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“You have no idea.”
A waiter arrived, and Thorne leaned back in his seat, offering the man a broad smile as he filled two goblets with ice water.
“Wine, sir?” the waiter asked, holding out a menu.
“Not tonight. Just a black coffee.” He waved it away casually, like it was no big deal, and he wasn’t underage.
“Scarlett?”
I jerked my gaze from the wine menu back to Thorne, realizing I’d been staring. “Oh, uh, just the water’s fine.”
When the waiter left to get Thorne’s coffee, I arched a brow. “Wine, huh? They really serve you here, knowing you’re not twenty-one?”
He shrugged. “When it’s empty like this. It’s no big deal. Plus, when you’re famous, you can pretty much get whatever you want.”
I wanted to tell him it was kind of a big deal. He could get arrested. The media could catch wind. They could lose their liquor license. But I refrained and pressed my lips together. I’d already given him a hard time. The last thing he needed was a lecture.
Instead, I asked, “Do you drink a lot?”
“Occasionally.” He chuckled, but his sober expression told me he didn’t find it funny. “Had my first drink when I was thirteen. To celebrate my first huge role, Mom handed me a highball glass with whatever had been in the decanter.” His gaze darkened, and he picked up his water. The ice rattled before he took a sip and set it back down. “How’s that for messed up? Most kids get a cake or a pair of the latest Nikes. I got two fingers of Johnny Walker.”
My heart sunk like a stone at his pained expression, while I searched for something to say, unsure of how to navigate this particular nugget of insight into his life when the waiter returned with a steaming mug.
“Shall I start you out with the usual?” he asked.
“That’d be great,” Thorne said, then he waited until the waiter nodded and scurried off again before he exhaled and dragged a hand over his face. “Anyway . . .” he said, clearly wanting to change the subject.
“So you’re one of those,” I said, trying to cut the tension.
“One of what?” he asked.
“One of those guys who orders for whatever girl you’re with, like we can’t decide what we want to eat for ourselves.”
Thorne leaned forward and placed his hands on the tabletop. “First of all, even if I were that guy, maybe it’s because I know what’s good here.”
When I started to protest, he held a finger up. “But, relax, it’s just an appetizer, and I totally plan on letting you order your own food. It’ll just give us something while we wait. And to answer your earlier question”—his gaze shifted and wherever his meant went was far away—“it really is that bad. The paparazzi means my life is an open book. Worse, the truth is often exaggerated or sometimes lost altogether. I get very little privacy. The trade-off for fame sucks sometimes.”
“But they mustn’t always follow you. There were no cameras today.”
He nodded. “For one, I’m not in LA. It’s not like they follow you everywhere. But right now, they’re hounding me, so I have my ways of sneaking out unnoticed. It’s not foolproof, but it buys me time when I know they’re around. They're jumping on this whole golf cart story and the possibility of my new film replacing me, so I don’t know what to expect. They could show up at any time. Who knows? A photographer could be outside by the time we leave.”
“Tell me more about going out unnoticed. Do you hide in the hotel laundry or something?” I laughed, imagining under a heap of soiled bath towels.
“No, but I use a decoy.”
“What? Like one of those fake ducks hunters put on the water to attract more?”
“Exactly like that.”
I curl my fingers. “Explain.”
“I have a body double, a dude that looks similar to me—dark hair, same skin tone, height, and build. He’s not always around, of course, but when things get . . . too hot for me and I’m feeling suffocated and need a break, I hire him to pretend to be me. My crew sneaks him into my apartment or hotel or wherever I’m staying. They dress him up like me and then he openly leaves just like I would, often in one of my cars and with one of my drivers.”
“And it lures them away to wherever he’s going,” I finished for him.
“Just like those poor ducks.” He grinned. “And I’m free.”
“For how long?”
