Sugar, We're Going Down: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance (Love Me, I'm Famous Book 2)

by M. H. Soars

  “Good evening, everyone,” he says, his mischievous eyes doing a quick scan of the room before landing on me.

  Cassie lets out a squeak before turning beet red. A moment of silence lingers and I begin to feel antsy. I want to jump out of my seat and drag Oliver back into the house but before I find the courage to do so, the conversation around the table resumes.

  “Saylor, it seems you have a guest,” Mr. Ogata says and every head at the table turns in my direction.

  My face is in flames. I’m going to murder Oliver for this. I give Mr. Ogata a tight smile as I stand up, ready to commit a heinous crime. Hey, once a killer always a killer, right? I practically march toward Oliver, grabbing his arm and dragging him back inside the house.

  “Whoa, where are we going?”

  I stop and whirl on him once we are far enough from the back door. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I came to invite you out to dinner, but it seems I’m too late.”

  I close my eyes for a second and pinch the bridge of my nose. The hint of a headache forces me to try to keep my voice down. “What in the world gave you the idea that I want to have dinner with you?”

  “Will you relax? I’m not here to ask you out on a date. I was bored and Liv mentioned that you don’t work on Mondays, so…”

  I give him a hard stare. “You couldn’t possibly be bored. Don’t you have like a gazillion friends in L.A.?”

  “They are all hard core party animals and I’m trying to be a good boy. Unless you want me to be bad.” He gives me a crooked smile and I don’t know if I should smack him upside the head or kiss him.

  The warm sensation swirling in my chest is equal parts mortification and excitement.

  “Saylor, the food is getting cold. You can put an extra chair for your friend next to yours. Now, come,” Mrs. Ogata says from back door.

  I curse to myself at the same that Oliver says, “It looks like I’m staying for dinner.”

  OLIVER

  Confession time. I do get intimidated on occasion. Lack of confidence happens to everyone, even me. I tasted it for a brief moment before my audition to join Boys Future and for fuck’s sake, I tasted it when I arrived at the Ogata’s and saw all of those cars parked outside. My plan was to whisk Saylor to a private dinner, not to join her at a party. Lucky for me, I got over that shit pretty quickly and no one was ever the wiser that for a moment, my stomach was in knots. I’m also a master of adapting to any situation, so when I noticed Saylor’s mortification because of my presence, I realized that having dinner with her friend’s family was a much better option.

  As if reading my mind, Mr. Ogata places an extra chair right next to Saylor’s. The girl’s spine goes taut and feeling bold, I lean closer and place a soft kiss on her cheek. Now everyone at this table thinks I’m her boyfriend. She probably wants to murder me. Saylor clenches her jaw and holds the fork like she wants to pulverize it, but that’s the most I get from her.

  I do wonder for a split second if I’m making a big mistake and ruining the minimal chance I have. The doubt is fleeting though. I’m Oliver fucking Best. My tactics have never failed me before.

  I’m sitting across from a young teen girl who keeps staring at me like I’m used to, with veneration and awe. It serves as reassurance that I’m not losing my mojo. The kid doesn’t say a word which I find strange, especially when everyone else in her family can’t stop talking. It’s not until I see her do a string of hand gestures to communicate with her sister that I understand why she’s so quiet. She’s fast with her hands, but I get the gist of the message. She can’t believe that I’m here, sitting across from her. A small smile unfurls on my lips.

  I was taught sign language by our family’s gardener—who was deaf—when I was a little lad. It started out of curiosity. I was intrigued by that silent man and I thought the signs he made with his hands were beautiful, like a dance. Normally, I would have dropped the lessons when they became too complex, but it drove my mother bonkers that I could speak in a language that she didn’t understand. It was like knowing a secret code meant only for spies.

  When I catch Cassie’s eye, I ask her in sign language what’s her favorite band. The poor girl’s jaw drops and her eyes almost pop out of her skull. Next to me, Saylor puts her fork down to stare at me.

  “You can sign?” she asks.

  “Since I was a kid.”

  Cassie beams and after that, I can’t get her to shut up. I don’t mind though. The kid has a self deprecatory humor that I like. Plus, she’s making me look like a fucking hero.

  After a while, Cassie’s grandmother catches my attention. “How long before you head back to England?”

  “I have no plans to return in the near future. I’m actually planning to move to sunny California. I just need to find a place to live. Hotels are great, but they are not a home.”

  The lady clasps her hands together. “They sure aren’t. Say no more. I have the solution for your problem.”

  I didn’t realize I had a problem, but the lady continues on, “My cousin Pepe is a realtor. He’ll help you find a great deal. I’ll call him, set everything up, don’t worry.”

  Whoa, Cassie’s grandma is a shark. I have no intention of using her cousin Pepe as a realtor. I already know who I want to work with, but I can’t say no to her now without being rude. Shit. I slide my gaze in Saylor’s direction only to find her smirking at me. She’s enjoying this too much. Well, I can turn this game around.

  “Thank you very much. I really appreciate it. Saylor had volunteered to help me out, you know, women have a special eye for those sort of things. You can give Pepe her contact information, too, in case he can’t get a hold of me.”

  From the corner of my eye, I feel Saylor’s glare burning a hole through my face. Ragna nods and it’s a done deal. If I must suffer working with Pepe the realtor, then I might as well get something out of it.

  Eight

  SAYLOR

  I almost don’t get up from bed on Tuesday morning. My head feels like it is the size of Brazil, and even the slightest movement is enough to send searing pain across my forehead. But if I don’t get up, I will have to explain why. I can’t let anyone else know about the crazy migraines I’ve been getting. Remi will totally rat me out to Tabatha and she will insist on taking me to see a doctor. Fuck, I’ve had months of them, of nurses, of tests. Thinking about setting foot in a hospital again makes me ill. Besides, I know why I’m getting these crazy migraines. It’s a residual effect from the attack. Having your head bashed against the wall repeatedly will do that to a person. I’m lucky to be alive.

  I push the covers off and slowly move my legs to the side of the bed. A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s quarter to eight. Pepe will be here in forty-five minutes to pick me up before we head to Oliver’s hotel. Ragna made all the arrangements last night before the jerk could escape. She’s a smart lady, I can’t deny that.

  I move at a snail’s pace and manage to get to the bathroom without collapsing to the floor. I wince when the bright sun greets me—my room had been mercifully dark. I reach for the medicine cabinet above the sink and curl my fingers around the pain killers I bought over the counter. I try to avoid taking them, a test of endurance per say, but there’s no way I’ll be able to function today without the little suckers.

  I get ready in a daze, not bothering to put make up on or even brush my hair. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone. Maybe if Oliver sees me looking like shit, he’ll stop trying to get into my pants.

  Pepe arrives at the house right on time before I even make it to the main house. The room I’m renting is in fact a detached guest house at the back of the main building. As I trudge on along the path that leads to the house, I catch a whiff of delicious coffee and bacon. My stomach grumbles, but I won’t be able to keep anything I eat down. I’m already nauseated. Hopefully, the pills will kick in soon.

  I get into the car with Pepe, a short man with dark hair sleeked back. He seems to be in
his sixties, but he tries hard to appear younger if the dyed hair and fake tan is any indication. I pray for a quiet ride, but the man doesn’t know the meaning of the word silence. He talks a hundred miles an hour, but at least, he’s satisfied with a one sided conversation and he doesn’t ask me any questions. I keep my sunglasses in place and stare ahead, trying my hardest to control the queasiness in my stomach.

  After what feels like an eternity, we arrive at the swanky hotel Oliver is staying at, a place known for its A-list clientele. Pepe calls Oliver’s cell phone to let him know we’ve arrived, but he can’t get a hold of the man. Just fucking great. I hope that he forgot about the appointment or that he simply overslept. I’m about to say so to Pepe when I receive a text message from Oliver. How in the world did he get a hold of my number?

  He says he’s running late and asks us to come up to his hotel suite. I relay the message to Pepe but the man shakes his head.

  “I won’t find a parking spot in this area.”

  “You can valet.”

  “No, no, no. That’s not an option. I don’t let anyone touch Rebecca.” He taps the steering wheel affectionately.

  Is this man for real? I’ve heard stories of men in love with their cars but I never actually met one in person. Shania Twain’s song comes to mind. Yeah, I’m with you, girl, definitely not impressed.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll go and hurry him up while you…well, you can ride around the block a few times.”

  I exit ‘Rebecca’ before Pepe can say anything else. The fancy hotel lobby is mega busy and loud, which doesn’t help me in the least. I make a beeline to the elevators, praying I don’t have to wait long for it. I’m lucky that one has just dumped a group of eager tourists out and I slide in before the doors can shut again. I lean against the wooden panel and close my eyes while the metal box shoots me all the way to the top floor.

  Oliver’s suite is obviously a penthouse. There are only a few doors peppering the hallway, which makes me wonder how big those penthouses are. I guess I’m about to find out. I stop in front of his number and knock. A few seconds later, Oliver opens the door wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Seriously? His wide chest is specked with drops of water and his hair is wet. I grind my jaw because it feels very much like Oliver planned this.

  “Why aren’t you ready?” I move him out of my way and stride into the room.

  Well, room is not the right description to use here. I’m standing in the foyer of a very luxurious apartment. There’s a small table to my right with a vase of fresh flowers on it and a huge mirror above it. The patterned entry rug feels plush under my shoes. On the other side of the room, there are wall to wall sliding doors providing sweeping views of downtown L.A.

  “I overslept. Make yourself comfortable.” Oliver walks around me and disappears inside a room, which I assume is his bedroom.

  What I want to do is storm out of here, but I’m hit by a dizzy spell and have to hold on to the table to remain upright. Gritting my teeth, I take baby steps toward the white leather couch in the middle of the room, praying that I can make it there without falling flat on my face.

  “Where’s our friend Pepe?” I hear Oliver say from somewhere in the suite. I can no longer pinpoint where he is. Dark spots have taken over my vision and the pain behind my eyes is excruciating.

  “Saylor, are you okay?”

  That’s the last thing I hear before I feel my body falling forward, boneless.

  OLIVER

  What the fuck just happened? One moment Saylor looks like she’s about the rip my head off, and the next, she’s collapsing on my couch. I crouch in front of her prone form and shake her.

  “Saylor, wake up.”

  I run my fingers through my hair when I don’t get a response. I flip her over and move the hair off of her face. Ashen, her face is completely ashen. Is she sick? She looked fine last night. I’m ready to call someone, I don’t know, 911, when Saylor stirs and furrows her eyebrows. I sit on the coffee table in front of the couch and I cup her cold cheek. Her eyes flutter open and it takes a while for her gaze to focus on me.

  “What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  She closes her eyes again and places two fingers between her eyebrows. “Stupid migraine.”

  “Can I get you anything? I have painkillers.”

  “I’ve already took some.”

  Her stomach grumbles very loudly and she winces. I’m still worried about her, but her embarrassment over something so silly brings a grin to my lips.

  “How about I order some breakfast for you?”

  “I won’t be able to hold anything down.”

  “Baby, you need to eat.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  I’m smiling for real now. “Sorry. But you still need to eat.”

  She pushes herself into a sitting position and holds her head with her hands. Her blonde hair falls forward, hiding her face. Okay, maybe she’s not feeling a whole lot better. My smile vanishes.

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  She brings her face up and seems to debate whether to answer my question or not. Like that, in this vulnerable state, it’s so easy to read the turmoil in her gaze.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not an expert, but is that normal?”

  “No.”

  I don’t like her answer. I fucking hate it. It means that there’s something wrong with her and I’m worrying again. Not some basic level of concern you experience if you lose your wallet. No, the gut wrenching worry that keeps you up at night. And this feeling doesn’t get a hold of me often. Worry is for people who form attachments and I try my best to avoid that. Sebastian is one of the few close friends I allowed myself to have.

  I get up suddenly. “I’m ordering you some food whether you want it or not.”

  “I need to call Pepe. He’s waiting for us downstairs.”

  “Don’t worry about him. I’ll cancel today’s outing.”

  Saylor leans back on the couch and groans. “I hate this.”

  I don’t know if she hates being in pain or if she hates that now she’s stuck with me. I wanted to have her here in my place all to myself, but I take no pleasure in this situation. This is definitely not how I envisioned Saylor’s visit to go.

  After I order breakfast, I call Pepe and postpone our appointment. The man sounds disappointed but I don’t give him much chance to talk my ear off. I end the call before he can voice any argument.

  Room service arrives ten minutes later and after much cajoling, I manage to get Saylor to drink some orange juice. She still looks like she’s about to pass out, so I yank her off of the couch.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You need a nap. I’m taking you to my bedroom.”

  She digs her shoes against the plush carpet. “You’re not getting me into your bed.”

  “Stop being stubborn. This is not a seduction move on my part.”

  She stops offering resistance and lets me lead her to my room at the end of the hall. The bed is a clutter of tangled sheets and discarded clothes—room service has not had a chance to come in yet. Usually, I don’t give a rat’s ass about the state of my bedroom. If a woman is coming in here, all she cares about is riding me. But I find myself picking up the scattered T-shirts and jeans anyway.

  “Sorry about the mess.”

  I get no sarcastic comment from her which speak volumes to me. Instead, Saylor stares at the Californian king sized bed before she slides her gaze to mine. “You really don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least. But I also have ulterior motives. I know that once you smell me in those sheets, you’ll want to come back for more.”

  “I would roll my eyes if it didn’t hurt so much.” She walks toward the bed, and removes her shoes before sliding between the sheets. I press a button on the wall, and the shades drop, blocking the streaming sunlight.

  In the dimness, I can only make out Saylor’s shape on the bed. But I hear her loud and cl
ear when she says, “Thank you, Oliver.”

  I nod in silence, knowing she can’t see my reaction, and walk out of the room. I couldn’t speak because I knew that my voice would betray what those three words did to me. I don’t know what’s happening. I feel myself slowly unraveling, losing my balance on the tight rope. The question is, do I want to stop it?

  Nine

  OLIVER

  Saylor sleeps for most of the day and I spend the entire time with my ass parked on the couch in the living room either watching some drivel on TV or answering emails. I’m antsy to the max because staying cooped up inside for too long is not my thing. I get restless, but I can’t leave Saylor alone. In fact, I’ve lost count of how many times I checked on her.

  I refrain for taking something from my usual recreational buffet. I must remain sharp in case she needs me. Hell must be freezing over right now. Oliver Best is putting someone else before him.

  When Saylor finally trudges into the living room, it’s already late afternoon. Her Wonder Woman T-shirt is wrinkled and her long hair has more tangles than the power cords behind the TV set. She suppresses a yawn and asks what time it is.

  “It’s four p.m., Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Fuck! Four o’clock?” She runs to her purse and fishes her cell phone out.

  Upon staring at the screen, she lets out another string of curses. She calls someone, and after a beep, I realize she’s listening to her voicemail message. The booming voice of a guy can be heard from where I stand. I can’t discern his exact words, but Saylor’s pinched expression is enough to clue me in that someone is not happy with her. She even pulls the phone away from her ear when the message gets too loud and I hear the end of it. She just got fired.

  “Damn and hell!” Saylor stares at her phone after the message ends.