Chapter Twenty-Five - Becca
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lucky looks so miserable, my heart wants me to tell him that people already know he’s not just the guy that wrecked an ATV live on the internet, but my head stops the words from tumbling out.
Because in this industry, you’re only as good as your last video.
There’s no room for error, no making mistakes. If you do, that one screw-up becomes who you are in the eyes of the public and they don’t forget easily.
Not only that, but there’s always someone else out there doing what you do.
If you slip up for just a minute, they’ll take your spot.
It’s a rat race—and you can never let up.
You have to stay consistent, continually post new and inventive content, and make yourself accessible to your audience. If you don’t, then you’re done.
“I know it’s not going to be easy,” Lucky continues, “but I’m determined to get back on top. I’m going to make it like my accident never happened. Once I win this thing, of course. Once we win this thing,” he clarifies with a half-smile.
“What about after the competition?” I ask. “Are you just going to keep creating the same kind of content?”
“That’s the plan,” Lucky confirms, his tone one of absolute certainty.
It sends a chill through me, especially when I think of everything that could happen, of everything that could go wrong.
Because I know it’s not just about posting quality content.
It’s about upping the ante. Doing new things and being the first to try something or create something that no one else has attempted.
For me, the stakes are much lower. Lipstick and foundation have never once made me feel like I was risking my life, but what Lucky does is dangerous. If he continues to push the envelope, taking things to the next level . . . I shudder to think what that might look like.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” The words come out squeaky.
Lucky pulls his bottom lip between his teeth for a second, but there’s a resolved set to his shoulders that lets me know the decision is already made.
“It’s not like I have much of a choice,” he tries to explain.
“I’m known for doing reckless things, and if I want people to forget about what happened, I have to give them something else to talk about.
Winning this competition is a start, but after that, I have to make sure every single video is bigger and wilder than the last.”
A pang of worry lances through me as I realize just how far he’s willing to go to prove that he’s not the same guy from the accident.
“It’s not worth your life, Lucky,” I argue, the words like a plea. “You have to know that.”
Lucky lets out a bone-deep sigh, his whole body deflating as he whispers, “It’s who I am.”
“It’s not though,” I say, thinking of my own mask, of the tiny sliver of my life that I carefully curate for the public eye. “It’s just a fraction, a small percentage of everything that makes up who you are.”
“Maybe . . . but that fraction is all people care about. It’s all they want to see.
I am my content,” Lucky breathes, his tone almost desperate, as if he needs to convince me.
“Lucky DeLucca. Stunt guy. Daredevil. Risk-taker. That’s me.
And I have to make sure it stays that way.
No one can find out the truth about my accident, how bad I was really hurt.
I’m here to make sure they remember me for more than that. ”
I want to keep arguing, but I understand why he feels the way he does. Without my platform, my mom and I are toast financially. But beyond that, I’m not even sure I really know what life would look like for me without Smoke and Makeup Mirrors. I am my content, too, as wrong as it feels to admit it.
“You know,” I say, sadly, thinking of how we’re tangled up in the same web. “I don’t think people would hold it against you if you wanted to talk about what really happened. You could even talk about what happened today and how it affected you.”
“No, I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve built my entire platform on being fearless.
If people find out that I keep having nightmares and panic attacks because I’m so scared of accidentally killing myself the next time, I’ll lose all credibility.
I’ll be a fraud.” His eyes darken, and the haunted look across his features makes my chest tighten.
“We all have fears,” I point out. “It’s human nature.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not my human nature people want to see.”
I consider this, but I know he’s right. People don’t follow me because they want to know about my life, my struggles, or who I really am behind the camera. They follow me for makeup tips and tricks, recommendations for new products, and beauty hacks.
Sure, there are genuine supporters who care about me as a person, but even they don’t know the real me.
I guess that’s true for Lucky, too. We’ve created our platforms and the personas we portray, and in a way, we were forced to become them.
Sometimes, the line between who we are and who the public thinks we are gets very blurred.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I see a guy who always makes me laugh, a guy who loves old movies, and somehow makes listening to the same CD over and over a good time. Someone who is kind and brave. Someone who is so much more than he gives himself credit for.”
Lucky’s cheeks flood with pink. “You see all that, Holly G?”
“Yeah, I do. I have a question though. Something I’ve been wanting to know.”
“Alright, shoot.”
“What’s your real name?”
Lucky’s cheeks blaze even brighter. “Oh, uh . . . well, everyone calls me Lucky. Even my family. But my real name is Lachlan, after my grandpa.”
“Lachlan,” I test the name, instantly liking the way it feels on my tongue. “I like that.”
“Well, I like you,” Lucky replies and butterflies start fluttering in my stomach.
His hands come up to cup my cheeks, the tips of his fingers skimming the shell of my ears and sending a wave of heat through me.
His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone and then down to my mouth, lingering on my bottom lip.
A warm chill skips down my spine as he studies the place where his thumb presses, eyes darkening. A little whimper rises in my throat. I’ve never felt so alive under someone else’s gaze.
A small voice screams in the back of my mind that I shouldn’t let this happen, that I can’t afford a distraction, but I shove it away as Lucky’s head dips, his lips ghosting over mine for an agonizing minute before finally claiming my mouth.
This kiss isn’t desperate and wild like the others. It’s slow and tender and utterly incandescent. I slide my hand up his chest, his heartbeat pounding beneath my palm as he kisses me with such a sweet reverence, it brings tears to my eyes.
He pulls back, and I instantly hate the space between us. I open my mouth to protest, but then he smiles, and my god when Lucky DeLucca smiles, I am completely undone.
“Holly G?” he whispers, his voice husky. "I see you, too.”
“You do?”
Lucky places a palm across the back of my neck, his long fingers sending volts of electricity through the sensitive skin there, and gently pulls me back toward him. His nose skims mine, and the scent of him—hints of citrus and cedarwood—is absolutely intoxicating. “Yeah, I do."
He kisses me hard, like a storm of swirling rain and lightning. Electrifying and all-consuming. I cling to him as I’m swept up in the heat of him. This heady, overwhelming kiss that I know is going to absolutely wreck me, makes my entire body come alive.
Lucky moves to my neck, his lips caressing the column of my throat in a way that has me gasping. I can’t get enough of him, of this feeling.
For so long, I’ve felt trapped with no way out. But here, with this amazing man beside me, his hands and lips trailing fire along my skin, I’m free. So utterly free.
I tip my head back, giving him more access as a low moan works its way up my throat. He is everywhere all at once, and just like that I’m soaring again, spiraling into orbit with no desire to ever return to Earth.
The world dips, and the gritty Arizona dirt embraces me, slightly chilled even though the fire blazes next to us, even though my body burns, too.
Overhead, the stars are like glittering orbs, but they’re nothing compared to the way Lucky gazes at me, as he leans over me, his weight pressing down upon me.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, and he arches into my touch as my fingertips graze the smooth surface of his back. Exploring, teasing, I trace the column of his spine as his fingertips dig deliciously against my ribs.
His eyes find mine again and I nod, needing him to understand that I want this. I want him.
He lets me tug the t-shirt over his head, and then it’s my turn. I nearly combust as his warm mouth trails from my jaw to my naval, leaving what feels like tangible flames on my skin. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, as I reach for him, pulling him closer as his lips find mine in a searing kiss.
It doesn’t matter that we’re playing a game, or that most of the time we wear a mask.
What matters is right now. Not Smoke and Makeup Mirrors. Not Lucky DeLucca.
Just Lachlan and Becca.
Just this moment in the Arizona desert, a moment that isn’t scripted, and it isn’t curated.
It’s absolutely and perfectly real.