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)
So many people pawing at you.
I also look over at the photography equipment, studying each piece like I’m taking a class.
I’m burning with jealousy. I’ve always wanted to be a professional in some creative field, but I’ve never been on a real, live photo set for a major publication.
I watch one of the photographers instruct Logan to lie on his side on the ground. I still think I’d get better angles than she’s getting, but it still looks cool. She steps over him, pointing the camera down, flashes from various light sources going off around the room.
“Okay, time for the kiss prints,” she calls out.
An assistant brings over a little rubber object that she presses onto Logan’s cheek.
I realize it’s a stamp, and when she pulls it away, it leaves a red lipstick kiss mark on Logan’s skin.
She presses another to his forehead. His neck. A couple along his chest.
“Want them down here?” she asks the photographer, pointing at the bottom of Logan’s abs.
“Absolutely.”
When she walks away, Logan is covered in kisses.
“Okay, Logan. Part your lips a little. Yes. Like that.”
Logan’s mouth hangs open a little and I stand behind the bar, forgetting entirely that I’m supposed to be pretending to work.
I can’t stop staring at him.
I want to make those marks on his body.
Mine wouldn’t be with lipstick, but real marks. I want to suck them onto his skin, little hickeys and bruises all over him, and I kind of fucking wish I had already done that last night, so those photo assistants would have to cover my marks with makeup.
I’m heated now.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard, watching closely.
And it doesn’t help that Logan’s confusing my whole body. He’s wearing the clothes that the guys I hated in high school wore. The football uniform my father always wished he could see me in, too.
I’ve successfully avoided watching any Yard Line episodes or even online promo. Other than the ad I saw on the side of a bus, I haven’t seen Logan like this.
A thread of rage curls itself around my stomach.
The rest of the world has fallen in love with this version of Logan. And it’s so unfamiliar to me. Logan isn’t Damien Vance. He’s not “Big D,” or a football player on a show I would never watch. I like my version of Logan better.
His fans have no clue how sensitive he is. How much fame affects him, and how deeply he needs to recharge but never gets a chance to. His fame is just a reason he still has to hold back around me, and a reason his eyes end up looking so tired at the end of long days.
But I also recognize how good he looks like this.
Logan looks like a star.
I thoughtlessly reach for the silver tequila bottle in front of me, unscrewing it, tossing some in a glass, and taking a long swig, not bothering to see if anyone is watching.
I’m just a hotel worker.
A hotel worker who needs a fucking drink.
The liquor hits my blood and I watch Logan in front of that window, being touched and ordered around as a fire stokes in my chest.
None of them can touch you like I do.
I’ve never felt it so strongly until now.
I want to walk over there and drag him into the bedroom. Or skip the bed entirely and take him up against the wall.
I want to claim him.
I want to fuck him.
It’s so clear, right now, not layered underneath murky levels of doubt. It doesn’t matter that he’s a man, or that I’ve never thought of doing that to another guy… I just want to possess him, like I’m some feral animal watching my favorite person get pawed at by some other undeserving creature.
I’m crazy.
Fuck, I’m really this kind of person, aren’t I? Obsessive. Impulsive. Greedy.
Not that I’ve ever felt this for anyone else.
I take another gulp of tequila, knowing it’s bad. I know I’ve been drinking too much all week. Logan has, too. It’s toxic, just like this selfish thread that’s been coiling its way around my chest this whole time.
I curl my fingers around the cool, glass neck of the tequila bottle, wishing I could grip hard enough to crush it in my hand.
I’m probably bad for Logan, too.
Deep down, I know it.
I can’t take my eyes off of him for another couple of minutes. Then when the photographers tell him it’s time for him to swap into some Calvin Klein underwear, I know I have to go.
I don’t say goodbye. I don’t even look into his eyes before I leave.
I come back much later that night, after my shift, knocking hard on Logan’s door. He pulls it open. Those circles are there beneath his eyes again, but he looks at me with a twinkle of hunger behind his eyes, like he’s exhausted but also somehow ravenous.