Page 9 of Beyond the Fame

I was surprised she had talked to me at all. Especially after I snapped at her the night of the wrap party in Silo Springs.

“There’s no one for an hour? Okay. No worries. I can call an Uber. Thank you.”

Rebecca’s back is to me, and I can’t help checking out her perfectly round ass in her skin-tight jeans. Jeans? I’m surprised she’s in casual attire. I’ve only seen her in form-fitting dresses.

Not that I’m complaining. She’s gorgeous no matter what she wears. My dick agrees, pressing hard against my zipper.

My eyes continue to explore Rebecca’s body. She’s wearing purple heels and a light purple dress shirt that’s more of a crop top, showing a belt of tanned skin above the band of her pants.

“I'll give you a ride,” I say the moment I reach her.

She jumps at my voice and spins around. Her startled face morphs into one of hatred.

“You,” is all she says.

“Me.”

“Go away.”

“You need a ride, don’t you?”

“Not from you.”

“Nonsense.” I snatch the suitcase on the ground next to her legs. “You’ll ride with me.”

I walk away, carrying both of our bags before she can stop me. Though her protests made it very clear she does not want to ride with me.

“Jensen Matthew Boliver, you get back here right now with my luggage.”

I smile at her using my middle name. I never told her my middle name. That meant she Googled me.

She was thinking about me.

We approach the area where drivers line up to wait for their clients. I find a man holding my name and follow him out to the parking lot. Rebecca trails behind with loud steps and feisty words the entire time.

“I can carry my own bag, you know.”

“At least slow down. I have heels on, asshole.”

“Pleeeeeease stop.”

“I swear to God I will kick your ass. I don’t care if I get arrested.”

We arrive at a black SUV, and I hand the driver our luggage. He puts them in the back and by the time Rebecca catches up, I have the door open and ready for her to get in.

She stops a few feet away and crosses her arms, tapping her foot.

“I’m not riding with you.”

“You are. Get in, princess.”

“Do. Not. Call. Me. That,” she seethes and narrows her eyes at the nickname.

I don’t respond to her overreaction. Instead, I stand there, door wide open, staring. Waiting. A game of chicken for who will make the next move first.

“This is kidnapping,” she says, dropping her arms in defeat.

She’s flustered. Blush pinks her cheeks, neck, and chest. It's beautiful, and I wonder how else I can make her blush.

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