Libby

I walk into a mansion packed with people. It’s noon on a Tuesday, for fuck’s sake, although I’m sure the loud music, endless amounts of alcohol, and half-naked women aren’t out of the ordinary for him. I guess when you’re twenty-six and worth two hundred million dollars you can do whatever and party whenever you want.

I work my way through the sweaty bodies, my anger heightening with every step, and search the sea of people, scanning the faces of all the shirtless men with chiseled abs and tan skin.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter to myself when my eyes finally land on him.

He’s stretched out on a massive leather couch in the middle of the living room with not a care in the world. His feet are kicked up on the glass coffee table while he watches the madness around him like he’s the king of the party.

I inhale a deep breath and stomp towards him, knowing the exact moment Mr. Pop Star notices me coming his way.

My entire body stiffens at his deep, dominate stare, and a moment of silence passes when I make it to him, like we’re waiting for the other to speak first.

Why is this so damn awkward?

Because he wants it to be.

He’s enjoying making me squirm.

He leans back, watching me in amusement, fully telling me he’s in charge of this game … or whatever the hell it is.

A ball cap doesn’t cover his disheveled hair today, and he’s shirtless, only wearing swim trunks that hang loose on his hips, showing off the hard ridges in his chest. He has a six-pack, of course, because a bad boy can’t exist without having an amazing body, apparently.

“Did you forget you have an interview in an hour?” I yell over the music.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mouths back to me, the grin still on his face. The girl at his side gives me a nasty sneer, like she’s scared I’m about to ruin the chances of her possible life-changing screw.

I whip around on my heels and race to the corner of the room. Faces morph from ecstatic to pissed-off, including Knox’s, when I yank the cord from the stereo system, causing everything to go quiet.

“This party is over,” I scream. “Everyone out.” They all stare at me, but no one moves. “You have five minutes before I call the police and have each one of you escorted out.”

I don’t miss the dirty looks and rude remarks I’m given while they start working their way out of the house. It takes a good fifteen minutes until everyone is gone, except for the woman next to him, and it looks like she has no intention of going anywhere.

“You too, girlfriend,” I say, tossing my thumb over my shoulder towards the door.

She crosses her arms, her lips pouting. “I’m not leaving,” she argues, looking over at Knox, giving him a silent look that he better defend her and put my ass in place.

“He’ll call you later if he’s still interested,” I answer for him.

Knox pats her on the thigh and brings himself up. “I’ll call you later, babe,” he tells her, most likely lying.

She nods, giving him a much friendlier look than she did me, even though I pretty much told her the same damn thing. She gets up and turns back to smile at him before disappearing through the front door.

It’s just the two of us now.

Yay.

Knox stalks over to the mini-bar in the corner of the room, and there’s no way he misses my hesitation when I sit down on the arm of the couch and open up the planner. He refills his glass and leans back against the bar with his eyes on me, the same stance he had when we first met. He’s waiting to see how I break this tension.

I don’t exactly blame him for not taking me seriously. I don’t have the look of a reputable assistant who gets shit done. I’m only twenty-three. My blonde hair gives people the perception that I’m ditzy, which I’m not, and I’m sure the pink streaks I’ve added don’t help my cause. I have yet to grow out of my baby face. My cheeks are still on the chubby side, and dimples stick out from each one of them like a Cabbage Patch Kid.

“You have an interview in forty-five minutes now,” I say, looking at my watch. “We wasted a good fifteen clearing out the house. The station is at least a thirty-minute drive, and that’s if traffic isn’t backed up. Why aren’t you dressed and ready to go instead of throwing a party?”

He gulps a long draw of his drink before answering me. “I’m not going.”

“You cancelled it?” He shakes his head. “Then you’re going. Set the booze down, go brush your teeth, and put some clothes on.”

“I hate interviews, especially lately. They all ask me the same shit. Who am I sticking my dick into? Is it serious? Did I really get arrested?” He waves his hand through the air. “The bullshit list goes on. No thank you.”

He’s not wrong about what’s going to happen, but that doesn’t give him an excuse to not show up. “You’re going. End of discussion.”

He holds up his glass. “I’ve been drinking, sunshine, and trust me, I’m not the most professional person under the influence of alcohol. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

“I don’t think you’re the most professional person, period,” I mutter underneath my breath. At least my dad knew not to miss important events that promoted his music and furthered his career.

“What? I didn’t catch that?”

He heard me.

I shake my head. “We don’t have time for this. You’re not drunk. Cancelling interviews last minute is terrible publicity, especially one with the most popular station in the country. If you stand them up, they’ll tear you apart and never play your songs again.”

He surprisingly sets the drink down and grunts while making his way back to the couch. He grabs a shirt draped over the back of it and pulls it on. “This is all you’re getting from me. Take it or leave it.”

I’ll take anything right now. He can show up in a chicken suit or a rhinestone embellished thong for all I care. I stand up, grab a stick of gum from my purse, and toss it to him. “Where are your keys? I’m driving.”

He looks at me like I said I’m about to castrate him. “There’s no way in hell you’re getting behind the wheel of my car. We’ll take yours.”

“I don’t have one.”

He points to my purse. “You have a two thousand dollar handbag, but no car?” He stares at me in that intense, studious, weird way again. “Are you a hooker?” A smile cracks on his lips. “No wonder you know Thomas. That fucker loves to pay for pussy and then try to do the whole hoe into a housewife shit.”

“I’m not, nor have I ever been, a hooker,” I snap, my hand itching to slap him. “Thomas is a friend of my father’s, not my fucking sugar daddy. Now I’d love to stay here and chat about how I don’t open my legs for a handbag or a car, but we have somewhere to be.” I hold out my hand. “Keys.”

“Do you know how to drive a stick?”

“Sure do.”

I follow him into his office where he opens up a cabinet, punches in a few numbers into what I assume is a safe, and pulls out a set of keys. He shuts the cabinet and goes to hand them to me but pulls away suddenly.

“Are you lying?” he asks.

“No. Now give me the damn keys,” I push.

He holds them up in the air “If anything happens to my baby, it’s your ass.”

I snatch the keys from his fingers before he gets the chance to stop me. What’s up with men referring to cars as their babies?

He leads me out of the office and into a garage that’s filled with cars.

“Can we take that one?” I ask, pointing to the bright green Lamborghini. It’s a newer model of the one my dad taught me to drive in. I even took my driving test in it.

“Hell no. We’re taking the Porsche.”

I shrug, perfectly okay with that. He opens up the door of the black Porsche Cayman and plops down in the passenger seat. The scent of leather and cinnamon hit me when I slide into the driver’s side and start the engine. I plug in the radio station’s address into the GPS and can tell he’s surprised when I shift the car and reverse out of the garage, but he stays quiet. I don’t know why I was expecting a pat on the back or something.

The only emotion this guy knows how to show is arrogance.

The ride is silent, and I keep my eyes on the road while he pays attention to his phone. I follow the directions from the GPS and merge onto the freeway.

“Jesus Christ,” he yells out suddenly, causing my fingers to tighten around the steering wheel. “I don’t think either one of us is going to make it there unless it’s in a body bag.” He stretches the seatbelt across his body and buckles it. “Do you even have your driver’s license? Or is that why you don’t have a car? They revoked it from your crazy ass because you drive like a damn lunatic?”

“I don’t drive like a lunatic,” I argue, swerving into another lane. The car behind us honks, and I’m pretty sure the driver is waving his middle finger through the air.

He snorts. “And I don’t have a penis.”

“Oh, we all know you come equipped with one of those.”

“How so?”

“You’ve sent your fair share of dick pics.”

He gives me a sly look. “So you’ve seen them?”

“Negative. I’d actually like to keep my eyes and not acid burn them from their sockets.”

“Your loss, and by the way, there’s no dick pics of mine out in cyberspace. They’re all impersonations.”

“That’s good to know,” I mutter. Selfies of his cock are the last thing I want to talk about. “So let’s go over this interview.”

“What about it? I’ve done thousands of them. Same shit, different person asking the questions.”

“Anything off limits?” Another horn blares in the background when I merge into different lane.

“Stella. My latest arrest. I don’t like discussing my personal business with strangers, which is why I don’t want to go. The assholes only want to talk about my so-called scandals, my fuckups, my problems because that’s what gives them listeners.”

“You have to talk about your arrest and sound apologetic. Tell them it was a stupid mistake that you regret and will never happen again. You hate that you disappointed your fans.”

“That’s what every celebrity who gets into shit says. I’m not about to be as pathetic as them. I punched a pap who had his camera shoved in my face, wouldn’t move, and was saying some bad shit to me after I asked him to step away three times. I don’t regret doing it. ”

“Definitely don’t tell them that. For future reference, if you don’t want to talk about getting arrested, stop getting arrested. Your new album recently released, and your tour is paramount. You need fans to support your music and buy tickets.”

“My fans won’t let me down.” We both go flying forward when I slam on my breaks. “Fuck woman, no more talking. Keep your eyes on the road.”