REALITY CHECK
TJ
Jude is busy the rest of Friday afternoon. Slade arranged for a publicity assistant to escort the rising star to a handful of various interviews in the city, meeting with entertainment press about the movie and the Oscars.
That gives me plenty of time alone in the hotel room to bang out another chapter. I settle into the couch and write my ass off.
When I finish in the early evening, I check my texts. My app is drowning in messages from my friends about sushi tomorrow.
They’re all in. Jason, Luke, and Christian too. Jason lands tomorrow, as he said, but Luke’s here and wants to know if we’re free tonight. Christian asks who’s up for a few rounds of poker tonight.
Cards with new friends and my guy? Kind of sounds . . . perfect, so I reply: Let me check with Jude when he gets back.
I hit send, then re-read my message. Something just feels right about making these kinds of plans, this kind of way.
I’m about to exit the app when a new text from my brother pops up.
I never replied to his earlier one. I’m officially a very bad twin. I click open his note. Fine, don’t tell me shit, but you look happy. Nice pic in The Hollywood Scoop.
Pic? What pic is he talking about?
Nerves prickle along my neckasI sit bolt upright and jump onto the blog. Scrolling the home page, I spot a piece titled What Happens in Vegas . . .
With terror in my veins, I open the blog post.
The hottest new Hollywood ship was spotted by yours truly this morning. Jude Fox and TJ Hardman indulged in this too cute for words selfie after an Egg-asmic breakfast at The Invitation. They are so adorbs they’re warming this jaded blogger’s cold, black heart.
Good thing this romance is heating up. If the wheels keep falling off the Top-Notch Boyfriend Webflix train, Hardman will need someone to turn to when the project derails.
Dread coils in my gut.
That’s why the blonde from earlier looked eerily familiar. She’s Rikki Finch, the blogger.
I click over to my contacts and hit Mason’s name at the speed of sound. I barely have time for hello. “What is this Hollywood Scoop piece all about?”
“TJ, what have I told you about the gossip blog?” He sounds exasperated.
I’m sure he once bequeathed wisdom to me on the topic, but I can’t remember where I stashed that chestnut. “I don’t know. Just tell me. My heart is racing at a thousand miles an hour.”
“Get a drink. Take a bath. Listen to some music.”
“I hate baths,” I grumble.
“Because you hate relaxation.” He knows me far too well. “But there is nothing you can do about gossip blogs, so go play blackjack, or chill out with your man. Everyone has an agenda and Rikki Finch’s agenda is clicks. Read the piece again. There’s nothing new in it. She snapped a pic of you and now she’s trying to tie the pic to your Webflix deal to make it seem newsy.”
A voice calls out on his end of the phone, but I can’t make out what his husband says.
“I’ll be right there, hot stuff. It’s TJ,” Mason replies to Tremaine. A pause. “I’ll send him your love and then get the fuck off. Message received.”
I yank the phone away from my face. Shit. It’s nearly seven, which means it’s almost ten in New York. “Sorry, Mason. It’s Friday night. Go have fun with your hubs.”
“I will. We’re going to take a bath, since you’re not.”
Rolling my eyes, I laugh. “Okay, that was TMI.”
“Nope. It wasn’t. I’ve read your books. That was not TMI at all. Now, consider this an order: go enjoy a nice platonic date with your fake boyfriend and let it inspire you.”
Real, I say to myself.
Everything with Jude feels real.
* * *
An hour later, my fake boyfriend and I play poker with Christian and Luke.
“So then I said, Yes, of course I do all my own stunts, except for any involving cats. That’s where I draw the line,” Christian says as he slides a chip across the felt.
“The fe-line line, is it?” Jude asks playfully.
Christian shudders. “Claws. Who wants to mess with that?” he says as the tuxedoed dealer slaps two cards down for Jude.
“I’ll make sure to work a stunt double for any cat scenes into my next contract,” Jude says as he picks up the cards.
“Nothing is more terrifying than a cat. Not even a three-hundred-pound lineman coming at you on the line of scrimmage,” the golden-boy football player, Luke, puts in.
“Cats are officially the worst,” Jude says, then adds sheepishly. “I still want one, though.”
Luke chuckles, then stage whispers. “Dude, I have two. I think they hate me and are plotting to kill me.”
“They probably are,” Christian says in mock seriousness. “And I hope you’re prepared for a sneak attack at any moment.”
“As prepared as anyone can ever be,” Luke says, then ups the ante with another chip. “And still, I love the fuckers.”
“Same here,” Jude says.
That tracks. I always thought he was a cat person, and I can picture him adopting one. A vexing Siamese that keeps watch over his washer/dryer and drives him batty.
I kick back and listen to the guys as I consider my hand, psyched everyone’s getting along and that I’m learning more about Jude.
It’s a fun evening, and I’m pretty sure a few photogs snap pics of all of us. That ought to make Slade happy—a big old group hang. I recognize Piper Grace and that guy from Spotted in the Wild who opined on Jude and me going home separately the other week. Ha. That won’t happen tonight, bloggers.
I enjoy every second with the guys. But when the card game winds down, it’s time to take my agent’s excellent advice all the way.
Enjoy Jude.
It’s an order, after all.
We say goodbye to Christian and Luke, and in the elevator ride up to our suite, I block Webflix, Top-Notch Boyfriend, Rikki Finch, and everything else in the world from my mind.
I shove Jude against the wall, pin his wrists above him. I only have space in my head for this man. “How do you feel about the view in our room?”
“How should I feel?” He’s sultry and sexy as I grind against his welcoming hard-on.
“Tell me how you feel when I’m nailing you in about ten minutes.”
* * *
I’m balls deep in a naked, sweaty, panting Jude when he gives me the answer. “So fucking good,” he rasps.
His hands slam against the floor-to-ceiling windows in our suite. Vegas blinks in all its neon glory below, and I am drowning in desire.
My fingers curl tight around his firm ass as I drive into him. Jude reaches a hand back, grabs hold of my hip, yanks me deeper. “Harder,” he urges.
I obey, pounding him as my cells light up.
We screw standing up in front of the window, the city laid out at our feet. I graze my lips along his neck, savoring his hot, salty skin. “Anyone can look up and see us now,” I murmur, even though passersby would be hard-pressed to make out the two men mercilessly fucking twelve floors above the city.
But the idea that anyone could see us makes my skin sizzle.
“Let them all watch us,” he groans.
Yep, let the world see how real this is. Let anyone witness the way we truly are together. The face we put on in public is true behind closed doors. Nothing is fake. “They’ll know you love when I fuck you deep, baby,” I grit out.
Jude shudders, dropping a hand from the window to his cock. “They’ll see how hard you make me come too,” he says as he strokes fast.
Pleasure soars down my spine as I stare at our reflection. Jude’s fist shuttling on the length of his hard cock. Me drilling him. Us so goddamn into each other.
I bury my face in his neck as I pound him. I can’t get enough of Jude. The way he smells. The way he feels. The way we want each other.
Screw taking anything slow. “Don’t want to stop fucking you,” I say on a deep, powerful thrust.
He jerks faster. “Then don’t.”
We’re talking about sex, but we’re not talking about sex. “Want to fuck you next week, and the next, and the next,” I growl.
“Do it,” he grunts as he grabs at my hand, wraps it around his dick, then hisses, “But finish me off now.”
I jerk him till he’s shouting, shaking, then unloading his release on the window.
As his climax streaks down the glass, I hit maximum pleasure. Need to mark his body the same damn way. I pull out, slide a hand down my aching dick, and I come on his gorgeous back.
“Yessss,” he gasps, still shuddering from his orgasm as I plant a hand on him and spread my release over his golden skin.
I echo his long, lingering yes with one of my own.
As the aftershocks vibrate through me, I wrap my arms around him, holding him tight.
I don’t want to let go of Jude.
Ever.
* * *
A few minutes later, as we clean the window and then each other, I try to settle my racing heart. I try to figure out a way to slow us down.
Can I, though?
The evidence says no.
I’ve never been able to control my heart for this man.
Maybe I need to stop trying and start a new story for us instead. Perhaps over this final week, I need to show Jude what he’s meant to me through all the years. I can do that with the dinner tomorrow with our friends.
But I have a few more ideas, as well.
One starts with AshHam.
Another is on my phone. When we get into bed, I grab it and reply to my brother at last.
Yeah, I’m seeing him and he kind of rocks my world.
I’m not nervous when I show the message to Jude. I’m hopeful.
“Same,” Jude says.
After we get through the final week of this farce, I can have Jude all to myself for real.
* * *
The chipmunks look damn good on me.
Saturday night, I button up the shirt and then look in the mirror. If I have to go through this obligatory drinks thing, at least I look good. Jude’s showering, so I tell him I’ll meet him at the doors of the concert in an hour. Then I take off to meet the Man’s Man.
As I walk down the plush carpeted hallway, I call Hazel. “If you ever need proof I love you, this meeting with your nemesis is it,” I say.
“Oh please. This is character research for our alliterative version of him—Dane Donovan. You’ll do just about anything to learn what makes people tick in case you can use it in a book,” she retorts.
I harrumph. She’s right. Everyone is a potential character. “Fine, fine. And since you’re right on most things, you can help me. I had an idea last night but before I do it, I need a reality check.”
“Ooh, is it about your real-fake romance? Or wait. Is it your fake-real romance?” She sounds like she’s trying to keep the characters sorted without a playbill.
Secrets do make everything harder. But I’m closer to setting another one free. “Yes. You said something the other day that stuck with me. Maybe don’t keep it all a secret.”
“That does sound like me,” she says as I reach the elevator.
As I wait, I tell her my plan. “What do you think?” I ask when I’m done. I’m eager for her approval.
“I love it, and I think you better send me the link. Like, tonight.”
“It’s a deal,” I say with a smile.
The grin stays with me as I head downstairs, weave through the casino, and cross the walkway to the hotel across the Strip.
But when I enter Speakeasy and find Malcolm next to the blonde who took our picture yesterday, the grin vanishes.
“TJ, my man!” Malcolm calls out, patting the stool next to him. “Get the fuck over here.”
I close the distance to Malcolm and Rikki Finch with an anvil in my gut. She’s the woman who broke the news of my Webflix deal, then who ran the pics of William and Jude, then who called the Top-Notch Boyfriend adaptation a rom-comedy of errors.
And her reports are usually right.