Star Bright (Bright Young Things Book 1)

by Staci Hart

  “I’m home!” Joss echoed, her arms slackening, breaking up the knot.

  Really, it wasn’t fair how naturally beautiful Joss was, from her auburn hair to her electric-blue eyes. Her skin was dewy and luminous, her eyes bright and fresh despite what was likely to be killer jet lag. Perks of being a leading lady with daily access to facials and dermatology treatments.

  She abandoned her bags with a hopeful look into the kitchen. “Do I smell coffee?”

  “Here, you can have mine,” Betty said, bounding into the kitchen.

  “Oh, thank God. I’m exhausted.” She dropped into a barstool and yawned.

  “Could have fooled me.” Zeke shook his head at her. “You’ve got to tell me where to order the virgin blood you bathe in to keep yourself immortal.”

  She laughed, sweeping her hair off her neck to tie it into a loose bun. “Looks like the party was a hit. Circus theme? Damn, I wish I’d made it home yesterday instead.”

  “It was a hit, all right.” Betty snorted a laugh. “I heard at least a dozen people were arrested when Warren sent his thugs down to bust us.”

  Joss rolled her eyes. “That guy has got to get some real problems.”

  Zeke’s face was drawn as he stared at his phone, thumb working as he scrolled. “He was there. Warren was actually there, and so was the press.”

  “What?” I asked, reaching for his phone, which he turned around in display.

  A photo of Warren looking pleased with himself graced the top of the article, titled: Delinquent Youths Arrested at Famed Bright Young Things Party.

  Zeke flipped his phone back around and read aloud, “Several underage drinkers, partygoers, and an event planner were taken in for questioning in regard to the unsanctioned party and the Bright Young Things’ notorious leader, Cecelia Beaton. For months, the social group has violated city laws and ordinances, and Police Commissioner Warren has vowed to find and prosecute the frivolous rulebreakers. ‘For too long, the young and the rich have flagrantly ignored this city’s laws, and I’m here to make sure those responsible are brought to justice regardless of the size of their trust funds.’ ”

  “Fucking asshole,” I hissed. “Unsanctioned my ass. We had all of our permits, though I had a feeling we were going to get nabbed on a noise violation. And they got Genie too. Shit.”

  “Don’t worry,” Betty assured me. “She’ll come by when it’s all clear.”

  “Do you think she needs help? Think she got arrested?” I worried my bottom lip between my teeth.

  Zeke shook his head. “You pay her a mil a year to get arrested. Try not to sweat it.”

  “What a mess.” Joss took a sip of her coffee. “And what’s with the reporter sneaking into the parties?”

  The room went still.

  “What?” I breathed.

  Joss’s eyes bounced from face to face. “You … you didn’t know?”

  “Know what?” Betty asked.

  Joss set her mug down and reached for her phone, her fingers flying as she pulled something up. She handed over her phone with an apology written all over her face. “Somebody texted this to me when I was on my way over.”

  The blood in my veins ran cold as I read the article. It was on the front page of Vagabond’s website along with an illustration of a ’20s art deco party.

  Blinded by the Bright Young Things. Writer’s credit went to Vagabond Staff.

  My brain fired too quickly to actually read the article, only able to skip and skim the long piece about the party at the speakeasy. Nothing about it was derogatory that I could glean. Rather, it was a beautiful article about the decadence and spectacle of the night. It felt more like an homage than an exposé, but I couldn’t seem to find even an ounce of approval for the thing.

  Because someone had infiltrated my party with the intent to pull back the curtain. Betrayal nearly split me open, the cut so deep that no amount of flattery from this anonymous writer could ease the shock or erase the disloyalty that had bred such an invasion.

  And with Warren up our asses, this was a dangerous development. Because if a reporter could sneak their way in, so could an undercover cop.

  “I feel violated.” Zeke stepped back, though his eyes were still on my phone.

  “Jesus Christ,” Betty said from my elbow, taking my phone from my hand. “Who the fuck wrote this?”

  “I don’t know,” I said distantly, staring out the windows at nothing. “But there’s got to be a way to find out.”

  “Oh, we’ll find out,” Zeke assured me. “And then we’ll ruin the motherfucker and the slob who plus-oned the asshole into our party. If they think they can win us over with some pretty words, they’re gonna find out how wrong they are.”

  I drew a long, fortifying breath. “Yes, they will.”

  “Don’t worry, Stell,” Betty said, gently bumping my hip.

  “I’m not worried. I’m fucking pissed.”

  “Let’s get a plan together,” Zeke said. “But first, Betty and I are in desperate need of a shower and a nap.”

  “Me too,” Joss said through a yawn. “Just a little one, or I’ll never sleep tonight.”

  “Please,” Zeke started as he stood, “I’ve got a benzo for you that would beg to differ.”

  She laughed, but her smile fell. “Wait—what are you doing here? Are you living here now? What happened to—”

  “Ah-ah-ah,” Zeke warned. “His name has been stricken from memory.”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “That bad?”

  “Much worse.”

  “I’m sorry, Zeke.” She stroked his arm.

  But Zeke shrugged. “Bigger and better things are coming. Preferably in or around my mouth.”

  With a collective laugh, we parted ways with hugs and kisses for Joss. And a few minutes later, I was alone with myself in the kitchen, quietly packing away my rage into an air-tight compartment. I turned my thoughts to the rest of the day, making a list of all the things I would do to pretend like some motherfucker hadn’t slithered into my space to wait in the grass so they could strike.

  Yoga. I would do yoga. Maybe go for a jog. Wait for Genie to text me and let me know she was okay. Plan some more of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Ask Levi what he was having for dinner and hope he said me. I could kill a few hours until my friends woke up to distract me. Or organize a lynch mob. Maybe I’d make a few Molotov cocktails in case I needed to firebomb an asshole.

  Either way, I’d find a way to occupy myself, or so help me.

  My eyes landed on Levi’s coffee cup, and I moved it to the sink, replaying the highlight reel from last night. I wondered how many reels I’d have before he was gone.

  A frown tugged at my lips. Levi was new, but surely Ash wouldn’t be so fucking stupid as to bring a reporter to the party. I scooped up my phone and opened a search for Levi’s name, the knot in my throat dry and sticky.

  But immediately I was rewarded with a handful of resources, including his website and some places his photos had been featured. And I sighed my relief.

  I couldn’t imagine what would be worse than sleeping with the enemy.

  Instead, I was sleeping with a dreamboat, even if it was only temporary.

  Putting my sads away, I chose to be happy with what I had. It’s perfectly fine that he’s leaving the country, I thought as I crossed the room to the windows, coffee in hand. It was good that he’d told me—it gave me a chance to frame up my expectations before it was too late. And it wasn’t a bullshit excuse or some tired, patriarchal rationalization for being a dick. He was leaving the country for work, not avoiding commitment.

  The city bustled far below, and I thought I caught sight of a motorcycle just like Levi’s flying up Hudson.

  It was for the best. Because Levi was the kind of guy a girl could fall in love with.

  And I’d always had terrible luck with that.

  10

  Strings

  LEVI

  “What the actual fuck, Yara?” I snapped into my phone as I paced my livi
ng room a few hours later. “You published the article.”

  “I know, I know,” she said like she was on my side. Traitor. “But it wasn’t me. Marcella made the call yesterday. Your article was edited and proofed and ready to go, so she made an executive decision.”

  “Without telling me? Jesus, Yara, do you have any idea what you’ve done? My chances of staying undercover just went up in flames.”

  “Oh, don’t be dramatic, Levi.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one lying to these people.”

  She ignored the point. “Marcella wants to publish a piece for every party to get the hype up for the big article where we’ll reveal it was you, then the feature for the magazine. Assuming you can still get in?”

  Suddenly, being Stella’s plus-one had new and morally gray meaning. At least before, I’d had an out. I could choose not to publish or rework to Stella’s standards, if it came to that. But now … now, I was fucked. Any choices I might have had were gone. I’d officially exposed the Bright Young Things, and I wouldn’t be able to explain it away.

  But my future depended on keeping up the deception.

  “Yeah, I can still get in,” I ground out.

  “Good. Then keep on going. Give me a write-up about every party you attend—we were thinking eight parties, a wrap up, and a feature for the magazine. And if you can figure out who Cecelia Beaton is, Marcella will pay you triple.”

  My lungs collapsed. “Triple?”

  “Triple. Think you can swing it?”

  I dragged my hand through my hair and stared at my shoes for a beat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Attaboy. I really am sorry—I barely had any warning, and since you’d already signed off on the piece, it’s hers to do with what she will.”

  “She should have given me a heads-up.”

  “Yeah, she should have. But Levi—we’ve already had four million hits on the article. Nearly crashed the site. You’re going to be a household name by the time this is said and done, so be annoyed now, but you’ll thank her later.”

  I blinked at my rug. “Four million? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Nope. I’d tell you to call the tech department and ask them, but they’ve got all hands on deck just trying to keep the website online.”

  I sighed. “I’ll get to work on the next one.”

  “Excellent. Now go get some rest so you can write.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” I said, disconnecting the call.

  I ran a hand over my weary face as if it could erase the last ten minutes from memory. It dawned on me, the contrast of my guilt, and I pushed away the wretchedness of it the moment it arose. I shouldn’t have stayed the night, but I wasn’t sorry I had. Because already, I cared about Stella. I’d only just discovered her, and I didn’t want to lose that, not yet.

  But I didn’t want to lose the story either. And now I was in danger of losing both.

  I’d figure something out. And in the meantime, I’d cover my tracks and hope to God she didn’t find out.

  If she did, she’d blow me to hell, and my story would be the gunpowder.

  I rubbed my lips as I strode to my desk, opening my laptop once I was sitting, wishing for a cigarette but stuffing a piece of gum in my mouth instead. I’d been thinking about last night, my brain chewing on scraps of what I’d seen, tugging the strings of fleeting feelings it’d evoked. And then the thrill of getting busted, of running from the cops, of Stella’s legs around me, on my bike and off.

  There was heady magic in the Bright Young Things, and I wanted to learn how to bottle it up.

  I had a feeling Stella was the one who could teach me.

  An hour and a thousand words passed before I even realized it, the night unfolding word by word on the page. When I picked up my phone, which I’d absently left upside down on my desk, I found a text from Stella.

  Tell me when I’ll see you again.

  I smiled down at my phone. How’s your Wednesday looking?

  Going to a small house party. Want to come?

  Count me in. Dinner first?

  If by dinner you mean fucking, absolutely.

  A laugh eased out of me as I typed back. Anything you want. When’s the next party?

  We’ll know when Cecelia tells us. I’ll keep you posted.

  Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Anytime.

  Good.

  With a sigh both heavy and sated, I set my phone down and turned back to my screen, the words licking at my brain, shivering in my fingertips, anxious to escape.

  And I hoped I’d find a way out of the box I’d been so carelessly stuffed into.

  11

  Can't Say No

  LEVI

  Several days of work passed, marked by a clock that counted down to when I’d see Stella again. The article on the circus was finished and edited, and I’d been promised a heads-up before it went live, though my faith was thin at best. So I braced myself for impact, just in case.

  My editors were even happier with the circus piece than the speakeasy, which was phenomenal for my career.

  For my morals, not so much.

  I’d been chewing on a game plan for telling Stella, made more complicated by my boss. But the second I turned in the last piece, I had to tell her. I’d explain my duplicity and hope she could see the gray area as a plus rather than a minus. My plan for the articles wasn’t an exposé but an applaud, and if she found appreciation for that, there was a chance she wouldn’t be mad at all. If I gained her trust, she might believe my intentions were good. But deep down, I knew better. She was going to feel betrayed no matter what I did. If it hadn’t been for Yara and Marcella taking matters into their own hands, things would have been simpler. Maybe not easier, but definitely simpler.

  And here I’d thought I knew what I was doing.

  When I killed the engine of my bike, the sound was replaced by muffled music that flowed from the brownstone in front of me.

  Though the sun had been down for hours, it was still hot, but I’d opted for jeans and combats, not certain of much, but definitely certain shorts weren’t going to be up to snuff for an unofficial Bright Young Things party.

  I pulled off my helmet and raked a hand through my hair, assessing the house in front of me. Every window was lit, the curtains open and casings framing clusters of the young and beautiful. It was the residence of one of the core members of the group, but Stella hadn’t told me whose, just sent me the address and told me to walk right in. So I locked up my bike with the intent to do just that.

  I trotted up the cement steps and opened the massive black door, instantly hit with the sounds of a party already well under way.

  The foyer was somehow both grand and understated, with white wood paneling and dark wood floors and a ceiling so high, scaffolding would have been required to work on the plaster detailing around the modest chandelier.

  I hadn’t even known a chandelier could be modest until just then.

  Rooms spoked off from the entry, connected through wide casings in what seemed to be a horseshoe around the foyer and staircase. Smoke hung in the air alongside laughter and music as I made my way through the first room, then the second, looking for Stella. But I only found groups of people—longtime friends, judging by their ease and comfort—clustered on couches and standing near windows with crystal glasses in their hands. This was not a crowd for beer, but one for martinis and scotch, and though no one was in cocktail attire, they somehow made even jeans and sundresses feel opulent.

  A few eyes followed me as I passed, but no one stopped me. And around I went in search of the girl I’d come to see, the girl I wanted to see off the record and without any objective but her lips and her laughter.

  “Well, would you look at that?” someone said in my direction, and I turned to find Ash smirking at me. He extended a hand for a bro slap. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Stella.”

  He shook his head, still smiling. “Fucking dog.” He leane
d in. “If you get me in trouble for this, I’m gonna burn your house down.”

  I chuckled. “Don’t worry. You had no idea what I was doing, did you?”

  “Not a clue, and I’ll stand by that, even when your head’s in the guillotine.” He took a sip of his drink. “So you and Stella?”

  “Me and Stella.”

  Ash watched me for a second. “Don’t fuck her up, Levi.”

  “I’m doing my best not to.”

  One of his brows rose. “Coulda fooled me.”

  “I didn’t know they were going to publish it,” I said so no one else could hear. “They were supposed to wait.”

  “Well, it’s done now. Hope you’ve got a plan.”

  “I’ve always got a plan,” I assured him with a cavalier smile. “I need to find Stella. You seen her?”

  His eyes flicked behind me, his smile tilting higher. “Sure have.”

  He pointed his drink in the direction of his eyeline, and I turned to find her striding toward me.

  I wondered if there was ever a moment where she didn’t shine, where the light didn’t catch and cling to her. Tonight, she wore a dress of white, covered in small pearly sequins, with spaghetti straps and a short hem, giving me a view of her legs I thanked my lucky stars for. Nothing about the dress was formal other than the shimmer of sequins—the waist was cinched and the fabric loose and draping and Grecian in design. It gave only a hint of her curves, the slightness of her waist and gentle swells of her breasts only whispered.

  But her smile was the brightest of all.

  She slid into me, arms first, then lips. And I took a long moment to reacquaint myself with them.

  Stella broke the kiss to smile up at me but didn’t unwind her arms from my waist. “You made it.”

  “I did.” My eyes shifted to assess the room. “Whose house is this?”

  “Farrah Rashad.”

  I hummed my understanding. Her father was Malik Rashad, first a hip-hop artist in the ’90s, then a beatmaker, now the head of one of the biggest music labels in the business.