Page 32 of Stars and Scars

“It sounds like Charlotte knows the score,” Harlowe adds.

Grayson sighs. “All right, please enlighten this poor, ignorant barbarian as to why this Wyatt Summers isn’t our number one suspect?”

“Wyatt is known for hosting non-stop parties at his villa. Literally hundreds of people could be there at any given time, and I’m not sure a free spirit like Wyatt is vetting all of his guests.”

“Harlowe is right,” I add. “Wyatt is a millionaire artist who doesn’t contribute to society. He’s probably everything that the Order hates.”

Grayson grunts. “I still think we need to take a long, hard look at him.”

“It’s your decision,” Harlowe replies. “My job is to find the info, it’s up to you what you do with it. I’ll catch you on the flip side…Charlotte, it was nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you!”

The call ends, and he stuffs the phone in his pocket.

“Let’s go get some grub.”

I nod, and follow him out the door. So far, Grayson has turned out to be an enigma. He doesn’t know who Wyatt Summers is, but why should he? I bet Grayson never spends more time online than he absolutely has to.

The hostess seats us at a nice table near a big bay window. All you can really see outside is the parking lot and the freeway but it’s still nice to get sunshine. Sunlight highlights half of Grayson’s face, as if hinting at his inner dichotomy.

I order chicken florentine pasta, while Grayson requests a Monte Cristo sandwich. I grin as the waitress leaves with our order.

“What?” he asks.

“A Monte Cristo is like a Peanut butter and jelly sandwich for people with chest hair.”

He grins, and leans back in his chair. The muscles play across his chest and forearms in a delightful way.

“Are you implying that I might be immature?”

“Not any more or less than any other human being with a Y chromosome. It’s actually kind of cute. Breaks up your whole gritty image.”

He snorts and grabs a package of melba toast from the table.

“I never really worry about image unless I'm pretending to be someone else.”

“Doesn’t that get old? Pretending to be someone else, I mean.”

He nods and smears a dab of butter across his toast.

“Yes. Though, I could ask you the same question.”

I tilt my head to the side as he takes a crunchy bite of his toast.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He jabs at me with the uneaten portion of his toast, swallows, and speaks.

“I mean, the real Charlotte Gilroy, the one having dinner with me, is different from the bubbly, name-dropping persona you adopt for the cameras. Face it, you’re into the faking it business, too.”

I shrug. “I’m not going to argue with you. But I do like to think that there’s a kernel of my real self in my online persona. I think that’s what people respond to, you know? The fact that it really is me, even if I’m doing an endorsement.”

My mind drifts back to the early days of my influencer career.

“I mean, at first, I was just posting videos so that my parents could watch them on break at work. It was a way to keep in touch, you know? But then I started getting followers, and it snowballed from there until I got offered my first endorsement deal.”

“And how did that go?”

---