Bookish and the Beast - Ashley Poston Page 0,17

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She tried to confront me before I left last week, and we ended up having a row. She said some nasty things. I said some things back. That was when it was decided that my stepfather’s best friend, Elias Rodriguez—my godfather, essentially—would look after me in the interim. My stepfather certainly wouldn’t. He paid more attention to the movies he produced than to his own son.

Tragic, I know.

It’s just so hard being Vance Reigns, heir to Kolossal Pictures, prince of Hollywood, et cetera, et cetera.

Whatever.

I figure if I ignore Elias long enough, he’ll leave, and finally he does and closes the door behind him. If I never talk to my mother again, it will be too soon. She can leave voice mails all she wants.

I don’t care whether it’s a beautiful day. I don’t care what I’ll be missing. I don’t very well care about any of it. I just want to exist here, do my time out of the media, and leave. It’s not as though I wanted any of this to begin with.

Yes, I like a little bit of chaos. And yes, I might have gotten into some easily preventable trouble more often than not. I mean, wouldn’t you want to shake things up now and again if everything you ever did was watched over, quite meticulously, by not only your overbearing mother but also hundreds of thousands of fans?

I suppose I could have called a taxi for Elle after the Starfield: Resonance wrap party. I could have just ignored the paparazzi. I could have not lost control and careened my Tesla into a small reservoir half a mile from where Elle wanted to be dropped off.

But I’d be out of my mind to think that was the tipping point. It was an amalgamation of all of it—the late-night parties at the flat, the clubbing, the revolving door of men and women throughout my dating life. The stunt with Jessica Stone last year at ExcelsiCon didn’t help matters, either.

Everyone loves the allure of a bad boy. They love him right up until he crosses that invisible threshold. They cheer him on, they fall in love, they protect him—

Until, suddenly, they don’t.

And then they become the villain. The cautionary tale.

In other words: me.

ANNIE AND QUINN ARE WAITING FOR ME outside Quinn’s house at the end of a beautiful tree-lined street. We’ve all been together for as long as I can remember. One day we all sat on the same tire swing in kindergarten, the one under the big oak tree in the corner of the yard, and—well—that was it. History was made and the bonds of friendship forged, and we didn’t even have to go to the summit of Mount Doom to do it.

I can’t imagine a single day of my life without either of them.

My best friends wait at the edge of the driveway as I pull up. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” I say as Quinn and Annie climb into the back seat. I lift the drink carrier with two coffees over the passenger seat and hand it to them. “Java Hutt took way longer this morning.”

Annie pulls her springy red hair back into a scrunchie and buckles up. “Can we blame Java if we miss homeroom?”

“I’d rather miss first period,” Quinn says, taking the two coffees. They hand one to Annie. Quinn is one of the best-dressed people I’ve ever met. They’re stylish and cool, the kind of person you wish you could dress like. For instance, today they’re rocking plaid straight-legged pants, suspenders, and a Starfield T-shirt. They pull a lock of their short teal bob behind their ear. “I didn’t do the reading for Gunther’s class.”

“Oh, the one on microorganisms?” Annie asks. “I can give you my notes.”

I scoff, pulling out of the driveway. “There are more doodles on your notes than actual notes.”

“I get bored!” Annie shrugs, then leans up behind the driver’s seat. “And don’t think you can just get away with not telling us what happened last night. I tried calling you for hours and it went straight to voice mail! We thought you’d died.”

“I was already writing the eulogy,” Quinn agrees. “What happened to you? Annie said you got fired.”

“I did. And it’s…complicated.”

I watch my two best friends exchange a look in the rearview mirror, and both of them lean forward between the seats, prodding me to go on.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

Quinn takes a long drink of their iced Americano before they say, “Try me.”

Last night, as