Chase

1. Logan

LOGAN

I knew it would be a bad idea to come to the bar in broad daylight. Thinking with my dick is never the best choice, but it doesn’t ever seem to stop me.

The bartender has been staring at me. The Bellwood Hotel lounge is luxurious and private, and I thought I could escape fans and paparazzi and stay on the down low, but for the last ten minutes the young bartender’s eyes have been following me like he’s the goddamn Mona Lisa.

I know he recognizes me from TV.

A flash of sunlight reflects off a glass on the bar top and I wince a little, a jolt of adrenaline hitting my spine.

Chill out.

Act normal.

It wasn’t a camera flash, and it wasn't paparazzi.

I’m so on guard now that any flash will make me flinch worse than actual pain, apparently. I shift on the buttery-soft leather booth seat and swirl the Scotch I’ve been nursing for a while now, watching the golden liquid glint in the sun.

I’m halfway through this neat pour of liquor and it’s only 2 o’clock, which was another questionable decision. But it’s my first day off all month, and I got greedy when I thought I might be able to find a casual quickie in a place like this.

Then the bartender started focusing on me.

Intently.

And I realized it’s stupid to think I can be anonymous anymore.

I open my phone and see the punishing notification circle above my messages.

341 unread texts, and my email is tenfold worse.

I tap into my messages with Emily, ignoring the angry red dots.

Logan

Is it still considered thinking with your dick if you aren’t acting on your thoughts?

Emily

If you end up fucking someone, yes. If you’re just looking… still yes, I think.

I’m just looking. Probably.

I grin at the message and lock my phone again.

My manager Emily has been the brightest spot through all this. She’s been my friend for much longer than I’ve been famous, and I’d trust Emily with anything. She’s one of the only people who hasn’t started treating me differently now that my career exploded.

I gaze back up at the bartender.

I’ve been waiting for him to come ask for a selfie.

He pushes his dark hair to one side and his cheekbones stand out in the afternoon sun, like he’s trying to show off how good he looks. He’s young, and my TV show, Yard Line, is massively popular with with men in their early twenties, so he’s probably a fan.

I’ve stopped trying to hide that I’m staring back.

If he’s too proud to come up and ask for my autograph, I’m at least going to enjoy the eye candy.

He knocks over a small stack of paper coasters and a few fall onto the floor.

And he just leaves the coasters there, walking off.

Like a heathen.

I slide out from my booth and walk over to the bar, grabbing them and gathering them up.

“Trying to take my job?” he asks.

“Seemed like you were just going to leave them there,” I tell him, going back to my booth and settling in.

I watch as he cleans the beer taps, and now I seem to have instigated something.

“I was going to get them in a second. You going to keep staring at me or actually come up to the bar?”

He says it casually, with no venom in his tone. I get the sense that he’s teasing me.

“You’ve been staring at me since I walked in.”

He looks lightly amused. “Because you came in and got a Scotch at 2 o’clock.”

“And I'm almost ready for another. I’ll take a refill. Promise I'm a good tipper.”

He abandons the beer taps, his bar rag, and everything else he’s left behind, grabbing the bottle of single malt. He comes out from behind the bar, striding over to the edge of my table.

He eyes my glass, which is currently still in my hand. “Want to give me the tumbler, or are you waiting for me to pour it in your mouth?”

I hum, sliding the glass over on my table. “I guess you’re a fan of episode four.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “What?”

“Episode four. Where Damien leans over the bar and gets a shot poured right in his mouth.”

He neatly pours another serving for me, and I watch his lashes flick upward as he meets my gaze.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you want anything in your mouth, you’ll need to pay that big tip up front.”

He lifts his eyebrows at me before he walks back off.

I pause for a moment as a realization hits me, heat flooding my body.

Oh, fuck.

I’m a total douche.

I sip a little more Scotch, reveling in the fact that he doesn’t actually know who I am. He didn’t do a double-take. Didn’t pull out his phone to ask for a selfie, or say “wait, you’re that guy from…”

And I love that he didn’t.

As soon as my TV show popped off, my routine instantly got thrown into the absolute chaos of dodging paparazzi, putting out fires on social media, and morning-to-night days of interviews and meetings.

I used to think the life of a famous actor would be all red carpets and TV sets.

I’ve only been famous for a month, but already I know I was fucking wrong.

Sipping this liquor right now is the first moment of peace I’ve had in weeks.

Fame is more like this:

Everyone wants something from you, and you’re so grateful for it that you sacrifice sleep, time, and your overall mental well-being.

A month ago, nobody even knew your name, but now they’re showing up on street corners and at convenience stores, snapping photos of you with or without your knowledge.

And you’re too delirious to realize that your dream come true is happening all around you, finally, because holy God, there is so much alcohol surrounding you at all times.

It brings up a certain kind of pain that I can’t process.

Pain for everything I’ve left behind.

And the people who used to be in my life, too.

My phone suddenly buzzes on the tabletop, startling me.

Emily

Don’t gawk for too long, by the way. Remember we have the call-in interview at 4 o’clock. Actually, let me confirm that and get back to you.

Logan

Or we could cancel all of the interviews, and I’ll get a third Scotch from this bartender.

You’re so bad at being famous. Priorities, Logan.

She’s right.

Yard Line was never predicted to become as popular as it has.

I have no clue how to be famous.

I take a long draw from my glass, letting my eyes wander toward the back of the bar area. The lounge is dimly lit and the bar top is sleek black marble, with its fixtures all metallic gold.

It’s very glitzy in an Art Deco style. The whole lounge is currently glowing in the afternoon light coming through the black-rimmed windows on the far wall.

The bartender reaches up to the top shelf of liquor.

I hadn’t noticed how broad his shoulders are.

He looks strong, from what I can tell.

My eyes keep getting drawn to them as he moves. I watch him stretch, seeing the edge of a tattoo on his forearm peeking out from under his sleeve.

He never seems to finish any task. While he works, bottles end up scattered all across the back, along with scraps from cut limes, towels, and bottles of various syrups, like he’s a walking tornado.

The urge to go behind him and clean up everything he leaves behind is strong, but I already fucked that up once.

The bartender pulls out a short ladder, stepping up to replace one of the light bulbs above the shelves.

I stare at his ass in his dark denim.

And it looks so good it makes me fucking ache.

It’s been too long since I’ve had someone.

One of my acting teachers once told me that I have “a talent for portraying the emptiness of heartbreak.”

I was pretty sure that just meant I’m good at looking sad.

But ever since I was thrust into fame, I haven’t had the time to be sad. I’m numb.

I auditioned for the role on Yard Line without knowing anything about football. But since the lead character was a quarterback who was secretly struggling with a bad home life, I knew I could nail that.

But I have the muscle, the frame, the whole look of a football player.

I star as Damien Vance, a cocky playboy who has a new woman in his bed anytime he wants and drips confidence and sex appeal.

But he has deep inner demons, and secretly struggles with a gambling addiction that ruins his relationships.

On TV I’m a commodity.

A “smoldering sex symbol,” according to one magazine.

In real life, I’m…

Me.

A guy who’s never broken a single rule in his life.

A guy who got voted “most nice” in my high school senior yearbook, even though I always wondered if that was just a synonym for most boring.

Logan

I am a little tipsy at this point, I admit, but…

Emily

But?

But I’m also pretty sure the bartender has the best hair I’ve ever seen.

What’s she like?

He. And he’s not my type at all. Too young, too many tattoos.

Good. You don’t have time for sex. Interview is confirmed for 4 o’clock, so you have to leave soon with the traffic.

When I glance up at the bartender, he’s leaning over and scrawling in a small red notebook. He’s been doing it any time he gets a free moment, and I’m growing more curious about what’s inside.

His lashes flick up and he catches me staring again.

His eyes rake over my body, and a slow warmth blooms outward from the center of my chest. A lock of his dark hair comes untucked from his ear. He’s definitely attractive, but in a rough way. Like a royal portrait painting of a prince that the artist accidentally made a little bit too angry.

When he stands tall again and nods up at me, I freeze.

“Listen, I don’t know if you want me to fight you or fuck you, but whatever it is, you can just say it,” he tells me. “I’m straight, but I’m flattered either way.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you say that to all of your guests?”

“No. I just started last week. I’m not great at this job, if you can’t tell.”

“What were you doing before?”

He shuts his notebook and looks out the window while he talks. “Worked in a coffee bar, a restaurant, and a bakery. But none of that is actually what I want to do.”

“Because you’d rather…?

“I want to be an artist. I am an artist.”

I nod. “Well, a piece of advice: you probably shouldn’t ask questions like that at any job unless you want to get fired.”

“I’m aware of that. Something told me you wouldn’t mind.”

He doesn’t even attempt to have a filter on anything he tells me. I could be a horrible person, for all he knows.

Too trusting.

“Are those the only options you’re offering?” I ask him. “You fight me or you fuck me?”

He cocks his head to one side. “Or maybe you’d like a third option. Following me around behind the bar. The way I work seems to bother you, and you already can’t stop watching.”

He eyes the stack of coasters and reaches over.

He pushes them to one side, making them slide all across the sleek bar top into disarray.

I smile. “You’d have to try harder than that to bother me.”

Is he angry or just screwing with me? Is this how he acts with everyone?

Where do you get the nerve?

I pick up my drink and get up slowly from my table.

I’m going to go sit at the bar properly, start over, and talk with him.

Because I can make anyone like me.

Being likeable is my whole thing, and I’m not going to let him be the exception. I turn on the charm in interviews almost every day now, and I can do it to him. I’ll ask him some questions, give him some compliments, and I’ll have him eating out of my palm within five minutes. Easy.

But when I look back up, he’s turned around.

He’s walking into the back behind the bar, and then he disappears into the hall.

He’s gone.

I let out a breath and grab one of the paper coasters and flip it over to the blank side, retrieving the marker I keep in my pocket to sign autographs.

I write a note on the back:

Wasn’t angling to get you to fight me or fuck me.

Just wanted to make a friend.

At first I thought he was a fan, and then I thought he was flirting… but now I’m pretty sure it wasn’t either one. I don’t know why he seemed on edge, but empathy gnaws at me like a companion on my shoulder these days.

You never know what another person is going through. I know that better than anyone.

Until last month, I was a nobody with a simple tragic past:

Logan Stone?

Yeah, it’s such a sad story.

His actor friend died suddenly, years ago. Such a nice guy, and faced with that tragedy so young. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, you know?

People talked about it in my local theater circles, in hushed words.

But I’m no longer the guy whose best friend died. Instead of being constantly treated with grief-gloves, I’m treated like a heartthrob now. And I have no fucking clue how any of it works.

I need distraction. Now more than ever.

And I want it to be purely physical.

But it’s clear I’m not going to find it with this bartender, no matter how differently my cock felt about the situation.

Fuck, the way his ass looked in those pants was obscene.

My dick perks up at the idea of it again, even now, because I’m apparently insatiable.

And I can’t stop thinking of the radiant green of his eyes, too. It was like he could destroy me with a single glance, and the strange thing is that I want more of it.

What was going on in his mind?

I pull out cash for a generous tip and slide it under the coaster before I leave.