Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,257

of it.”

“An English teacher who believes everything she reads,” he muses.

“Don’t give me that shit. Deny it, then.”

“I can’t deny some of it, but you’re only seeing what my publicist wants you to see, like the whole exhaustion thing I told you about.” He makes air quotes around the word exhaustion, and I remember how he confessed that secret to me—just me. “I don’t even have a Twitter account.”

“Yes, you do.”

He unlocks his phone and tosses it on the seat between us. “Show me.”

I’m highly tempted to look at his phone. What apps does a rock star have? It’s a stupid, random thought that makes me sort of realize he’s kind of like everyone else—just hotter and richer.

I don’t touch it, though. It feels too personal. Instead, I pull up his Twitter account on my phone and hand it over to him.

He glances through, narrowing his eyes at some, chuckling at others. “I’ve never written a single one of these. Why are they all so short?”

“You can’t use more than a hundred forty characters.”

“Why not?”

I lift a shoulder. “That’s the limit.”

He scrolls some more, reading through the posts he supposedly made that someone else made on his behalf. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What?”

He flashes my screen at me. Maggie Westin is trouble AF and I like it.

There’s a picture underneath with Mark looking out of it and a very drunk Maggie Westin hanging on him.

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Didn’t you see the media shit storm a few months ago linking us?” I nod, and he looks pissed as he holds up the phone as if its evidence. “Looks like my fucking publicist started the whole damn thing.”

“Because of the tweet?”

“Because she posted a picture of us together and it looks like I posted it. What the fuck does AF mean?”

“Are you, like, seventy-four and just look really good for your age?”

His brows draw in. “What are you talking about?”

“How do you not know what common slang means? How do you not know how to tweet?”

“AF is not common slang.”

“It’s common AF.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” I ask innocently.

He narrows his eyes at me. “I still can’t believe Penny pulled this shit. Fuck. I should call her now and fire her.”

“AF means as fuck.”

“So I called Maggie trouble as fuck? What does that mean?”

“Like she’s a lot of trouble and you like the sort of trouble you can get into with her. And the picture sort of hits that point right out of the park.”

He nods slowly. “Teach me more slang.”

I laugh. “I feel like a rock star should have that part down.”

“You’d think, but I’m really just a seventy-four-year-old man parading around as a rock star.” He hands my phone back to me. “I don’t think I want to read any more.”

“What about Facebook? Do you have one of those?”

“I did, and then the band got popular and I deleted it.”

“Why?”

“My agent at the time advised against posting anything online that could negatively affect my public image, and rather than take the chance of posting something stupid or drunk or both, I got rid of it.”

“Do you ever miss having a normal life?”

He lifts a shoulder and averts his gaze to the landscape passing us by out the window. “I’ve been in a band since I was in high school. We were signed when I was in my early twenties. I’m not totally sure I know what normal even means.”

I didn’t think I could feel bad for the man who seems to have it all, but I suddenly realize that having it all might not be as glamorous as it seems.

“My publicist handles all my social media. If I need to get in touch with someone, I text or call. Besides, there’s so much negative shit out there. I don’t need to read the reviews that say we played like shit or my voice sounded like I was gargling sandpaper.”

“Someone said that?” I frown.

He nods. “All the fucking time.”

“That’s just not true.” I think about how beautiful his voice is and can’t imagine anyone ever saying anything bad about his singing.

“Except the one time I actually did gargle with sandpaper.”

“I bet you still sounded on point.”

“On point AF?”

I laugh. “Close enough. What about Instagram? Snapchat?”

“Insta-who? Snap-a-what?”

“Okay, I’ll get you set up on Snapchat.” I hold my hand out for his phone and walk him through setting up an account.

“What does it mean if I click My Story?”

“Don’t press that,” I say sharply.

He looks so