weren’t for you, I don’t know if I would’ve survived the last eighteen months. You’ve been a true friend when I’ve really needed one.”
“Aww. We’ll still be friends.”
I doubt that, but I want to believe her. Once it gets out to the public that we broke off the engagement, everyone will speculate about how bad a breakup it was. It’ll be suspicious if we still see each other. It could turn into a huge will they, won’t they thing.
It could be a publicity nightmare.
The other night at Denver’s party, Heather and I talked about fan expectations, and it reminded me of that. Half of them want one thing, and the other half want the other. Some people love Evah and me together, but others hate her without even knowing her. It’s inevitable we’re going to piss people off no matter what.
And no amount of screaming “It’s my life and my choice” will make them change their mind. Being famous means every single person in the world is allowed to have an opinion on my actions, and they’re allowed to voice it publicly.
It doesn’t mean we have to like it, but it’s not like we can retaliate, or we look like the assholes because we’re the ones in mansions and have these amazing lives that nearly everyone on the planet wants a taste of. We’re not allowed to get butthurt by people telling us we suck.
Gotta say, crying into buckets of money, while good in theory, doesn’t make shit better. It doesn’t make it less lonely.
More first-world problems in the life of Harley Valentine.
“When do you think we should do it?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. Maybe after the publicity for 4Evah dies down a little?”
I nod. “That’ll give us some time to work out all the logistics.”
“Goodnight.” Evah kisses me on the cheek.
“Night.”
As soon as she leaves my room and I’m alone again, the large, empty space of the master bedroom feels too big. Too empty.
Soon enough, Evah will find her own place and move out, and even though I should be excited at the prospect, possibly even toy with the media by being seen with men instead of her, I know not much will change.
She’ll move on, but I’ll still be where I have been for the past decade—working toward a goal I’m beginning to think is unachievable.
No matter how successful I get, I’ll always want more.
Because hiding behind a career is easier than going for what I want.
And what I want is to be loved.
Truly loved.
Brix walks into the living room, his long, thick legs exposed in tiny shorts, his muscular arms glistening with sweat, while his black tank top shows off every impressive line and curve of his wide chest. I bet his skin tastes salty and sweet.
Dog, wrong tree.
I shake those kinds of thoughts free.
He’s been downstairs in the basement gym working out, and I’ve been trying not to imagine what that looks like while I write … nothing.
I’ve still got nothing.
When I finally admitted to myself that I want to be truly loved, my dick replaced the word “loved” with “fucked” and now my little crush … no, my lust, for my bodyguard has tripled.
That’s all it is. Lust.
After a straight guy.
That has done nothing for my inspiration even though it should be giving me angsty unrequited-love lyrics.
Fantasizing about Brix being all sweaty in the gym is even sadder than when I was pining after my ex-boyfriend while he was in love with someone else.
“How’s the writing going?” Brix runs a towel over his wet head.
“Torturous.” Only, I’m not talking about the writing.
“Want to take the day off? You haven’t left the house since Evah’s thing.”
“That was, like, only a few days ago.”
“Ten. It’s been ten days.”
I groan and lie back on the carpet. “I don’t want to go out.”
“Okay, diva, calm down. We don’t have to go out, but you do need some vitamin D.”
My gaze flies to his, and my mouth drops open. Then I realize he means actual vitamin D and not a euphemism for his dick.
“You have an amazing pool fifty feet away. We should go swimming.”
Swimming.
Together.
I run my gaze over his muscles again and eye his black tank top. He wouldn’t be wearing that in the pool. He’d be completely shirtless.
Bad Harley.
“I’d rather not,” I croak.
“Let me rephrase. We are going swimming. If you don’t get your trunks on, I’ll throw you in wearing all your clothes.”
“Isn’t that considered assault nowadays? What if I have my phone in my pocket?”