#Superfan (14 page)

If things go to shit, I’m throwing Cally at the person’s face and running like hell.

A familiar commercial flips on inside. I hum the tune and beat on the door again, getting madder than all get out, especially when I hear the shuffle of feet inside.

“I know you’re in there. Answer the door.”

I bang six more times. The guy who lives next door to Eight pokes his head out of his apartment and frowns at me. I give him a little middle finger wave, and he skulks back into his apartment, slamming the door.

“I hear you breathing,” I lie. Loudly. And if he doesn’t open this door, things are really gonna get loud. Like fire alarm loud. My lips curl at the idea.

“You don’t wanna come out? Fine. I’ll bet a team of ax-wielding firemen will force you out after I pull the fire alarm.”

I make a big show of flouncing over to the fire alarm, even touching the handle. Cally nearly mauls my arm off as I skip, my breasts bouncing her around with each step. “Everyone in the building will come running out, and for some reason, I don’t think you want that, do you?”

The door remains unopened. Shrugging, and a little more than curious to see what exactly happens when one pulls a fire alarm, I slip my fingers under the little white handle and prepare to pull.

That’s when the door to Eight’s apartment opens and a series of unfortunate events begin to take place.

First, Cally freaks out because, well, because she’s a cat. Freaking out kind of comes with the territory. Her claws sink into the front of my shirt, which also means they sink into my boob. My right boob to be exact. The pain is so sudden my arms flail in the air, leaving Cally suspended.

To my boob.

The second thing to happen is someone emerging from Eight’s apartment. I don’t get a good look at him at first because hello, mangled boobage. Instead, I stare down at this cat. Yeah, she’s become
this cat
. Not Cally, the cat who adopted me, but
this cat
who once belonged to Mrs. Spearman, AKA Satan, so I can only assume Cally is Satan’s assistant.

The guy grabs my cat, along with my boob—purely coincidental I’m sure, considering it’s bloody and all. Not the cat. My boob. No one wants a bloody boob. Nope, not even the one half hanging out of my ripped shirt, and oh, shit. I wore an old bra today. One of those comfortable ones, the ones with the elastic all shot out so they don’t support the ladies as well as they once did, but it’s cozy as hell. Yeah, my boob is hanging out of it as well.

Cally freaks at the sight of some strange man attempting to extract her and manhandle my boob. She sinks her claws in deeper. Some sort of deep, primal, strangling sound expels from the back of her throat. She lifts her tail and I swear by all that is holy, she sprays the stranger in the face with her urine.

The guy screams. Like one of those blood-curdling childlike screams only heard in movies. But he’s a beast because he grits his teeth and removes Cally from my chest like she owes him money. The two of them duke it out in the hallway, Cally screeching and clawing, and this urine-soaked stranger who looks a lot like a wet version of Ayden Vaughn. And the longer I look at him with my bloody boob in one hand and half my T-shirt in the other, I come to realize the pissy, claw-marked man in the hallway is none other than Ayden Vaughn.

Cally hops out of his arms and bounces off his chest like an Olympic gymnast. She scrambles into my apartment, never looking back. And so we stand in the hallway staring at each other, one of us smelling of cat piss and the other bleeding profusely.

We both snap out of whatever trance we’re in after a second. He lurches forward and takes my hand, dragging me into my apartment. I kick the door closed behind me and allow him to lead me to the kitchen sink.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, removing his shirt. He turns on the tap and tosses his shirt under the water. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

Since I’ve turned into a mute, I turn and point at the bathroom. I think I even grunt a little like the primate I’ve become. He nods and treks to the bathroom, returning with the little red kit from under the bathroom sink.

Ayden turns off the tap, pulls his shirt out of the sink, and wrings the water out of the material. Using it to clean his face, he scrubs until the piss smell is not so … pissy. Then he takes a good, hard look at my boobies hanging out of my bra.

“Take off your shirt. What remains of it.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “May as well get rid of your bra too.”

Ayden Vaughn wants me to take off my clothes for him. Ayden Vaughn, the guy my bedroom is dedicated to. Ayden, the guy I named my vibrator after.

I think maybe I black out a little, because the next thing I know I’m lying prone on the kitchen floor with Ayden stooped down next to me.

“Alex? Can you hear me?”

“How do you know my name?” I try to sit up but become dizzy.

He guides me back down to the floor. “Are you kidding? You’re all BJ talks about.”

“BJ?”

“Yeah, BJ … Brantley?” Ayden’s confused eyes light up. “Oh yeah. He told me you gave him a nickname. Seven? Eight? Nine?”

“Eight,” I whisper, sitting up. “I call him Eight, but you call him BJ?”

“Since the day we first met. Brantley Junior, or BJ for short. That’s what everyone on set has always called him.” Ayden shrugs and offers his hand. “Let me help you up.”

Everyone on set?

Taking his hand, I allow him to assist me into a sitting position. He stands at full height, peering down at me in concern. I stare up at him longer than necessary. Long enough that he shifts and looks hella uncomfortable.

“You’re Adyen Vaughn. The real Adyen Vaughn.”

“Uh, yeah.” He runs his fingers through his already mussed hair.

“You’re shirtless. And covered in cat piss.”

Ayden chuckles. “Yeah, about that. I think I should head across the hall and shower, but not until I know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” I say, climbing to my feet.

“You’re sure about that?” Ayden’s eyes flicker to my chest and, holy crap, my boobs. My cat-clawed, bloody boobs.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” I grab the front of my torn shirt and cover my chest. “Thanks for grabbing my first aid kit. I’ve got it from here. And, uh, sorry about Cally. My cat.”

Ayden scans the room as if remembering the psychotic feline for the first time. “Yeah, you think I have the all-clear from your cat to leave?”

I nod, unable to formulate words. Hell, I don’t even know if any of this is real. Maybe I’m imagining all this. Is twenty-four too young to have a mental breakdown?

“So you’re not holding me hostage?” Smile lines form around Ayden’s deep-set eyes. “You were pretty persistent in getting me out of the apartment.”

Heated embarrassment climbs my neck and flourishes along my cheeks. “I wouldn’t … I mean …” Sighing, I rub my forehead with the back of my hand, holding my shirt with the other. “I just wanted to know who he was hiding. I was tired of the secrets. And now I know there’s more.”

“More?”

“More secrets.” Something akin to hurt pricks the corners of my eyes. “The first time I met Eight I was waiting to meet a man my friend Logan set me up with. A blind date with a man named BJ. All this time I believed the guy stood me up, but he didn’t. Eight, Brantley, whatever the hell his name is. He’s BJ! One big liar.”

Ayden backs up against the bar, pursing his lips. “Ah, I told him he should be straight with you. Guess he ignored my advice.”

“Obviously.” I open the kit with one hand and rummage around inside, removing bandages and wound cleanser. “Not only has he lied about who he is, he left town without an explanation. More secrets.” My temples throb. “I’m tired of his secrets. Tired of his lies.”

Ayden watches me remove the items from the kit, not speaking until my fingers still on an unopened bandage.

“He’s gone to New York City to look for Isabeth.”

The bandage flutters from my fingers. “Isabeth?”

Ayden nods. “When he came back from visiting his family, he couldn’t stop talking about Isabeth. He’s worried he ruined her life. He always assumed she’d stayed behind and maybe everything was hush hush about what happened between them. He lived on the hope that she settled down. Got married. Had a family. But when he came home, he mentioned his sister telling him the girl left a year after he was kicked out. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen at the time. And without any outside resources, life would have been hard for her out on her own. He’s overwhelmed with guilt.”

“Guilt,” I bark. “He’s overwhelmed with guilt? Good. I hope he drowns in it.”

“Alex.” He places a hand on my shoulder. His touch is immediately calming. If someone had told me two months ago a half-naked Ayden Vaughn would be standing in my kitchen trying to comfort me, I’d have called them a dirty liar.

“There’s an explanation for everything he’s done since meeting you,” Ayden explains.

“And that explanation is …” I hand Ayden the bandage since my one free hand is hiding the ladies.

He opens the bandage for me. “Something
he
should tell you, not me.”

Ayden pops open the bottle of antiseptic and hands it to me, making a big deal of turning his back so I can dress my wound. I shed my shirt and pause.

The reality of being half-naked with a man I’ve obsessed over for years smacks me in the face. I wait for the increased tempo of my heart to send my head in a dizzying tailspin again, but there’s nothing.

I quickly clean the claw marks, which aren’t as bad as they first seemed. They’re mostly superficial and will heal in a few days. I slap the oversized bandage over the scratches.

There’s a cardigan hanging off a chair at the kitchenette. I slide my arms inside and button it up to the neck. I tap him on the shoulder and he spins around.

“Hey, you care if I get that shower?” he asks. “I’ll come back later and we can finish talking, if you promise not to out me.”

“Out you?”

“Yeah, to the paps. The fandom. Anyone.” His face droops in exhaustion. “BJ’s been nice enough to let me crash at his place on and off since the breakup.”

“I’d never ‘out’ you. Is that what he thinks?” Anger simmers inside me. I cross my arms over my injured torso, cringing at the friction over the stinging wounds.

“No, no.” He sighs. “Like I said, Eight’s the one who owes you an explanation. It shouldn’t come from me.”

“Any idea about when he plans on giving me that explanation you speak so dearly of?”

“He should have told you from the beginning.” Ayden draws in a deep breath. “I didn’t help matters by asking him to let me lay low at his place for a few weeks. This is all my fault.”

“No it’s not. It’s his. He’s lied from the beginning. And he’s the one who doesn’t trust
me
to keep you a secret!”

Wounded in more ways than one, I pack up the first aid kit and return it to its place under the bathroom sink. When I return, I find Ayden hunkered over the bar with his head in his hands, his face drawn.

“The guy’s kept so many secrets because he’s terrified to lose you.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

Ayden raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because he just did.”

#chaptereleven

Ayden must tip Eight off about what went down in my apartment because ten minutes after he leaves for his shower my phone starts blowing up faster than Kanye West’s ego.

Ignoring the phone and fighting back tears of disappointment and betrayal, I shove a few belongings into my purse, fully preparing to travel to the gym to give Logan a good piece of my mind.

Car keys, wallet, Taser
… no, scratch the Taser. If I bring it with me the temptation to Tase my traitorous friend will be too much, and I might amp up the voltage before frying his ass.

“Can’t believe I thought he was a drug dealer.”

I zip my purse and head into my room to slide on my shoes. Ayden’s face stares at me from all four walls, and I laugh, feeling more ridiculous in this moment than I have my entire life. Did Eight tell Ayden about the pillowcase? The bobbleheads? Did he explain how I’ve forged a life for myself by creating book covers initially inspired by the character he portrays? That cutting and pasting Ayden’s pretty face was the start of it all? Of the person standing here today, a grown woman crying in her bedroom and cutting up her
The Hunted
pillowcase with an old pair of scissors?

“Stupid.” I toss the scissors on my desk and drop the shredded fabric on the floor, stomping on it. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’re so stupid, Alex.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands, smearing my eye makeup. Not that I care. Screw the eye makeup. Screw the “new me” Eight helped encourage. I was better off before: a few pounds heavier, a little less attractive, and an irrefutable hermit. Back then there’d been no dating, no kissing, no falling in love, and absolutely no heartbreak. Alone or not, I was better off before he walked into that stupid Chinese restaurant.

The phone slows in its persistence until it goes silent altogether. Sniffing, I pick it up and stare at the missed calls, startled when a new text message pops up.

talk to me, Six.

I ignore it and stuff the phone in my purse before chucking the knock-off designer bag into my bookcase in a fit of fangirl rage. I completely miss the bookshelf aside from the strap of my purse, which slaps the row of bobbleheads in their perfect, plastic faces. A few fall to the floor, a few remain on the shelf. Their little heads bounce up and down to the rhythm of my infuriated, raspy breaths.

“Headbanging to the soundtrack of my dismantled life, eh?” I knock the remaining bobbleheads onto the floor, and kick a couple for good measure. None of them break, thank God, because I’m sure by the end of the day I’ll be scooping them up and placing them back on the shelf. Or selling them on eBay, because damn, they cost a lot of money. Instead of collecting bobbleheads I could have spent the cash on buying myself a clue, because I’m ridiculous. What’s happening to me is ridiculous.

The cell rings again inside my purse. I scoop up the bag and head for the door, my gaze lingering on the scissors for a beat too long while I contemplate stabbing Logan in his lying face. Like it or not, he’s about to give me some answers.

Storming out of the apartment, sans scissors unfortunately, I head for my car. I gnaw off most of the skin on my bottom lip during my journey to Logan’s gym. I gun the engine, ready to get this party started. My anger doesn’t dissipate, not even when I’ve parked the car and stomped my way inside the gym.

I find Logan standing beside the step machine, or “The Bitch” as I fondly named the piece of gym equipment in my college years. Back when I actually gave a damn about how the copious amounts of pizza went directly to my ass.

I plant a hand on my hip, tapping his shoulder with the other. He turns around, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead at the sight of his wife’s best friend blowing metaphorical smoke from her nostrils.

“We gotta talk.”

“About what?” His eyebrows creep back down, smashing together over his nose.

“About
BJ
, or more specifically, how you know
BJ
, or should I call him
Brantley
?”

Logan’s face pales. His forehead beads with sweat, and it’s not because we’re standing in a hot gym, because it’s not. It’s freezing cold up in this joint. They’ve got the big fans blowing from both sides of the room and the AC is cranked up. I pull my hoodie more securely around me and let my sleeves swallow up my fingers.

“Brantley, who’s—”

“Don’t play coy with me. I
know
. I know Eight’s the guy I was supposed to meet at the restaurant that night. I’m your wife’s best friend. Hell, I’m also your friend. How could you do this to me? How could you keep that a secret? How could you let him string me along in this weird web of lies?”

“Alex—”

What little breakfast I ate threatens to come up. “And then to find out that Ayden is one of Eight’s best friends? He’s practically been living across the hall. You know what a freak I am over that damn show, and over Ayden. You made me look like a fool. I can’t believe you’d betray me like this.”

“Hey, whoa, hold on a sec.” Logan’s features flatten out. If anything, he looks a little pissed himself. He eyeballs the girl on the stair climber, the one who’s pretending not to eavesdrop but totally is. “Follow me to my office and we’ll talk in private, okay?”

I don’t want to follow him anywhere, but I nod and vaguely wonder if there’re any scissors on his desk. Just in case.

He leads me to his office, which is situated near the front door. Encased in glass, the little room has a prime view of all the goings-on of the gym. I plop myself in a chair with my back facing the activity inside the building, and he closes the door behind him. He pulls out a chair from the desk and sits his oversized self down across from me. Steepling his fingers, he purses his lips in thought.

“A buddy of mine gave my number to BJ a while back,” Logan says. “BJ called and set up a private appointment. His trainer had gotten married and moved out of state, and he was desperate to find someone to spar with. When I first met him I didn’t know who he was. He was just some guy who needed a personal trainer. After he hired me, we became pretty good buddies. He was still dating that dumb-as-fuck model at the time. She was a whiney, spoiled little thing. Always on his ass about something or other.”

Logan scowls and shakes his head. “BJ caught the tramp cheating and he decided to hole up at a hotel for a while. I’d go there for our training sessions. He seemed pretty down, until one day I told him about something ridiculous you’d done. He laughed, like really laughed for the first time since I’d met him. I offered to set the two of you up, but he wasn’t really sold on the idea. I think he was still kinda heartbroken over what’s-her-face.”

“But he agreed to it, because it was him at the restaurant,” I say.

“Yeah, he agreed to it, initially.”

“What do you mean by initially?”

“Alex, he told me he’d backed out, I swear.” Logan sighs. “Then Madi railed me about my buddy standing you up. When I went to confront him about it, he brushed it off. I was kinda pissed, but it’s none of my business, you know? The next thing I know I drop by your apartment and BJ’s moved in across the hall. Afterward I questioned him. He promised to come clean soon.”

“Why didn’t you tell me who he was that day you showed up at my place with your broken phone?”

“Dude, I’m a personal trainer to high-profile clients.” Logan’s chest puffs up. “I sign a confidentiality agreement with each new client, including BJ. The guy rubs elbows with celebrities all the time. I found that out when he brought Ayden with him to work out with us. Honestly, I thought it’d be funny to hook you up with a guy who’s friends with your celebrity crush. Never said anything to you because the guy wants his privacy, okay? He doesn’t want superfans crashing his crib. Photogs hiding in the bushes outside his apartment …”

“His girlfriend knowing he’s best friends with a celebrity.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I slump down in my chair.

“Girlfriend?” Logan leans forward in his chair, his lips quirking. “You’re officially girlfriend/boyfriend status?”

“I introduced him to my parents. And I’ve met his family as well.” I fail to mention how unfortunate both these experiences were. “But as far as our status? I would say we’ve left ‘in a relationship,’ ventured past ‘it’s complicated,’ and have now landed smack-dab in the middle of the ‘single’ category.”

“Sorry you’re so pissed at me. Believe me, keeping a secret that big around you hasn’t been easy.”

I worm my finger through a hole in the sleeve of my hoodie from the inside out. “Not so much pissed as I am embarrassed.”

“And you’re embarrassed because …”

“Eight knows what a freak I am.” My cheeks burn. “The Ayden pillowcases? The bobbleheads? He’s seen all of it, and he’s friends with the guy. He’s been hiding Ayden from the paparazzi in his apartment. I guess I’m ashamed of my little addiction and embarrassed he told Ayden about it. I can’t stop imagining them laughing at me behind my back.”

“Alex, the guy is in love with you. He’s not making fun of you behind your back.”

“How could you know? He’s full of lies, full of secrets.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Full of sh—”

“Hey, you can’t convince me the guy didn’t do all of this to protect everyone he cares about, but if you’re hell-bent on breaking things off with him and need some place to crash to avoid him, you know where we live, okay? And, I’m sorry for keeping things on the down-low. I thought I was doing the guy a solid, but ended up hurting a good friend in the process. You forgive me?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I do.”

“Good. Go home, pack your stuff, and head over to the house. I’ll give Madi a heads up. But, Alex? Leave that psychotic cat someplace else.” Logan shudders. “That cat creeps me out with her weird yellow eyes.”

I give him a little nod, but there’s no way in hell I’m going anywhere without Cally. I can’t leave her behind, and now that Brantley’s left town to find his one true love, I’ve got no one to check in on her.

Logan walks around the desk and gives me a brotherly hug. I pat him on the back and snatch one of the free-when-you-sign-up T-shirts from the shelf behind him.

The guy owes me, even if it’s in the form of a cheap gym logo T-shirt made in China.

***

I half expect to find Ayden lurking behind Eight’s partially open apartment door when I show back up at the complex, or maybe Eight himself leaning against my door. Instead, I arrive to a deathly quiet corridor. Not a peep from behind Eight’s door.

With neither of these things happening, I become frantic, desperate to pack a couple bags and get the heck out of the building before I can bump into Ayden or catch of glimpse of Eight pulling into the lot. Who knows? Maybe he hasn’t made it that far out of town.

I’ve taken Cally for a ride in my car a grand total of one time, right after she snuck out of the dead neo-Nazi’s apartment and into mine. We took a trip to the vet to get her shots and such. Cally must remember it, because when I whip the cat carrier out, she eyes it warily from her perch atop my satellite receiver.

“We’re going on a little trip, Cally.” I spring open the small metal door and soften my tone. “This trip involves no needles, I swear.”

Slinking forward, I place my hands palm up in a non-threatening pose. Cally stands, the hair on her back rising with the elongated stretch. Once she’s finished unfurling, she plops her fat tail back down on the receiver and regards me with a “bitch, I wish you would” glare. My boobie war-wounds throb with the memory of her claws.

Once I’m about a foot away, Cally freaks. She mews like a cat in heat and jumps off the receiver. Cats are always supposed to land on their feet, but not Cally. Cally lands on her fat rump and scoots across the floor like a dog with worms, her back legs just a-flopping. She finds her footing somewhere between the coffee table and couch and bounds toward the kitchen. Her tail catches the open door of the carrier and it slams shut, telling me how she really feels about my “little trip.”

Grumbling, I lurch forward, one hand absently touching the bandage on my chest. Before I can make it halfway to where she’s hiding inside the cabinet under the sink, my landline rings.

The sound of the phone brings me to a halt, makes me squint around in confusion. Sometimes I forget I have a landline. Most folks call me on my cell. Hell, they text me on my cell. Rarely an actual call. The days of chit-chatting over the phone have died. We’ve dehumanized ourselves by voicing our thoughts and feelings not with our tongues, but with the tap of our fingers.

The phone rings again, tearing me from my thoughts. I plod over to the bookshelf where the cordless rests, pick up the phone, and blow away a few dust bunnies before answering.

“Alex?” Evie’s breathless groan echoes on the other end of the line. “Thank God you finally answered. I’ve been calling your cell for the past hour.”

“Crap, I’ve been ignoring my cell. Don’t ask. Are you okay?”

“Okay? No I’m not okay.” Her high-pitched, hysterical laugh makes me cringe. “I’m having contractions. I think the baby’s coming.”

“What? Today? Like, now?” I glance at the clock on the wall as if it will show me the days, weeks, months that have passed since Evie found out she was expecting. “Isn’t it a little early?”