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)
When it looks like he’s about to start taking yet another draw from the flask, I frown, holding out my hand to touch the metal.
“Hey, go easy on yourself,” I tell him. “Nobody can handle shots back-to-back like that. Do you always come out here to drink during your shift?”
“No. I was planning on sketching something, but then you appeared.”
“Sketching?”
He nods toward his bookbag, which is on a short metal table by the door. On top of it is his red notebook.
He flips it open to a random page, and I step over to look.
It’s not a journal or a diary like I thought. It’s full of his art.
On the page that’s open, he’s drawn an impressive bird in flight, with giant, black outstretched wings, spanning two whole pages and with its claws going over the crack at the center of the sketchbook. It looks severe. Drawn rough around the edges, and artistically styled. But it’s very well done for something that he just doodles in his free time during his shifts.
Beautiful. And a little monstrous.
So he’s talented, incredibly attractive, and doesn’t let anyone fuck with him.
I barely know him, and already I like him too much.
All the more reason for me to get the hell out of here, quick.
“I could draw for years and never do anything that good,” I tell him. “Even my stick figures are ugly.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, waving his hand through the air.
“Don’t be modest. This is amazing.”
I see a black SUV turning the corner of the alleyway.
“You have a private black car service? Exactly what do you do for a living?” he asks me.
“I’m in the film industry,” I tell him, which isn’t really a lie. “Have a good evening.”
Before I get in, he stops me.
“Are you coming back into the bar later?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m too fond of that single malt. I’m making too many bad decisions lately.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Come back anyway. I like the attention.”
The way he says it makes my cock throb, and that’s just another reason I shouldn’t go into the lounge again.
“I don’t think you actually want the kind of attention I’d give you.”
Something twinkles behind his eyes. “But you want attention from me. I heard you asked about me yesterday. Got a crush?”
I puff out a laugh, despite myself. “Fuck off.”
One corner of his mouth comes up in a smile too, and I see a dimple on his cheek.
Jesus.
You can’t have fucking dimples.
You’re going to kill me.
“If you really want my cock that badly, you have to give me something, too.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’d need to see you get on your knees and beg,” he tells me, giving me a pointed look. “But you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
He holds my gaze for another moment as I struggle for how to respond. Finally, he blows me a little kiss, then turns and walks back into the hotel before I can say anything.
“Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking—oh my God! Oh my God, I’m crying—”
I jump as a pair of hands come down on the back of my hair. I just got out of the driver’s SUV and emerged into a thicker crowd than I’ve ever witnessed in person.
The crowd is so thick I’m put on edge instantly, like I’m trapped in a mob.
It’s been three days since I left the Bellwood out the back alleyway and nobody was out there other than the bartender.
I didn’t go to the bar that night, and now I haven’t had a chance for the past three days.
In the interim, Yard Line fans have apparently spread the word that my driver uses the back alleyway behind the Bellwood. Two days ago, a small group of them showed up when I got back. Yesterday, the crowd was even larger.
But today it’s fucking pandemonium.
I turn to see the girl who’s sobbing, with dark black streaks of mascara running down her cheeks, gripping at me like she’s in some sort of out-of-body psychosis.
“Logan,” she sobs, drawing it out as if the word had more syllables than it should. Another group of girls surrounds her, all of them pushing their phones into my face, some of them with the flashlights on to get a better look at me in the dark evening.
“Everybody move!” the Bellwood Hotel security guard’s voice booms.
But there’s only one of him.
There are hundreds of people here, crushing around us, all of them shouting at me.
My heart slams in my chest. I adjust the collar of my shirt.
Over the last 72 hours, it’s as if something caught in the air and the entire world decided it, all at once: Logan Stone is a rising star, but we’re about to turn him into the most famous actor in the world.
It started with a simple social media post.