Star Bright (Bright Young Things Book 1)

by Staci Hart

  With every party I attended, with every night spent with the Bright Young Things, I peeled back the layers beneath that shining veneer. One for friendship, one for the collection of minds and spirit. One for the unbound joy we lose too soon in the flash that is our lives.

  But the deepest layer, the one curled around the heart of the movement, is connection.

  We live in a time of constant stimulation. Of social media and the breakdown of distance and the rapid sharing of knowledge. We live in a time of connectivity, but we’re perhaps lonelier than we’ve ever been, opting for our screens as the emptiest of fulfillments—what we get there doesn’t keep us full for long. But the Bright Young Things have found each other and held fast through the shared experience of something so trivial and decadent as a party. But that party wasn’t built for entertainment, not really.

  Everyone wants to know just what it is about the Bright Young Things that fascinates the world so, its voracious inhabitants devouring everything on the group that it can find. Spurring copycat groups all over the country. Following the movement with the devotion of a pilgrim. The answer is so simple, I don’t know how I’m the first to state it so plainly.

  What we long for most in this world is a place to belong, and that is what the Bright Young Things gives us.

  A secret society. Lavish parties. The young and the beautiful, the idyllic timelessness, the snapshot in time of a moment made of magic. Friends in the arms of friends, frozen in their euphoria in a picture of perfection.

  But nothing is perfect. No one is free of problems, nor are they free of flaws.

  It’s a weakness Commissioner Warren has done his best to exploit, testing the boundaries of his power in search of an easy breach. And the name on his lips along with the rest of the world is Cecelia Beaton.

  Part of my task was to quietly seek the identity of the elusive leader of the Bright Young Things. Asking around lent me nothing. Digging only proved to be destructive. But in the end, her identity was clear and crisp and plain to see, if I’d only taken a moment to look.

  Cecelia Beaton is all of us.

  You might feel tricked as you read that declaration, but I feel that truth in the depths of my heart, as much as you might doubt it.

  I am Cecelia Beaton, and so are you, for we are alive and must celebrate it. Cecelia Beaton is those of you who feel the command along with me, living through the photos and recounts of their parties. Her presence alone issues an edict, one none of us should ignore. Because our time in this world is brief, and if we spent more time celebrating the gift instead of wallowing in all we hate, the world would be a very different place.

  So party on, Cecelia Beaton.

  The world needs you now more than ever.

  I lowered the papers into my lap, my eyes still on his words and my heart an unfettered tempest.

  A feeling arose in me, one that had been bubbling beneath the lies I’d told myself.

  I didn’t want to be without him.

  I didn’t want to lose him

  I was wrong, so wrong, and careless to have denied myself what I really wanted.

  I’d handled all that had passed with clumsy hands, leaving it shattered and sparkling, the pieces too small to put back together.

  Because now he was gone.

  “What happened?” Betty asked gently, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.

  A tear splashed on the back of my hand. I brought my fingertips to my face, unaware I’d started crying.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I handed Zeke the stack, which he took with greedy hands, and stared at my fingers twined in my lap.

  Wretched was the word I landed on. Worse than miserable, not quite distraught, with a waft of disgust and mingling sorrow.

  I recounted what I’d learned—could it have only been a few minutes ago? There was Warren’s arrest—one Levi had a hand in, no doubt. And then there was the note bearing his apology, echoing his declaration from the article directly to my heart. Then the article, the proof of his loyalty in words, on paper. A declaration that my secret was safe when I shouldn’t have needed one at all.

  He’d sent all of this to me when he didn’t have to. An offering, perhaps. A clearing of conscience.

  Or he wanted to tell me in not so many words that he loved me, or could, if given the chance.

  My chest hitched, and a sob jolted me in surprise.

  I owed him so much, but rather than extending him grace, rather than trusting him, I’d accused and insulted him. And even then, he was the one to apologize.

  I didn’t deserve him, and I couldn’t have him even if I did. There might be a way to beg his forgiveness, but I couldn’t fathom a way to get him back.

  Zeke lowered the letter, and he and Betty stared at me.

  “He loves you,” Zeke said.

  I shook my head as tears slid down my face. “But I’ve lost him.”

  “This doesn’t sound like you’ve lost anything, Stella.” He held up the papers and gave me a look.

  “He’s gone. It says it right there. What am I supposed to do? Text him? Send him an email, for God’s sake?” My breath shuddered, and I swiped at my cheeks. “There’s too much to say for anything short of a letter, and I don’t know how I’d find the words for even that.”

  They were silent for a moment, Zeke’s brain working on an idea and Betty’s teeth working on her lip.

  “Maybe you can video-chat,” she offered.

  But something struck Zeke like a lightning bolt, lighting him up and setting him on fire in the same breath. He grabbed my hand and yanked me off the stool.

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Once I regained my balance, I trotted behind him as he dragged me toward my bedroom. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

  He shot a wicked smile over his shoulder without breaking his stride. “Try to guess so I can feel superior.”

  And so I tried.

  But I never did get the answer right myself.

  30

  Signed, Sealed, Delivered

  LEVI

  The plane jolted when the wheels touched the ground, snapping me out of sleep.

  My confusion as to where I was only lasted long enough to blink my bleary eyes. I’d spent at least five of the seven hours we’d been in the air writing, anxious to get the big magazine piece on the Bright Young Things out of the way. I’d told myself it was to save me the trouble of worrying about it in Syria.

  That, and I needed to put it all behind me.

  I needed to put her behind me.

  There was nothing else to be done. I’d hear from her or I wouldn’t, but I’d miss her either way. I’d love her either way.

  It’s over, I told myself. You’ll move on once the article is finished. No time to pine in a war zone.

  The last forty-eight hours had been a sleepless frenzy. I’d left Alphabet City to speed home and call the FBI hotline. After hours on the phone and all I’d seen, there was no chance of sleep. So I wrote.

  I wrote about Warren first, the article pouring out of me in a single shot. Once I sent it to Yara, I reached out to my media contacts to tip them off, hoping if we could nail Warren in a blitzkrieg of news breaks, he wouldn’t be able to hide. Turned out, I was right.

  The flophouse was raided in the middle of the night, the girls all gathered up and saved—or as saved as they could be. The young ones at least would have a chance in the system. The older ones, like April, would run away the second they were placed. All I could do was hope she took care of herself. All I could do was pray she’d stay safe.

  I’d sacrificed April’s safety for the sake of the little girls in the hopes that the FBI could dig into the Russian fuckers who were trafficking them. And to unseat Warren from the throne of skulls he ruled from.

  I should have tried to sleep, but after staring at my ceiling for an hour, I peeled myself out of bed to sit down at my laptop with my notebook. The article on the Bright Young Things had been written in pieces on the
pages, waiting to be transcribed. So I wrote until the first sign of morning and printed it out when it was finished. Wrote Stella a note. Packed it up and booked a courier, leaving it outside the door for pickup.

  Only then was my brain quiet and my soul tired enough to sleep.

  I only got a few hours before my phone rang. Marcella was out of her mind with excitement—Yara had sent copyedits on the Warren piece for my approval, immediately, please. My promotion to senior staff writer had been signed off on. And Syria was waiting—all I had to do was say when.

  So I said when.

  She booked me a flight for that night. I spent the day packing and preparing, getting through my edits, setting Billy up with Peg as his caretaker, who generously offered to move in. Billy smiled like a goddamn fox about it, and Peg wasn’t any less enthusiastic. The honest truth was that I found myself less worried about him than I’d ever thought I’d be. His insistence that I get the hell out of his apartment didn’t hurt.

  And I watched Warren’s story unfold with a deep satisfaction.

  My tip-off had the media waiting for Warren, not imagining they’d catch his arrest by the FBI instead. Articles broke out all over the country throughout the course of the day, citing the anonymous photographic evidence that had been delivered and the girls in custody as all the proof anyone needed. The mayor, who had appointed him, denounced him and removed him from office within hours, promising to put together a force to aid him in selecting a new commissioner within the week.

  I successfully dodged my circling thoughts about Stella, putting what little energy I had into the tasks at hand. But then I slid into a cab that afternoon to head to the airport, and there was nothing left to distract me from the fact that I hadn’t heard from her. That I’d even thought she might was stupid—not only had I told her I was gone, but she didn’t even wake up until after lunch most days. Part of me hoped she’d reach out anyway. Call me at least. Tell me she got the article and that it had her approval. Maybe I’d even be so lucky as to earn her respect and forgiveness. Maybe she’d even ask for mine.

  But she didn’t reach out, so I boarded my plane, turned off my phone, and vowed to let it go.

  I’d done a shit job of it.

  I stretched in my seat as we taxied, peering out the window the guy next to me had opened. It was morning in Paris, and I wondered how the hell I was going to head off jet lag with so few hours of sleep in the last two days that I could count them on one hand. Marcella had booked me two days in Paris as a pat on the head for being a good boy, writing it off as an acclimation to the time zone change at a comfortable midway point. So if I could get into my room, I figured I could sleep until after lunch and then do my best to stay up until the evening.

  Either that, or I’d just sleep for twenty hours and call it good.

  We gathered our things and waited in the aisles to shuffle off the plane like the undead. And while we stood jammed together, I turned on my phone, my heart stopping when my messages rolled in, waiting for her name to appear.

  But it never did.

  I answered what was urgent, let Billy know I’d landed, and slid my phone in my pocket in the hopes that I could forget. But I felt its presence there as much as I felt her presence in my heart.

  It’s beyond saving, no matter how badly you want to. Her silence only proves that she’s lost to you. So let it go, man.

  I scrubbed my face, grateful when the line began to move. It gave me something to do. Something to think about. Forward motion, even if I was running away.

  My thoughts were fixed ahead of me as I walked the winding ramps to the gate exit. I was so exhausted, it felt like I was walking in a dream.

  Especially when I stepped into the terminal and saw what had to be a mirage.

  Because Stella Spencer stood just beyond the flow of people with a carry-on at her side and her face shining with cautious hope.

  I stopped dead, and a guy ran into me from behind, nearly knocking me over.

  “What the fuck, man?” he shot.

  But I didn’t even glance at him, muttering, “Sorry,” before drifting toward her.

  She showed no sign of jet lag, though a tiredness in her eyes told me she was exhausted, and not just from the flight. As always, she shimmered with that radiance powered from within, and I marveled over that beauty as I so often had, not only in wonder, but in utter disbelief.

  I didn’t know how long we stood there, staring, before she extended her hand, which held the envelope I’d only just sent to her.

  “Your edits,” she said.

  I looked at the envelope stupidly for a second before taking it. “How … how did you …” The question died in my throat as my gaze shifted from the contents of my hand and back to her.

  “Find you? Ash. Beat you here? Well,” she started, “Ash didn’t know much, but he knew you were on the eight thirty to Paris, and Air France was the only flight at eight thirty. Your flight was full, but the four thirty flight on Air France had one seat left. Probably because it was first-class and cost four grand.”

  “All of that just to bring me this? You could have emailed it, you know,” I joked.

  She shrugged. “I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. As Cecelia Beaton, I think we’d all agree it’s on-brand, isn’t it?”

  At that, I laughed.

  “But I didn’t just come to bring you these. You must know that, don’t you?”

  My smile faded. “I hoped.”

  “Levi, I …” She cast her eyes to the floor. “Open the envelope.”

  After a moment of curious assessment, I did.

  Inside was the article, but on top was a letter, written in her hand.

  Levi,

  In this envelope, you will find my edits, though there aren’t many. Because, as always, your words hold the truth.

  For the record, I was wrong.

  For the record, I am a fool.

  For the record, I’m sorry.

  I broke faith, broke your trust and respect the minute I accused you of lying to me, of using me, of betraying me. I was wrong not to trust you, not to listen. I was a fool for letting my fear police my happiness. I am sorry, so sorry, for my lack of loyalty. Because I love you. And rather than believe wholly in that love, I gave in to my fear, and that was the moment I lost you.

  I only hope you aren’t lost forever.

  I’m here to ask for your forgiveness. To promise you that I’ll wait for you and to hope against hope that you’ll forgive me. Because my life has never been so bright as it’s been since you.

  Yours,

  Stella

  I stared at the letter, at a line, at a single word that spurred a flurry of whispers in my heart, saying, She loves me, she loves me, she loves me.

  When I looked up, our eyes met like the click of a lock.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, the flush in her face splotched with emotion I could see mirrored in her welling tears.

  But I took a step closer, reaching to cup her jaw. “For the record, so am I.”

  Her eyes closed, her hand rising to clasp my wrist. “I owed you this, Levi. To come here and to beg your forgiveness. I needed you to know I’d go to the ends of the earth to prove myself worthy of you after how I treated you. But don’t say I’m forgiven just because I’m here. More than anything, I just wanted you to know that I was sorry, and—”

  I kissed her to stop her words, to swallow her sadness, to breathe in her apology and exhale my own. I kissed her to tell her without words that she was forgiven and to slip into the sweet relief I found in the warmth of her body against mine.

  When I broke the kiss, she blinked up at me with her lips still parted in wait.

  My smile tilted. “You don’t honestly think I’d refuse after you flew halfway across the world just to apologize, do you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I absolutely do,” she said with a flat earnestness that made me laugh, thumbing her cheek. “I couldn’t sleep the entire flight, thinking of all the ways you’d say n
o. But I had to see you. I had to tell you face to face that … that I … that I love you, Levi. I know this because you took what I thought I knew of the word and smashed it into a thousand pieces. I couldn’t walk away from that without a fight. Not for anything.”

  “For the record, I was wrong,” I echoed her words before my lips brushed her cheek. “For the record, I’m a fool,” I said on my way to kiss her other cheek. “For the record, I’m sorry.” My lips pressed to her forehead. “And for the record, I’ve loved you since the second I laid eyes on you. It’s about time you caught up.”

  She started to laugh, but I kissed her smiling lips, kissed her until we were wound together and breathless.

  “Eh, y’a des hôtels pour ça!,” a flight attendant said as she passed, inciting a chorus of laughter from her colleagues and Stella too, who broke away, chuckling.

  “What did they say?” I asked.

  “To get a room,” she answered, beaming up at me. “Luckily, I already did.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mmhmm.” She smoothed my shirt, watching her hands. “At Shangri La.”

  “Is that a metaphor? Because I can’t pretend like a couple days with you in Paris isn’t some sort of heaven.”

  She laughed, and the sound was its own Shangri La. “No, it’s an actual hotel,” she said as she took my hand and we began to walk toward baggage. “Napoleon built it for Prince Bonaparte as a private mansion.”

  “So it’s modest, then.”

  “So modest, including the humble views of the Eiffel Tower.”

  “Sounds approachable.”

  Stella slid her arm around my waist, meeting my stride. “All I want right now is you and me in a gigantic bed.”

  “Naked?”

  “Definitely naked. I hope you’ve been to Paris before, because you’re not seeing anything but me and the inside of that room until we leave to put you on the plane.”

  “Shangri La, indeed,” I said, kissing the top of her head as I thanked my lucky stars, as bright as they were, that I’d have a chance to love her.