Page 3 of Blurred Lines

So when he’d confessed over coffee that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me for the whole of the previous day, that he’d come back to Café au LA just in case I was there, of course I’d accepted his invite to dinner.

And three days later, I’d accepted his invite to bed as well. Two satisfying orgasms later, I’d begun to think he might be The One, which was…well, it was a relief. I might have been a romance novelist, but secretly, I’d started wondering whether the concept of true love was totally fictional. If I hadn’t seen how happy Vi was with Dawson, perhaps I’d have quit writing altogether and taken extra waitressing shifts.

Me

I’m totally free tonight.

Life was good, and then it got better. A guy in a suit strolled in, looking as if he’d walked straight off the pages of a CEO/secretary novel. An enemies-to-lovers trope, I bet. With those smouldering eyes, I could just imagine him telling her to bend over his desk and take his dictation. I picked up my pen and began to write…

CHAPTER 2

LAUREN

Violet

How was the date with Theo last night?

I texted back three emojis—one eggplant and two sweating faces—then took a sip of my cappuccino. I was back at my favourite table in Café au LA, picking at a bowl of fruit because when Theo bent me over doggy-style last night, I’d had to suck in my stomach so hard that I’d nearly passed out.

Violet

When’s the wedding?

I knew she was only joking, but maybe someday I’d get to follow in her footsteps and walk down the aisle? Okay, so Vi and Dawson weren’t actually engaged yet, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time. I suspected he’d pop the question after she settled into her new position as Hollywood royalty. Stardom had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, and she’d confessed that she was still catching up with the new normal, along with all of its joys and frustrations. Sure, she got offered thousands of bucks to wear branded jewellery, and invitations to events came thick and fast, but last week, she’d had a craving for homemade cake, and three photographers had followed her around the grocery store as she shopped for butter and eggs and cream. By the time she’d finished signing autographs outside the store, it was too late for her to bake a thing.

And then there were the crazies. The most famous of her stalkers was out of the picture now, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others. Dawson ran her security, and that was a full-time job, not that he complained. Although Vi wasn’t the only one who’d attracted unwanted attention lately. For some reason, weirdos thought that my profession as a romance writer who occasionally mentioned body parts meant it was perfectly acceptable to send me photographic examples of their equipment, often accompanied by lousy poetry or lewd suggestions. Why? Why did they do it? Had a woman ever messaged back and said, “Hey, I love your junk, and how thoughtful of you to send me a close-up! Wanna meet for hot sex”? I had my doubts. Dawson said dick pics were about control. A way for men to show dominance over a woman who wouldn’t give them a second glance in real life. This morning, I’d received a message from Brady in Dallas, who’d told me he was sorry for jacking off while thinking of my boobs. Apology or not, I honestly didn’t need to know things like that.

And speaking of dicks, my phone pinged.

Kane

Are you busy next Friday night?

A week from tomorrow… Theo hadn’t mentioned going out, although he was fond of arranging dates at the last minute. And I only worked Sundays through Tuesdays at the moment—the extra income from book sales had let me cut the number of shifts I waitressed in half, although I’d never want to quit my part-time job entirely. My new part-time job. Waitressing at a private members’ club was fun, and a dream compared to the sports bar I used to work in. Not only did I like my boss and colleagues, but hobnobbing with the wealthy folks who frequented Nyx also provided inspiration for my writing. Not that I ever ventured into the sex club in the basement, you understand. But I heard stories…

Me

Why?

Kane

You want tickets to an Indigo Rain concert?

Uh, why was that even a question? Rush Moder was H-O-T. Most women went for the singer, but I had a thing for guitarists. Something about the finger action, maybe.

Me

I could spare the time to go…

Kane

I’ll send them over.

By “send them over,” he meant that he’d instruct his PA to ask whoever had offered the tickets to direct them to me instead. Kane wouldn’t come along. He never did, and that was fine. We had a love/hate…well, it wasn’t a relationship, but I sent him memes and he sent me random stuff. Could you call it a friendship? Perhaps. For years, I’d lusted after Kane Sanders, A-list actor and all-around heartthrob, along with every other woman on the planet. But the illusion had been shattered, firstly when Violet told me he kissed like a dead fish, and secondly when I’d overheard him referring to me as her “chubby sidekick.”

In those days, Kane had been a mega asshole as well as a megastar. But what happened to Violet had changed him—it had changed all of us—and when Vi told him how much his words had hurt me, he’d apologised and said he hadn’t meant what he’d said. But that was a lie. The chubby sidekick, that had been his first impression of yours truly. And deep down, I knew he spoke the truth, but dieting was freaking hard. Oh, sure, at the time I’d laughed the comment off, the same way I always did—for years, I’d hidden my insecurities behind fake confidence—but I still cried in the bathroom afterward.

Anyhow, Kane had started trying to make up for the faux pas in his own way, initially by asking me out for dinner and then by sending me his excess freebies when I knocked him back. Was that weird? I thought it was weird, but several months ago, he’d confessed that he had no idea how to deal with me. For Kane, the female of the species fell into three categories: family, colleagues, or fuck buddies. Friends were a previously unknown category, so he was having to work things out as he went along. In return, I called him out regularly when he acted like a jackass, and we’d settled into a strange kind of truce.

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