BLOCK: Social Media #3 (3 page)

"OK." Yeah, that’s not good. "Please do this for me and make it a priority."

"No problem, V. I’m on it."

The line disconnects but I’m too deep in thought to bother putting my phone away, so I just stare out across the valley and suddenly wish I could fly back to Denver tonight. I speed-dial my office. "Janet, can I cancel my day tomorrow?"

I have to pull the phone away from my ear, that’s how abrupt her laugh is.

"Mr. Asher, you have a fundraising meeting with your father at eight AM, remember?"

I sigh. "Never mind." I pocket my phone and walk over to the glass wall that lines the terrace, resting my forearms on the thin ledge, as I ponder my feelings.

She’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen to her. I’m careful. I’ve been doing this for years and no one has ever gotten a speck of dirt on me. They won’t find her. I’ve only been to see her once.

Which means, even if my day was clear tomorrow, I can’t go. I need to keep the distance between us because if the media finds out about her, we have to call it quits.

That’s always been the rule, and even though I’ve never had to put it in practice, I will if necessary.

My phone buzzes again and I’m surprised to see Conner’s face lighting up my screen.

"Yeah," I say into the phone.

"So which one of you assholes is spying on me?"

"Aw, fuck."

"Seriously, Vaughn? You need to spy—"

"It’s not me, it’s Felicity."

"That kid? Why the fuck is she digging through my shit?"

"Because she thinks you’re a douchebag and she wants to mess with you."

"Whatever. I’m not the one bringing a girl to meet Mom and Dad with a vibrator up her hole. And you know, it’s real interesting that Felicity is talking all this interest in me while she should be doing damage control for you. Did you forget that Sam invited
Elite Lifestyles Magazine
to the wedding so they could do a spread on her? Because they saw that whole brunch debacle."

"What? Sam never told me that. Since when does she do interviews?"

"Since her dickhead husband made her."

"I gotta go." I end the call and go back inside to make myself a drink. Holy shit, this day went all to hell. No wonder Sam was so upset the night of her wedding. If Tray wasn’t still back on Saint Thomas having a non-honeymoon for one, I’d kill that asshole.

I pour four fingers of Scotch and sit down at the bar out by the pool. Something is very wrong. Something is very, very wrong. I can just feel it. It’s like a snake, slithering up behind me, just waiting for me to be complacent so it can strike.

I take a long swallow of my drink and then speed-dial Ray, my security coordinator. "I need you to double up on the Denver client and get a team to dig up information about the reporter who attended my sister’s wedding last weekend."

"On it, boss," Ray says.

"Check the Denver house for bugs and steal her phone."

"No problem."

“Discretely. And then put it back so she thinks she misplaced it.”

I end the call and swallow a long gulp of Scotch just as my phone buzzes in my hand. The number comes up unknown so I ignore it and take a seat on the couch to think things through. The magazine reporter is a wild card I was not anticipating. And fucking Conner knew all along back on the island. That’s why he was talking shit to me about getting discovered and having all my dirty deeds come back to haunt me.

But he’d never turn on me. We might fight a lot, but we’re brothers and that means something. All growing up Conner was the only real friend I had. Sam was too young, Conner was too young too, but when you’re isolated from the world for your own protection, well, you take what you get. And Conner was what I got.

He was secluded from the craziness that my father and I endured for being famous. He went to a real school, he had real girlfriends, he experienced a childhood. I, on the other hand, had celebrity fundraisers for social events. Or wrap parties overflowing with drugs. Or red-carpet events where the sole purpose of the paparazzi was to make me look bad.

This is the kind of shit I’ve been building walls against my entire life. And every time I think I have it all under control, it spirals.

My phone buzzes again, this time to signify a voice mail. I absently grab it off the table, my curiosity getting the best of me, and press the icon for messages.

"Vaughn," a crying woman says from the small speaker. How did she get my number? "I have to talk to you, it’s an emergency. Call me back at the hotel spa number."

No. This is not good. Something is very wrong.

I delete the message and pull up email instead. I hate to do it, but I can’t see Grace tonight. I need to think this over, figure out what’s going on, get my bearings, and make a plan of retaliation.

Sweets, please accept my apologies. Leaving town on business, don’t know when I’ll be back.

Damage control. If this magazine reporter is on to me, it’s better to cut that shit off now and lie low. I take another swig of my Scotch and kick my feet up on the table. There’s not much choice. This is my life. No matter how hard I try to be normal, no matter how far away I think I am, it’s never far enough. That traditional family I never had is just a dream. My life, for better or worse, is a string of side-show events that prohibits me from having a real relationship.

So fuck it. Why bother, right? Why bother fighting it. I’m lucky—at least I have Felicity, even if that relationship is about as unconventional as it gets.

I grab my phone and press Felicity’s face so I can fill her in on the reporter and tell her to leave Conner alone. The call rings through to voice mail. I know she’s in school and won’t answer, but it was worth a try.

I stare out at my ten-million-dollar view, lost in thought.

Why can’t I ever get what I want? Just once I’d like to get what I really, truly want. I want to fly back to Denver and sleep over at Grace’s house. But I can’t. Something is cooking and getting sloppy now will have consequences. Once the paparazzi has you on target, they never let go until they get what they want. They’re always around. Waiting in trashcans. Hiding in bushes. Following me three cars back. And they know one of these days I’ll get drunk, or sad, or desperate and I’ll fuck up. Then they’ll get what they’ve been tracking for years. Proof that my private life is nothing but a long string of sexual debauchery.

I down the rest of my drink and pull up my agent. That rings through to voice mail as well—figures—but this time I leave a message. "Larry," I say with a slight slur from the Scotch. "Set me up with a beautiful date for the
IM2
premiere and I’ll go."

Chapter Three

V
AUGHN
never
calls again. It’s been two weeks of silence after he canceled our last Twitter date. Nothing. And I’m pretty sure the spies are gone too because last night I met my co-worker for a drink thinking I could draw Asher out with jealousy.

But no. He’s gone. And what did I figure? That I’d be the girl to change him? That I’d be the girl he falls in love with? That I’d be the girl who could claim his heart, even though countless others have tried and failed?

I’m an idiot.

For years, my Dirty Heaven was Vaughn Asher. I lived and breathed for those Saturday nights and ever since I met him in person, my fantasy faded away, one disappointment at a time.

He’s a jerk.

He’s a sexual deviant—and even though I did like that date we had, a BDSM relationship was never part of my perfect fantasy. I didn’t exactly dream of wedding bells and diapers, but it was a monogamous partnership kind of dream. I would live in Denver and build my career, flying out to see him in Hollywood every weekend for parties and fun. Then he’d fly back with me on Sunday nights to fuck me in ways that did not involve kneeling at his feet or having bite-sized morsels placed on my tongue. He’d kiss me goodnight on my doorstep like the perfect Prince Charming and fly home for a week of hard work and I’d do the same here in my own little corner of the world.

And although I think he might be on board with the distance that I prefer in a relationship, his unique sexual requests are not part of my long-term plan. That is vacation sex. That is one-night-stand sex. That is not partnership sex.

So it’s better this way. I’m perfectly happy like this. I’m going to find myself a new fantasy prince and give him all my Dirty Heaven attention. Maybe a younger one this time. Someone more my age. Someone who doesn’t need to prove his sexual prowess with games.

"Earth to Grace?"

I’m going to forget all about Vaughn Asher, wipe him right out of my life.

"Hello?"

Which is easier said than done when those stupid fucking
Invisible Man 2
posters are all over this fucking airport.

"See something you like up there? Because that’s my soon-to-be husband."

"What?" I look over at Kristi who is handing me a cup of coffee from the Starbucks while stuffing her face with a blueberry muffin. "No!" I laugh. "No, I was looking at the
IM2
poster next to Johnny Blazen’s Broncos."

"Oh, yeah, that Vaughn Asher is a dream. I’d do him." She chuckles as we drag our luggage onto the moving sidewalk that will take us down to the end of the concourse to the gate. The Blazens have hired a jet to shuttle Denver friends and family over to Vegas and they keep all the small airlines on the very edge of the concourse, making the walk a long one.

Hmmm. "He’s OK, I guess. Not quite my idea of a dream though. So speaking of the soon-to-be hubs—why isn’t he flying with you instead of me?"

She paints on her life-is-perfect smile like she’s been doing for the past two weeks and swallows hard. "He’s got football stuff tonight, so he’s going to fly in tomorrow."

"Right. Football season." I don’t get it. Their relationship is not what I expected. He’s never around. Always something about football. And she always makes excuses for him. They don’t even live together. And maybe some couples like that before they get married, but she’s
pregnant
. If I was pregnant—and I won’t be, so this is a total hypothetical—I’d throw a fit if my husband wasn’t there. I’d never put up with this.

Add in the fact that she practically let me make all her wedding choices for her, and I see a pattern emerging.

Kristi soon-to-be-Mrs.-Blazen has no mind of her own.

"You know, Kristi, it’s your wedding, so it would be expected for you to throw a little fit to get him here the night before. I mean, what about the bachelor party? Isn’t he dying to sneak into your room and ravish you inappropriately?"

Holy shit, why did I use that word?

"It’s different when you’re dating a famous person, Grace." Her voice is pleasant and her smile is still fake as we get to the end of the slidewalk and heft our luggage back onto the tiled floor. We have to walk the rest of the way because we are out of moving sidewalks.

"Oh!" Kristi exclaims, pointing to a bathroom. "I wanna pee again, just in case."

"You just peed after we came through security."

"I know, but I hate to pee on the plane. One last time before we board. Here, take my luggage."

I start to sigh but cut it short.
She’s a client, Grace. Be graceful, like your name implies.
I lean up against a wall to wait her out, but the buzz of my phone snaps me out of my irritated funk. I pull it out of my purse and stare at the screen.

Unknown number.

My heart rate speeds up immediately, but at the same time, I get a very sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Vaughn. It has to be Vaughn.

I press the accept tab with a nervous smile. "Hello?"

"Miss Kinsella?" an unfamiliar voice asks me from the other end of the line. "Are you Grace Kinsella?"

"Who’s this?"

"Miss Kinsella, my name is Jasinda Gonzales, I’m Vaughn Asher’s girlfriend, and I’ve noted a pattern of calls to this phone and I’d—I’d just like to know if he’s cheating on me?"

My head spins so bad I almost fall down. "Excuse me?"

"Are you near a TV, Miss Kinsella?"

"What?"