Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  Slow down! Get control, my mind begs. But my mouth won’t listen.

  “And then I heard Margo talk to you about dating Elise for publicity, so I thought you might actually be a jerk, but—”

  “Whoa, what?!” Tate interjects. I ignore him, completely at the mercy of the rolling ball that just won’t stop plummeting down the hill.

  “But you’re not a jerk,” I take a deep breath and cough harshly when my breath gets stuck in my throat. “You’re not. We got closer, and I started to care for you and I wanted to stop all this, but I didn’t know how without hurting everyone. It’s been agony these past few weeks, wondering what to do . . .” My hands drop to my sides. I can feel the hot tears silently spilling down my cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m really sorry, Tate. I’m so sorry.”

  I haven’t looked at Tate since I started telling him what happened, and I slowly raise my eyes to meet his. He’s looking over my shoulder, off into the distance, gnawing on his lower lip. He looks mad. Hurt. But still gorgeous. His blonde hair, which had been styled off his forehead and slicked back with gel, is now ruffled and starting to curl over his eyes, as if he had been running his hands through his hair over and over in frustration.

  The seconds tick by slowly, and Tate won’t look at me. I think I see movement in the darkness by the towering fence lining the parking lot, but I keep my eyes glued to Tate’s face. I step forward and gingerly put my hand on his forearm. He doesn’t immediately rip his arm out of my grasp, which I take as a good sign. I encircle my fingers around his wrist and squeeze gently.

  “Tate. Please say something,” I beg. I let my hand trail up his arm and rest on his bicep, pulling myself closer to him. “I should have told you so much sooner. Believe me, this is not the way I wanted you to find out,” I insist as I rest my hand on his shoulder. His arms are hanging limply at his side, so I take another step until our chests are almost touching.

  I slide my hand up so it’s resting in the spot where his neck and shoulder meet. He shivers. I suddenly realize how intimate our stance is. I want to press myself against him. To comfort him, even though my words are causing him pain.

  “Tate.” I say his name in almost a whisper. He finally looks at me, really looks at me. He stares me down while my other hand snakes around his waist and I close the distance between our hips. My entire body is humming with an energy I’ve never experienced before. I can almost see my skin vibrating as Tate finally moves to reciprocate my closeness. He lays his palms flat on my back and presses our chests together, and we are so close that I have to press my forehead into his shoulder.

  I want to kiss him. I want to tangle my hands in his hair and pull. I want him to push me against the fence and kiss me until we are sharing the same breath. He is what I want.

  He belongs with me.

  The thoughts I’ve pushed deep down and the images I’ve refused to let take over my daydreams have finally come to the surface, all at once. Just from Tate’s closeness. That was enough to break the walls I’ve put up to keep everything out. Or to keep everything in. My walls crumble as Tate sighs into my hair and brings his lips close to my ear.

  “I liked you, Dani,” he tells me. “I really did.”

  He steps away, and I feel cold from his absence.

  “Tate,” I choke out as I wrap my arms around myself. He shakes his head slowly and backs away a couple of steps. Our moment is over.

  I’ve lost Tate.

  The few feet of distance he has put between us seem like miles. But I don’t dare close it. I don’t deserve to. So I just stand there and wait for Tate to end everything between us, before we even have a real chance to begin.

  “What kind of person are you?” he asks. “How could you and Elise plot behind my back?” He shakes his head. “How was I such an idiot that I thought my girlfriend and my friend—”

  “Your friend?!” I exclaim in disbelief. I’m still buzzing from our embrace, and there is no way I’m the only one feeling the charge between us. Tate pinches his eyes shut and runs a hand through his hair roughly.

  “I don’t know what we are or what we were or whatever, Dani. I just know that I trusted both of you. I should have broken up with Elise, and, yes, Margo pushed me to stay with her . . .”

  “I know. I overheard your conversation—it was good for your image,” I sneer. Tate glares at me.

  “Don’t act like I’m the asshole,” he says. “You two were the ones who stabbed me in the back!”

  “What the hell is this?!”

  A new voice breaks through the night and Tate and I both turn toward the source of the noise. Elise comes stalking out of the dark parking lot and into the light. Her eyes dart from me, to Tate, and then back to me. She folds her arms over her chest, pops out her hip, and defiantly lifts her chin. She is the perfect image of the beautiful girl who has been wronged. I almost want to laugh—she’s no victim.

  “What are you two doing out here alone? What’s going on?”

  Tate lets out an awkward cough and fixes his gaze on his girlfriend.

  “Elise, enough. Dani just told me everything you guys have been doing. Real nice. Real classy.” His voice is cold. Cold, cold, cold.

  I flinch and open my mouth to tell Tate to back off, but Elise shuts me up with a raise of her hand.

  “Well, I’m sorry if I didn’t trust someone who runs around with my best friend without telling me!”

  “What? Runs around with . . . what are you talking about?”

  “You lied to me for weeks about where you were when you were with Dani! You lied about who you were texting when I knew it was her. You told me you barely knew her, when in reality, you couldn’t stay away from her!”

  I’m dumbfounded as Elise throws accusation after accusation at him. He stares back at her stoically, but I can tell from his raised eyebrows that he was not prepared for Elise’s findings.

  “You lied to Elise about our friendship?” I ask Tate. My heart hammers in my chest.

  “I just didn’t tell her everything,” Tate answers without looking at me. “I didn’t lie.”

  “Really?” Elise says. “You told me last week that you couldn’t come over because you had to shoot late. So imagine my surprise when another friend of mine saw you and a ‘pretty brunette’ rock climbing and ‘hanging all over each other,’” Elise yells. Her voice is stern, but she is quivering with rage. When she makes air quotes with her fingers, I see them shaking. I listen intently, realizing that she never brought up any of this to me. Had she been testing my loyalty, too?

  “And all those times I wanted to have lunch with you on set, and you said you were too busy . . . you were enjoying leisurely dates with Dani in your trailer the whole time!”

  Tate realizes he’s been caught and finally drops his gaze to the ground. Elise then turns toward me.

  “And you,” she says with a shaking finger pointed directly at my heart. “You were falling for my boyfriend and you didn’t tell me. You were trying to steal him away from me! You did this in high school and you are still doing it!”

  I clasp my hands at the front of my chest and press them against my heart. To keep it from breaking, no doubt. I remember Keith doing the same thing at the Freewaves show.

  “Elise, no! No, no, no. I promise it wasn’t like that—”

  “You thought that eventually he would dump me for you?”

  “No! Elise, please listen to me—”

  “Go to hell. Both of you,” she cries as she starts walking backward. “You deserve each other.”

  “Elise, please. Let’s just—”

  She doesn’t stop or even let me finish my sentence. She angrily wipes at her eyes with her still-shaking hands and then turns away from us. I watch her walk back to the door to the kitchen with her head bowed.

  Elise is anything but innocent in all this, but I still feel like shit. I wearily turn back toward Tate, wh
o is watching something over my shoulder with wide eyes. I turn and follow his gaze.

  My heart stops.

  At least four paparazzi are approaching us with massive cameras that are clicking like crazy. I don’t know how long they have been standing there or what they heard, but I know that at the very least they have a shot of me and Tate together in a dimly lit parking lot, and of Elise crying. And with his media history, I know exactly how these photos will look once they are run with misleading captions and completely untrue source reports.

  “Shit,” Tate swears under his breath. I step in front of Tate, trying to shield him from the flashing lights and questions that are being shouted at us.

  “Tate! Who is this?”

  “Are you cheating on your girlfriend?”

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Are you guys fighting?”

  “Tate! Tate!”

  “Fuck off,” I finally yell at them, which of course makes them more rabid, like sharks in the water that have tasted blood. They push closer and I swear they just multiplied because there are now at least seven men pushing closer and closer around us.

  I turn to look at Tate to ask him what to do, but he’s already gone. I see his figure jogging back across the parking lot. Half the paps peel off and follow him, while the rest stay with me, firing questions off about my involvement with Tate and who I am. I ignore them and start following Tate back to the party, knowing these guys can’t follow me in. Headlights suddenly light up the night, and the paps scream and curse as they dart out of the way of a charging SUV.

  They continue snapping photos and as the car passes me, the flashes from the cameras light it up enough so I can see Tate in the backseat. He must have found his driver or a driver to escape the party. And me.

  I urge him mentally to look at me, just once, as he passes, but Tate continues staring straight ahead without a trace of emotion on his face. The cameras flash around us, blinding me and putting me off balance. When my eyes finally adjust, I’m staring at the back of the SUV as it peels off down the road and away from me.

  I watch the car carrying Tate disappear into traffic. And only when I can’t see the taillights anymore do I finally walk back to the party.

  Rules of Heartbreak

  Cry as much as you want.

  Eat as much as you want.

  Call your mom as much as you want.

  Never underestimate the power of binge watching your favorite TV show.

  Time is the only thing that will help you heal. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Vamp Camp Star Involved in Verbal Argument Outside TV Spotlight Awards!

  Tate Lawrence Stuck in Real Life Love Triangle?!

  Vamp Camp Stud Tate Lawrence Leaves Spotlight Awards Party in Tears After Fight With Girlfriend!

  Tate Lawrence’s GF Bitch Slaps Cheating Boyfriend and His Mistress!

  Tate Lawrence Admits to Cheating on Girlfriend; Wants a Three-Way!

  The more articles I read, the more ridiculous the stories become. Photos of our fight on the street last night have been splashed all over every single celebrity website, from the legitimate ones like People to the seedy blogs, like RadarOnline. The money photo is one of Tate and I talking, and then the one of us hugging, followed by the one of Elise shouting at both of us. The websites don’t even need to spin any story. It’s in the pictures.

  The worst part about the stories is that in almost every single one, Tate is slammed for his playboy ways again. Apparently reporters and writers are all too quick to dredge up his past to create color around the photos. And the public is eating it up. Margo has only issued two words regarding the situation: “No comment.”

  Tate will never be taken seriously for the artist he is. He will always be the bad boy.

  My phone has been ringing nonstop since the photos went live the morning after the party. My parents have been getting calls from friends about my involvement with Tate. People I haven’t spoken to since high school are suddenly texting me. But the two people I need to talk to most are radio silent. No word from Tate or Elise.

  Brit is tiptoeing around my room, poking her head in every once in a while to ask if she can make me some chocolate-oatmeal-raisin cookies or a batch of her patented Kale Kustard. Neither sound tempting, but for reasons different than usual.

  I am lying flat on my bed, staring at the ceiling while Golden Girls drones on in the background. Usually those four women and their shenanigans would be enough to distract me, but all I can think about is Tate’s face as I told him the truth. He was so hurt, so confused, and worse yet, he was disappointed.

  And then there was that hug. I had longed to get that close to Tate for weeks, and it finally happened, but in the worst possible situation. It felt so good, but so, so wrong.

  And he finally told me he liked me. He admitted he felt the same way . . . and it was past tense.

  That part hurt the most.

  I shut myself in my bedroom for the rest of the day, only leaving to use the bathroom and choke down some food. And later, under the bold influence of some Chinese takeout that was questionable at best, I make a bold decision.

  I pick up the phone and dial a number I memorized weeks ago.

  * * *

  “You quit Vamp Camp?!” Brit asks me shrilly the next afternoon. She came back from a brunch catering gig and found me on the couch DVR’ing every episode of Chopped I could find and asked why I wasn’t at work. So I told her.

  “Yep,” I tell her matter-of-factly as I pop another Flamin’ Hot Cheeto into my mouth. When I’m depressed, I revert to eating habits that would make a 12-year-old boy want to vomit. I have a melted bowl of Velveeta cheese on the coffee table, and Brit chokes back a gag as I reach forward and drag three Cheetos through the puddle of orange goo before shoving them into my mouth.

  “Why? Why did you quit? You loved that job.”

  “I did love it. Now I don’t. So I quit,” I retort. “Don’t worry, I have waitressing experience up the wazoo and I’ll find a job soon.”

  “But you don’t want to waitress. You want to make films.”

  “Meh, I’ll be one of those waitress-slash-directors who are all over this town. I’ll fit right in.”

  “Dani. Stop saying stuff like that. You are poisoning the air in here with toxic energy,” Brit groans. She actually waves her arms around as if she’s trying to fan smoke away from burning soup on a stove. I scowl.

  “My energy is not toxic. It’s realistic.”

  Brit lets out a huff and crosses the apartment in four long steps. She turns the TV off, throws the remote on the couch, and glares at me. “Look, Dani. I know what happened with Tate really sucks. But instead of doing something about it or trying to fix it, you’re giving up?”

  “I’m not giving up,” I say matter-of-factly. “I’m just accepting the fact that Tate was too good for me. Elise wasn’t the best friend, but I’m a worse friend. Trust me, we’re all better off without each other.”

  “No, you’re not. And Tate is good for you.”

  “How? You told me yourself that I wasn’t writing as much since meeting him.”

  “Yeah, because you discovered that you didn’t want to write the pretentious crap that you had been working on! He helped you focus, even if you didn’t know it. And Tate was better, too,” Brit says, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t know him, but from what you told me, it sounds like you were helping him figure out what made him happy outside of acting. You two are better together. If not as boyfriend and girlfriend, at least as friends.”

  “I can’t be friends with Tate,” I whisper. A tear starts dancing along the rim of my eye, threatening to fall. “And even if I could be, he hates me.”

  “He’s angry. He’ll get over it. Talk to him,” Brit urges. She walks to the kitchen and yanks my list of goals off the refrigerator, scattering magnets all over the floor.

  “And we are forgetting,” Brit says. She brandish
es it in front of my face. I never thought a piece of paper could be so menacing. I take it, accidentally smearing cheese all over it. Brit smiles at me encouragingly, taking my tattooed wrist with one hand.

  “Don’t lose yourself, Dani. You can fix this on your own.”

  * * *

  That night, I lie in bed, but I can’t fall asleep. After my conversation with Brit, I called Elise and we agreed to meet up the next morning for coffee. I decide to take it as a good sign that she answered my call . . . even though she only said four words to me: “What?” “Okay,” “Sure,” and “Bye.”

  I keep thinking about what I’m going to say to Elise. Missing Tate has pushed my brain into overdrive. It’s running and running with every single scenario, and I can’t get a grasp on a single thought.

  I roll over to my side and turn on my bedside lamp with an irritated groan. Sleeping is the only thing that doesn’t hurt right now, because being unconscious would mean not thinking, and that’s the safest place to be. Of course there is always the chance I’ll dream of him . . .

  I sit up, shaking my head to get rid of his burning blue eyes in my memory. I reach for my loyal stack of books on my nightstand and realize I haven’t finished the book Tate gave me. His favorite book, Hard Boiled Wonderland. It will make me think of him, but it was also one of the few things that truly inspired me these past few weeks. I pick it up and settle in to read.

  An hour later, I’ve devoured the book. And the theme of living a different life instead of my own weighs so heavily on me that I’m both utterly exhausted and invigorated at the same time. Like clockwork, a scene begins to form in my head, with three people in a room, talking about their pasts.

  But instead of letting it unfold in my brain, I get up, power up my laptop, and begin to write . . .

  * * *

  “Dani?”

  I’m still half asleep and dead tired. I poke my arm out from under my blanket and wave away at whoever is standing over my bed. Logically, I know it’s Brit. But my brain is still asleep so it could be Scarlett Johansson and I still wouldn’t want to wake up and talk right now.