13. Logan #2
He snorts and I give him a little shove, shaking my head. “I think a lot of people would kill for that, but no.”
Charlie shrugs. “I’d do it. You let me know, bud.”
He’s suppressing a cackle, now, right at a part where the movie is at an emotional scene after a storm. Charlie knows I’ve been with men, but he’s straight and apparently finds it hilarious to think about kissing me for the headlines.
Charlie is so much better at fame than I am. It’s like he was born for it, and everything that gets published about him just slides off his back.
I’ve been trying to be more like that, too.
But I still don’t like knowing that a Caitlyn-shaped bomb is about to strike online.
I’m at Charlie’s afterparty when I pull out my phone and see an alarming email from my publicist.
L,
Wanted you to find out before the rest of the world does. This just got published on a blog.
We can talk tomorrow, when you’re back in New York.
Attached is a photograph of Caitlyn with that man’s arm around her, posing together at the premiere.
He’s leaning over, pressing a kiss to her cheek… but that’s not the part I’m looking at. In the background, I’m in the picture. I’m standing there staring in a different direction, looking profoundly sad.
It’s completely meme-ready, just as it is.
The picture of a sad, dejected ex-boyfriend, even though I’m nothing close to that in real life.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“I just saw the email,” Emily says, coming up by my side with her eyes glued to her phone, too.
The glimmer of blue light from the pool casts its glow up onto us. We’re at Charlie’s penthouse for the afterparty, which is a hyper-modern apartment at the opposite side of Central Park from the Bellwood.
It couldn’t be more different than the Bellwood, too.
Charlie’s penthouse looks like a museum.
It spans the top three stories of the building, with multiple glass staircases inside.
It’s beautiful, even if it’s not exactly to my taste.
Every outer wall of the place is covered in floor-to-ceiling windows that look out at the glittering city, and people are circulating through the rooms.
Charlie tends to invite every actor within a ten-mile radius for his parties.
It’s packed out here on the long poolside deck, as well as inside, so my conversation with Emily doesn’t exactly feel private.
“Why do I look like I’m contemplating death in the picture?” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “I wasn’t even sad. I was just wondering where the bathroom was because I needed to take a piss—”
“We have to do a little bit of damage control. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but it’s not great. It’ll circulate for weeks, maybe a month. We need to get your face in headlines for some different reason so it’ll die by the time these people open their phones again.”
“Any ideas?”
Emily exhales, locking her phone and sliding it back into her purse. “Time to release your Kim Kardashian-style sex tape, I guess.”
I smile. “I’m way too sleep-deprived. I shouldn’t actually be contemplating doing that.”
She laughs softly, which soon turns into an all-out cackle. “God, we’re screwed.”
I hum. “I could do a nude photoshoot.”
“Funny.”
“I could,” I repeat. “I’d keep it tasteful. Artistic. Maybe in black and white. Do you think it would tank my career?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek. “Not necessarily. But I think you should wait until there’s no wine in your system before considering an idea like that.”
“I haven’t had any wine, actually.”
She squeezes my arm. “I have. And I’m going to go grab another, inside.”
“Good luck.”
She walks off toward the indoor bar area and I head through the house toward the long, glass staircase in the front entryway. I check behind me and there’s no one in the foyer, so I head up the stairs, sneaking off from the party.
I’ve been to Charlie’s home enough to know the best part about it.
There’s a different roof, off the edge of his office. Much more private than the pool deck.
The third floor opens up onto a smaller rooftop deck at the side of the penthouse that’s lined with a row of plants. It’s mostly just a slab of polished concrete with a glass railing, and a few deck chairs dotted along the edge.
Nobody else is up here. Everyone’s congregating downstairs and on the larger deck.
Peace and quiet.
Absolutely blissful.
I take a seat on one of the chairs, pulling out my phone and opening Instagram.
I scroll through Chase’s artwork again. He has a few hundred followers, and most of them seem to be his friends supporting his work, leaving emojis and comments like fresh and fire and siiiick.
I tap a video at the top.
The video shows Chase, just a couple of hours ago, in front of a big blank canvas that’s taller than him. He’s in black boots as usual, but he looks very different when he’s not wearing the uniform from the hotel.
His black jeans hug the curve of his ass, and he’s shirtless, his bold tattoos standing out against his smooth skin.
“Working on a big one next,” he says into the camera, gesturing at the tall canvas. “Any requests?”
I press follow on his page.
I’m using my private Instagram account, which only has three pictures of flowers on it and no identifying information.
And then I go back to watching the video, replaying it.
I watch it twice.
Then three times.
I keep staring at the shape his hip makes right above the waistband of his jeans.
He takes a paintbrush to the canvas violently, making thick lines of neon pink first, then going in with orange, then pure black. The muscles on his back stretch and tense as he works, and—
A message suddenly pops up on the screen, and I jump as it breaks my focus.
Chase Cameron
Need me again?
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
I feel like I just got caught.
Even if he somehow guessed that the profile was mine…
There’s no way he can see how many times a person viewed a video, is there?
Or that I viewed all of his paintings at least a handful of times today?
Holy shit.
There probably is a way to see that.
I lock my phone like it’s a grenade that’s about to blow, but then I unlock it again a few moments later.
Logan
I used the QR code.
Chase Cameron
Knew it was you. I can’t fucking believe this profile is yours. You’ve been looking at a lot of my art.
You’re very talented.
Thank you. Want to buy a piece? Maybe the self-portrait of me that you viewed nine times today?
I pull in a shallow breath, looking out at the breeze rustling through the small garden beside me. I’m miles from Chase right now, but I may as well be right in front of him again, pinned by his gaze.
Not in the market for new art at the moment, but I’d consider it.
Fuck yeah. Are you at that big premiere right now?
At the afterparty. My costar Charlie likes any excuse to have people over.
Fancy fancy.
It’s not that exciting. My mind keeps wandering.
Wandering to my art?
That and other things. I’ve been contemplating doing something I really shouldn’t do, so your art is a good distraction.
He doesn’t respond for a moment, and I almost think he’s put off by what I said.
I’m thinking of doing a nude photoshoot isn’t exactly a message I’m going to send in written, screenshottable form, and I’m pretty sure it’s not something I’d go through with, regardless.
My phone rings a moment later and it’s even more of a shock than when he messaged me.
There’s a little video preview of his face on the screen.
Fuck.
I run my hand across my hair, sit up a little straighter, and glance behind me before I tap the button to answer.
“I didn’t even know you could video call on this app,” I tell him.
He gives me a gentle smile and I feel like he’s looking right through me from the screen. He’s in his studio now, standing in front of the pink and orange painting he was making earlier.
“If you accept a DM from someone, yep,” he says. “So what are the bad decisions you’re thinking about?”
“They’re not things I’m going to say out loud.”
“Hey. You know I’d never screw you over,” he says. “I’m trying to build a reputation of my own. I wouldn’t tell your secrets for any reason, to anyone.”
I take deep breath, leaning back. “I’m thinking of doing a nude photoshoot.”
A molten heat rolls through me. I envision all sorts of consequences laid out in front of my eyes already, but I shove that possibility aside.
“Is that right?” he asks.
I lift my eyebrows. “What, you don’t believe me?”
I can see him biting back a smile. “I mean, it would be hot, but—”
“You don’t think I would do it, do you?”
“Okay, so I know you insta-stalked me all day today, and I’ve been really flattered, I promise,” he says, and I can feel my cheeks heat. “But I did the same to you, so I know you better than you know me, now.”
“You watched videos of me online?”
He nods. “I didn’t do it all year. But today I broke down.”