Anyone But the Superstar (Anyone But You #3)

Chapter 7

7

FELIX

‘I think you’re starting to imagine things.’ Jack pushes past me and into the five-star luxury hotel suite the studio provided that I’ve been calling home these past five days. ‘Are you sure you saw your one-night stand at the press conference?’

For the hundredth time, I think back to the press junket day, clearly remembering Anne’s blonde ponytail resting on the shoulder of her shiny, hairless cat t-shirt. ‘Yes. She was definitely there.’

Jack, in shorts and a t-shirt rather than his usual power-suit, sits on one of the suite’s chairs with a sigh. ‘I have run through all the journalists invited to the event, scoured all crew contracts and double-checked with payroll and there is no one named Anne listed anywhere.’

For the past few days, I’ve remained holed up in the hotel, waiting. Waiting for the picture Anne took to fly through the tabloids. Waiting for Ron to release the film schedule so I can begin work. Waiting for Camilla Branson to spew more gossip that I’m unable to contradict .

I’m someone known for his action, I’ve had enough waiting.

Grabbing my key card off the coffee table, I mentally prepare myself to burn off my frustration in the hotel gym.

Jack, instead of standing to join, leans back his seat. ‘There was an Anna belle .’

Surprised, the card falls from my fingers. ‘And?’

‘And unless you have a geriatric kink I am unaware of—’ Jack smirks, looking a lot less LA and a lot more like the high school lacrosse player I remember from our lives pre-Hollywood ‘—I’m pretty sure Miss Bell, as the lovely sixty-eight-year-old catering chef goes by, is not our photo-taking culprit.’

Snagging the key card off the carpet, I flip Jack off with my other hand. Instantly, I’m reminded of Anne and her fuck-you nose scratch. ‘She was there. I did not imagine it.’

‘I believe you.’ He sits forward. ‘And we’ll find her and take care of it, just like we’ll take care of everything else. Just try and be patient.’

I scoff, and Jack joins me, both of us knowing that patience is not my strong suit.

Pushing off his knees, Jack stands with a groan. ‘Go easy on me today, will you? I have to fly back to Los Angeles in a few hours and deal with those other problems.’

I pocket the key card, my body near vibrating from restless built-up energy. ‘I make no promises.’

‘Great. Thanks.’ He grabs two water bottles from the mini fridge. ‘Do me a favor?’ He tosses me a bottle. ‘No more women while I’m in LA.’

I press my hand over my heart. ‘That, I can promise.’

Shaking his head, he moves past me, opening the heavy door. ‘You better.’ He checks to make sure the corridor is clear before waving me through. ‘Your lawyers are busy enough as it is. ’

I head toward the stairwell, wanting to avoid any potential interactions with fans in the elevator. ‘What’s the latest from them, anyway?’

‘Not much, which is why I’m heading to LA.’ His curse is masked by my hard shove of the stairwell door. ‘I’m hoping to light a match under their asses by showing up in person.’

We both pad down the stairs in grim silence, our sneakers hitting the cement stairs at a fast clip.

Jack isn’t going to like the workout that’s rapidly developing in my head any better than any of the others I’ve tortured him with this week. With my main concern still unresolved, the fact that Anne remains unaccounted for has me wanting to go all out. Especially because, when I’m honest with myself, with every day the picture isn’t published, my frustration stems more from wanting to simply talk to her again, rather than negotiate an NDA.

Disgusted with myself, I decide to sweat out my insanity with the Skills of Strength workout my trainer put me through for my airplane crash survivalist movie last year.

Jack will love that.

But when we open the door to the gym floor, all my sadistic workout plans go out the window, just like I wish I could, when I’m swarmed by a group of people.

‘It’s him!’

‘Felix Jones!’

‘Will you sign this?’

‘Take my room key!’

‘Did you really propose to Camilla?’

It’s the last one that makes my blood boil. My eyes flash to Jack, who already has his phone out and is barking orders.

I do my best to smile as women snap pictures of me with their smart phones, one of whom I think is live streaming. By the time hotel security finally intervenes, I’ve signed multiple autographs, posed for various fan selfies and dodged a lot of uncomfortable questions about my supposed fiancée .

I may not have gotten my workout in, but by the time I’m back in my hotel room, I’m so exhausted by the ambush, I face plant on the bed.

Jack, still on the phone, continues issuing orders and asking questions for another twenty minutes before finally hanging up. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news.’

I grunt in response.

‘Bad news. Camilla Branson has spread rumors that you two are engaged.’

While I already guessed it from the fan’s comment earlier, hearing Jack confirm that Camilla has started talking about me again feels like a punch to the gut.

‘She didn’t come out and say it herself, but she had one of her friends, that hotel heiress—’ he stares at his phone, reading whatever’s just been posted about me ‘—mention that she was in the market for a bridesmaid dress.’ He scoffs. ‘And when one of the reporters asked if it was for Camilla, she winked.’

Closing my eyes, I can see everything Jack just read play out. Probably at some stupid socialite function, or D-list celebrity outing, where those with money but lacking the fame they so desperately desire do and say anything to get noticed.

‘Which,’ Jack continues, as if I didn’t already know, ‘in Hollywood, is as good as a confirmation.’

This is why my lawyers are having trouble putting a gag order on Camilla. Besides the very first thing she asked for, she hasn’t demanded or even publicly said or done anything that I can sue her for. She’s been using her bevy of socialite friends to stir up trouble, all while holding personal information on me that she knows I don’t want to see the light of day.

Forcing myself to roll over, I don’t even twitch when a stem from one of my pillow’s goose feathers jabs into my neck. ‘Did you say you also had good news?’

Jack strides to the closet and pulls out my empty suitcase, tossing it on the bed next to me. ‘I found you a better place to stay.’

Liz

Something bad is about to happen.

From my perch on the kitchen counter stool, I stare out over the morning sun glittering on the large expanse of water that my new condo overlooks with a sense of certain doom.

Too many good things have happened over the past few days since the press junket.

The place Em said I could stay? A large condo within walking distance of NASA.

My job as a storyboarder? Sit and draw all day. Alone.

The award-winning douchebag I was worried I’d run into? Haven’t seen him.

Turns out storyboarders are part of pre-production. Our work is used to help the director and cast plan the set-up for each of the film’s scenes. It’s usually done ahead of the cast and crew showing up on location but since NASA only gave the studio permission to be on-site for a limited amount of time, some of the pre-production – like storyboarding – is happening in tandem with filming .

But not overlapping, thank God. Meaning I can continue to avoid the leading man.

I simply draw the set locations then turn them into my professor so he and Ron can plan camera angles and how the location visuals will interact with the script.

My phone buzzes with a notification telling me my grocery delivery is on its way. While I may not have a car, I have a phone, and it turns out that in Texas, you can have your groceries sans delivery fee. Meaning I’ve been able to supplement my catering table gorging without breaking the bank.

I should be happy in my twelfth-floor condo after a night of restful sleep on a bed that inclines, declines and adjusts firmness based on a person’s weight while drinking fresh coffee and eating an apple rather than a dense catering muffin. Instead…

‘Something’s definitely going to happen,’ I mutter, placing my phone back on the counter and watching sailboats and seagulls drift across the lake through the large living room window.

Even though I’ve been called a hippie quite a few times in my life, mostly by my asshole non-father, I’ve never believed in manifesting things with my thoughts until, not ten minutes after I voiced my certainty that things were going to take a turn for the worse, the doorbell rings.

‘Fuck a duck.’

Sighing, I stare at the door, hoping that somehow my grocery delivery came early, while mentally preparing myself for an eviction notice or a pink slip – either or both delivered by some Hollywood gofer sent by Johnny Douchebag Felix Jones.

And yet, at no time before or after my Birkenstocks hit the wood floor and shuffled over to the door, did I manifest a man dressed like a city slicker off to the Hamptons – leather boat shoes, seersucker shorts and a white linen dress shirt – with a cat strapped to his chest .

‘Chase?’ I blink at my brother, confused by his presence and the beige lump under his chin. ‘Mikey?’

‘Hello, Lizzie.’ His frosty tone makes me pause.

Pushing his Wayfarers up over his forehead, Chase struts into the condo looking like he’s about to catch a ride on one of the sailboats outside my window.

‘It’s nice to know you’re alive.’ He holds Mikey to his chest with one hand while unhooking the baby carrier from around his waist, sliding it off him and the cat. It’s a complicated maneuver that he makes look effortless thanks to how often he’s done it.

‘Uh, yeah.’ Closing the door, I step toward him, wary of my brother’s stiff demeanor. Chase has always been the fun brother. The one up for a joke or a laugh. The one always on my side, even if I’m on the other side of right.

It’s usually Thomas I have to look out for.

I shift closer. ‘Was there any doubt?’

Dropping the baby carrier on the floor, Chase slips something out of his back pocket before settling into the oversized reading chair in the condo’s open-plan living room.

Chase crosses one leg, resting his ankle on the opposite knee, Mike, in all his hairless cat glory, perched on his lap.

I should’ve worn my flip-sequined t-shirt to match.

‘You tell me?’ He raises the hand holding the paper.

Slowly, I make my way over to the chair and take the folded document. The words urgent care catching my eye when I open it.

Fuck a fucking duck.

‘Imagine my surprise when that —’ Chase points to the insurance bill in my hand ‘—came in the mail.’

‘What are you doing going through mom’s mail?’ Living in student housing before heading to Texas, any mail I get, from insurance or otherwise, gets sent to the Moore family residence in Manhattan – the 15,000 square foot mansion near Central Park I grew up in.

‘Really.’ Chase angles his chin down, his eyes boring into me. ‘ That’s what you want to go with?’

Sighing, I give in. Sort of. ‘I ah, ate something that didn’t agree with me.’ Not technically a lie. ‘I’m fine, really.’

He runs a hand down Mike’s back, the saggy skin sliding over the feline’s bones. ‘A call would’ve been nice.’

I read over the medical insurance charge notice, thankful that it doesn’t say what I was actually treated for. ‘How did you know where I was?’ While the urgent care’s address is listed, it doesn’t explain how he found me here .

‘I could’ve called you, I guess,’ Chase goes on, ignoring my questions. ‘But would you have answered?’

I decide to circle back to my questions later, as it’s becoming more and more apparent that not only was Chase seriously worried, but now, after seeing me hale and hearty with his own eyes, I’m very much on my brother’s shit list.

Which I’ve never been on before.

In fact, with how happy-go-lucky and laid-back Chase always appears, it’s surprising he even has one.

I scuff my sandal across the area rug. ‘I would’ve answered.’ Probably. At least by the third or fourth try. But as my brother’s laugh lines are nowhere to be seen, I keep that to myself.

It’s the silence that gets me. Chase and I are never silent. We tease each other. We laugh. We divert the other’s attention from whatever gets them down. We spent our lives banded together, us against our father.

‘Hey.’ I nudge his boat shoe with my Birkenstock. ‘Sorry.’

The cat breaks first.

‘Meow.’ Mike lifts one paw, asking to be paid attention too.

‘Aw, you missed Aunt Lizzie, didn’t you.’ I bend over, scratching under Mike’s chin. ‘Yes, you did. You missed me, you little cunt.’

‘Jesus.’ Chase rolls his eyes, exactly the reaction I was going for. ‘You can’t say that.’ Though his eyes crinkle while doing it. ‘And especially not in baby talk.’

I add another hand, scratching behind Mike’s ears. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s crude.’

‘So is your cat.’

We share a smile, and I know I’m forgiven.

‘Here.’ He grabs Mike around his ribcage with both hands and lifts him to me, the cat’s back legs and private bits dangling. ‘Take him.’

As I have a million times before, I reach for Mike, and, feeling like I’m holding a butterball turkey, I cradle him to my chest. For a cat that looks like skin and bones, Mike’s rather dense.

‘Now.’ Chase leans back. ‘Tell me about storyboarding.’

‘Ah.’ I nuzzle my nose against Mike’s before sitting on the couch opposite my brother. ‘My professor was the weak link.’

‘Yes, well, go easy on him.’ Chase spreads his arms across the back of the chair. ‘He wasn’t going to tell me where you were staying until I mentioned the urgent care thing and then suddenly, he was a flood of information and apologies.’ Chase’s brow pinches together. ‘Something about a housing mix-up and car rental?’

Not meeting his eyes, I wave away his question. ‘There was a bit of an issue, but it’s been taken care of.’ Luckily , I’d add, if I didn’t think it would worry him. ‘As you can see.’ I gesture to the condo’s floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Clear Lake.

We spend the next twenty minutes catching up. Me telling him about my storyboard internship and my time at NASA, him bringing me up to speed on Moore’s department store and regaling me with stories of our previously dour older brother Thomas whose now firmly wrapped around the little finger of a princess-loving nine-year-old.

‘I wish I could see that.’

‘Oh, you will.’

‘I will?’

‘Yep.’ Chase lowers his foot and stands. ‘I’m just a scout.’

I tilt my head, and Mike mirrors it. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean?’

I follow his movements as he picks up the cat carrier off the floor and drapes it over the arm of the chair, trying to put the pieces together.

But it isn’t until he raises one eyebrow, looking very much like our older brother, that I figure it out.

I swivel on the couch toward the door. ‘Thomas is here?’

‘No, not yet.’ Chase scoops up Mike from my lap, the cat unhelpfully limp. ‘But he and the rest of the family will be.’

‘Why?’

‘Thomas gave you a year to “find yourself”.’ He adjusts Mike in one hand to air quote with the other. ‘Honestly, I’m surprised he gave you that.’ He shakes his head with a laugh. ‘I’m surprised that I gave you that.’ He turns Mikey’s back into his chest. ‘I know you wanted time to come to terms with everything that’s happened but time’s up , Lizzie.’ He emphasizes his words by jabbing Mike’s paw toward me.

There’s an ominous rumble coming from the cat. Mike hates being used as a puppet. Something Chase is very much aware of but doesn’t care.

No wonder he prefers Bell.

I refocus on my brother. ‘When is he coming?’

He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. ’

‘Chase…’ I sound alarmingly like our mother.

‘I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.’ He lowers an unhappy Mike back to the floor. ‘And as much fun as this last-minute day trip to Houston has been, I better get going.’ He gestures for me to stand. ‘I have a wife to get back to and a company to run.’

Once I’m on my feet, Chase engulfs me in a big hug. ‘But if you’re good,’ he whispers, ‘I might be willing to give you a heads up on the family’s ETA.’

He steps back, petting my head like I’m a toddler.

I dodge him with a laugh. ‘Uh huh, sure.’ I learned my sarcasm from him.

It isn’t until he’s at the door that I notice what he’s left behind. ‘Um, aren’t you forgetting something?’

When he turns, I point to Mike.

‘Nope.’ Chase smooths down the front of his cat-carrier free shirt. ‘He’s all yours.’

All the good feelings from seeing my brother leave. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

He smiles wider.

I hustle over and heft Mike into my arm. ‘You can’t leave Mike here. This isn’t my place. They probably don’t even allow pets.’

‘Actually, according to a woman named Emily, who your professor had a lovely chat with on my behalf, as long as it isn’t another cow or a goat, she doesn’t care what or who you bring into the condo.’

I frown, wondering if someone really tried to bring in a cow into the building.

But when Chase reaches for the doorknob, I quickly shake off the thought.

‘Bell will kill you if you come home without Mikey.’ Marching over to him, I thrust the cat in his direction and go for the jugular. ‘She loves this cat more than you.’

I know I’ve hit a nerve when his eye twitches.

But instead of taking the bait, or the cat, Chase tucks his hands into his shorts’ pockets. ‘Which is exactly why I’m leaving him here.’ He rocks back on the heels of his loafers. ‘A little couple-time with my wife wouldn’t be amiss.’

I glare and he smiles wider.

‘But if you don’t want Bell to worry and fly down here early, you better get better at communicating.’ He sighs as if he’s the one being put out. ‘Because if Bell comes, then I’ll come, and of course Thomas will want to come and the next thing you know, we’ll all be here.’ He tilts his chin down, catching my eyes with his. ‘Interrupting whatever it is that you think you need to do all by yourself.’

I open my mouth to curse at my instigating brother, but Mike claws the air, not liking being held aloft. Curling him into my chest, I’m not hating how his saggy skin is warm against mine.

‘Oh.’ Chase, looking rather joyful at the turn of events, snaps his fingers. ‘Almost forgot.’ He walks back over to the baby carrier and slips something out of one of its pockets. ‘Here.’

I lower Mike to the floor and take yet another folded piece of paper from my brother. This one a?—

‘Emotional Support Animal Certificate?’ I blink at the professional, notarized certificate.

‘Yeah, so you can take Mikey to work.’

‘Wha—’ I look at Mike, who’s returned to basking in the sunlight and licking his balls, then down at the paper in my hands. ‘I can’t take him to work.’

‘Yep, you can.’ Chase looks positively gleeful. ‘Just another thing your professor took care of in the name of apologizing for the housing mix-up.’ Chase flutters his lashes, looking about as innocent as kid with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘You know how Mikey gets when left alone.’

‘But I?—’

Chase leans in and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Love you, Lizzie.’

And then he’s gone.

Leaving me with Mike Hunt.