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She gives me one last odd look before leaving the office and closing the door.
Alone, I open the paper and read the article. I exhale gratefully when I realize it’s just a generic rehash of last night’s VMAs. Only the caption below the picture mentions my name. But there it is in black and white. Actually, that’s not right. It’s in full freaking color.
Hawke Evans, drummer for the multiple nominee and past VMA winners, Sphere of Irony, walks the red carpet with girlfriend, Abigail Kessler.
That’s it. One sentence. I sag back in my chair in relief.
Okay. This isn’t so bad. I can do this. No worries.
Eight hours later, I try to go home and it all goes to hell.
Hawke
The hired car pulls in front of the departures entrance at LAX and idles at the curb. Dawn is still a little while off, the sky a deep violet to the west, shades of pink and orange streaking from the east.
I flick my gaze to the clock on my phone. Six a.m. Jesus. How did I go from the guy who stays up all night and fucks random chicks at after-parties to the guy who drops his date off just after midnight and goes home without getting laid?
Since you fell in love with Abby, asshole.
I bolt upright in my seat. Love? No way. I’m not still in love with her. I care about Abby and yeah, I want to get in her pants all the time, but that’s not love. She’s hot, so it’s only natural to have those urges. Besides, I can’t be in love with her. It doesn’t matter what I feel, Abby deserves better than a fucking disaster like me.
Disgusted with myself, I jump out of the backseat without saying a word to the driver. After a brief, aggravating fangirl moment with the ticketing agent, I’m standing in line at security, hoodie pulled low over my brow, staring directly at my feet so I won’t be recognized. The TSA agent who checks my ticket does a quick double-take but doesn’t say anything. Here at LAX, these guys see so many celebrities on a daily basis, they’re pretty much immune to dealing with anything out of the ordinary. The ticketing agent must be new to be impressed by me.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in my first-class seat to Denver, drumming my fingers on my knee nonstop. I keep my face tilted toward the window and tug my hood lower. Movement in the aisle next to me has me tensing up all over.
“Hi. I guess I’m your neighbor for the next two hours.” A perky female voice has me groaning internally.
Just what I need. A Chatty Kathy bugging me to be friends when all I want to do is freak out as silently and unobtrusively as possible until I can get to my house in Boulder.
The seat next to me shifts with the weight of someone sitting down. “I’m Jessica.”
Jesus Christ. I stop tapping my fingers to dig my thumbs into my eye sockets. Fuck. As much as I want to be an asshole and ignore her, it’s better to just say hi and let her gush and squeal so I can get back to letting my dark thoughts eat away at my insides.
“Hey.” I give her a slight chin tilt with every intention of letting the conversation end there. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a pair of long, toned, olive-skinned legs. Since I’m a guy with a pulse, I can’t help but shift in my seat to get a better look, and what a good fucking idea that turns out to be. Jessica is stunning. Not only that, I recognize her.
“You’re…”
She grins widely, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, the kind th
at can only be achieved with expensive veneers, surrounded by thick red lips. Her dark eyes shimmer, black lashes framing them perfectly.
“Jessica Hamby,” she finishes, holding out a manicured hand. “And you’re Hawke Evans.”
I blink and take her hand, shaking it. Jessica makes no move to pull back from my grasp. Instead, she tips her head and gives me a knowing smirk.
Jessica Hamby. Hollywood’s latest “It Girl.” Gorgeous, curvy Jessica. Sitting next to me in first class, flashing fuck-me eyes my way and wearing a very short skirt.
I think I might have found a better way to get my demons out of my head. Half an hour into the flight, Jessica squeezes my knee and leans in. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Oh yeah. This way is definitely better. Much, much better.
Abby
Work is long and I think I’m more anxious than half of my patients. I sent Hawke a text after reading the article, but haven’t heard anything back. When I checked my phone at lunch, I had missed calls from my mother, my brother Evan, and a bunch of unknown numbers, as well as several texts including one from Kate.
Nothing from Hawke.
I try not to let his silence disappoint me, but if nothing else, we’re supposed to be friends. He’s the one who invited me to the VMAs. I would think I at least rated a day-after phone call.
