STAR (A 44 Chapters Novel)

by BB Easton

  Hans stared at me with an unreadable expression. It only lasted a second or two, but it reminded me why I’d been so intimidated by him the night before. When Hans wasn’t smiling, he looked scary as fuck. Heavy, dark eyebrows, one impaled with a silver barbell, shadowed his storm-colored eyes. Wild black hair shot out in all directions. And that hard, stubbled jaw flexed as Hans drew his already-narrow mouth even tighter. Some women have what they call Resting Bitch Face. Hans had Resting Evil Villain Face.

  Then, it was gone.

  His smile returned, lighting up his features, and he simply replied, “Good.”

  On that note, Hans threw off the purple pony comforter and got out of bed. His toned physique was on full display as he turned and towered over me, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts with little yellow bananas all over them.

  I ogled him. I couldn’t help it. There was just so much to look at. The man’s body was a long, lean, chiseled work of art. Literally. One arm was covered in black-and-gray tattoos, the other in handwritten lyrics about falling stars who hijack your bed.

  It was all too much. I had to force myself to look away from the banana print and make eye contact.

  Thankfully, Hans seemed to be refreshingly unaware of how affected I was by him. He simply jerked his messy bedhead toward the door and said, “You wanna go get some breakfast? I’m fuckin’ starving.”

  I wasn’t big on eating—anorexia and all—but for some reason, I found myself with a sudden hankering for banana.

  “Sure,” I chirped. “Just give me ten minutes.”

  I tried to re-spike my bottle-blonde pixie cut and reapply my makeup using whatever products I could find in my purse. Nude lipstick, black liquid eyeliner, concealer, and blush—just enough to take me from looking like death to looking like death that was worthy of an open-casket funeral. But I was having a hard time concentrating with Hans’s boxer shorts on the floor next to me and the steam from the shower fogging up the mirror.

  Somehow, when I’d said, “Just give me ten minutes,” Hans had taken that as an invitation to take a ten-minute shower in the same fucking bathroom as me while I got ready.

  I tried to act cool and make small talk, but it wasn’t easy over the sound of rushing water and my own thoughts screaming, Hans is naked! Hans is naked! Hans is naked! Holy shit!

  He told me that his last name was Oppenheimer—I at least got that much out of the conversation—and he said that his parents had moved to the US from Germany before he was born. He had two older sisters who had already gotten married and started families, and…

  He said some other stuff too, but now that I knew his last name, I was too busy trying to decide if I would go by BB Oppenheimer or Brooke Oppenheimer to attend to the rest. Neither option had a great ring to it, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices in the name of love. I gazed into the fogged-up mirror and imagined what my new signature would look like if I were to write it with my finger in the condensation. I finally settled on BB Oppenheimer. If I went by Brooke Oppenheimer, my initials would be B.O.

  I giggled to myself and glanced over at the black curtain separating me from a very naked, very wet Mr. Oppenheimer. My giggles turned to full-blown belly laughs when I noticed a muscular hand and forearm, still dry, still scrawled in blue ink, sticking out over the top of the shower curtain rod.

  Taking a step closer, I reached out and pinched the tip of Hans’s long middle finger—the nail bearing the chipped remnants of black nail polish that had long worn off. “What’s going on here?” I teased, swinging his hand from side to side. “Are you so tall that your whole body won’t fit in the shower at once?”

  Hans chuckled. “Nah, I just don’t want the lyrics to get washed off before I have a chance to write them down.”

  Oh my God. Could he be any more adorable? I can’t wait to become Mrs. B.O.

  Thankful that Hans couldn’t see the stupid schoolgirl grin on my face, I chirped, “I’ll go write ’em down for you!”

  “Cool. Thanks, Tinker Bell. My hand was starting to fall asleep.”

  Hans laced his fingers through mine and playfully shook my hand back and forth, like I had done to his finger. The contact caused my breath to hitch and a squeal to percolate in my chest. I was holding hands with a very beautiful, very naked man, who might have possibly written part of a song about me on his skin before curling up next to me in a twin-size bed the night before.

  “You think you can remember all the words?”

  “Yeah, I got ’em,” I said, opening the door to a blast of cool, dry air from the hallway.

  I got ’em tattooed on my fucking brain.

  I dashed out of the bathroom in search of paper and something to write with. I was pretty sure I’d be able to recite those lyrics on my deathbed, but I still didn’t want to dawdle and risk losing even a single syllable of what he’d written.

  When I rounded the corner from the hall into the kitchen, I found Goth Girl leaning up against the kitchen counter, clutching a mug to her face. She was wearing nothing but an oversize Marilyn Manson T-shirt, and her sleek black hair had been ruffled into something resembling a bad Wicked Witch of the West wig.

  “Hey, Victoria!” I blurted, glancing around the room in a tizzy. “Do you know where I can find some paper?”

  Goth Girl looked at me over her mug with disinterested doll eyes, then reached to her left with one hand and opened a drawer.

  “Awesome! Thanks!” I ran over and rummaged through the junk drawer until I found a pad of paper and a pen. Ignoring Goth Girl, I stood there and jotted down the lyrics to my new favorite song, then tore the page out of the pad and shoved it in my back pocket.

  “What…are you doing?” Goth Girl deadpanned as I threw everything back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

  I spun around and beamed at her. “I think…I think Hans wrote a song about me last night! Well, part of a song. I mean, I guess it might not be about me per se, but it kinda seems like it’s about me. And he wanted me to write it down before he washed it off his arm. He’s in the shower now. Did I mention that he slept in the same bed with me last night? And he didn’t even try anything! I mean, I don’t think he—”

  “He has a girlfriend, BB.”

  Blink, blink.

  “Her name is Beth. They’ve been together for four years.”

  Girlfriend. Beth. Four years.

  The bombs just kept falling.

  Kaboom! Kapow! Kablooey!

  “Then, why did he have me sit on his lap last night? Why did he sleep in the same bed as me? He cuddled with me, Victoria.” I said the word cuddled as if I’d just found out he had the bubonic plague rather than a significant other. After being cheated on in spectacular fashion by Harley, the thought of Hans having a girlfriend disgusted me. Disappointed me. Hell, it was downright depressing.

  Goth Girl shrugged. “I dunno. He’s a flirty drunk. And he always sleeps in Maddie’s bed, so maybe he was just too wasted to figure something else out.” Her dark, hungover eyes bored into me as she took another sip from her steaming mug. Her stare felt like a warning.

  Holding my hands up in defense, I backpedaled. “I had no idea. I swear. Nothing happened—”

  At that moment, Hans came sauntering out of the hallway and into the kitchen, looking like six and a half feet of squeaky-clean sex god. He was wearing black Converse, baggy black pinstripe slacks, a low-slung studded belt, and a black wifebeater. On his non-tattooed wrist, he wore a watch with a thick leather strap, and his shaggy black hair had been towel-dried into a spiky riot that I was just dying to get my fingers into.

  I glanced at Goth Girl, silently begging for her blessing, but all I got back was a nasty case of Resting Bitch Face.

  Hans smiled at me, transforming his sinister appearance into something warm and non-threatening, then turned that dimpled grin on Goth Girl. “Hey, Vic, we’re gonna go grab some breakfast. Wanna come?”

  She glared at him, as if trying to impart something telepathically, but before
she could answer his question, a raspy female voice called out from the hallway on the opposite side of the kitchen. The one leading to the master bedroom.

  “There you are,” the husky voice crooned. “We were looking for you. Come back to bed.”

  I turned and watched as the blonde I’d seen doing a keg stand in a Korn T-shirt the night before emerged from the shadows with a sheet wrapped around her body. Her makeup was smeared below her eyes, and her once-perky pigtails had fallen to half-mast. Much like her eyelids when they landed on Goth Girl.

  Pigtails shuffled in, completely ignoring the giant hunk standing in the center of the kitchen, and headed straight for Goth Girl. After kissing her with way more tongue than I thought was advisable first thing in the morning, Pigtails took the mug from Goth Girl’s hands, set it on the counter, and led her toward the master bedroom without so much as a, Good morning.

  My eyebrows were practically touching the ceiling when I turned back around and looked at Hans.

  “The fuck was that?” I asked, gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb.

  Hans chuckled as he walked across the kitchen, heading straight toward me. Picking up Goth Girl’s mug, he turned and leaned against the counter beside me, mirroring my stance. Our elbows touched, and my entire arm erupted in goose bumps.

  Downing the rest of Goth Girl’s coffee in one swig, Hans swallowed and shook his head. “Watch. She and Steven are gonna get in a huge fight now. They do this all the time.”

  “Do what?”

  Hans turned around and poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. I was sad that his arm wasn’t touching me anymore and even sadder that there was some skank out there named Beth who could touch it whenever she wanted.

  “They do a bunch of E and find a girl to have a threesome with. Then, Victoria gets all jealous the next morning when she sobers up.”

  “Shit.” I shook my head in disbelief. “How did I not know that?”

  I thought about it and realized that, in the three months since Goth Girl and Steven had started dating, I’d basically been grounded—thanks to Harley constantly making me miss my curfew—or recovering from a car accident the entire time. I wondered what else I’d missed.

  “She did seem pretty fucking pissy this morning,” I admitted.

  What I didn’t admit was that some of her animosity seemed to be directed at the two of us. I also didn’t admit that she’d told me about his girlfriend. I kind of wanted to see how far he was going to take things before I called his ass out. Yeah, that was it. I’d wait for him to cross the line. Then—BAM!—I’d give the signal, and Beth and Goth Girl would pop out from behind a tree and bust his ass red-handed. That was totally why I didn’t mention the girlfriend. Not because I wanted to pretend like she didn’t exist and continue my flirtfest. Nuh-uh. No way. I had serious undercover boyfriend recon work to do.

  When Hans and I walked outside, there were only two cars still parked on Steve’s quiet, unassuming suburban street—my black ’93 Mustang hatchback and a black BMW 3 Series on the opposite side of the road.

  “Is that your car?” I asked, trying to hide the shock in my voice as I gestured toward the Beemer. I was a muscle-car enthusiast through and through, but I had to admit, there was something sexy about that little black import.

  “Yeah. My parents got a new car, so they gave me their old one. But it’s a stick, so I can’t drive it for shit.” Hans shrugged as we made our way down the steep driveway.

  “I can teach you!” I blurted out.

  Hans gave me the side-eye.

  “For real!” I pointed enthusiastically at the little ’Stang that could. “My car is a stick! I even won some races at a little track not far from here! Oh my God, we could go there to practice. It’s the perfect place!”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt the stinging slap of guilt. After what Harley had done to me, I didn’t owe him shit, but for some reason, the idea of taking another man to our special place just felt wrong.

  Fuck that, my inner bitch piped up. Harley only took you there to teach you how to race on his track so that you could win him money. Not only should y’all go, but you should both take a piss on the finish line before you leave.

  The bitch had a point.

  Hans smiled at my passionate outburst and pulled his car keys out of his pocket. “Oh, I know how to drive a stick. I just suck at it. I’m too ADD for that shit.” Hitting the unlock button, Hans tossed his keys to me and headed toward the passenger side of his own car.

  He’s letting me drive?!

  “You want me to drive?”

  “Only if you wanna live.” Hans gave me a lopsided grin. Then, he opened his door and ducked inside.

  When I pulled open the driver’s-side door, the interior of the car was all shiny black leather and shinier brown walnut, but the floors were all crushed Newport cartons and empty bottles of Mountain Dew. I smiled to myself. I loved how unconcerned Hans was with the bullshit of life. He didn’t apologize for his messy car because it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t afraid of losing his man card for wearing nail polish or letting a girl drive his car, probably because he was six-foot-fuck tall and had a five o’clock shadow at eleven o’clock in the morning.

  And he also doesn’t seem to give a shit that he has a girlfriend, my guilt chimed in.

  Fuck you, guilt. Nobody asked you.

  I, unlike Hans, had all kinds of hang-ups, including an acute fear of asking him where he wanted to go for breakfast. Knight and Harley had each taken me to Waffle House for our first date, and I’d barely survived those two relationships. If Hans said he wanted to go to motherfucking Waffle House, I might have to drive us off the nearest bridge just to save myself the drama.

  “Are you cool with IHOP?” I asked as my black pleather-covered ass landed in the black leather driver’s seat. My feet couldn’t even reach the pedals.

  “Fuck yeah, I love that place,” Hans said as I fumbled around, looking for the seat-adjustment controls. “When you order coffee, they bring you the whole fucking pot.”

  “I don’t know how you drink that shit,” I teased, my fingers finally finding the right button. Before I could press it, I heard a familiar whirring sound coming from Hans’s side of the car.

  I looked over and snorted. Hans’s knees were practically smooshed between his chest and the glove compartment as his seat moved backward in slow motion. I giggled and hit my button, too. My seat moved forward at the same pace that Hans’s was moving backward, our smiling eyes locking somewhere in the middle.

  I’d never driven a German luxury car before, but as soon as I pulled out of the neighborhood, I wasn’t sure how I’d ever go back. Hans watched me with rapt attention from the passenger seat as I gasped at the acceleration and squealed over the handling and gushed about how smooth the ride was. I did miss the deafening roar you get from an American big block, but I’d get over it.

  As I pulled onto the main highway that led into town, Hans rolled his window halfway down and lit a cigarette. Gesturing toward me with his open pack, he asked, “Want one?”

  “Hell yeah,” I said, taking the green-and-white Newport box from him. I lit up at the next red light. The cool, minty tingle in the back of my throat surprised me. I hadn’t had a menthol since I was a kid when my best friend, Juliet, and I used to smoke what was left of the cigarette butts in her mom’s ashtrays.

  It tasted like sneaky, bad fun.

  “Can I open the sunroof?” I asked, my finger poised over the button just above the rearview mirror.

  As soon as Hans nodded, I had that bitch open wide, the blazing July sun filling the car and burning my skin in the best way possible. I tilted my head back and inhaled the hot, humid air. After spending almost three months in near isolation, driving a luxury car with a Newport between my fingers, a gorgeous, tattooed cuddle machine in the passenger seat, and the sun on my face felt like absolute heaven.

  My reverie was quickly shattered, however, when th
e light turned green, and I stomped on the gas. The wind from the now-open sunroof snatched the ashes clean off the end of my cigarette and sent them swirling around inside the car.

  “Shit!” I spat, swatting at the gray flecks in the air—as if that would help, as if I could simply pop them like bubbles.

  I waited for Hans to yell at me about his precious imported leather, but he didn’t. In fact, he did the last thing I’d expected. Hans Oppenheimer rolled his window the rest of the way down, held up the end of his cigarette, and watched as his ashes took flight too, flitting between us in the sunlight like a handful of silver glitter.

  “Did you see that?” Hans asked once the ashes had vanished, eyes wide.

  “Yeah,” I said. The word came out all breathy, as if I’d just witnessed some supernatural phenomenon. “It looked like—”

  “A snow globe,” Hans and I said in unison.

  “Yes!” I cried. “Oh my God! Right? We just created the world’s most expensive snow globe!”

  Hans chuckled and rolled his window halfway up again. “I’m gonna call the Guinness Book of World Records people and report that shit. Maybe we can get on The Tonight Show.”

  “Good plan. Hey, maybe Phantom Limb can be the musical guest!”

  Hans gave me an adorable little smile and opened his mouth to reply when a robotic tune interrupted his train of thought. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a little black cell phone. I immediately pressed two buttons on my door to roll the windows up as Hans hit the button to close the sunroof.

  “What’s up, man?” Hans smiled as he greeted the caller. “No shit? Right now? I have BB with me.” Hans glanced over at me, his mouth quirked into a tiny smile. “Yeah, the girl from last night. No. Fuck you.” Hans looked at me again as his smirk erupted into a full-blown grin. “Right on, man. We’ll be there. Thanks!”

  Hans hung up and turned his whole body toward me. I could feel the excitement radiating off him.

  “Change of plans. We’re going downtown.”