Block (Social Media 3)

"No problem."

“Discretely. And then put it back so she thinks she misplaced it.”

I end the call and swallow a long gulp of Scotch just as my phone buzzes in my hand. The number comes up unknown so I ignore it and take a seat on the couch to think things through. The magazine reporter is a wild card I was not anticipating. And f**king Conner knew all along back on the island. That’s why he was talking shit to me about getting discovered and having all my dirty deeds come back to haunt me.

But he’d never turn on me. We might fight a lot, but we’re brothers and that means something. All growing up Conner was the only real friend I had. Sam was too young, Conner was too young too, but when you’re isolated from the world for your own protection, well, you take what you get. And Conner was what I got.

He was secluded from the craziness that my father and I endured for being famous. He went to a real school, he had real girlfriends, he experienced a childhood. I, on the other hand, had celebrity fundraisers for social events. Or wrap parties overflowing with drugs. Or red-carpet events where the sole purpose of the paparazzi was to make me look bad.

This is the kind of shit I’ve been building walls against my entire life. And every time I think I have it all under control, it spirals.

My phone buzzes again, this time to signify a voice mail. I absently grab it off the table, my curiosity getting the best of me, and press the icon for messages.

"Vaughn," a crying woman says from the small speaker. How did she get my number? "I have to talk to you, it’s an emergency. Call me back at the hotel spa number."

No. This is not good. Something is very wrong.

I delete the message and pull up email instead. I hate to do it, but I can’t see Grace tonight. I need to think this over, figure out what’s going on, get my bearings, and make a plan of retaliation.

Sweets, please accept my apologies. Leaving town on business, don’t know when I’ll be back.

Damage control. If this magazine reporter is on to me, it’s better to cut that shit off now and lie low. I take another swig of my Scotch and kick my feet up on the table. There’s not much choice. This is my life. No matter how hard I try to be normal, no matter how far away I think I am, it’s never far enough. That traditional family I never had is just a dream. My life, for better or worse, is a string of side-show events that prohibits me from having a real relationship.

So f**k it. Why bother, right? Why bother fighting it. I’m lucky—at least I have Felicity, even if that relationship is about as unconventional as it gets.

I grab my phone and press Felicity’s face so I can fill her in on the reporter and tell her to leave Conner alone. The call rings through to voice mail. I know she’s in school and won’t answer, but it was worth a try.

I stare out at my ten-million-dollar view, lost in thought.

Why can’t I ever get what I want? Just once I’d like to get what I really, truly want. I want to fly back to Denver and sleep over at Grace’s house. But I can’t. Something is cooking and getting sloppy now will have consequences. Once the paparazzi has you on target, they never let go until they get what they want. They’re always around. Waiting in trashcans. Hiding in bushes. Following me three cars back. And they know one of these days I’ll get drunk, or sad, or desperate and I’ll f**k up. Then they’ll get what they’ve been tracking for years. Proof that my private life is nothing but a long string of sexual debauchery.

I down the rest of my drink and pull up my agent. That rings through to voice mail as well—figures—but this time I leave a message. "Larry," I say with a slight slur from the Scotch. "Set me up with a beautiful date for the IM2 premiere and I’ll go."

Chapter Three

VAUGHN never calls again. It’s been two weeks of silence after he canceled our last Twitter date. Nothing. And I’m pretty sure the spies are gone too because last night I met my co-worker for a drink thinking I could draw Asher out with jealousy.

But no. He’s gone. And what did I figure? That I’d be the girl to change him? That I’d be the girl he falls in love with? That I’d be the girl who could claim his heart, even though countless others have tried and failed?

I’m an idiot.

For years, my Dirty Heaven was Vaughn Asher. I lived and breathed for those Saturday nights and ever since I met him in person, my fantasy faded away, one disappointment at a time.

He’s a jerk.

He’s a sexual deviant—and even though I did like that date we had, a BDSM relationship was never part of my perfect fantasy. I didn’t exactly dream of wedding bells and diapers, but it was a monogamous partnership kind of dream. I would live in Denver and build my career, flying out to see him in Hollywood every weekend for parties and fun. Then he’d fly back with me on Sunday nights to f**k me in ways that did not involve kneeling at his feet or having bite-sized morsels placed on my tongue. He’d kiss me goodnight on my doorstep like the perfect Prince Charming and fly home for a week of hard work and I’d do the same here in my own little corner of the world.

And although I think he might be on board with the distance that I prefer in a relationship, his unique sexual requests are not part of my long-term plan. That is vacation sex. That is one-night-stand sex. That is not partnership sex.

So it’s better this way. I’m perfectly happy like this. I’m going to find myself a new fantasy prince and give him all my Dirty Heaven attention. Maybe a younger one this time. Someone more my age. Someone who doesn’t need to prove his sexual prowess with games.