I throw back another shot and look at my phone again, at the last message I’d left my… What is she? Long-distance friend sounds weak. She’s so much more.
It may seem fucked up that my best friend—the first person I think of when I wake and the last I text before bed—doesn’t know my real name. But that’s precisely why our relationship works. I never have to worry if she’s friends with me just because I’m a celebrity. She doesn’t go starstruck and get me confused with my character from The Wanderers.
And if I just keep my distance, she won’t get ravaged by trolls, ambushed by paparazzi, splashed over the tabloids. And I won’t have to face the terror of wondering when she’ll get her first death threat. All that happens to any woman who enters my orbit.
My Typewriter Girl exists outside all of that.
We work precisely because of the rules we drew up, like lines in the sand for boundaries.
No real names.
No real-life meetups.
No dick pics. (That was her rule.)
But those lines can erode with time.
Too often lately, I find myself just as I am tonight, wondering where she is, who she’s with, and fighting the overwhelming urge to tell her the truth, to hell with the consequences.
But I can’t do that to anyone who hasn’t signed on for my kind of crazy. If I really care about her—and I do—I need to stay the hell away.
As much as I hate to admit it, Sebastian is right.
I need perspective. I need to get laid.
Using the intense stare I’ve perfected in The Wanderers, I make eye contact with the model. It’s a mask I put on for photographers and fans—and women in clubs, apparently.
Layla responds with her own sexy, come-hither stare. I’d be willing to bet also perfected for the cameras. We could film a perfume advertisement on our way to the bedroom.
She does a hair toss and laughs with her friends, looking back at me with a flirtatious glance. She’s putting on a show, but it’s a good one.
“Why the hell not?” I say, as much to Sebastian as to myself.
I’m overanalyzing. It’s been too long since I accepted one of the invitations that’s thrown at me like so much confetti.
One last shot for good measure, and my world is hazy around the edges. Her smile glitters in the dark, smoky room in a silent invitation.
“Finally!” Sebastian laughs, patting me hard on the back and shoving me in her direction.
She propositions me within five minutes, and then it’s all about logistics. Not romantic, but necessary.
Avoiding the paps involves evasions worthy of secret agents, but we make it to my place undetected.
She follows me to my bedroom and strips before me, her body tanned, sleek, and clad in black lace. There’s nothing soft about her.
“My friends bet me I couldn’t sleep with you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“You turned down Avery Woods,” she says with a shrug. “No one turns her down. We thought you were gay. Or secretly dating someone else.”
Avery Woods is the most famous singer in the world. She has a string of hits longer than the list of men she’s supposedly dated. We met at an awards show years ago, but I’ve never even had a conversation with her, despite the rumors.
I don’t want to talk about some singer, though. And I sure as hell don’t want to be told that Layla only wants to sleep with me to win a bet, or as an ego boost for besting a bigger celebrity. I pull her flush against me with a little more force than usual.
Something behind her eyes flares to life. So, that’s how she likes it. Noted.
“Are you sure you want this?” I ask her. “I don’t do anything besides casual.”
She laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not looking for some guy to put a ring on it. I’m at the top of my career right now and having way too much fun. Casual is how I like it.” She rubs her hand up and down my dick through my pants.
I kiss her hard and deep. One of my hands roams her firm, angular body as the other wraps in her hair, pulling her head back. She moans. Yeah, she likes it a little rough—and a lot dirty, I’ll bet. If anyone could get my disinterest to dissolve and carnal pleasure to take over, it should be her.
I kiss her again, trying to lose myself in it, in her. But I can’t. Being with her feels wrong, like I’m cheating. Which is ridiculous. But the woman in my arms is not the one I want.
Finally, I pull back. “Fuck, I’m sorry. This isn’t right,” I say. She looks at me like I’m crazy, which I must be. I try my best to let her down easy with an excuse she probably doesn’t buy.
A few minutes later, she’s gone, muttering, “Gay, I knew it.”
All I want is to shower off her lingering perfume. Loneliness claws at my gut as I step into the shower, wishing the strong jets of water could wash away my unease as well. I drank too much, or perhaps I didn’t drink enough. I’m too heavy, too itchy, too hollow, too horny—all at the same time.
The robe I throw on after drying off is an elegant designer dressing gown, a gift from my foster sister. I laughed when she first sent it to me. It doesn’t fit my jeans-and-a-T-shirt style, but I wear it more often than I’ll ever admit to her.
The living room’s minimalist decor seems more bare than usual in the moonlight. I prowl the darkened room, not able to settle. I nurse a whiskey and watch the way faint moonlight plays across the shimmering depths of the Pacific Ocean.
I could have had sex with a woman lusted after by millions. But I can’t shake the thought that I have more fun texting with Typewriter Girl. I hoped someone else could cut her from my mind, like surgery. But it feels impossible.
The more we write, the more I want to know her in every way possible. And, worse, the more I want her to know me.
I wish I could tell her about my secret dream of being more than just a pretty face on a billboard, of going back to school to get my GED and then college to study screenwriting and filmmaking so I can tell my own stories, not someone else’s.
But I can’t, just as I can’t share with her my bone-deep fear that this unrelenting fame will never fade, the cold, hard certainty that the door to any normal life is closed forever.
The fame I’ve somehow fallen into is beyond anything I ever imagined. The crowds I attract are Elvis-worthy. I am Justin and Brad at their peaks. And I have no idea why, because I’m the same person I was in my teens. Back then, I was just another street punk, invisible to most people. Now, I can’t walk down the street without drawing a crowd.
During our all-night conversations, I imagine telling Typewriter Girl who I am. How would she react? Would she hate me for lying to her? Perhaps most aren’t outright lies; I’m careful about that. But I lie by omission and redirection constantly.
And then there’s this small part of me that thinks she’ll change if she knew. Friends morph to leeches all the time, seeing me as their ticket to Hollywood.
Even good people change around me. They might try, but they can’t see past the celebrity, as if I’m more an icon than human.
I worry she’ll stop seeing the real me. And then I’ll lose the real her.
But that fear is nothing compared to the rest of it—that, if I’m found out, photographed with her, if the paps get ahold of our friendship, then her life will be thrown into the chaos of mine. I once almost destroyed the life of someone I cared about. I won’t ruin hers. After what happened a few years ago, I’ll never again risk getting close to an ordinary girl who hasn’t already chosen fame.
Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I click open my text messages. Few people have my personal number, and she’s the only one I text regularly. I’ve always considered texting a waste of time. But with her, it’s different. There’s row after row of our messages, laying out years of our relationship that’s based only on words. A river of them.