The Sweetest Star: Under the Stars Book 2

by Raleigh Ruebins

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  More 5*Star

  More from Raleigh Ruebins

  Social Media

  The Sweetest Star

  Raleigh Ruebins

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  More 5*Star

  More from Raleigh Ruebins

  Social Media

  This is a work of fiction. Names, businesses, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Raleigh Ruebins

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design by AngstyG

  Prologue

  Dash

  Eric Ronson had me pinned to the ground.

  If you would have told me a few months ago that a former boy band member would be above me, eyes wild, and my cock would be this hard, I would have laughed.

  Eric had been my coworker for weeks, and every part of me knew we shouldn’t be doing this. But it was true. And I wanted him inside me, sooner rather than later.

  I’d come over to his house under some lame excuse—told him I wanted him to teach me how to play video games—when really we both knew I just needed him to fuck me.

  “Video games suck,” I’d told him after losing the game for the millionth time, frustrated in his living room.

  “Oh yeah? Do video games suck, or… do you just suck at playing them?” he said, looking down at me, teasing.

  “Oh fuck no, you did not just say that to me,” I said. I pressed my hands to his shoulders and reversed our positions so that I was on top of him now. I tried not to smile when he laughed.

  “If I suck so bad at video games, it’s because I have you as a teacher,” I said, fixing my gaze on him. When he brought a hand up to his face I took it, gently but firmly moving his hands up, above his head, pinning them to the floor.

  And as soon as I did it, he made an involuntary sound, somewhere between a moan and a groan. His eyes went sort of dazed, half-lidded.

  I kept talking to him, knowing the effect I was having. “And you’re a fucking bad teacher, Eric,” I said, keeping my voice steady and low.

  “Oh?” he replied. “And why am I bad, Dash?”

  “You’re bad,” I said, and I got low, right near his face, “because you’re too goddamn distracting.”

  I bent down, pressing my mouth to his neck, and gently nipped at his skin. It wasn’t a bite, just playful, but possessive. I eased up and pressed a wet kiss into the same spot on his neck, my hands still at his wrists above his head.

  “Ohhh wow,” he uttered, turning to the side, giving me more of his neck. He wanted it. “…Sorry I’m such a bad teacher, Dash. Why was I distracting?” he asked, playing along in his coquettish way.

  I kissed along his jaw. “Because,” I said in between kisses, “every time you put your hands on mine, trying to show me what buttons to push, all I could think about was how they’d feel inside me.”

  “Oh my God,” he said, voice low and guttural. “I didn’t know you—you wanted—”

  I pulled up, looking him in the eye again. “I do, Eric. I want it fucking bad.”

  He shuddered under me and I could feel the press of his cock through his jeans against my thigh. I sank my weight down onto him, showing him I was just as rock hard as he was.

  “Yeah,” I whispered, “I’m pretty damn sure I need you to fuck me now.”

  He paused for a moment, pupils going wide. “Okay,” he said, “I just want to make sure, though—you really still want this, right, Dash? There’s no obligation.”

  It was sweet. So much sweeter than I would have expected from Eric Ronson, a guy known for how much sex he had, a total player.

  But now wasn’t the time to feel tender toward him. That’s not what I was going for. I bent down and pressed my lips to his, kissing him slow and deep. I took his bottom lip into my mouth, sucking before pulling back and moving in close to his ear.

  “Yes, Eric,” I whispered. “Now would you kindly—and I’m sure about this—please take me to your room and fuck me like I’m asking you to?”

  Finally he let out a low chuckle that told me all I needed to know.

  “Oh, Dash,” he said, pushing his wrists against my hands until I finally released my grip on him. He moved his hands to my waist, pressing his hands to the cool skin of my back and gripping me hard. “Yes. Yes I can. I’ve wanted to fuck you since the minute I met you.”

  That was all I needed to hear.

  I knew it might be the only time I got to sleep with Eric Ronson, and I was going to make it good.

  One

  Eric

  “You don’t have to leave.” The words came out sounding more pathetic than I had intended, more a feeble whine than a persuasive invitation. I was in the front room of my house, trying desperately not to get broken up with.

  “Why, Eric?” Abe said, devoid of emotion. “Because of your stupid TV show?” He picked up the shiny black garbage bag he’d stuffed full of his clothes and opened the front door.

  That’s when I literally dropped to my knees. It was a little overdramatic, but hey, I was trying, and it was the first time I’d actually cared enough about someone to beg like this.

  “Abe,” I pleaded, “It’s supposed to be our TV show, not ‘my’ TV show. How the hell are we supposed to—”

  “You’ll figure out how to do it without me. I’m moving on, Eric.” His dark eyes finally met mine, and they were completely cold. I barely recognized him. “I mean, this relationship was good to promote the show, but other than that… I keep wondering what I’m still doing with you.”

  Jesus. That one hurt. I felt like I’d been kicked right in the heart.

  “Please—” I said, truly desperate.

  “I’m sorry, Eric,” Abe said, shaking his head. “It’s over. I should have done this a long time ago.”

  “Why do you have to go? Is it that bad with me?”

  He paused briefly, looking me over like I was pathetic. “Um, yes? The drinking, the partying, the excess? We're in our mid thirties. It’s just not my style anymore. And honestly, you could stand to grow up too."

  Ugh. Of course he’d say that. It was what everyone said about me, often when they were leaving me. And all the gossip blogs said it abou
t me too: Eric Ronson. The partier. The player. Runs through both men and women, fast and hard. Tell me something I don’t know.

  I made a sound that could only be described as a whimper, which was doubly pitiful being delivered from my vantage point of the floor. “I prefer to think of myself as ‘youthful’ and ‘open minded.’ …And you used to like partying, too. Abe, we had so much fun together… remember Cancun? Jesus, remember Paris?”

  He just rolled his eyes. “I remember you drinking a lot and telling me over and over again that you were never going to drink again.”

  I cast my eyes down toward the floor. “Well I remember you telling me I was beautiful….”

  He let out a long, irritated sigh. “Eric, I’ve gotta go. Good luck with…” he waved his hand dismissively toward me, “…this.”

  “Abe, seriously, just don’t—”

  But the door had already slammed behind him. I heard his car starting up outside, and the rev of the engine as he sped down the street.

  “Fuck,” I said out loud to no one, running my hands through my hair. I rolled over onto my back, lying on the floor and essentially curling up into a fetal position.

  I was Eric Ronson, the guy who didn’t do relationships, but for the first time… I think I’d had my heart broken. Was this what that felt like? Like a piece of you had just walked out the door? I’d known Abe and I had some problems, but for once I wanted to work them out. I could see myself with Abe. We’d have our TV show together and maybe even a life together.

  I stood up slowly and paced the room, my stomach feeling sicker and emptier by the minute. I was only dimly aware of what I was doing. For some reason I kept looking out the front window, squinting into the late afternoon light to check if Abe had suddenly been struck with a change of heart and decided to come back.

  Of course he hadn’t. I was alone.

  And the network—oh, God, I couldn’t even think about the network. My producer was gonna kill me. Career, it was nice to know you, you were great while you lasted. Could I really lose my boyfriend and my job all in one day?

  I guess now would be a good time to mention that Abe was kind of my first real boyfriend. I mean, okay, yeah, I’d had plenty of long-term hookups, and even mutually caring relationships with men and women. But I’d always kind of thought I wasn’t made for monogamy. Or that I wasn’t made for love.

  But then Abe had come along. He was a star on Eat Network, and I was about to be too. He was everything I’d always wanted, and for once, I even felt like settling down. It had only been six months, but I’d felt like we were just getting started. That I was leaving my days of being a “player” behind.

  But without him, I didn’t know what the future of my TV show would be. Eat Network had hired me to be the co-host of their new cooking show. It was kind of a big deal—it was slated to be one of their best modern interactive cooking shows, airing live on TV as well as livestreamed online, and filmed every week. Abe was gonna be my co-host. It would all be perfect, the network had said—they could play up the fact that we were boyfriends, and it would make the show all the more popular.

  How the hell was I supposed to co-host a cooking show without him by my side? He’d been my guidepost, my rock.

  Someone should have just gone ahead and put a picture of my face near the word “desperate” in the dictionary. I took in a deep, shuddering breath and finally forced myself to stop looking out the front window.

  I needed a new co-host.

  Or maybe even needed to find a new boyfriend, if that’s what it would take.

  I knew that I should have immediately called the network, and told them the news. But I couldn’t. I had to take a breather, to gather my thoughts, and most importantly, have a drink.

  I headed out the front door a little later. The sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs always greeted me—well, this particular time I walked, out, the sound of someone’s ill-kept muffler greeted me, as they drove down my street—but as I turned my head to the left, I could see the ocean at the bottom of my street, stretching out against the horizon.

  I’d moved to San Diego years ago, and I’d purposely lived right by the beach ever since. It was paradise, without all the irritation of the L.A. paparazzi and social climbers and traffic—everything I used to have to deal with. In L.A., I’d be on gossip blogs and in tabloids every time I started dating a new person—which was often. But down here, I kept a lower profile. Fans still recognized me here, asking if I was “that guy from 5*Star,” even though my former boy band had been broken up for over 10 years. But paparazzi tended to stick further north.

  I started down the slight hill my street was on, headed toward the ocean. I looked down and realized that I was still in sweatpants and an old ratty t-shirt, but I didn’t care. If I walked along the road that lined the water—Sunrise Vista Boulevard—after about half a mile, I’d end up in the quaint little beachside strip of bars, restaurants, and shops.

  I approached one of my favorite restaurants: a local haunt called Fries, which specialized only in beer and fish & chips. It was divey but in the best way, a small, simple room filled with only about six old beat-up tables. The piece de resistance was that the entire front wall of the shop was one huge window, that the owners kept open almost year-round: big, open space above a countertop bar that looked out over the ocean.

  I got two beers, just to be safe, and an order of fish & chips. My favorite barstool by the window was wide open and I sank into the familiar plush seat, already relaxing a little.

  Even if my chance at having a show on Eat Network was about to be flushed down the toilet, I was determined to enjoy this meal.

  Because there had to be something good about this day.

  I was halfway done with my food and already on my second beer when a man sat next to me. Right next to me, despite the fact that there was a whole row of empty barstools he could have easily chosen instead. He looked about my age, and wore a simple black t-shirt, faded and a little frayed at the sleeves. His hair fell over his eyes as he hunched over the counter and he had a big, nice digital camera around his shoulder.

  And even though I felt like I might never be cut out for another relationship again, I knew I had to give it a shot talking to this guy. Maybe I could go back to my “player” status and bring him home, even. Hell, I used to do stuff like that weekly.

  So I reached out my hand.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling at him. “I’m Eric. I gotta say, that’s a nice camera. I hope that’s not just to take food photos for Facebook.” I smiled, to make sure he knew I was joking, not being a total dick.

  He looked down at my hand and then back up to me, then finally shook it. His eyes were piercing grey-blue, like when he looked at me he knew more than he was letting on. Was I imagining that? Or maybe he knew me from 5*Star, and I’d have a shot with him.

  “I’m Dash,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “Oh, shit, sorry,” I said, pulling my hand back and finally realizing why he had hesitated with the handshake. “I didn’t mean to cover you in grease.” I reached over to grab a stack of napkins from the caddy on the counter, and handed him half of the stack.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, looking down at his fish and chips and snapping a few photos, “I’m about to end up the same way.”

  He didn’t look like a tourist, but certainly didn’t seem like someone you’d find by the beach. Locals didn’t tend to wear combat boots like the ones he had on.

  “So, is this your first time at Fries?”

  He shook his head. “Second time. I love this place. They get the fry just perfectly right.”

  “I know!” I said, enthusiastically. “I’ve tried it at home, but I just can’t get it like they do.”

  Finally, he looked up and met my eyes, and I saw excitement in them. It was striking as hell. “So have you heard about the ice water trick?”

  I shook my head, trying to focus on the conversation instead of his beautiful face. I’d already been
attracted to him, but when all his attention was focused on me, it was even more arresting. “No, what’s that?”

  “Well, you’ve gotta use cold, cold water in the batter. Helps it stay light and perfect. But…” he leaned toward me, close to me, almost like he was telling me a secret, “…I actually asked them last time I was here. They use beef dripping on the fries. It’s what gives them that very slightly charred taste, super savory, just perfect.”

  A slow smile broke out over my face as he leaned away from me, grinning too. “Wow. I must say, I’m impressed. Clearly you know food.”

  He shrugged, taking another bite. “I like food. And I try to learn as much as I can about things I like.” After he said it, he gave me another look—a deliberate one, with a small smile to go along with it. I half expected him to wink at me.

  And I could have been crazy, because it had been a crazy day—but I swore he was flirting.

  So this was my chance. I could flirt back. Like I always used to before I’d found Abe, in my past life. I could do it.

  “I can tell I like talking to you, Dash, and I only just met you.”

  “I like talking to you too, Eric,” he said, fixing his beautiful eyes on me again in a playful side glance. “God, it’s nice to be able to talk to someone who actually likes talking about food. My ex always wanted me to shut up about it.”

  “Ah,” I said, “My ex loved food, but, uh… didn’t love me, I guess.”

  Dash’s face suddenly turned sad—not just sympathy sad, but a deeper, dark understanding kind of sad—and I hoped to God he wasn’t giving me a look of pity.

  Abort. Abort. I knew I had to get the subject far the hell away from my miserable breakup story.

  “You know, I actually have started a restaurant before. And a food truck,” I blurted out.

  “Seriously?” he said, hitching his eyebrows up. “Holy shit, congratulations. It’s my dream to have a restaurant—what is it called? I wanna drop by.”