottles of water rolls from the table to the carpeted floor below. I curse and pick it up, righting it, then walk over, wrap my fingers around the handle, and pull.

  And there she is.

  Dark hair flows over trim shoulders, covering the top of her white tank. Denim shorts hug the curve of her butt, and white lace-up shoes are a stark contrast to her tanned legs. She’s sexy as all hell.

  My mouth runs dry as I think of all the things I want to do with her, all the ways I want to make her mine, and all of a sudden, I realise I’ve made a mistake. I don't just think this is a very bad idea.

  I know.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Madison

  He’s hotter than the sun. Than the temperature on this stupid island. He opens the door wearing a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and fitted black jeans, and I want to lick every inch of his skin that I can, from the stupid dimple that dents his cheek to those sculpted forearms to other parts of his anatomy not so readily exposed to me right now.

  Damn.

  For just one moment, I forget that I’m crap at my job. I forget that this was supposed to be my wedding day.

  Then those painful reminders come clambering back in like uninvited guests at a party—the kind that are always the last to leave.

  “Hi.” I nod, looking up at him.

  “Hey.” He stands back and gestures toward the apartment behind, and I walk through. It’s beautiful in here, another opulent living area with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the aquamarine ocean beyond. Water bottles dot the table, and I give a wry smile. I bet there’s some in the fridge, too. Just one more display of how the rich and famous have their every whim catered to.

  One thing is noticeably missing from the apartment, however, and as I place my bag down at the table, I whirl back around to study Tate as he closes the door. “Where’s Mikaela?”

  “She …” He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “She had a migraine, so she’s resting in another room. To give us privacy.”

  My eyes widen.

  “For the interview,” he rushes out, and breath streams from my parted lips.

  “Oh.”

  Oh.

  The air thickens. Tate pulls at the collar of his shirt. Does he feel it too?

  “I suggested cancelling, but Janie pointed out that our schedule is jam-packed after the shoot with your photo guy tomorrow, so we need to go ahead.”

  “Got it.” I nod.

  We stare at each other for so long it’s laughable. We’re adults, not lovesick teenagers. I blink and open my bag, retrieving my phone for the interview.

  “Do you want a water?” Tate asks, walking closer.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Wine? Beer?”

  I pin him with my gaze. “Do you really think that’s such a good idea?”

  “Oh.” He smiles sheepishly. “Probably not.”

  “Okay.” I pull out a chair. Tate takes the one farthest from me. “So let’s start at the top. I think we got a lot of the current stuff yesterday, but how did you and Mikaela meet?”

  I hit record on my cell and leave it in the middle of the table to ensure it catches every part of his reply.

  “Well, we met on a lingerie shoot.” Tate launches in to the story of how him and his supermodel girlfriend had to pose in a series of compromising positions together. I make a few notes, but my mind isn’t here—it’s a million islands a
way in Australia, where in three minutes time, I’d be marrying the love of my life—if fate hadn’t intervened.

  As if on cue, my phone dings. I glance down at the screen.

  Mike: In two minutes time, we would have been getting married.

  I curl my hands into fists. What does that even mean? How is that—

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tate says. When I look up, his focus is on the phone. “Is that the guy?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Today was … it would have been …”

  “Ah, shit.” He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “That’s rough, Madison. That’s really rough.”

  I shrug. It’s more than rough. It’s like being run over by a truck, then reversed on. And the truck is carrying a load of designer shoes you’ll never get to wear. “Shit happens, I guess.”

  “Ha.” He laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Talk to me, Madison.”

  I look into his blue eyes and there’s so much understanding there. He’s clarity in the chaos of my world. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like confiding how I feel. What’s really going on inside my head. “I just feel … lost. Like I’ve always been Madison, Mike’s girlfriend. Or Madison, who’s working her way up the rungs on the fashion magazine ladder. Now, I’m Madison, no fixed address. I’m … lost.”

  “Your identity doesn’t have to be tied up in something else,” Tate says.

  His words strike a chord deep within me. “Yeah … I guess before, it really was. So much of me was caught up in being something, or being something for someone, that I haven’t really worked out much about me. Maybe that’s why I feel like a leaf, floating away from shore.”

  He pauses, and licks those pink lips. “You’re a strong woman, Madison.”

  Sitting here, tired and sweaty, my heart still aching whenever I think of Mike, in front of the man voted 2016 Sex God by Entertainment magazine, I feel anything but. “I’m really not. I think I have it together … then I see something like that.” I glance down at the phone.

  Tate shakes his head. “Do you keep a back-up?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “A back-up. Of important things on your phone.”

  “Yes … why?”

  One moment Tate sits there, staring at me, and the next he has my phone. He yanks open the balcony door, and before I can so much as protest, my phone hurtles from his hand out into the endless blue of the ocean in front of him. My heart breaks.

  “Tate!” I shriek. “What the hell?”

  He spins around to face me, his eyes alive with fire. “You were just sitting there, staring at the phone … I hated seeing you like that.”

  “This isn’t some movie.” I push to my feet. “You can’t just throw people’s property away. I need that.”

  “Do you?” He walks toward me, his body hulking over mine. “Because it looks to me like it was pretty toxic.”

  “What about this? Us?” I gesture between us with my hand, my voice tremoring over the word ‘us’. He looks at me with too much intensity, and for a moment I worry he thinks I’m referring to the incredible pull between us. “How am I supposed to record this interview for my piece?”

  “You and I both know this whole thing is a lie,” he growls. One hand jerks out to the chair behind me so our bodies almost touch.

  Up close, the chemistry between us is dangerous. I ache, but I lust for him. I’m mad, but I want him so much.

  Too much.

  A whisper separates our lips when I open my mouth to speak. “What’s the truth about you and Mikaela?”

  “The truth is I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Hot lips crush to mine. Tate’s hand curls around the nape of my neck, pulling my body close to his firm chest. I melt into the kiss, wanting him so much. It’s strange how much my body craves this when it’s still smarting from a Mike-shaped hole.

  I run a hand up Tate’s back, clenching a fist of his shirt in my hand. My leg wraps around his waist as I push closer to him, thrilling in the tingles that shoot through me as I rub up against him like a damn cat on heat.

  I want him so much. I want him. I—

  I’m kissing a guy who’s dating someone else. And until I’ve 100 per cent cleared up my suspicions, I have no business doing this.

  I push at his chest and stagger back. The chair catches my knee and I stumble, my hand flying out to stop my fall. Shaking my head, I catch my breath. “You’re in a relationship.”

  Tate’s hands fly to his hair and he spins, looking out at the never-ending ocean once more.

  When he turns to look at me again, a battle wages across his face before he turns to the white leather lounge. “Sit.” His voice is hoarse, raw. “Please.”

  I shuffle toward the lounge and sit. Outside, the ocean whispers, and a bird calls as it flies around the island.

  Tate settles on the opposite corner of the couch to me, his hands clasped, then unclasped, his body hunched, then straightened. “Things with me … they’re complicated.”

  “Your relationship is fake,” I blurt out.

  Tate’s eyes widen. “What?”

  “It’s fake. I spied a list mentioning it being a charade at Janie’s the other day, and then I saw the way you two were together, and after what happened with us …” I trail off. Could I be wrong?

  “You looked through the papers.” His voice is flat. “Are you going to sell the story?”

  I feel like the smallest insect in the world. I’m a parasite—the kind of media he probably hates. “Initially, I wanted to. My career is in tatters—this is exactly the kind of break that would help.” I pause. Tate won’t meet my eyes. “But these last few days ... you’re the only thing stopping me from drowning.”

  Blue eyes bore into mine, and I don't think—I just do. I reach out my hand and place it on his knee.

  “I … I need the world to think Mikaela and I are a couple. But hearing you say that you know the truth is such a weight lifted from my shoulders.” He swallows. “Because spending time with you is rapidly becoming my undoing.”

  It takes all my self-control not to launch myself at him. Instead, I take my hand back from Tate’s leg and knot my fingers in my lap. “So why the lie?”

  And then Tate tells me the truth about his story. “It started as a way to get roles. Mikaela has—she’s a lesbian. This is off-the-record, of course.” Tate eyes me, and I nod. “Her dad’s a priest, and she can’t come out to him just yet. Not while he’s still in treatment for cancer.”

  I exhale, a long, slow breath. Wow. How intense.

  “So the deal was this: we pretend to date to help raise my profile. Then Janie fell pregnant”—his eyes flash as he says this—“and this role came along. The only catch is the morality clause. Because it’s funded by one of those massive church groups, it’s important to them that the leading man and lady are quite, shall we say, well behaved in real life. Still, it was too good an opportunity for me to pass up. I just want to set my sister and her kid up for life, you know?”

  I nod. I have no idea who the father of Janie’s kid is, but I don't doubt that Tate’s motivation is sincere. “So you’re together just till the movie finishes filming?”

  Tate nods. “Well, almost. Another two months. Then, we can break things up nicely in the media and everyone still gets their pay cheques.”

  I blink. A fake relationship, all for the sake of his sister. If I hadn’t seen the proof myself, I’d say he was making it up. “How long has this been going on?”

  “A year.” He pauses. “And it was all going well, until Shade.”

  I shake my head. “And then me.”

  He inches closer. “You are nothing like her. She was an ex. The video was three years old, but the damage was done. The producers agreed to let me keep the role, so long as I stayed away from any further scandal.”

  It’s an unlikely situation, but I believe him. Still, t
here’s one piece of the equation that doesn't make sense. One piece of the puzzle I can’t seem to make fit. “Why me?”

  Tate looks at me as if I’ve just asked him to sing “Old McDonald Had A Farm” in Japanese. “Pardon?”

  I shrug. “Why me? Was it because I was drunk? Easy? There?”

  He shakes his head. “It was because I saw something in you. You were hurting, but you had fight. You weren’t afraid to stand up and tell me to get the hell out. You have this fire, this bravado, and it’s sexy as all hell.” My insides twist. “But underneath that anger, there was this fragile, beautiful woman I just wanted to protect from all the bad shit in this world. So no, Madison, it wasn’t because you were there.” His gaze turns fierce as he turns his body to face me, and I shudder. “It’s because you were all there was.”

  This time when our lips meet, it’s not fast and furious in the heat of the moment—it’s a kiss fuelled by hunger and intense need, driven by desire. His tongue pushes into my mouth and I meet it with my own, desperate for more. Somehow, each press of his lips against mine, each shift of his body washes away a little of the pain that haunts me, replacing it with fiery lust.

  “Tate,” I groan as his hands skate under the bottom of my tank. His lips kiss along my jaw to my ear, nipping it gently, then suck their way down my neck. I lean back, my body sinking to the couch, and he moves to let my legs up, then positions himself over me, and yes. I want this, now. My back arches, thrusting my body against his, and one hand fists his hair.

  He pulls back, and for a moment I worry I’ve done something wrong, that the desire I have for him isn’t reciprocated. His eyes roam from my face down my body, lingering over my chest. “You’re so fucking hot,” he rasps. His body hulks over mine, and I feel small and feminine and safe all at once. Then his hand traces a path from my lower lip, down to my cleavage, and I shiver. God, do I want this. With every cell in my body.

  Our lips meet again, and Tate’s hand pulls at the straps of my top, freeing my breasts. He runs rough fingers over the white lace of my bra, then lowers his mouth, sucking. The friction of the lace and the heat of his tongue scorch my nipple, and I moan in delight when he moves to the other one to offer its turn.