I stared at the notification, and the handsome picture of Dean that showed up with it. I knew this guy was fake; everything in my body said he was fake and that he might even be someone dangerous. The problem was there was a small part inside of me that really needed to prove that this wasn’t Dean. I had to meet up with the guy, or I would wonder if the real Dean Morrison had actually been messaging me. It was a tiny possibility that sat way back in my head, but I had to clear it up before I was going to block this guy.
“Okay, eleven o’clock at Club 64 near Times Square,” I replied. “I’ll be wearing an all white dress and drinking a blue martini.”
“See you then,” he replied quickly.
What the hell was I doing? I had just agreed to meet up with some stranger who was pretending to be a guy I had a crush on. This wasn’t going to turn out well; I just had a bad feeling about it. How on earth was I going to recognize who this guy was? I was already assuming he wasn’t the real Dean, but maybe he would at least look like the guy.
Sunday was my last day to rest, and I took full advantage of it. I stayed in bed until noon and then put on a hat, sunglasses, and sweatpants before I went to explore the city. No one knew I was in town yet; well, I hoped they didn’t, so I didn’t think it would be too much of a problem to go shopping.
But I just never knew for sure if the paparazzi knew I was in town. Sometimes people leaked information, and there would be paparazzi following me in the weirdest of locations. One time, I was filming in Montana, and it got out; the small town was swarmed with the press, and we ended up hiring a dozen security guards to keep the filming location closed.
New York was like an old friend to me. I loved how big and inviting it was. I loved how busy the streets were, and that I could walk or take the subway to pretty much anyplace I wanted. When I was in New York, I was just one of the millions of people who lived there. There was no fame, no planning every second of my day. Most of the time, I could just be a normal woman, which was nearly impossible to do when I was in Los Angeles.
Admittedly, I had set my life up the way it was, and I wasn’t complaining about the media attention at all. The media and paparazzi were just a part of my normal day to day life, but I really did enjoy when I could live my life without the cameras. I had been getting more and more time without cameras since I moved out of my mother’s house, and I really liked it.
Since my makeup line was starting to take off, I had been thinking about opening my own cosmetics shop in New York. My new line of eye shadows and lipsticks were very popular, and we had a business plan to expand to over a dozen other products. Using my fame and popularity in the moment seemed like the right thing to do. So while I walked the streets, I kept my eye out for real estate that might work for a small store. Nothing too big, I just wanted a legitimate makeup store that I could sell my products in. I took some pictures of storefronts that seemed like they might work for me.
“Hey, hey, can I get a picture with you?” a teenager yelled at me as I stood in front of an empty building. and had my phone out so I could put the telephone number in. I really had no idea how she knew it was me.
I wasn’t prepared for fan encounters. When I traveled in Los Angeles, I almost always had friends with me. It was harder to get stuck in a fan line when you had friends who could pull you away. Otherwise, once one fan took a photo, a dozen more lined up to have their photos, and soon the street could be a very unsafe place for me to be all alone.
“Sure,” I said casually.
There was always the chance that I could snap a quick picture with the girl and then get out of the area before others saw us or figured out who I was. I hoped that would be the case this time. I just couldn’t get stuck in a huge crowd of fans when I was out all alone.
“What are you doing in New York? I thought you were filming that new movie?” she asked. “Didn’t you just post from the set like yesterday?”
“We are filming in town for a couple of days. It was nice meeting you,” I said as soon as she snapped her photo and started to walk away.
“Thanks, Angie; I love all your makeup!” the girl screamed with excitement after me.
I didn’t even care that she had called me Angie, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I made it to the end of the block and turned the corner. I slipped my phone back into my bag and realized the phone had been the culprit. I had a one of a kind selfie case; it was large, with photo lighting on one side and my reality show logo on the other. It was an advertisement for the company, and I was under contract to keep the case on it for three months. As much as I wanted to get rid of the thing, I didn’t want to break a contract and knew I could never really tell when paparazzi might show up and take a photo of me. If they took a photo of me, and I didn’t have the phone case on, then I would be in breach of contract.
I turned down a couple of different streets just to make sure I had lost the girls. With my hat and sunglasses on, I knew I could blend in if I just left my cell phone in my bag. As I turned one last corner to head back to my hotel, I realized I was on Broadway. Then I realized I was standing right next to the Showman Theater and the billboard said To Catch a Killer was starring Dean Morrison.
My life had been busy as hell, and I hadn’t heard at all that Dean would be starring in a Broadway show. Then it dawned on me; maybe the guy on Instamatch had really been him! I still had the gut feeling that the guy was a fake, but seeing that the real Dean was in New York gave me the tiniest bit of hope that I might be able to meet him while I was in town. Probably not from a dating app, but maybe I could run into him another way.
I leaned against the building as I felt my head getting light. I had acted like a total ass to the guy online; what if it was the real Dean? I had been aggressive and sent erotic texts. Oh, the idea of sending those to the real Dean Morrison was absolutely terrifying. I was starting to hope the guy online was, in fact, a fake, purely because I had totally embarrassed myself.
“Are you alright young lady?” an elderly woman asked as she went to walk into the theater.
“Um, yes. I, um …yes, I’m okay. Thank you.”
“I’m just opening up if you want to get some tickets. I heard they opened up a few seats for the afternoon show.”
“Oh, well I wasn’t going to …”
“You know we are sold out now. It will be your only chance to see the show. They sold almost every seat we have for the rest of the month.”
“Okay, one ticket,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
I paid the woman and went to grab a quick sandwich before the show started. My mind was all jumbled up with thoughts on whether it really was Dean who I had been talking to. It couldn’t have been; why would a guy like that even be on Instamatch? It made no sense at all. The person who was pretending to be him had probably just seen that Dean was in town for a show and was playing off of women’s love for the guy. Maybe the pretender even looked enough like Dean that he could pull it off, but I wouldn’t be so gullible.
I hatched a plan. I would send the pretender a message about the show. Something that only Dean would know, maybe something that actually happened while I watched the afternoon performance. That’s what I would do, catch the pretender in his lie so I could put myself at ease and stop thinking he might possibly be the real Dean Morrison. I was going to show up to that drink with the Instamatch guy.
When it was time to be seated, I quickly got into my seat and tried not to make eye contact with those around me. I no longer had my hat or sunglasses for protection, but I hoped my casual attire, and the fact that I was alone, would be enough to keep me hidden. I did have to pull my phone out to turn off the ringer and see if there were any important messages, but I kept it in my lap to avoid anyone seeing the logo on the back of it.
“Hey, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it to the club later. Can you meet up sooner?” I sent to the pretender on Instamatch, just before the show started. If it were the real Dean, he wouldn’t be able to meet any sooner bec
ause he would be doing his evening show; if it was a pretender, he might have said yes to my offer.
I noticed I had at least two dozen text messages that I hadn’t looked at yet, but I still turned my phone off and put it into my bag. I couldn’t risk someone seeing me with that bulky phone case. There would be no denying who I was, and I didn’t want to cause a scene.
The lights dimmed, and Dean came out on the stage. My heart fluttered at seeing him up close and personal like that. He looked natural, without a stitch of makeup on, but that was no surprise. A guy as rugged as Dean wasn’t going to bother with the fluff of stage makeup. It was an intimate theater, and I was in the fifth row; I looked up into his eyes and watched intently. as he performed flawlessly. Theater acting was way beyond my skills, and I was in awe of Dean and all the other actors as the show continued.
The acting was so intense I felt like I was there in the show with them. The horror of trying to figure out who the murderer was, the fear in the female character’s eyes as she started to figure out that Dean was the man she needed to be afraid of. They made it look easy, but I knew it had to be so hard managing to remember your lines, acting and moving around the stage. Everything was flawless, and it inspired me as an actress.
I was so new to acting that I felt I would never be good enough for the stage. Hell, I would settle for being good enough to have my movie actually make money or to be asked to be in a film that was made by a major studio; that was a dream. The film I was doing now would do well enough; I’m sure we would turn a profit, but I wanted people to talk about my acting. I wanted the dream of getting nominated for awards and having others tell me I was unbelievably good. It was a silly dream; I knew it, but still one that I couldn’t get out of my head.
Chapter 5
Dean
She was already trying to cancel our date; this girl was a fake for sure. But there was something about her that made me smile. I had to meet her. I wanted to see that white dress she promised to wear.
“I can’t meet any earlier, but please let me know if it doesn’t work out. I don’t want to get stuck dancing alone at the club,” I messaged her back as soon as my afternoon performance was complete.
She didn’t answer back. I checked my phone at least a dozen times between the afternoon performance and the start of the evening show, but nothing. She had only said she might not be able to make it, never that she wasn’t going to come. I thought about her throughout my show. Mainly I thought about having her in my bed; the things she had sent me in her messages had me thinking totally about sex with her. I couldn’t help myself. I pictured her as this vivacious and outrageous woman that would take control of me and screw me all night long. The idea intrigued me.
“I’ll be there. Are you in the show at the Showman Theater?” she asked through the messaging system.
She had figured it out. If she didn’t know who I was before, she certainly knew who I was by that time. I was disappointed; I couldn’t deny it. I really liked the idea of going out with someone who didn’t know who I really was.
“Yep, that’s me. See you later tonight.”
“I heard there was a bit of a stumble during your afternoon show; hope you are alright.”
“Yeah, at least I didn’t fall flat on my face.”
“So you did stumble?” she asked.
Something was so different about this girl. When we had been messaging before, she was fun and upbeat. She was flirty in every single message, even erotic in them, and now she was drilling me with questions about my show. I was so disappointed. She had figured out who I really was, and now all that mattered would be her asking questions about me and my career. The fun was totally out of it for me. I had been on enough dates with girls who liked me just because I was famous; I didn’t need another one of those.
“Hey, I think I’m going to have to go out with my co-stars after the show after all. Maybe we could do our drink another night?”
“Ha! I see; you’re busy now that I’m asking you actual questions.”
I paused as I looked at her message.
One of my friends had met a woman online, and he thought she was stalking him and trying to get with him because of his money. Another of my friends had met a woman who really ended up being a man when he finally tracked them down. Online dating wasn’t exactly the best way to meet someone if you wanted an honest person.
“It’s been a long day; I think we should talk another time.”
“Sure, whatever. I get you aren’t interested in meeting up with someone. Just like texting and messaging. You definitely aren’t the real Dean Morrison then; he wouldn’t be scared to meet a girl for a date.”
Oh, wow. I had to laugh. This girl thought I was messing with her. She was the one that looked like a model in her photos; if anything, she was trying to pull one over on me. She probably didn’t even look like her photos at all; that seemed to be a theme with the girls online.
“I’m not scared,” I replied impulsively.
“Then show up at eleven like we planned.”
“Fine, I will.”
This girl had me all worked up. My blood pressure was boiling, and I wasn’t about to let this girl think I was afraid to meet up. She had actually gotten under my skin, and even if I just showed up and proved I was who I said I was, that was enough for me. To see the look on her face when she realized she was wrong about me, man I couldn’t wait.
I also couldn’t wait to call her out for the fake-looking photos she had online. With the last girl, I had been kind to her and not really pushed the fact that she didn’t look like her pictures. But this girl deserved to have a little more fun after her questioning of me. I was going to grill her about her photos when I saw that she didn’t look like them. These girls needed to realize they couldn’t just Photoshop themselves and think guys wouldn’t notice. We notice.
As soon as I got back to my place, I hopped in the shower and shaved. I was planning on looking damn good when I met this girl. She was going to be so sorry she hadn’t believed I was who I said I was. I mean who would really lie about being me? It didn’t really make sense. If I were going to lie about being someone famous, I certainly wouldn’t pick the older, out of film work actor; I’d pick some hot hunk who was more popular.
I couldn’t wait to see what this girl really looked like. She was probably chubby, out of shape, and totally stole the pictures she was using. If anyone was trying to scam someone, it was her; there was no way a woman like her would be hanging around Instamatch.
The more I thought about meeting up with this girl, the more I got worked up. I just couldn’t wait to rub it in her face that I was really who I said I was. How dare she even think I would lie? I mean, I get if someone is a little suspicious, but she was flat out calling me a liar before she had even met me. Nope, I wasn’t going to have it.
I slipped into a custom tailored navy blue suit with a relaxed collar and a white button up shirt. I looked damn good as I went out the back door and got into the waiting car. The paparazzi still had the front of my place covered, so I was fine with sneaking out the back again. They would move on from the story in a day or two, and I could get back to my life.
“Mr. Morrison, where are we off to today?” my driver asked.
“Club 64.”
“Yes, sir. Also, sir, I believe there is a photographer following us.”
I turned around in my seat and saw a motorcycle close on our tail. It was one of the paparazzi I was familiar with from in front of my apartment. I wasn’t too worried about him. One photographer could be handled; it was when there were dozens of them that things got out of control.
“It’s okay; let’s just get there so I can get inside quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
My driver was excellent and had me dropped off at the door in less than ten minutes. For New York traffic, that was pretty damn good.
“Would you like me to come back for you, sir?”
“No, I’ll get myself home. Thank you.
”
I quickly went past the doorman and into the club. I had been there before with my friends Merrick and Wyatt. Actually, I had been to the club many times since I had arrived in New York, although not so much in recent weeks. The girls that frequented the nicer clubs like this one were often out of my league. Not that I couldn’t land one if I wanted, but in general, the girls were interested in the financial millionaires and other elites of New York; they weren’t looking for struggling actors on Broadway.
It was funny that I considered those women out of my league. Only a few years earlier, I wouldn’t have thought any woman was out of my league. I had grown up a lot with the financial difficulties I had.
Financially, I had to admit I wasn’t the poster boy for struggling. I still had several houses across the world, and I was able to pay my bills just fine. But I had gone from a bank account with so many zeros I never bothered to look at the balance, to a bank account that I actually looked at before buying something big. To me, that was a big difference. I was also spending much more time learning to invest and tried to meet up with my investment friends at least a couple of times each month. They were my only true friends outside of the theater while I was in New York.
The club was packed with people, which always surprised me. It was Sunday night, most of the people in the club had work the next morning, yet there they were, ready to party the night away.
My eyes were peeled for Angelina, or whoever it was that I was supposed to meet. I had forgotten to tell her what I’d be wearing, so all I had to go on was looking for a woman in a white dress who was drinking a blue martini. There were a lot of women in white dresses on the dance floor, so I skipped past them to look on the edges.
I was absolutely prepared to find a homely woman sipping a blue martini. What I wasn’t prepared for at all was a woman that looked identical to her pictures, standing in a floor length, body hugging, white dress. There were several people around her talking to her and taking selfies with her.
Four Reasons to Come: A Reverse Harem Romance Page 60