3. Logan
LOGAN
On my second day at the Bellwood hotel, I run into the bartender in the back alley.
I exit the back door expecting a barrage of paparazzi, but instead, I look over and see him.
He’s leaning on the exterior brick wall with one boot pressed up on it behind him. He must be on a break from work, because he’s wearing the uniform.
Two silver necklaces rest against his collarbone between the undone buttons on his black shirt, and the sleeves are rolled up along his forearms. The inked edge of one of his tattoos peeks out from one sleeve again, but I can’t figure out what it is.
His arms are crossed, and when my eyes find their way to his gaze, he’s already staring at me.
“Evening,” I tell him.
He gives me a little nod. “Does four-thirty count as the evening?”
His eyes are so green. Like vivid jewels, this close up. The heat of the afternoon sun is just starting to dissipate, but suddenly it feels too hot out here.
“If you’re asking if I’ve already had something to drink, the answer is yes,” I offer him, because I have nothing to hide. “Guilty as charged. But I don’t usually drink this early.”
“You were drinking in the bar at two yesterday.”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “I get the sense I’m being judged again. Is that a new part of your job description? Shame the customers for their horrible life choices?”
He uncrosses his arms, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin metal flask, shaking it at me. I watch as he unscrews the cap and tips it back on his lips.
“That was my second shot of tequila tonight,” he tells me, “so if you think I’m shaming you for having that Scotch, then I guess we’re both bad.”
A protective instinct surges inside me.
He’s too young to be tossing back tequila that easily, right before his work shift, like he’s an old pro at it.
And is he even allowed to be drinking while working in that ritzy hotel bar?
But my cock has a mind of its own, and doesn’t have the urge to fix everything like my brain does.
My dick sees a red flag and says yes, please, where can I sign up?
“Cheers to that,” I tell him. “We’re both bad.”
He holds my gaze for a while longer, and I see something behind his eyes that I wish I could decipher.
I can’t even blame drunkenness, because I only had one glass, but I already want him.
He brings the flask to his lips and takes another shot without ceremony.
When it looks like he’s about to start taking yet another draw from the flask, I frown, holding out my hand to touch the metal.
“Hey, go easy on yourself,” I tell him. “Nobody can handle shots back-to-back like that. Do you always come out here to drink during your shift?”
“No. I was planning on sketching something, but then you appeared.”
“Sketching?”
He nods toward his bookbag, which is on a short metal table by the door. On top of it is his red notebook.
He flips it open to a random page, and I step over to look.
It’s not a journal or a diary like I thought. It’s full of his art.
On the page that’s open, he’s drawn an impressive bird in flight, with giant, black outstretched wings, spanning two whole pages and with its claws going over the crack at the center of the sketchbook.
It looks severe. Drawn rough around the edges, and artistically styled.
But it’s very well done for something that he just doodles in his free time during his shifts.
Beautiful. And a little monstrous.
So he’s talented, incredibly attractive, and doesn’t let anyone fuck with him.
I barely know him, and already I like him too much.
All the more reason for me to get the hell out of here, quick.
“I could draw for years and never do anything that good,” I tell him. “Even my stick figures are ugly.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, waving his hand through the air.
“Don’t be modest. This is amazing.”
I see a black SUV turning the corner of the alleyway.
“You have a private black car service? Exactly what do you do for a living?” he asks me.
“I’m in the film industry,” I tell him, which isn’t really a lie. “Have a good evening.”
Before I get in, he stops me.
“Are you coming back into the bar later?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m too fond of that single malt. I’m making too many bad decisions lately.”
He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Come back anyway. I like the attention.”
The way he says it makes my cock throb, and that’s just another reason I shouldn’t go into the lounge again.
“I don’t think you actually want the kind of attention I’d give you.”
Something twinkles behind his eyes. “But you want attention from me. I heard you asked about me yesterday. Got a crush?”
I puff out a laugh, despite myself. “Fuck off.”
One corner of his mouth comes up in a smile too, and I see a dimple on his cheek.
Jesus.
You can’t have fucking dimples.
You’re going to kill me.
“If you really want my cock that badly, you have to give me something, too.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’d need to see you get on your knees and beg,” he tells me, giving me a pointed look. “But you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
He holds my gaze for another moment as I struggle for how to respond. Finally, he blows me a little kiss, then turns and walks back into the hotel before I can say anything.
“Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking—oh my God! Oh my God, I’m crying—”
I jump as a pair of hands come down on the back of my hair. I just got out of the driver’s SUV and emerged into a thicker crowd than I’ve ever witnessed in person.
The crowd is so thick I’m put on edge instantly, like I’m trapped in a mob.
It’s been three days since I left the Bellwood out the back alleyway and nobody was out there other than the bartender.
I didn’t go to the bar that night, and now I haven’t had a chance for the past three days.
In the interim, Yard Line fans have apparently spread the word that my driver uses the back alleyway behind the Bellwood. Two days ago, a small group of them showed up when I got back. Yesterday, the crowd was even larger.
But today it’s fucking pandemonium.
I turn to see the girl who’s sobbing, with dark black streaks of mascara running down her cheeks, gripping at me like she’s in some sort of out-of-body psychosis.
“Logan,” she sobs, drawing it out as if the word had more syllables than it should. Another group of girls surrounds her, all of them pushing their phones into my face, some of them with the flashlights on to get a better look at me in the dark evening.
“Everybody move!” the Bellwood Hotel security guard’s voice booms.
But there’s only one of him.
There are hundreds of people here, crushing around us, all of them shouting at me.
My heart slams in my chest. I adjust the collar of my shirt.
Over the last 72 hours, it’s as if something caught in the air and the entire world decided it, all at once: Logan Stone is a rising star, but we’re about to turn him into the most famous actor in the world.
It started with a simple social media post.
A video clip of me in front of one of the digital billboards in Times Square, smiling and gesturing up at my own gigantic, shirtless photo that’s hanging over the center of the city.
The clip was filmed in slow motion, and in front of the giant billboard, I mimic my character Damien, grabbing a football and throwing it.
And then I wink at the screen and say “how about a Season 2?”
I thought I already knew it felt like having a video go viral. All month, I’ve been having them.
But this one was something different.
It got shared about a hundred million times… and then a hundred million more, the next day.
The Bellwood security have now informed me that they called the police the moment the crush of fans started to descend into the back alley, but they’re stuck at the edge of the street now, trying to make their way over.
“Can I get a picture? Logan! Logan!”
A sweet woman is holding out her phone camera in selfie mode. She looks a little bit like my mom, and it tugs at my heart.
“Ah. Um, a quick one,” I tell her, knowing damn well that I shouldn’t linger here. But I can’t say no.
She holds up the phone and snaps a selfie of us as other people try to push past the security, holding out pictures of me to sign.
“Logan!” one of them shouts. “Are you friends with Charlie Maccan in real life?”
“Charlie? Of course,” I say, wondering if anyone can even hear my answer under the screaming. “I get along with all of the Yard Line actors.”
Panic rises in my blood.
Did I say that right?
Was it a bad idea to lump Charlie in with the rest of the actors, and now I’ll be misquoted somehow? Or was it bad to say the rest, as if the other actors in the show don’t even have names?
Could it be misconstrued?
Everything can be misconstrued.
Fuck, fuck.
“Tell us about Season 2!” another woman shouts. “Who is Damien going to fuck next?”
“Ouch,” I hiss as someone steps on the top of my ankle with a stiletto heel, and a camera flash goes off right as I’m wincing. “Sorry—”
“Logan, please!” another girl says as she grips at my arm, trying to yank me backward as I walk toward the hotel.
“Hands off of him, now,” the security guard yells. “Move aside.”
He holds out his arm like a bar and I tuck my head down.
Someone starts playing a song that features on the first episode the Yard Line, blasting it at full volume on a tinny speaker right by my ear.
My chest is tight, and with each step I take further toward the hotel, I know I’m disappointing more and more fans. I’m denying them an opportunity they’ll only get one time, a chance at taking a quick picture with me, or even just making eye contact.
The guilt pulses inside me like a living thing.
I’m not built for this.
How can I make everyone happy if I can’t even look them all in the eye?
How can I ensure that they like me when I’m not even sure if this mob is safe for me or them?
“I’m sorry,” I say, but my words are swallowed by the crowd. “I’m sorry. Sorry, everyone—”
I push forward as the security guard forms a meat shield for me. Finally, mercifully, the door opens, and we’re inside the Bellwood.
My ears are ringing.