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)
But what are the chances Blake will say yes? He’s a movie star now. Even if Blake is up for getting back together, that doesn’t mean I have to say yes.
Harley bounces. Literally bounces. “Please, please, please, please, please?”
“Fine. But I’m not saying yes to getting back together. This is dinner only.”
“Dinner only.” Why does the glimmer in Harley’s eye terrify me?
As I buckle my seat belt on the private jet, I glare at Harley. “You neglected to tell me Blake was on set of a movie in the Nevada desert.”
“Did I? Oops.”
I shake my head. “I’m starving now, and it’s at least an hour flight. You better have snacks.”
“Who do you think I am? Of course I have snacks.” He opens a compartment, and a bunch of sugary confections falls out.
“I see your sugar addiction is under control.”
“Eh. Brix reins me in. I swear he and my trainer are in cahoots.”
“Cahoots?” I laugh.
“They’re both against me.”
Brix wraps his large arm around Harley. “Not even. I always tell you to eat whatever you want.”
“Then you make me work it off!”
“Because you ask me to. And you never seem to complain when we work it off.” Brix waggles his dark eyebrows.
Seeing their easy back-and-forth makes a longing feeling stab at me, but that doesn’t make sense. I’m used to being alone. I’ve practically been on my own since I was sixteen. The closest thing I had to someone stable in my life were the guys from Eleven.
The last few years by myself must be catching up to me. “On second thought, where’s the alcohol cabinet?” I ask.
Brix leans over and opens a panel that’s a hidden minifridge. “What would you like?”
“Jack.”
“With?”
“The bottle.”
Brix hands it over.
“Tonight’s gonna get messy,” Harley says.
I lift the bottle. “Cheers to that.” I take a large gulp and then hand it to Harley, who takes out a glass and pours himself some with Diet Coke.
He offers some to Brix, but Brix shakes his head. “I have a feeling I’ll be needing to look after you two tonight.”
Even though it’s Harley’s boyfriend, the mere thought of having someone look after me makes my chest ache. “Yeah, I’m gonna need more alcohol.”
“Want a glass this time?” Harley asks.
“Fine. Make me use my manners and shit.”
By the time we land at a private airfield outside Vegas, I’m a little tipsy and buzzing happily. We go straight from the plane and are ushered through the private terminal and into an awaiting stretch Hummer.
I stare at Harley, like, really?
“I figured we’d do this trip in style,” Harley says.
“Mmhmm, style. This would have nothing to do with drawing attention to the three members of Eleven hanging out so the tabloids catch wind of a reunion and having the fans beg for it until we all relent?”
“I am a pillar of innocence,” Harley says.
I have to admit, his passion for us getting back together is alluring. He doesn’t need the publicity like the rest of us, so I don’t get the impression he’s using us for a PR grab. He genuinely wants it to happen.
“Where to now? Driving to the middle of nowhere?” I ask.
“Yep. Then we’re gonna kidnap him from the set and go to a late dinner at the Catalina Casino.”
“Wait, does he know we’re coming?”
Harley grins. That motherfucker.
“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” I turn to Brix. “Isn’t this the type of thing you’re supposed to rein in?”
“Hell no,” Brix says immediately. “I’m assuming you know how he is when he gets something in his head.”
“Definitely.”
“Oh, look! Minibar.” Harley pulls out a bottle of champagne and hands it to me. “Keep drinking. If you have liquid in your mouth, you can’t talk about me like I’m not here.”
“I’m not really a wine kind of person.” I pop the cork anyway and take a sip straight from the bottle. “On second thought. This isn’t too bad.”
“All the whiskey probably helps,” Brix mutters.
Harley and I drink, we ask the driver for some music, and when an Eleven song comes on, we can’t help laughing and reminiscing.
“Remember when Blake’s clumsy ass fell off the stage because he was too busy trying to read a fan’s sign and kind of just kept walking to get closer?” I howl.
“Hey, how many times have you fallen over in public?” Harley argues.
“I never fell off the stage. And mine was never from being clumsy. It was pure drunkenness.”
We bring up story after story from our touring days, but I’m conscious of bringing up Mason. I’ve always been scared to talk about him to anyone because I’m paranoid about people seeing right through me.
The drive out to the desert feels way shorter than it should.
When we pull up to a gated area, Harley stands and pops his head through the sunroof. “Harley Valentine to see Blake Monroe.”
Unsurprisingly, we’re let right on set. Oh, to have the powerful name of Harley Valentine. Not that my own name doesn’t come with perks. Denver Smith will get me into clubs and some paparazzi interested, but it doesn’t have the same pull as Harley’s. The name I grew up with—Denny Mariano—will get me nowhere. No one even knows it. Unlike Harley, where a quick Google search will tell you he changed his name, the label wanted to bury my past. Well, more specifically, my birth parents’ past. When the guys from Eleven call me Denny, people think it’s a nickname. It’s not.