Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
As soon as my TV show popped off, my routine instantly got thrown into the absolute chaos of dodging paparazzi, putting out fires on social media, and morning-to-night days of interviews and meetings. I used to think the life of a famous actor would be all red carpets and TV sets. I’ve only been famous for a month, but already I know I was fucking wrong.
Sipping this liquor right now is the first moment of peace I’ve had in weeks.
Fame is more like this:
Everyone wants something from you, and you’re so grateful for it that you sacrifice sleep, time, and your overall mental well-being.
A month ago, nobody even knew your name, but now they’re showing up on street corners and at convenience stores, snapping photos of you with or without your knowledge.
And you’re too delirious to realize that your dream come true is happening all around you, finally, because holy God, there is so much alcohol surrounding you at all times.
It brings up a certain kind of pain that I can’t process.
Pain for everything I’ve left behind.
And the people who used to be in my life, too.
My phone suddenly buzzes on the tabletop, startling me.
Emily
Don’t gawk for too long, by the way. Remember we have the call-in interview at 4 o’clock. Actually, let me confirm that and get back to you.
Logan
Or we could cancel all of the interviews, and I’ll get a third Scotch from this bartender.
You’re so bad at being famous. Priorities, Logan.
She’s right.
Yard Line was never predicted to become as popular as it has.
I have no clue how to be famous.
I take a long draw from my glass, letting my eyes wander toward the back of the bar area. The lounge is dimly lit and the bar top is sleek black marble, with its fixtures all metallic gold.
It’s very glitzy in an Art Deco style. The whole lounge is currently glowing in the afternoon light coming through the black-rimmed windows on the far wall.
The bartender reaches up to the top shelf of liquor.
I hadn’t noticed how broad his shoulders are.
He looks strong, from what I can tell.
My eyes keep getting drawn to them as he moves. I watch him stretch, seeing the edge of a tattoo on his forearm peeking out from under his sleeve.
He never seems to finish any task. While he works, bottles end up scattered all across the back, along with scraps from cut limes, towels, and bottles of various syrups, like he’s a walking tornado. The urge to go behind him and clean up everything he leaves behind is strong, but I already fucked that up once.
The bartender pulls out a short ladder, stepping up to replace one of the light bulbs above the shelves.
I stare at his ass in his dark denim.
And it looks so good it makes me fucking ache.
It’s been too long since I’ve had someone.
One of my acting teachers once told me that I have “a talent for portraying the emptiness of heartbreak.”
I was pretty sure that just meant I’m good at looking sad.
But ever since I was thrust into fame, I haven’t had the time to be sad. I’m numb.
I auditioned for the role on Yard Line without knowing anything about football. But since the lead character was a quarterback who was secretly struggling with a bad home life, I knew I could nail that.
But I have the muscle, the frame, the whole look of a football player. I star as Damien Vance, a cocky playboy who has a new woman in his bed anytime he wants and drips confidence and sex appeal. But he has deep inner demons, and secretly struggles with a gambling addiction that ruins his relationships.
On TV I’m a commodity.
A “smoldering sex symbol,” according to one magazine.
In real life, I’m…
Me.
A guy who’s never broken a single rule in his life.
A guy who got voted “most nice” in my high school senior yearbook, even though I always wondered if that was just a synonym for most boring.
Logan
I am a little tipsy at this point, I admit, but…
Emily
But?
But I’m also pretty sure the bartender has the best hair I’ve ever seen.
What’s she like?
He. And he’s not my type at all. Too young, too many tattoos.
Good. You don’t have time for sex. Interview is confirmed for 4 o’clock, so you have to leave soon with the traffic.
When I glance up at the bartender, he’s leaning over and scrawling in a small red notebook. He’s been doing it any time he gets a free moment, and I’m growing more curious about what’s inside.
His lashes flick up and he catches me staring again.
His eyes rake over my body, and a slow warmth blooms outward from the center of my chest. A lock of his dark hair comes untucked from his ear. He’s definitely attractive, but in a rough way. Like a royal portrait painting of a prince that the artist accidentally made a little bit too angry.