A Beautiful Star (Beautiful Series, Book 5) (3 page)

“You know, I could probably just go home. Or go to my mother’s house…” I say as I’m ushered into the largest hotel suite I’ve ever seen. It looks more like a small apartment than a hotel room.

I didn’t even know they had rooms like this for hire.

“Just trust me on this. You don’t want to be out there. They know where you live and they saw you with me. If they’re not online already, your photos are going to be all over the papers tomorrow, right alongside Marcus and Leisil.”

“Lisa,” I correct him again.

He reaches down and lifts the bottle of champagne that is sitting in a bucket of ice on the bar. “Sorry–Lisa. Do you want some?” he asks, lifting the bottle up for me to see.

I shake my head. “No thank you.”

“It will just go to waste…”

I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I concede, moving to the other side of the granite bar where I slide onto the stool and continue to look around the giant suite. “So is this where you bring your women?” I ask, knowing that Jonathan is once again engaged but still well known for being fairly free with who he spends his nights with.

Handing me a glass, he meets my eyes, a hint of discomfort within his. “I have an open reservation here, yes,” he admits.

I take a sip of the expensive liquid, enjoying the dry sweetness as the bubbles dance over my tongue. “And how does your fiancée feel about that?”

He sips at his own glass, dropping his eyes as he places it on the bar and smiles. “You can tell you’re a reporter,” he comments with a shake of his head. “I should have thought about that before I brought you here. Is this all going to be on the record?”

“I’m not that kind of reporter. I do assigned stories, not gossip columns. And you’re evading my question.”

He lifts his glass again and tips it back, draining the contents before refilling it, the bubbles rising to the top of the tall thin glass before settling down so he can add more. “If you must know, my fiancée cares only about status and money. In her own words–‘I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t do it in public.’ I suspect she’s going to be quite peeved at me when the papers are printed in the morning.”

“Sweet girl.”

“My publicist thinks so.”

I tilt my head to the side, studying his face and trying to see something of the man behind the public façade. This is something that has always fascinated me about celebrities – how different their real life is compared to the life they share with the world. Fake relationships are incredibly common, and are used to boost public profiles, while behind the scenes, the couple really hate each other.

“And why did your publicist choose Simone Weston as your official relationship?”

“She’s a woman with a reputable family background. Went to Yale. Finished the top of something she was studying. Her family is fairly powerful in LA, and she wants to be the girl on the arm of the leading man on the red carpet. It suits her image, it strengthens my image, and my money suits her lifestyle. It’s a win-win.”

He tips his head back and downs yet another glass, refilling it again.

“Are you actually going to get married, or is the engagement going to stay as it is until it doesn’t suit either of you anymore.”

Letting out a laugh that is anything but joyful, he shakes his head. “Who knows? There isn’t a hell of a lot I control about my life these days.”

“That’s a very common problem, I hear.”

“Yes. It is, isn’t it?”

For a moment, we just look at each other until he breaks the stare and downs his drink again. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, telling you all this shit,” he mumbles, pouring yet another glass. I lift my eyebrows, watching as he gulps that one down as well, looking inside the glass with a frown. “These glasses are ridiculous. They fucking hold nothing.” He walks away, holding the bottle in his hand and drinking straight from the neck as he heads toward a white leather couch that faces a large flat screen television that is mounted above a gas fireplace.

Downing my own champagne, I leave the empty glass on the counter, sliding off the stool to follow after him, standing a few feet away as he slumps on the couch and flicks through the channels, giving each one a mere second before flipping to the next.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I say, watching as his brow furrows as he looks at the bottle in his hand, tilting it backward to watch the liquid shift in the dark glass. I feel the need to elaborate, so I go on. “I won’t say anything about this place, or what happened today, or about your fiancée. Like I said, I’m not that kind of journalist.”

He looks at me and nods once before returning to his channel changing.

“OK,” I mumble, feeling as though things just became very awkward and deciding that perhaps I should leave him alone. “Well, thanks for today. I know you didn’t have to bring me here. You could have left me to deal with the fallout back at my place. But you did the decent thing by getting me out of there. I just want you to know I appreciate that.”

He flicks the channel again, and I bite at my lip, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t really be here at all. I guess my questions pushed a button for him, and I give myself a mental kick in the head. I really do need to turn off the questioning reporter in me at times.

After a moment of nothing, I decide to step away and go to one of the bedrooms. I noticed that there was a smaller room as well as a main room in this suite, so I head for the smaller, figuring I could stay out of his way in there for tonight and then maybe I could go home tomorrow morning.

“Sandra,” he says after I’ve taken two steps away from him, and I pause.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we could just sit and talk?” He shuts off the television and turns his head toward me slightly. In his voice, I hear hope, and I hear loneliness, and as much as I think that I shouldn’t, I find myself walking back to him and sitting at the other end of the couch. He offers me the bottle of champagne, and I take it from him and tip it back, drinking a mouthful of overpriced alcohol in a way that would make my mother have a heart attack.

“OK, let’s talk. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Jonathan? Tell me about the guy you were before you became famous. Tell me about the man you thought you’d become before you became the one you are.”

He lets out a chuckle and takes the bottle back from me. “I could ask you the same thing. But something tells me you were always going to be a reporter.”

“I actually wanted to be a hairdresser,” I tell him, deciding that maybe I should drop my reporter’s hat for a while and try to talk like a normal person instead of always asking questions.

“A hairdresser?”

“Yeah. I have really thick hair and most hairdressers have always been pretty shit at cutting it. I wanted to be the person who learned how to do it well so all of the girls like me could have cool haircuts.”

“I like your hair,” he says, glancing over at me, his blue eyes piercing as my cheeks produce an involuntary blush. I smile to hide it and look away.

“It’s an acquired taste. Once you get past all the ‘blonde bimbo’ bullshit, it isn’t so bad.”

“So you gave up your dream to cut hair and became a journo. What made that happen?”

I shrug. “Life. When I was in high school, the universities came around and spoke to us all about careers that needed extra workers and journalism was one of them. I liked writing, and I liked knowing things about people, so I went for it.”

“And the rest is history,” he adds, offering me the bottle again but I hold my hand up and shake my head.

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

He takes a mouthful and his lips cause a popping sound as they leave the neck of the bottle. “I wanted to be a mechanic,” he says after a while. “I was always helping my dad fix up cars and I liked it. But then I was at the beach with some mates and a scout gave me their card and next thing I knew, I was cast in
Sunshine Cove.
After that, everything went nuts and I haven’t really stopped.”

“It’s a bit of a crazy life, huh?” I ask and he nods.

“Fucking insane. Sometimes, I just crave quiet, you know? Just a dark room, a bottle of Jack and quiet.” He sits facing forward, and I turn toward him, leaning my head on my hand and my elbow on the back of the couch as I watch his profile in the dimly lit room.

I feel as though if I just sit here, he’ll keep talking, and something tells me he needs to talk. So I wait quietly for him to continue.

“And then, sometimes, I really want to talk. But I don’t really know who to talk to. It’s not like I’m going crazy and I need a shrink or anything. But I do need to talk. Because there’s so much fucking pressure. And I don’t know who I can tell that to and who I can trust. And then the people I can trust are people I pay, so I don’t know if they’re listening because they have to or because they want to. And then you have people like my agent who will just tell me that everything is fine and to just keep going. That this is what it’s like to be in this industry. But then I think that there are millions of people out there whose dream it is to have my life, and I wonder if they really understand what it’s like or if I’m just missing something. I mean, I’m supposed to be happy. I’m living the dream. But I spend half my time worrying that I’m going to wake up and the other half feeling like I don’t deserve it. I mean, I’ve had no training. I just fell into this work and I don’t think I’m that great of an artist...” he pauses and shakes his head, lifting the bottle to his lips but realising that it’s now empty. He glances at me, a weariness settling over the set of his shoulders and taking away some of the light in his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I shouldn’t even be telling you this stuff. For all I know, you’re going to tell everyone at work and write a big exposé on me. I should just shut up now, quit while I’m ahead.”

I reach out and touch his arm, waiting until he meets my eyes before I speak. “I know you don’t really know me, Jonathan. But I give you my word, I won’t tell a soul.”

His eyes search mine, as if he’s trying to find a way to believe me and to make it all right to talk to me. “I don’t know what it is. I just feel like I know you. Maybe it’s because of Lisa… I don’t know. It’s been a weird day.”

Removing my hand from his arm, I ignore the warmth that’s travelled through me, and the strange flicker of his eyes as I nod my head in agreement. “Yes. It’s been a very strange day. It’s not often you divert a paparazzi chase and then have a crazy man go on a rampage in your house. How is your neck by the way?”

With his eyes on mine, he tilts his neck back and I can see dark imprints from bruising where Marcus held him. Reaching out, I place my fingers on his skin, checking the area to see how badly he’s bruised. “Maybe we should get a doctor to look at you. What if there’s some bruising that could hurt your voice or effect your breathing?”

Closing his hand around mine, he pulls my fingers from his skin, his touch causing another jolt to run up my arm. I hold my breath as our eyes meet again.

“I’m fine,” he whispers, still holding my hand. Still looking into my eyes with a longing that pulls at my heart and causes an ache in my chest. Where is that even coming from? I don’t even know him.

Slowly, he leans toward me, and I realise I must be doing the same because the distance between us is decreasing, and our mouths are moving closer, and closer. My breath forces its way out of my chest, breaking the spell we seemed to get caught in as I turn my head away so I don’t breathe all over his face. At the same time, I pull my hand from his and sit up, wondering why I’m allowing myself to be dazzled by this celebrity when experience says I should run a mile.

I pull away, increasing the distance between us as I search for something else to say. “Um… perhaps I will have the drink after all. Is there any left?” I ask, knowing full well that the bottle is empty, but it’s the first thing I see, so it’s the first thing I ask.

He clears his throat. “I’ll order more.”

“No. No. That’s fine. I don’t want you to put yourself out,” I ramble, pushing to stand. “I’ll just… I’ll just go to the other room. It’s getting late.”

“It’s barely eight o’clock.”

“Oh. Well, I’m an early sleeper,” I lie. He reaches out and catches my hand before I can get too far, holding me steady in front of him.

“Please stay. I’ll get another bottle. We’ll just sit and talk. Or we can watch a movie. I don’t mind. Just don’t run off. I promise I won’t do that again. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. It’s just, tonight, I feel like
me.
And that doesn’t happen very often. Does that make sense to you?”

Swallowing hard, I nod my head, slowly removing my hand from his, and lowering myself back down to the seat as Jonathan reaches over to the side table and lifts the receiver of the phone, asking for another bottle of champagne to be sent up.

“Why do you feel like you can’t be yourself around people?” I ask, twisting so that I’m again sitting sideways but there is a full seat of couch space between us now.

He slumps down and rests his head against the top of the couch, his head sinking into the soft leather as he lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I just feel like I’m always acting. There’s a public me and there’s a private me, but the problem is, someone is always watching and the public me seems to take over and the guy, that kid who loved cars and wanted to be a mechanic, gets lost, and in among all the characters I play, I struggle to find him.”