IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (67 page)

You weren’t expecting to be shot down so fast, but he did have a point. Looking at your feet, you try not to let your disappointment show. “Oh, makes sense.”

“How about tomorrow morning?”

“Huh?”

He gives you a playful look. “I think I’m free for breakfast if you’re up for it. We can take a picture then.”

Your eyes widen.
“Huh?”

“First I take your hotel room, then I reject a photo? It’s the least I can do. I have some downtime before my first interview, anyway.”

“All right!”
you agree ridiculously quickly. “Okay. Breakfast? Okay. Yes. Let’s do it.”

His lips curve up into a lopsided smile. “Let me know what room you get switched to and I’ll come fetch you tomorrow morning.”

You nod dumbly. “Okay,” you say, unable to think straight because Ian Somerhalder has
asked you out to breakfast
. You are definitely going to post about this on Tumblr.

He leads you to the door of the hotel room and pauses, eyes roaming over you. “And maybe come dressed as yourself tomorrow?”

All you can do is blush and scratch your wig as you leave.

Y
ou had a story idea that you wanted people to read, and you knew that posting it online and tying a celebrity name to it would give people plenty of incentive.

It wasn’t a big deal at first. What you didn’t anticipate was how pigeonholed the story became by your labeling it as Dylan O’Brien fanfiction. But who are you to complain? Your story gets thousands of hits a day—a serialized delight that tons of people look forward to reading whenever you post a new chapter.

You cringe at the thought.

Fanfiction is weird when you think about it.

Well, at least the kind you write. Which technically isn’t fanfiction at all.

Sometimes you wonder if people read your story because of the plotline, or if they’re all just there for Dylan. You can’t blame them if it’s for him, though. There’s a reason you chose him to star in it . . . which makes you feel so creepy when you think about all 250,000 words you’ve written. Two book-length manuscripts, with a third installment already planned.

You sigh and kick your feet up on your desk, positioning your laptop for a better angle. You have noticeably more comments on Wattpad tonight—probably because of Dylan’s latest press tour. You always get a surge of activity whenever he’s in the press more
than usual. At least it’ll provide new interviews to watch—new material to study.

God, you’re such a creep.

You’re scrolling through the comments when a link catches your eye. You read the accompanying comment once, then twice; then you kick your feet down and bolt upright in your chair.

I can’t believe Dylan talked about your fic in an interview!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Have you seen it yet??

That cannot be right.

But you notice more comments about it, and you start to feel nauseated.

This has to be a mistake. You click the link to make sure.

The interview is almost identical to the other ones you’ve seen from the press tour. More relief comes with every minute that goes by. Clearly someone misconstrued something, because there’s no way that Dylan would read your story, let alone name-drop it. You relax back into your chair.

Then the interviewer steers the conversation toward how the fans have reacted to the movie. Your stomach ties itself back into a knot.

“The fans are amazing, man,” Dylan says, scratching the side of his face before rubbing his nose. “Their love and support is crazy—they’re so passionate. The amount who show up to midnight showings and conventions, the signs they bring, fan artwork they make . . . It’s incredible, man.”

“We’ve been hearing a lot about fan artwork and fanfiction lately,” the interviewer comments, and your breathing is suddenly coming in short, shallow spurts. “Do you ever get the time to look at what your fans make for you?”

“Of course, man. I’ve seen some unbelievable artwork for this current movie, and there’s this one fanfiction story I’ve been following online for a while now.”

“Fanfiction that stars you?” The interviewer smirks. “What kind of story? Like, dirty fanfiction?”

“Nah, man. This one isn’t like that at all.” Dylan laughs. “But, yeah, I guess it is fanfiction that I star in. . . . But it’s different. It has this insane story line that hooks me every time.”

“Sounds interesting—what’s it called?”

Then, for all of the internet to hear, Dylan O’Brien says the title of the story you’ve been working on for two years, and you pretty much black out after that.

THE FIRST EMAIL
from a literary agent comes three days later.

Several more follow after that, and you decide to remove your email address from your biography at the beginning of the story. That still leaves emails in your inbox to deal with, though. They’re all asking to represent you, promising to cut the best publishing deal they can. You have half a mind to trash them and call it a day.

But then an email comes through with an offer you can’t refuse, and that’s how you end up sitting in a conference room on the top floor of a New York City skyscraper, with your new literary agent, Paul, and two intimidating bigwigs from an even more intimidating publishing house across from you.

“We’re so thrilled that you’re considering this opportunity with us,” says Janet, the publisher’s representative. She carefully removes some lint from her pantsuit and smiles at you.

“I’m thrilled too. Thank you so much for the opportunity,” you say stiffly, but you mean it sincerely. These people are offering you a chance at becoming a published author. You’d probably agree to licking the sidewalk outside if they asked you to.

“We’ll start shortly,” the balding guy next to Janet says. “We’re waiting for Mr. O’Brien and his attorney to arrive.”

Your head snaps up.

“What!?” you gasp.

“Mr. O’Brien and his attorney will be here shortly,” he repeats, oblivious to the anxiety attack you’re having.

Mr. O’Brien? Like, Dylan O’Brien? Coming to the meeting? With a lawyer?

You lean over to Paul, trying to play it cool, and mutter, “Why is Dylan O’Brien coming to this? When did that happen?”

“I’m not sure,” Paul says, looking as confused as you.

The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. You move your hands to your lap so no one can see how badly they’re shaking. Inhaling slowly, you try to calm the nervous prickles in your chest, but it’s no use. You’ll probably keel over from a heart attack before Dylan shows up. At least it’d save you the embarrassment—

The door to the conference room opens, making you jump out of your skin. A man with a cliché-looking briefcase appears, followed by Dylan O’Brien himself, Mets hat and all.

Can people actually die of humiliation? Or is that just a saying?

“Welcome, Mr. O’Brien!” Janet says. “So pleased you could make it. Please, sit.”

She gestures toward two seats at the end of the table, then tries to make small talk while they settle in. When she asks you how you’re liking your first visit to New York, you’re not sure if you form a coherent response or not.

Is he suing you? Is that what this meeting’s about?

Janet’s repeating your name yanks you out of your head. She’s trying to introduce you to Dylan and his lawyer. You can barely hear her over your pulse pounding in your eardrums.

“Nice to meet you,” you squeak, eyes shifting to Dylan.

It’s weird seeing a celebrity in person. For just a second,
Dylan looks completely different from the guy you’ve seen on so many different screens. Then you blink back to reality, noting that he’s still just as cute in real life—all big brown eyes and bowed lips. The hair that’s peeking out from underneath his hat seems longer than it did in his most recent interview, and you try your best not to stare at the way his T-shirt stretches over his shoulders when he shrugs out of his jacket.

But mostly you’re shocked to see that he’s smiling at you.

Why is he smiling at you? Why doesn’t he look disgusted or freaked-out?

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Janet turns to you. “The reason we’re all sitting in this room is because you have an amazing story here, and we’d really love the honor of publishing it.”

The meeting is a blur after that. Or maybe you’re too mentally and emotionally distressed to register what’s happening. You spend at least an hour speculating why Dylan is here instead of listening to Paul negotiate the terms of your contract. You’re so consumed by panic mode that, once again, Janet’s repeating your name is what brings you into the conversation.

“We need to discuss the matter for which Dylan and his attorney are here,” Janet says.

Here it is: the part when Dylan O’Brien sues you for being creepy enough to write a three-book-long story about him.

“The legal issues surrounding the main character’s name,” Janet says.

“Actually,” Dylan interjects, sending a bolt of panic through you, “I wouldn’t call it legal issues. My attorney and I are here to negotiate terms for keeping my name in the story.”

“What?” you ask, dumbfounded. Is he serious?

“Oh?” Janet says. “You’d like to keep your name in the story?”

“Yes.”

An awkward pause ensues, until Janet asks you how you feel about this.

You’re too afraid to look up when you say, “If I’m being honest, I’d rather not keep the name. No offense.”

“I would advise not keeping the name as well,” Dylan’s lawyer says. “Even with Mr. O’Brien’s consent, this could cause a flurry of authors wanting to do the same thing.”

“You mean, wanting to publish a book with a celebrity’s name attached to it?” Janet asks.

“Yes, ma’am. For sales purposes.”

He does have a point.

“I don’t mind,” Dylan insists.

Another awkward pause follows.

“Perhaps we should adjourn until tomorrow on this matter?” suggests balding guy. He glances at the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows, then checks his watch. “It sounds like both parties have a lot to mull over.”

Surprisingly, everyone agrees. Now you get to spend the rest of the night spazzing out over having to sit through another meeting with Dylan O’Brien and his attorney tomorrow. You still can’t get over that Dylan showed up because he wants to keep his name in the story. . . .

Maybe that’s just his strategy? Pretending to be on board and then completely pulling the rug out from under you and slapping you with a defamation lawsuit?

Still, with all the Dylan O’Brien stalking you’ve done in the last two years, it’s safe to assume that there’s no way he’s that much of an asshole.

Yet, you keep the idea in the back of your mind as a precaution.

After saying good-bye to you and Paul, Janet and the balding guy ask for a minute with Dylan and his lawyer. Relieved, you and Paul head out of the conference room toward the double elevators.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, pushing the down button and switching his messenger bag to the opposite shoulder.

“About what?” you ask.

“Keeping Dylan’s name. I know changing it was a stipulation you and I agreed on, but I think it would be wise to consider taking advantage of the opportunity he’s offering.”

“Which is?”

“You saw how tying his name to your story helped you gain readers,” Paul says. “Imagine how it would reflect in book sales.”

You see Dylan emerge from the conference room with his lawyer, Janet, and balding guy in tow. Your eyes dart back to the numbers above the elevators—four more floors to go on one and eight more floors on the other.

“Just consider it,” Paul repeats. “Not many celebrities would agree to this.”

Dylan and his lawyer start down the hallway toward you, and you feel another wave of anxiety nausea coming on. By some miracle, they stop for a moment; then balding guy turns and hurries back into the conference room. Dylan stands there to wait for him, but cranes his neck to glance toward the elevators.

And he totally catches you looking at him.

You drop your gaze to your feet and wait for one of the elevators to ding. Thankfully, one arrives before the balding guy emerges from the conference room again. You and Paul step on, and you exhale completely for the first time in the last two hours when the doors shut.

The streets look a lot darker on the ground floor.

After stepping into the lobby, you and Paul part ways—he exits through one of the side doors. Paul had picked you up from the airport when you got in that morning and met you at your hotel so you could share a cab to the meeting. But he had another meeting to get to after this one, and you assured him that you were capable of getting yourself back to your hotel in one piece. Now you aren’t so sure.

You decide it’s probably a good idea to ask the concierge to get you a cab, since you have absolutely no idea how to do it yourself. You start toward the lobby’s front revolving door when you hear an elevator ding behind you, announcing its arrival.

You pick up the pace.

“Hey!” someone calls behind you. “Wait up!”

Before you have a chance to turn all the way around, Dylan O’Brien himself skids to a stop in front of you, blocking your escape route. You’re so taken aback that you glance around to make sure he’s got the right person.

“Hey,” he says, smiling down at you. If he notices the distress that you know is written all over your face, he’s polite enough to ignore it. He holds his hand out to you. “Sorry we didn’t get to talk much in the meeting. I’m Dylan.”

Out of reflex, you take his hand and shake it, but you still can’t get your vocal cords working yet. Instead, your mouth is hanging open, and you can feel your cheeks turning an alarming shade of red.

“I wanted to come over to introduce myself again. I’m a really big fan of yours,” he continues, oblivious to the havoc he’s wreaking on your pulse. He points a thumb over his shoulder toward the revolving door. “You heading out now?”

“Yeah,” you say, surprising yourself. You’re not sure how your brain pulled that one off, since you’re not even sure if you’re breathing correctly.