Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“We’ve gotta go,” I say loudly so the group surrounding us can hear.
We all step back and wave to everyone, and as Denver gets in the car, he yells, “Don’t forget to hashtag come find us!”
We leave just in time too. News crews turn up as Denver pulls out onto the street.
“That was fun,” Blake says. “It’s weird to me how movie fans act compared to Eleven fans. My movie fans are pretty hard-core, calling me Coby instead of Blake, but Eleven fandom? I’d almost forgotten how intoxicating it is.”
I have to agree. That did feel good.
Toward the end of Eleven, where we were all tired and burned out, fans approaching us began to feel like an intrusion. Their questions grated on us. It wasn’t because we didn’t appreciate them, though. It was because we were so damn tired.
“Where to now?” Denver asks.
“Dinner and then a club,” Blake says. “I can get us into Scarlet. I’m there all the time these days when I’m not on set.”
“I know where we can go for dinner.” Denver takes us to Soho House, an exclusive club where you need to be a member to even get in.
“You can’t take photos in here, right? Isn’t the point of this to be seen?” I ask him.
“Inside there’s a photo booth. I say we eat, then get our picture taken in the booth, and then tag Soho House and use the come find us hashtag before making our escape. People will think we’re doing a publicity stunt. Harley will be taunted.”
“Who knew you were an evil PR genius?” Blake playfully slaps Denver’s arm.
Denver shakes his head. “The things my manager has made me do to try to stay relevant will make your heads spin.”
“Was it really that bad?” I ask.
He’s mentioned briefly that his career is in trouble, but he hasn’t exactly told me how much other than this reality show has to do well or he’s basically toast.
I’m starting to think he needs this Eleven reunion maybe even more than I do. I didn’t like being at home, but I could handle it. I’m not sure if Denver’s strong enough to handle the industry rejecting him.
His phone dings in his pants as we get out of the car to enter Soho House, but I can’t resist shoving my hand in his pocket to steal it off him. To the outside, we look like friends messing around, but deep down, I just want to fucking touch him.
I unlock his phone—his passcode has always been his grandmother’s birthday—and laugh at what’s on the screen. “Harley is calling us assholes, in case you wanted to know.”
Denver grins. “Plan’s working, then.”
Okay, this might be the longest I’ve gone without kissing Denver for two days. I didn’t realize how addictive his mouth was until I couldn’t have it.
Dinner is the longest dinner in the history of all dinners, even if it’s delicious. I’m close to pulling the plug on the whole ploy so we can go home, but Denver’s being smiley and happy and genuinely seems excited to go to Scarlet.
I have no idea what Scarlet is, but I’m assuming it’s a hot new club only important people know about. Eighteen months at home has ruined LA for me. I realize I don’t give a shit about that kind of stuff.
What I do care about is getting Denver off. And as paparazzi take our photo outside the club, I realize we won’t be able to stay here long without Harley finding us, and I’m totally okay with that.
Inside, we’re offered free bottle service in the VIP area if we let them take a photo of us for their website.
“I’m on there all the time,” Blake says to us.
We take the photo and then are led upstairs to our own booth on a VIP balcony overlooking the dance floor. Denver and I take one side, while Blake sits across from us.
The booths are scarlet red, and I’m starting to see where the name comes from.
Denver asks for Coke and then points at me and says, “He’ll have a single malt scotch. Whichever one you have. On the rocks and with a twist.”
Blake orders tequila for all three of us, but Denver turns it down.
“What’s up with that?” Blake asks over the music.
“I have to be on set tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. I am not dealing with the show while hungover. It’s driving me nuts.”
Blake leans in closer. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”
“I’m kinda sick of being known by you guys as the drunk one. And I want to prove to myself that I can do this. I can go out and not drink.”
Blake’s eyebrows shoot up, but he nods. “Fair enough.” He turns his attention away from us.
I subtly grip Denver’s thigh under the table. “You okay?”
“Honestly?” He glances around us, but it’s not like anyone would be able to hear us. I can barely hear him. “I’m starting to worry it might not be possible. I really want to fucking drink, okay? So much it scares me.”