CELEB CRUSH

by Christie, Nicole

  I turn away from Luke, my eyes landing on Nate who is sprawled on the couch, gnawing on beef jerky, and watching us fight. I forgot that he was there. His gaze meets mine, and he grins.

  “No worries, Andi,” he reassures me with a wink. “I’ll be there, too. I got your back.”

  I flash him a half-hearted smile in return. Nate’s become a close friend over the past couple of years, but he’s completely unreliable. If there is a hot girl within perv-ing distance, he’ll drop me like used condom. That’s a terrible analogy. I shouldn’t have said that.

  We’re currently hiding out at one of Ivan’s rental properties in Montecito. Ivan gave both Luke and Nate keys to the condo for emergency purposes. He doesn’t know they use it as a place to bring back their hook-ups. There’s a big glass bowl of condoms in every room. The cleaning lady keeps them well-stocked. Yes, it bothers me to think about Luke and his conquests having sex in the bedroom I’m staying in, but I’m well aware of his past. There’s nothing to do but try and move forward. I said I’d give him a chance, and I sort of meant it.

  He’s keeping his promise about us taking things slow. The problem is our bodies have different ideas. When I’m occupying the same space as Luke I feel the intense need to touch him, to connect his body to mine. When I’m not with him, I feel like I’m slowly dying. It may sound overly dramatic, but that’s just the kind of person I am. See, I knew this would happen. I knew I would get obsessed with him like this. Actually, I think I always was, and have just now realized it.

  I also know that sex with him would seal my fate of doom. So I’m grateful Luke is keeping himself on a tight leash…because if he pushed me, I would not hesitate to tear his clothes off and ride him like a bucking Bronco in a naked rodeo. All. Night. Long.

  Yup, all this restraint is frustrating. I think we’re both testing ourselves, seeing how long we can hold out. I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose. Some sexual tension can be awesome. This is sadism.

  I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear to this thing. I could call Jessica for help, but we’re pissed at each other at the moment. When she found out that Luke and I were dating, she immediately paid me a personal visit. She told me I needed a complete overhaul if I was going to be worthy enough to be on Lucas Greyson’s arm. It kind of hurt my feelings. I probably shouldn’t have pinched her arm, but it was the least violent thing I could think of doing at the time. How could I know she would bruise so easily? Bitch is skin and bones. I guess I was feeling a tad hostile after having spent over an hour listening to her rant about how I was going to single-handedly destroy Luke’s career with my wretched peasant ways. Like I don’t already know that.

  I’m tired of stressing over it. I decide on a crisp white long-sleeved blouse, and a black pencil skirt that ends just above my knees. I figure I can’t go wrong with such a basic style. I pull my long hair back into a high ponytail, and reluctantly apply makeup. I loved my cosmetics in high school, but not so much now. I have the bad habit of biting off my lipstick and rubbing at my made-up eyes.

  Nate is the first to see me in my boring outfit. The first thing he does is tug on my shirt so the top three buttons go flying off. Instead of apologizing for being a dick, he advises me to change my white bra for a black one to make my look more edgy. I punch him right in the nipple.

  He’s dressed to impress in a pale blue V-neck shirt that matches his eyes, and khaki shorts. Nate looks like the handsome privileged preppy he is. You think he’d be stuck up and maybe racist, but he’s not. He’ll sleep with anything female regardless of race or class, or even weight. He loves women, and they love him. Even if his best friend wasn’t Lucas Greyson, he’d still get more sex than the average player boy. He appears both harmless and charming, and despite spending weeks at a tropical resort, he’s still as pale as the day he was born, god bless him.

  Luke is wearing a plain beige shirt and jeans, yet looks stunning enough to walk any major runway in the world. Yet he stares at me like I’m the super model in the room. I probably owe that to Nate and his button popping skills. My skin burns under his intense gaze. Pure blissful torture. Right.

  We take Nate’s silver Porsche Cayenne with its custom tint job on the side and rear windows. Luke sits in the back with me, causing Nate to complain about feeling like a taxi driver. To get even, he blasts Jackson Frazier songs from the Porsche’s excellent sound system—to which he conveniently knows every word as he sings along at the top of his lungs. Halfway through the long ride, I start to feel nauseous. I’m not sure if it’s from Nate’s voice, or nerves. Maybe a combo of both. Luke seems to look forward to seeing his friends. Apparently, most of the Soul cast will be there. That means Kat will be there. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Yes, I do. I feel a murderous rage when I think about Luke’s beautiful co-star. If she calls me Sally again, I think I should correct her with a headbutt. But how do I justify my actions? I’ll have to think on that one.

  We’re almost there. The road leading up to the massive wrought iron gates are lined with fans, paparazzi, and men in dark suits with ear pieces—hired security, I’m assuming.

  Nate is forced to crawl along at a snail’s pace as people swarm around us. Camera shutters start clicking away, and everyone’s shouting Luke’s name. Same old drill, except now they’re asking questions about me. I push Luke’s hand off my thigh and try to look professional and entourage-ish as I play a word game on my phone. Thank god I had the foresight to wear these enormous and bug-like sunglasses. Luke keeps his head down, but his irritation is evident. He freaking hates the paparazzi.

  The car in front of us is stopped at the gates. Its occupants climb out and are ushered through the opening gates. A husky guy in a black suit jumps in the driver’s side and drives off. Another security guy with a tablet waves us forward through the opening. Guess Luke is VIP enough to park on the property. Nate drives on through, following a cobblestone path. A woman in a gray pantsuit directs us to park in a circular driveway already crowded with luxury cars. Guests and personnel roam the area like expensive free range cattle.

  Luke’s director friend, Paul Tseng, lives in a gorgeous house that is designed to look like a medieval castle with its ivy-covered brick façade and round turrets. The backyard consists of an English garden, complete with a miniature maze. There are big white tents with billowing curtains to accommodate the guests. The interior features round glass tables, elegantly set up. The tents have drippy gold and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, and they are actually climate controlled. I did not know that was possible.

  Being here is kind of like being at a high school party, except with a much wider age range and better food. Beautiful glamorous people stand around in little cliques, laughing and congratulating each other on their fabulousness. The women are all similarly dressed in the latest summer fashions—a cool and casual feminine style with lots of bronze-colored accessories.

  You know who I’m dressed like? The caterers—who are circulating the party in their black and white outfits—expertly holding trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. All I’m missing is the cute little black apron.

  I wouldn’t blame Luke if he pretended not to know me. But he keeps a firm possessive hold on me, and introduces me to everyone as his girlfriend—even to the people I’ve previously met. I’m both confused and amused by how proud of me he seems.

  When he breaks the news to Eyan, I expect his co-star to be shocked, since he already knows me as Luke’s employee and badly dressed friend. But Eyan just slaps him on the back in a congratulatory way and says, “About damn time, mate.” Then he winks at me while I give him a suspicious look.

  I already know some of the girls with whom Luke had previously hooked up with—and even if I didn’t, I would be able to guess by their reaction to the news. Some appear insultingly disbelieving as they look me up and down; others are plain pissed. Two blonde swimsuit models that seem to be joined at the hip sneer openly at me then blatantly try to entice Luke into another threeso
me with them. He shuts them down before I can attack their faces.

  The most dramatic reaction comes from Kat. She appears both shocked and devastated—but quickly recovers. I realize right then that she’s actually in love with Luke. He must not know, or he would never have told her about me like this. He doesn’t seem to realize her smile is completely fake, and her congratulations are forced.

  “So it finally happened,” Kat says, trying and failing to sound amused as she carefully avoids looking in my direction.

  Luke is clueless. “Yeah, I wore her down with my charm and good looks.” He chuckles, keeping an arm loosely wrapped around my waist while I stare at Kat the way I’ve seen a mongoose stare at a cobra in nature documentaries.

  “Well, that’s awesome,” she says unenthusiastically. Finally, she glances over at me. “Hey, Sally, do you mind if I borrow him for a minute? Steve wants us to talk to Carol about those rewrites.”

  Luke groans letting his head fall back. “You’re kidding. She’s still making noises about that shit?”

  “Right?” Kat tosses her light blonde hair back. “She doesn’t get that it will completely fuck up the schedule. Anyway, Steve says we’re the only people she’ll listen to. But we have to hurry—she’s about to leave.”

  Luke looks down at me. “I’ll just be a few minutes, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say with a shrug.

  “Hold on,” he says to Kat.

  He takes out his phone and starts texting. A couple minutes later, Nate saunters up to us, and Luke instructs him to stay by my side until he gets back. Kat and I both roll our eyes at his overprotectiveness. Then we glare at each other.

  “Oh, and Kat?” Luke says before they leave. She glances back at him questioningly. “Her name is Andi.”

  Kat gives me a stiff nod. “Andi. Sorry.”

  I don’t know why, but I blow her a kiss. She looks just as confused as I feel. Luke and Nate laugh.

  “Man, I was just about to score with Alisa Barnes,” Nate complains after LuKat disappears into the crowd.

  “The chick with the fangs on the Superhuman Chronicles?” I say. “Go for it, playboy. You really don’t have to babysit me.”

  Nate shakes his head reluctantly. “Luke will kick my ass if I leave you.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll cover for you. Now go get her.”

  I jerk my head in the direction of the gorgeous brunette actress who suddenly moves into our line of sight. Nate whimpers loudly, openly drooling at her body. He stares longingly at her, and I give him a not so gentle shove forward.

  “You’re the best.” He plants a quick kiss on my cheek. “Stay out of trouble, Anderson, or the boss will kill me.”

  I wave him away. Almost the instant he leaves, I regret letting him go. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I want to drink my nerves away, but I don’t dare. Sobriety is my only defense against my violent tendencies. Also, I don’t know why the Swimsuit Twins feel the need to stalk me, but every time I turn around, there they are, whispering to each other and making comments loud enough for me to hear about my Price Pride clothes. You would think they’d have better things to do than to stalk a nobody like me, but I guess not.

  I’m bored. A few people come up to me to make conversation. I know they’re only talking to me because of Luke. Some are nice; some are condescending. A waiter snaps at me to get another tray from the kitchen. I follow him inside, and he hands me an apron and a platter full of champagne. I serve drinks and food for a while, and old guys stick cash money in my apron pockets and down my blouse. I see it happening to some of the other servers—male and female—and assume it’s standard practice. If so, I might have to talk to this catering company about a job. Them’s hundred dollar bills they’re stuffing in my clothes, people. I seem to be having a lot of stripper moments lately. Doesn’t bother me.

  I could have spent the whole party working, but then Marcos rats me out. He’s just jealous because I made more tips than him in an hour than he did his whole shift. I wasn’t gonna brag, but he asked.

  When I’m sure I’m not being chased anymore, I check my phone. Damn, it’s dead. Luke will be pissed. I never caught a glimpse of him while I was circulating the party with my trays. Maybe he didn’t even notice I was gone. Maybe he was too busy practicing lines with Kat. And by practicing lines, I mean doing her.

  I’m so busy imagining the worst case scenarios and fuming about them that I don’t notice Jackson Frazier and his entourage until they’re practically on top of me.

  I don’t like this kid. Well, I say “kid,” but I think he’s around the same age as me, maybe older. He’s such a scrawny little fuckboy, though. I could forgive him his questionable fashion choices (skintight jeans and t-shirts with obscene sayings) and his stupid poufy hairstyle—but he acts like he owns the world. I’ve seen him in action, and unlike Luke, he cares nothing about his fans, and treats them like shit.

  “You’re the bitch that came with Greyson.” Jackson smirks at me, slowly looking me up and down in the most insulting way possible.

  “And you’re the bitch whose ass he beat a few weeks ago,” I reply, returning his look. Hm, he might be prettier than me. He’s definitely wearing more makeup.

  Instead of getting pissed and calling his gorillas on me, his smirk gets bigger, and he has the nerve to tug on my shirt collar, pulling me closer to him. “You’re kinda hot,” he says, blowing bubble gum breath directly in my face. “Take your shirt off, and I’ll autograph your tits.”

  “No, thanks,” I say, and push him away by his forehead.

  The next thing I know, it’s DEFCON 1. Jackson is hustled to safety behind a solid wall of flesh. A huge guy with a shaved head and sporting royal purple track suit immediately grabs my arm, getting right in my face.

  “Hands off, bitch,” he growls while gripping my flesh with bone-crushing force.

  “You first, bitch,” I say, trying to put some distance between our bodies while I mentally review the dirty moves Luke taught me when going up against a much bigger and stronger opponent.

  “Yo, teach that bitch a lesson, Jimmy!” Jackson cackles, hanging off the back of one of his hired goons like a creepy monkey. “Introduce her to the Slap-a-Ho tribe!”

  When I get out of the gorilla’s hold, I’m going to kick that little douche’s ass! Speaking of the gorilla, is he really trying to break my arm? He grins down at me, slowly exerting more pressure. I have no choice but to jab him in the throat with two stiff fingers. He immediately chokes and gags, finally loosening his grip.

  Before I can kick him in the crotch, an inked up gorilla comes to his rescue, raising a fist bigger than my head over me. I brace myself for the blow, resigned to the fate of yet another head injury.

  The blow never comes. Suddenly, Luke is there, looking more pissed off and deadly than I’ve ever seen him. Every single visible muscle is tensed and coiled as he unflinchingly faces down the massive fist meant for my face.

  I’m shocked in a good way. This is the first time I’ve been saved in the nick of time from being punched. It never really happens—only in movies. Though Luke is an actor, and this is the land of the rich and famous…so maybe that good ol’ Hollywood magic is working in favor for a change.

  “Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Her,” Luke somehow enunciates very clearly through gritted teeth.

  The huge guy hesitates, clearly recognizing him. He lowers his arm, but doesn’t want to back down. I see him glance over at Jackson, who is still clinging to the back of one of his guards, smirking and hooting like a drunken idiot watching girls wrestling in the mud.

  We’re standing in a tight group: I’m slightly behind Luke, his body blocking me from the two gorillas who are continuing to posture, egged on by their tiny boss. They are both huge dudes, but I wonder if they can actually fight. I know Luke can—and he’s fast. Also, that one guy I jabbed in the throat is still hurt. Maybe we’ll come out of this okay—unless those other three guys jump in.

  By this time, we
’ve attracted a large crowd of gawkers; the avid look in their eyes makes me want to do something vulgar. The only thing that stops me is the arrival of Nate, Eyan, and several other friends of Luke’s. I also spot the men in dark suits hurriedly threading their way through the crowd.

  Just when I think the situation’s about to be defused, Jackson opens up his stupid bitch mouth.

  “Control your slut, Sam Langelier!” he jeers—and Luke, previously locked in a death glare with Gorilla Number Two, whips his head around to glare at him. The little bastard continues, “She was all up on my junk ‘til my boys pulled her off me.”

  I don’t know who starts it. It might have been me. Chaos erupts, and I’m right in the middle of it. Luke tries to push me out harm’s way, but a fist comes flying at his head, and he has no choice but to dodge it. I hunker down and kick out someone’s knee. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nate diving into the melee with a happy grin on his face. Taking advantage of the confusion, I’m able to make my way over to Jackson Frazier. He sees me coming, and has the nerve to reach out and pinch my boob. I badly want to punch him in the face, but I know that if I do, I’ll never stop. So I settle for kneeing him in the crotch. He emits a wheezing scream, doubling over. A wad of gum falls out of his mouth and lands on someone’s shiny black dress shoe.

  What happens next is also like something out of a movie. A stray elbow slams into my cheek, and I go flying backwards, landing on my ass just out of the fray. A nearby server carrying a platter of what looks to be chocolate-raspberry tarts (because there must be food with the entertainment) suddenly trips (I swear one of the Bikini Twins stuck a long tanned leg out at that opportune moment), and his tray flips over and lands on me, facedown.

  A deafening silence seems to have fallen as I lift the platter up to find the bloody remains of the raspberry tarts smashed all over my white blouse, and frankly, in my bra. There’s a scary roaring sound in my head as I feebly brush chocolate wafer crumbs off my clothes. I can sense all eyes on me, malicious and deriding.