“I’ll drink to that,” he says.
We sip slower this time, allowing the heat of the alcohol to warm us from within as we sit quietly and comfortably. Until I talk, of course. “How long do you think we’ll need to stay here?”
He shrugs. “A day or two. Depends on if they find Leisel and if anyone identifies you. My agent will keep me updated with what’s going on.”
“My parents said the news reports are saying you and Lisa are back together.”
His chest bounces in a huff of amusement. “I think she’d rather set herself on fire.”
“Why do you think she’d risk dating someone like Marcus Bailey when she was so intent on keeping her identity a secret?”
He shrugs. “Why does Leisel do most things? She’s always been one to go her own way. Untameable.”
“Is that what attracted you to her?”
Leaning on the arm of the couch, he wipes a hand over his mouth then takes a deep breath. “Are we on or off the record here?”
“Always off. I told you, I’m not that kind of reporter. You’ll know when you’re being interviewed by me.”
“I was attracted to her name.” That’s not what I was expecting.
“Her name?”
He nods. “When we started dating, I was only just becoming a household name. I had a recurring role on Home & Away, but I was ambitious. I wanted more than that.”
“So you started dating her because her father is a rock legend and has connections all over the world?”
“Jimmy got me a meeting with an agent, who got me an audition in LA and the rest, as we say, is history.”
“So it was all a PR stunt?”
“No. The engagement was real. I did love her—as much as I was capable at the time, anyway. It just started as something less pure.”
“Then why did you cheat on her?” How can you love someone and be unfaithful?
“Why does anyone do anything? Because I could. I’m not saying it was right. And I’m not justifying it in any way, but that’s honestly the only reason I have.”
“And what about your current fiancée? Do you cheat on her because you can too?”
He laughs. “You can tell you’re a reporter.” Lifting his glass, he drains the contents before setting it on the table in front. “If you must know, my fiancée cares only about status and money. In her own words—‘I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t do it in public.’ Which is why she’s trending on Instagram right now. She’s crying about how hurt and devastated she is that I’ve gone running back to Leisel.”
“Boy, isn’t she going to feel foolish when she finds out she’s wrong?”
Jonathan shrugs. “She’ll find a way to twist it to her benefit. She always does.”
“Sweet girl.”
“My publicist thinks so.”
I tilt my head to the side, studying his face and trying to see the man behind the public façade. This is something that has always fascinated me about celebrities; how different their real life is compared to the life they share with the world. Fake relationships are rumoured to be common, used to boost public profiles. But why a man in Jonathan’s position would choose to affiliate himself with the lesser-known Marnie DeLuca is beyond me. She seems to be the only one with something to gain in this coupling from my perspective.
“So your engagement is a sham?”
“I literally pay for the privilege. I spoke with her after my agent called, and she’s asking for me to double her allowance and go on the Ellen show with her, claiming I’m a recovering sex addict.”
“Are you?”
“A sex addict?” He scoffs. “No. I like sex. But I’m not ruled by it.”
“Why did your publicist choose Marnie DeLuca as your official relationship?”
“Because she’s a woman with a reputable family background. Went to Yale. Finished the top of whatever she was studying. Her family is pretty powerful in LA, but she’s a talentless hack and no one will give her a decent role. So she’s settled for being the girl on the arm of the leading man. It suits her image. Marrying into a powerful family strengthens mine, and since tough times have hit her family in the pocket, my money suits her lifestyle. We both win.”
“You’re actually planning on marrying her?” The idea of marrying for anything but love boggles my mind and only strengthens my thought that celebrities should be forced to make it a decade together before they’re allowed to marry. They’re all getting married for the wrong reasons.
Letting out a laugh that is anything but joyful, he shakes his head and pours himself another vodka. I’m still sipping mine. “That’s how most engagements end.”
“Wouldn’t you rather wait to get married until you’ve found the woman of your dreams?”
“That would imply I have control over my life when I control little beyond what I get to do behind closed doors.”
“That’s a common problem, I hear.”
“With great power comes great responsibility,” he quotes, offering me a half smile.
For a moment, we just look at each other until he breaks the stare and downs his drink again. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, telling you all this shit,” he mutters, pouring yet another glass. I down mine in camaraderie over our mixed up situation then hold mine out for a refill. The door sounds.
“Food’s here,” he says before calling out for the hotel staff to enter.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I whisper as the door opens and a trolley covered in a white tablecloth is rolled in. “I won’t say anything about this place, or what happened to us today, or about your fiancée. I’m not that kind of person, and I’m definitely not that kind of journalist.”
He looks at me and nods once before rising to meet the room service attendant. They have a quiet conversation which involves a few laughs, and I marvel at how quickly Jonathan can slip into ‘character’. When he’s finished, he claps the guy on the shoulder then takes our plates of food himself, bringing them over to me while the attendant leaves the room.
“These are huge,” I say as he places a burger the size of my face on the coffee table in front of me. He lowers himself to the floor to eat, so I do the same, sliding off the couch and joining him on the plush carpet.
“Eat up. We need this to soak up the alcohol. I don’t know about you, but I plan on drinking myself into a stupor. I want to wake up with a headache and convince myself today was just some fucked up dream.”
“I can drink to that.” I hold my glass up to his. “Here’s to pretending today never happened.”
Eight
Sandra
The pain in my head hits before I’ve even opened my eyes. “Shit,” I hiss, grabbing my head before I force myself to sit. A groan sounds in the bed beside me. What?
Cracking one eye, I turn my head slightly, clamping that eye shut again when I realise I’m not alone. Fuck. I think I’m naked too. I pat myself down with my hand, too afraid to open my eyes and confirm what I already know. Fuckity fuck, shitballs, fuck.
I slept with Jonathan Masters.
Oh god.
My heart thunders against my chest, the surge of adrenalin pushing my hangover into full-blown panic as I force my eyes open to search for my clothes. Fuuuuck.
Jonathan snores softly beside me, facedown on the bed, his beautifully muscled back rising and falling with his breath. If I was watching this on the big screen, I’d look at that back and fantasise about running my nails down it. But by the looks of those scratch marks in his skin, I’m pretty sure I already did that. I don’t remember a fucking thing. And I can’t find my clothes.
Crap.
Bugger.
Shit.
Fuck.
I should never be allowed to drink again.
Holding my breath, I slide out of the bed and make a rush for the hotel robe hanging on the back of the door. Once that’s safely over my body, I risk a glance back at Jonathan, thankful he’s still sleeping. If I get out of here before he wakes, he
might just think he went to bed naked. Hey, he probably sleeps naked anyway, so that might not be a weird thing at all.
There’s a trail of clothing through the living area leading to his bedroom, and I’m having flashes of memory. Drunken giggles, stumbling hands. Oh, my god. What is it with me and celebrities in fancy hotel rooms? My clothes just fly off and my legs open. I’m a groupie. Fuck. I don’t want to be a groupie.
Feeling my stomach sour, I rush around, picking up our clothes and straightening up the mess we made going through more alcohol than two people should rightly consume. Then I rush to my room, shove everything into my bag and throw my jeans and a shirt on, running my fingers through my hair before donning a pair of sunglasses and slipping out the main door. I am not sticking around for the awkward morning after. No, thank you. Been there. Done that.
In the lift on the way down, I breathe a sigh of relief, glad to have gotten out of there without seeing Jonathan again. What the hell was I thinking getting drunk with him? He’s a known womaniser. How was it ever going to end differently?
I kick myself, because I know how it happened. He opened up to me, shared some truths and showed vulnerability. It’s exactly what Marcus did too, and I’m a total sucker for believing it. Even though it was probably all an act. I kick myself harder. I am such a pushover.
Approaching the front desk, I ask the attendant to call me a cab. “And, um, do you know if there are any, uh, cameras outside?”
The woman smiles with understanding. “We pride ourselves on discretion, Ms Haegen. We have a car service that can take you to your destination without anyone finding out you left.”
I let out a relieved sigh. “That would be perfect.”
She directs me back to the lifts, and I take it down to the basement where a driver is already waiting for me.
“Where to, ma’am?” he asks, opening the door of his black sedan for me. The windows are so dark there’s no way you could see inside.
“Westmead, please. And, um, is there any way you can keep Mr Masters from finding out my destination? I’d prefer to pay for this trip myself to be honest.”
“The car service is complimentary, ma’am. He needn’t know where I take you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, placing a relieved hand on the side of his shoulder. “I think you are my favourite person this morning.”
His stoic expression quirks in amusement. Then I get into the car and relax into soft leather seat, the tension in my body floating away the further we drive from the hotel. I slide down in my seat. God, I feel dumb.
When I arrive at my parent’s house, I thank my driver and let myself inside, calling out that I’m here. Mum rushes me right away.
“Oh Sandy, is everything all right?” She pulls me into an embrace, her soft body comforting me when I’m a bundle of negative emotion.
I step back and take stock of my current situation. “Well, in the last twenty-four hours, I’ve discovered my best friend is a rock star in hiding, then I went into hiding with her movie star ex-fiancé before her current rock star lover tried to kill said ex-fiancé then smashed the front of my house out while I watched on in horror.” Then I got obscenely drunk and slept with the movie star ex-fiancé. “My life is an absolute mess, and I think I’m maybe in shock because I feel super numb right now.” Numb and stupid.
Dad pulls me into a hug. “You smell like a brewery.” I laugh as he releases me.
“I was hoping alcohol would make things better. It didn’t.”
“It never does, kiddo.” Dad smiles and rubs the top of my head like he used to when I was a kid.
“Why don’t you take a shower? I’ll make you some tea and toast. You can hide out in your old room until this whole thing blows over.”
“Has my name been released yet?” I ask. I’ve been too afraid to look at my phone or the news.
“Not yet,” Mum says, twisting her lips downward. “But, your picture is being shown. They’re suggesting you’re Jonathan Masters’ ‘other woman’.”
“Oh god.” I groan into my hands.
Dad gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be safe here. We’re unlisted since I was in the force. Even though they’ll figure out your name from the title on your house.”
“Or if they go through her mail,” Mum adds.
“There’s that,” Dad agrees. “But, they won’t be able to find us without going to a bit of trouble. Hide in your room and when some other celebrity embarrasses themselves—which will likely be tomorrow—they’ll forget all about you and you can go back to being normal.”
“Normal feels like forever ago,” I gripe, even though it was a day and a half ago.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Mum consoles, her dyed blonde hair falling against her face as she tilts her head. “We’ll get you through this.”
“I know and thank you. I just can’t believe this mess I’m in.”
“Is there anything we can do?” she asks.
“Could you see my face?”
“In the photo? Not really,” she intones, and I wonder what she’s holding back.
“What do you mean ‘not really’? What’s wrong with the picture?” I pull my phone from my bag and pull up the news app.
“Oh, don’t look!” Mum blurts, reaching for my phone but missing when I turn my whole body away. The article is one of the Top Stories, so I click and quickly land on the photo I’m in. Oh dear. I’m standing there, wrapped in Jonathan’s arms with my face all scrunched up. I look like I’m howling. It’s a horrible picture and the only saving grace is that my expression is so distorted that most people would have a hard time picking me.
“Well, at least you can’t tell it’s me,” I sigh.
“Yes. But you look so ugly in it,” Mum mutters, taking the phone out of my hands and looking at the image. “You’re so much prettier than that. Surely they had a nicer photo of you…”
I pull the phone from her hands and shove it back in my bag. “It’s a good thing they don’t. I don’t want my face all over the media.”
“You’d think there’d be some sort of journalist bro code where they didn’t chase down one of their own,” Dad adds.
“Paparazzi don’t have a code. They just go where the money is. They aren’t the same as the rest of us.”
“That makes me sad. Everyone should have a code,” Mum says.
Offering a shrug, I hitch my bag on my shoulder and head towards the bathroom, hoping a hot shower will make me feel more human. But I don’t make it, stopping halfway when the television catches my attention.
“Oh shit,” I say, watching with an open mouth as Marnie DeLuca fills the screen, sobbing while demanding to know who the home wrecker is who stole her fiancé from her. Jonathan was right. The woman didn’t even miss a beat.
“Well, at least they found a nicer photo of you,” Mum says as a clear shot of my face fills the screen. It’s from Friday night at Mary’s Underground. While it’s a little out of focus, it’s clearly me.
“Ah, yes,” Dad adds. “That’s a good one.”
“Maybe it won’t get that bad?” I say, trying to convince myself more than them. “I mean, who cares about little ole me? I’m no one.”
Nine
Sandra
“This is a nightmare,” I moan when my phone lights up for the millionth time in ten seconds—an exaggeration, but it’s how it feels. The moment that photo of me went live, everyone I know has been trying to call me. This number is one I don’t recognise, and as much as I don’t want to answer, it could be my boss. Wincing, I answer. “Hello?”
“Don’t hang up. It’s Jonathan.” I let out a groan and contemplate doing exactly that.
“How did you even get this number?”
“My agent got it.”
“And why are you calling?”
“Well, you kind of took off this morning. With my clothes.”
I close my eyes and turn away from the interested eyes of my parents, touching the back of my neck as I lower my voice
. “That was a total accident. I was cleaning up and… shit. I’m sorry. Do you need me to bring them back?”
“You shouldn’t be in public today. But either way, I had someone get me new ones.”
“OK. Well, I’ll courier them to you.”
“Keep them. Sell them on eBay.”
“Yeah. I’m not doing that.”
He chuckles then goes quiet. “You know, I haven’t had a girl do a runner on me before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I say, mindful of keeping my tone even in the presence of family. “Is that all you called about?”
“Kind of. I wanted to make sure you didn’t go back to your house.”
“I didn’t,” I say, shaking my head when my mother leans into my field of vision to get my attention.
He lets out a relieved sigh. “Good.”
“Why? What’s going on?” I ask, still waving my mother off as she pulls at my shirt.
“You’re not watching the TV?”
“I was. But then my phone started going nuts, so…”
“You might want to check it out.”
I turn around, finally understanding what my mother was trying to get me to look at. “Oh, shit.” It’s my favourite phrase at the moment. But it’s totally fitting when I’m confronted with footage taken outside my house where a reporter—a woman I actually worked with before I went to Voyeur—is giving out details about me and explaining they can’t find any sign of me. “This is out of hand.”
“Welcome to my world,” Jonathan mutters. “You shouldn’t have left the hotel. But if you tell me where you are, I can come and get you. I’m pretty good at evading this kind of stuff.”
I shake my head, even though there’s no way he can see me. “No. No thanks. I don’t need your help.” And I definitely don’t need to spend more time with him after how last night ended up. Despite his reputation and who he is, he was engaged to Lisa, and that just sits uncomfortably with me—well, sober me. Drunk me didn’t seem to care one bit.
Star (Beautiful Book 5) Page 5
