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I was tired and embarrassed.
All my classmates were staring at me like I was some kind of alien. It was clear my teacher didn’t know what to do.
Desperate, I told the crowd they had me mixed up with someone else.
Tension mounted in a second. The fans got angry. Cursed at me for daring to lie to them. They started slamming the show. Called it trash.
Called me trash.
Someone threw a smoothie at me.
I still remember how it felt slugging down my face. The way everyone laughed, pumped up on the victory of embarrassing a rich kid who starred on TV. Feeling like they’d accomplished something epic.
After that, I stopped going on school trips and stuck to my chauffeured rides and my quiet moments with Kaelyn.
After that, I didn’t deny who I was.
Haters or fans. Whatever.
I am Kastle Jameson.
Screw it.
The brunette pushes her chest up. “We didn’t know you worked out here.”
“Well, now you know.” My tone is gruff. To the point.
The blonde flushes. I can’t decide if she’s annoyed or turned on.
Women are a mystery to me.
Even Kaelyn.
Hell, decades of friendship and I still can’t figure out where her head is at with this fake-dating proposal.
“We’re fans.” The brunette—obviously the bolder and chattier of the two—points to herself and her friend. “I, like, grew up with you. We’re only a couple years apart.”
I get up. Sling my towel over my shoulder. Grab my gym bag.
I’m not interested in making conversation. Unlike Mom, who would have already offered these girls complimentary packets with our signed pictures and her signature perfume fragrance, I just want to get away so I can shower.
The brunette slides in front of me and brushes her long hair behind her. She thrusts her chest forward again and I wonder if she’s doing that so I can comment on them. Compliment them. They’re nice tits. Suits her slim figure well.
But they’re not Kaelyn’s deep chocolate brown.
Not her plush size.
Not her—
No. I’m not thinking about my best friend’s tits right now.
“Would you like to join us for brunch?” She eases her lips into a sweet smile.
Dangles the invitation of more in her eyes.
She wants something other than strawberries and waffles.
Her friend too. The blonde? She’s eyeing me like her favorite mocha latte.
