Fame (Not Like The Movies #1) Page 7

  “Well, I can only stay for seven.” Because I will go insane if I have to spend more than one week in this isolation.

  On the boat ride over, I was instructed that the only thing here, aside from the yoga retreat and another hotel, is a small shanty town where the locals live. No department stores. No fancy restaurants.

  No consistent phone reception.

  “We can work that out later,” Annalise says, as if somehow she’s planning on keeping me here against my will. I eye her thin frame and smile. Good luck, lady. I have the strength of a recently devoured cheeseburger under my belt, and you look like your last meal was kale.

  “Now, we have you with an afternoon of free time today. Your schedule for classes is included in your welcome packet here, and your breakfast is available from the hotel restaurant, La Luna, located just over there.” Annalise points through the open-air lobby with its white Adirondack-style chairs and over to a wide balcony that hangs over the azure blue ocean. A small part of my heart flip-flops. Now that I could get used to. “We also have dinner and lunch available at La Luna for an extra fee, and our bar, Mojito, is open from midday and serves snacks as well as an array of healthy beverages.”

  “Alcoholic, right?”

  Annalise narrows her eyes. “No. There is a small supply of alcohol in your minibar, but we do encourage all class participants to limit their alcohol consumption while engaging in the practise.”

  I sigh. Of course they do.

  Unperturbed, Annalise takes a map out from behind the desk and circles a large group of white buildings. “This is the resort. Over here, about a twenty-minute walk away, is the local village.” Annalise circles a small collection of brown figures. “The population is low, mostly workers of this resort and a few others. A majority speak English, and there are some market stalls there, but if you’re looking for the more traditional Balinese market and shopping experience, you’ll be better off stopping on the mainland.” She circles a long stretch of yellow sand that runs from our resort to the town. “This is our local beach. It’s safe for swimming, and doesn’t get too dangerous surf, unlike on the other side of the island, where swimming is not recommended. If you like to surf, however, the tides are suited.”

  I glance at the image on the other side of the island. A shark fin protrudes from the waters. Knowing my luck this last week, I’d get eaten if I tried to swim there anyway. She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  Annalise pushes the map across the marble countertop then pauses, swinging it back toward her. She draws a triangle across a large area on the opposite side of the island, encompassing several white buildings and a whole lot of tree canopy. “I almost forgot. Before your stay, you would have signed a release form, correct?”

  “Correct.” I lie. Technically, Courtney had signed it—semantics. “They are filming Tropical Love, an upcoming movie, on the island. Sets are closed, and most of the shoot will take place in this triangular area, but some scenes may be done on other areas of the island, which is why everyone who comes in has to sign a release.”

  I smile impishly. “In case they catch us sunbaking topless or something?”

  Annalise fixes me with a judge-laden stare. “We do not allow nudity in the resort, ma’am.”

  Tough crowd.

  Annalise takes a key ring from behind her desk and calls over a young man in a white linen shirt and grey shorts. She lists my room number, and my bags are whisked off to some kind of beachfront bungalow before I can so much as turn around.

  I’m almost at the door when I remember. “Wait!”

  Annalise cocks her head in answer.

  “What about the WiFi?”

  She smiles and nods. Of course she does. “Your password is in your welcome kit. Remember that there is a limit, and you will be capped if you exceed it. We try to make this resort as much about turning off technology as we do getting in touch with your inner spirit.”

  Clearly her inner spirit doesn’t need Netflix like mine does.

  I turn and tail behind the two men from earlier in the direction of a suspended wooden pathway that snakes out from the resort’s main building.

  As soon as I step outside, heat womps into me. It’s a dirty heat, the kind that makes the air thick and claggy in your throat. I pull at the loose white shirt over my chest, trying to stop it from sticking to me. I glance down at my jeans. Heaven knows how I’ll ever get them off.

  The path has jungle on the left, and a string of small huts on the right. Birds screech, a sound foreign in the concrete jungle where I live—lived—and beyond them, waves murmur against the shore.

  The two men stop at the eighth bungalow down. It’s a small hut with a stick-thatched roof and white rendered walls. One of the men inserts my key into the door, then pushes it open, placing my luggage inside. I fish in my pockets for a tip and give both of them a small fare, then walk closer to the door when they leave, ready to inspect my lodgings for the next six nights.

  The bed is king-sized. White linen is stark, stretched over it, and a mountain of pillows sit at the head. Wood-panelled walls give the room a light and airy feel, and white tiles are placed on the floor around the bed and over to the small green wingback chair in one corner.

  That’s not what takes my focus, though.

  Floor-to-ceiling glass doors open out onto a balcony decked out with more of the Adirondack settings, similar to those in the lobby. And beyond that? Ocean. Crystal blue twinkles to the horizon, white sand trailing in a slim path before it. White gauze curtains float in the breeze, and the scent of salt wafts up my nose. I hug my arms around my waist, then run and throw myself on the bed. My body bounces up from the springy mattress, and I smile, reaching over to grab the welcome pack and connect my phone to the internet.

  Maybe this retreat was a good idea after all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tate

  My toes sink into the sand, and I sigh. The beach is the one place that’s always felt like home. Maybe because “home” wasn’t really the haven Janie and I needed while growing up.

  “Home” could be a nightmare.

  I sit and stare at the reds and yellows of the sky as the sun slowly sinks into the ocean, swallowed up by the dark waters. Down the beach, a kid runs to the water, splashing about in the fierce waves. He calls something in a language I don't speak to an older man on the beach, and he waves.

  “Tate,” Kevin calls, and I glance up at the big man as he comes ambling over. “I need to piss. Your sister said the paps are gone, so are you cool if I …”

  “Go, man.” I wave him away. I’m sure as hell not going to stop the guy from urinating, for Christ’s sake. “I’ll be right here.”

  “Cool.” Kev nods and heads back in the direction from which we came, his shoes leaving lined patterns in the sand.

  I pull out my phone again, my mind whirring. Hopefully this story blows over and the movie execs don’t delay release. I need that final payment, asap.

  I strengthen my grip on the white iPhone, my hand gripping tight to the metal as I check my emails. I scroll through the first few—Facebook notifications, and offers for penis enlargement that I definitely do not need. When I see a familiar name, however, I pause.

  Danny McPherson.

  The dick who ruined my sister’s life.

  ***

  Madison

  Paradise is idyllic. I take photos and post them on Instagram. I unpack my clothes, hanging them up in the bamboo robe. I paint my nails a low-maintenance nude, then blow out my hair, which has slumped in the heat.

  Bored.

  I am painfully, irrevocably bored.

  So I do what all bored people do.

  I go on Facebook.

  It’s the start of my undoing.

  At first, it’s the messages. Eight people have DMed me, offering condolences with a thinly veiled ‘What went wrong?’ subtext.

  Next, it’s the photos. Mike and I graduation. Our high school formal. At his grandmother’s house. At Christmas.
On the night he proposed.

  My brain and one-click finger fight a war as I battle to not check on Mike’s page. To not see what he’s doing right now, and if I can find any photos of him and the blonde.

  Instead, I scroll through my own feed, moving past the celebrity news article about some up-and-coming Hollywood celeb who’s been caught with his pants down, a story that only makes me feel worse. It’s people like that who make people like Mike think that cheating’s okay. That it’s a solution to being stuck in a relationship where you’re not happy.

  It’s while I’m scrolling to get away that I see it. A newsfeed item.

  Mike Storey.

  Changed his relationship status to single.

  It’s such a stupid thing. I know we’ve broken up. All our invited wedding guests know it’s over. He cheated on me. We couldn't stay together.

  So why does this one little digital betrayal hurt so much?

  Sweat breaks out across my forehead. My heart races, thumping in my throat. I suck in the air, but it’s thick, and it’s hard, and it’s God, I need off this stupid island.

  Instead, I do the next best thing. I empty the contents of the hotel room mini bar, polishing off six mini bottles in about six minutes straight. I open my bag and bring out the emergency bottle of vodka I’d stashed there for, well, emergencies, and I unscrew the cap, swigging a whole heap into my mouth and coughing as it burns on the way down.

  When the bottle is half-empty but the taste of vodka makes me feel like retching, I do the only logical thing.

  I go searching for a new drink.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tate

  When life falls apart, most dudes have two requirements. Sports and a stiff drink.

  No. Make that three requirements.

  Sports, a stiff drink, and silence.

  The roar of people yelling questions at me, cameras snapping their lenses, has stopped ringing in my ears. Janie’s voice is no longer a staccato shrill as she tries to organise higher-level security for the hotel, and the shouts of Bob and Kevin as they tried to shield me from the scrum have just about faded from my mind.

  And I have no doubt that the lack of noise is in part due to my new best friend.

  Bourbon.

  “Another.” I push the glass across the bar, but it doesn’t make the run. It catches on the uneven surface of the makeshift countertop, and rolls from side to side.

  After the email from Danny, I did what any normal guy would do when put in a situation like this. I came to the nearest bar to try and drink my worries away without the judgmental eyes of the production company staff around.

  The contents of the email flash through my mind as I wait for the bartender to make his way over with another round.

  We both know you’re not the father of that child. That was just an example of what I’m prepared to do.

  Drop the charge and call off the lawsuit against my sister, or these will go viral.

  Clicking through, I had expected to find more naked photos of myself.

  I hadn’t expected to see something far, far worse.

  Janie has always been the good sister. The one with the stellar reputation. I can’t let images like that get out in the media. She deserves better. After all she’s done for me, she deserves island-sized leaps and bounds better.

  “Bourbon-Coke?” The bartender raises his eyebrows. His English is slightly broken, and the only other people who seem to be in this shack with the corrugated iron roof and the sandy floor are locals. They all speak in the native tongue—Balinese? Is that their language?—and knock back moonshine after beer after moonshine. A big-screen projector TV lights up the wall behind me, some game of soccer between two teams I’ve never heard of and probably never will watch play again.

  Sport is good. Sport is simple.

  There’s a winner and a loser. A fixed timeline. Media attention that mainly focuses on the duration of the game.

  So much simpler than relationships.

  Relationships are messy, and hard.

  No one became accidentally pregnant during soccer.

  I wonder if anyone ever accidentally became pregnant during soccer?

  I pull out my phone and open a web browser, but as soon as I enter ‘secret soccer baby’ the damn thing starts ringing. I drop it to the counter as if it’s possessed, then I pick it up, my eyes narrowed on my sister’s face as it smiles back at me from her assigned ringtone pic.

  “Ghzanie.”

  “Tate, please don’t tell me you’re drunk right now.” Janie’s voice is tired, as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders.

  “I’m not drunk—”

  “Your bourbon-Coke.” The drink is placed on the counter in front of me, condensation dripping down its sides.

  “—right now.” I finish. “But in about five minutes time, who knows?”

  “What did I tell you? To stay—”

  “Out of trouble,” I finish for her. I may have had one, or two, or six too many bourbons, but Janie’s speeches are the kind that stick in your head like a bad porno. You know you’re not gonna like it, but sometimes, you just can’t look away. “And I am. I’m at a dicey bar with no tourists, only Bali guys. And guys. Dudes. No chicks.”

  “I just got the hotel cleared. They’ve given you a new room on the top floor, and we have security at the gates to the property and on the jetty. You won’t have to worry about what happened before occurring again.”

  “Where did all the paps go?” I bring my glass to my lips and snigger. It could be a song. Where do all the paps go …

  “Most went on a boat back to the mainland,” Janie says, “but about five are camped out the front of the hotel, despite repeated requests to move on.”

  “Squatters. Fantastic.” I take another big sip of my drink. It’s cheap, and I wince as the liquid fires down my throat. I don’t think they exactly get top-shelf here.

  “So are you going to come back yourself, or do I have to come and get you? Because I am tired, T. I just wanna have a nap, and maybe a foot massage, all followed up by a movie marathon.”

  I smile. Ever since she became pregnant, Janie’s feet have swollen to the size of mini tennis balls. “I can make it back myself.”

  “Good. I’m going to send the boys down now to make sure you get home unaccosted. Where are you?”

  “New York.” I roll my eyes. “In a real trendy bar, packed with babes.”

  “I have enabled the Find My Phone app and the boys are coming after you.”

  I scowl. The day I trusted her to hook me up with a new phone was the day I lost all sense of privacy.

  “Good night, Tate. Please, just don’t do anything stupid this evening, and we will talk about a game plan in the morning.”

  “Done.”

  I press end call and wait for the cavalry to arrive.

  It’s then I notice her.

  I don’t know when she slunk in to the bar, but she’s a tiny little thing, a short, dark-haired beauty all folded in her seat in front of a glass of something clear on the rocks. Her skin shines golden in the coloured lights that hang above the bar, and—

  Whoa.

  Where the hell did that girly shit come from?

  Too much fucking bourbon.

  I only have one thing on my to-do list tonight, and that’s to not do anyone. Not even sweet little brunettes who—

  “Quit staring, you dick.” She glares at me.

  I pull my chin back toward my chest. Ouch. “It’s a free country.”

  At the sound of my voice, her eyes widen. She spins on her seat and turns back to the counter. “Of course this could only happen to me,” she mutters just loud enough for me to hear.

  I should leave it alone. I’m going to leave it alone. So she’s uttering cryptic things and is kinda hot. So what?

  I stand up. My legs wobble a little as I find my feet. Sitting in the one spot and drinking for three hours straight will do that to a man.

  I’m going to leave. I’m m
ost definitely not going to take the bait and ask that girl what she means. I’m-a gonna head back to the hotel with Kevin, maybe order some pizza. I deserve a break from my diet. It’s been the day from—

  “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

  Did I just say that?

  I think I just said that.

  The girl turns to look at me, one eyebrow arched. “It means, I hate cheaters, and so of course I’m stuck in a bar with a man currently making headlines for being the biggest manwhore to ever hit the big screen.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard.” The woman picks up a tumbler in front of her and knocks a mouthful back. Sweat sheens on her forehead, and the heavy whir of the fan overhead does nothing to ruffle her long, dark hair.

  “You know, I came to this bar to avoid getting harassed by people.” I gesture to the crowd around us. The two old men in the corner continue their chatter. Toothless gives me a gummy grin. “Why don’t you go to the bar in your hotel, where you and your judgmental bullshit clearly belong?”

  “If you can’t handle the heat, then don’t start the fire.” She pauses, staring at the bottom of her glass, and gives a small smile. “Huh. I think I just made a new metaphor.”

  “That’s not really a metaphor. I’m pretty sure it’s a phrase.”

  She looks at me, and for one God-awful moment I think she’s going to cry. Her eyes get this horrid glassy sheen, but then her shoulders brace and she squares her body. “I’m an English major, dickhead. I know what a metaphor is.” She stabs the air in my direction with her finger. Soft tan nails wink at me in the dull light of the bar.

  I stand and step toward her. “So why’d you use the word incorrectly?”

  Dark eyes flash up at me. “I’ve been drinking gin and vodka for three solid hours, and you’re on my back about an incorrect use of the word metaphor?”

  Heat flares in my body. I lean in close to her, so close I can smell the sweet perfume from her neck. So close I can see the rise and fall of her ample chest. And even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know I’ve been warned to stay off women by my older sister, I want her.