#Superfan (4 page)

The amused smile never leaves his face. “How do you know so much about drug dealers?”

Shrugging, I push my chair back and stand. I grab a couple sodas and offer him one before sitting back down. “My first real boyfriend was a drug dealer.”

Eight pops open the soda and takes a sip. “A drug dealer, huh? No wonder you never brought anyone home to meet the parents. Tell me more.”

“There’s not much to tell.” I stare at the peephole on my door, my mind traveling back to a different time. “We met in the quad at college. He was a lot like you.” My voice wanders off, and I say nothing more because I wasn’t exaggerating. There’s
really
not much to tell. The guy was cute. Charming. And stayed in and out of trouble. I got tired of bailing him out of jail. We called it quits, and that was that.

Thankfully, Eight doesn’t push.

“College girl, huh? Where’d you graduate?”

I toy with the tab on the can. “I didn’t. Dropped out and disappointed my parents forever.” I give him a wry smile. “Been a long time now. I think they’re getting used to the idea that their daughter is a loser.”

Half expecting him to console me, to assure me I’m not a loser like Madi or anyone else I tell my story to does, I jerk a little when he says, “Same.”

“You dropped out of college too?”

“Nah.” He smiles over the soda. “But I know all about disappointing the family.”

Neither of us speak for a moment, the two of us lost in our own thoughts. I want to ask him how he’s disappointed his family, but it’s like an invisible wall has gone up between us. Taking a deep breath, I think back to the guy I thought Eight was the first time I saw him. The way he hit on me from the moment he sat down at my table, and now, sitting across from me, his heart resting on his sleeve.

There’s still so much you don’t know about him. He won’t even tell you what he does for a living, for heaven’s sake. Don’t do this to yourself, Alex. Your life is a lake: smooth and motionless. Don’t let this stranger flop into your life like a fish out of water.

We both jump when someone knocks on my door. My hand jerks, knocking over the full can of soda. The brown liquid sloshes on the table, soaking Eight’s list. He lets out a low curse, the dirty word sending tendrils of surprise curling in the depths of my belly.

“Grab a kitchen towel from that drawer over there, will ya?” I gesture to a drawer parallel to the dishwasher and he nods.

Logan’s standing on the other side of the door when I open it, an irritated expression on his face. He holds out his phone. The entire screen is a spiderwebbed mess of broken glass.

“You care if I use your phone to call Madi?”

“What happened to yours?”

“Dropped it in the parking lot of the cell phone place. Can you believe that?” Logan lets himself in, shrugs off his coat, and tosses it over the back of my couch. “No shit. I went in for an upgrade, walked out of the store, and blam. Dropped the son of a bitch in the parking lot before I could even slide the new phone case on. No insurance. Madi’s gonna kill—”

Logan’s voice comes to a brusque halt once he spots Eight mopping up my mess of a soda from the table. Logan’s mouth parts and his face goes slack before lighting up. He places the phone on my bar and takes a step forward, grinning at Eight. Before he can utter a single word, Eight eases around the table, leaving the wet towel behind. He wipes his hand off on his jeans before offering it to Logan. Logan’s smile fades as Eight takes his hand, pumping away.

“You must be one of Alex’s friends. I’m Eight. Nice to meet you.”

“Eight? What the f—”

“I know it’s a weird name,” I interrupt, “but he’s kind of a weird guy, and we met in a weird situation.”

“Is that so?” He drops Eight’s hand, narrowing his eyes. “Logan Prescott. Nice to meet you. How’d y’all meet?”

“Remember that blind date you tried setting me up with? Well, the guy never showed, but Eight did. Eight saw me sitting alone and tried talking me into taking him home with me.” Snorting at the memory, I shake my head.

“The guy never showed, huh?” Logan crosses his arms over his chest, studying my newfound friend with his steely gray eyes. “And this guy happened to be there alone too.”

I shoot Eight a playful glare. “I think he was hanging out looking for unsuspecting single girls to hit on.”

Eight gives me a halfhearted smile. “Guess I better head back across the hall and finish unpacking.” He gives Logan a nod. “Nice meeting you, man.”

“Yeah, feeling’s mutual.” Logan’s gruff voice and firm jaw tell a different story.

Once he’s gone, I finish sopping up the mess on the table. “How do you know Eight?”

“What?” Logan’s eyes flutter.

“Oh, come on. I’m not an idiot.” I toss the dirty towel in the sink and plop down at the table. “I could tell by your face that you recognized him.”

Logan stares at me with a look of controlled panic. Understanding washes over me in an excited, jittery wave.

“Oh my God. I know how you guys know each other.”

“You do?” Logan reaches for the chair to join me. His fingers graze the back, missing. He’s uncharacteristically nervous for someone usually so calm.

I lower my voice and lean forward. “Yup, you’re his buyer.”

“Buyer?”

“Yes, buyer. Customer. Whatever the kids are calling it these days.” Slamming my fist on the table, I grow irritated with the charade. “He’s your drug dealer.”

Logan nearly misses the chair when he goes to sit down. He stares at me for a long moment before exploding with laughter. “Drug dealer? You think that guy is my drug dealer? Wha—did he tell you he’s a dealer?”

“No, he didn’t tell me. I used the fine art of detection to come to that conclusion. He says he works from home, works for hire, but won’t elaborate on any other detail. He wears nice clothes, owns expensive things, and said his ex wants him to change, but he wants to stay the same person he’s always been. Hell, he’s a dealer, and you’re still smoking the ganja like you did in college. Don’t try to deny it.”

Chuckling, Logan gives me an entertained smile. “You’re crazy, Alex. You know that? Grade A certified loon.”

“Oh, come on. I’m just kidding around, but seriously, what does this guy do for a living? He’s secretive, evasive, covered in cuts and bruises. If not a drug dealer, then what?”

Logan frowns and shrugs.

“Whatever.” I whip out my phone, newly bored with the convo. I tap away at the screen.

@therealAydenVaughn possible stalker/drug dlr scooped up aprtmnt. Use this pic if I come up missing. #superfan

I attach a pretty decent photo of myself. No kissy face. Only a fair amount of cleavage exposed. Because I hate those missing persons’ photographs, the old ones, the fuzzy ones, the ones with water spots and bad lighting. No, when I come up missing I don’t want Madi posting a drunken photo of me with squinty eyes and a margarita in one hand, or my parents posting a photo of me before I gained the freshman fifteen. The pre-bloating photo is more flattering, but let’s be realistic. I look like a whole different person. That freshman fifteen has turned into the Taco Tuesday twenty.

#chapterfour

The entire
The Hunted
fandom explodes the following Tuesday.

The day starts out pretty normal. After waking up around eleven thirtyish, I eat a delicious bowl of cereal and log into my email account. There’re a couple new book cover requests, and I feel the familiar tingling of excited anticipation creep inside my chest as I open each email. One in particular grabs my interest the most: a request to design the cover of a children’s book. I remember the first time I designed something out of my element, how excited I was back then, and excited I am now. I take my time responding to the authors, proud to have a career that continues to encourage my artistry.

Once my cereal bowl and spoon are thoroughly washed and drying in the dish rack, I work on a book cover that’s been plaguing me for a week straight. I’m putting on the finishing touches when Twitter explodes. Each ding of my cell causes my nose to twitch in irritation.

Finally, I finish the book cover and pick up my phone. Opening the Twitter app, I nearly drop the cell at the sight of Kendra Warren, Ayden Vaughn’s love interest on
The Hunted
and real life girlfriend, wrapped in the arms of someone who definitely
isn’t
Ayden Vaughn.

“OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod.”

Fingers shaking, I log into every social media account known to man and spend the next four hours scrolling through photo after grainy photo of Ayden’s cheating girlfriend locking lips with a co-star in the series, but not just any co-star—the girl who plays Ayden’s demon-hunting sister.

Everyone in the fandom is freaking out, and equally split down the middle. People take up for Kendra, claiming the photos are cleverly Photoshopped by jealous fans. The other half of the fandom are tying her to the stake and setting her poor body ablaze.

And me? All I feel is pity for Ayden, especially when I notice a new photograph of him being passed around on Facebook. In the photo he’s ducking into his car. Pure sadness and humiliation color his features. Real tears spring to my eyes. I close the laptop with a click and draw in a shaky breath.

Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I concern myself with the affairs of a man I’ve never even met?

The real reason haunts me, teasing me in the recesses of my mind. Ayden is safe because he isn’t real. Not in the sense that I can ever have him. I can fantasize about him, make GIFs of his smoldering smile, create works of art using his angelic face on a million different banners, and he’ll never hurt me. I’ll never disappoint him. Because he can never be mine.

You’re making it difficult for someone else to live up to your expectations. Someone like Eight.

Scoffing at the thought, I pick up my phone and contemplate my daily Ayden Tweet before tapping the screen and hitting the blue button.

@therealAydenVaughn a broken heart is like a battle wound. sometimes it leaves a scar. But luv is worth the fight. #superfan

Feeling like a hypocrite for giving love advice, I drop the phone on my lap and sigh. When it dings again, I pick it up, emotionally exhausted for a moment until I read the alert on the lit screen.

@therealAydenVaughn is now following you on Twitter!

The phone falls from my hand in slow motion, thankfully landing on my lap instead of the hard floor. Scrambling to pick it up, I nearly drop it again when it dings with another alert.

@therealAydenVaughn liked one of your Tweets!

Ayden Vaughn.
The
Ayden Vaughn, star of
The Hunted
and frequent participator in my dirtiest of dreams, is not only following me, but he liked my melodramatic Tweet. This has to be a mistake. With a quivering finger, I search through his photos, my heart palpitating over the ones of Ayden grinning for the camera, glaring at the ones with Kendra seductively priming for the photographer.

No one involved in the creative process of
The Hunted
has ever followed me. I’m lucky to get a Retweet from an extra on the series. I take a screenshot of the Ayden follow and think about sharing it with my fandom friends for about thirty seconds before deciding against it. This feels special, like something sacred. The main character in the world in which I wish I lived is following me. Me, Alexa Hannah, a nobody in his life.

A knock on the door draws me from my thoughts. My pulse quickens, thoughts of Eight dancing inside my head. I haven’t seen him at all the past few days, and not because I’m avoiding him like I’d originally planned. Sure, that soda-stained piece of paper is taped to my apartment door, reminding me of his existence every time I step into the room, but I’ve done nothing to keep him out of my life. In fact, I’ve found myself going out of my way to bump into my new neighbor. I’m taking the trash out more often, buying more groceries than normal. I’ve even taken to walking Cally in the evenings. Yes, walking a cat. With a leash. It’s as difficult as one can imagine.

Having Eight living across the hall is messing with my head.

I glance through the peephole and yup, it’s him. He’s standing in the hallway, eyes wild, clothes rumpled, hair in disarray. I open the door just a crack because I’m still wearing my pajamas, which aren’t pajamas at all—just a threadbare white tee and a silky pair of sleep pants that were too large for Madi so she handed them down to me. Eight saw me in my sleepwear before, on the day he came over and made his list, but the ladies weren’t on full display that day, and today they’re poking out ready to play.

“Hey.” He leans forward, sort of forcing me to open the door a bit wider. His eyes scorch a trail of fire down the length of my body.

Feeling like a porny freak, I cover my boobs with one arm, my bottom lip neatly tucked between my teeth and my cheeks pinker than a baby’s behind.

“You need something?” There’s a bite to my voice, but damn. I don’t like the way I feel when my defenses are down. Seems like that’s the only way I feel when I’m around him.

Eight pries his eyes from my chest. “Yeah, I hate asking, but do you mind keeping an eye on the place for a couple of days?” Eight jerks his head in the direction of his apartment. “Water my plants? Make sure no creepy hot girls with
The Hunted
obsessions are lurking around my door?”

“Hey, don’t poke fun of the girl whose help you need.” I bite the inside corner of my mouth, wanting to ask him where he’s going for the next couple days but knowing it’s none of my business. “Give me your key and I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thanks.” Eight digs around in his pocket and pulls out a keychain. He removes one single key from the loop and drops it on the palm of my hand. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a few days.”

“Maybe you should give me your number. Just in case.”

Just in case what, I don’t know. In case I forget to water his plants, they wither away, and die? Whatever the reason, I’ve got a good excuse to have his number in my phone. He pulls out his cell, punching in my number as I recite it. My phone dings with a text in the other room.

“Text me whenever you need me, about the apartment or anything else,” Eight says.

He looks like he wants to say something else but changes his mind. Hands deep in his pockets, he heads down the hallway. Once he reaches the stairwell, he turns and gives me that half-smile, then hustles down the stairs and out of my sight. And then I do what any other girl would do in my situation.

I call my best friend over to help me rifle through Eight’s apartment.

***

Madi arrives half an hour later, bringing in the winter cool with her. She blows in her cupped hands, warming her face and fingers. Shuddering, she stands beside me as I fumble with the key in one shaky hand, tapping at my phone with the other.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Tweeting Ayden Vaughn. Harassing hot celebrities always helps calm my nerves.”

Hey, @therealAydenVaughn, since ur living/filming in GA, u hppn 2 know much about GA law? B&E in particular? Asking 4 a friend. #superfan

“Why are you so nervous?” she asks.

“Because what if he comes back while we’re still in the apartment?” The key misses once. Twice.

Madi takes the key from my hand and inserts it into the lock. “You’re supposed to water his plants, right? So you’re watering his plants. And you just so happen to have company. No big deal.”

The door opens and Madi takes a confident step inside. My head goes in first, and I peek around the room. Looking for what? I’m not sure. Something to jump out and scream “boo” I guess, or maybe pots of marijuana growing around the room. Does marijuana grow in pots? Pot in pots. I snort at the idea.

Madi looks at me over one shoulder, raising a questioning eyebrow. I shrug and follow her into the room. Landing with my back against the door, I twist the lock and scope out the scene. Aside from his workout equipment and a few unopened boxes, there’s not really too much else that stands out.

“Guy’s got money, huh?” Madi runs a manicured nail along the back of Eight’s sofa. “This isn’t any ordinary sofa. This is Italian leather. Look at this tufting.” She presses the palm of her hand against the sofa and gasps. “Down feathers inside.”

“You can tell all that just by touching the sofa? Looks like an ugly-ass sofa to me. Something you’d get at Good Samaritan or something.”

Madi shoots me a pointed look. “Goodwill. It’s
Goodwill
, for heaven’s sake. And don’t question me. I didn’t slave away in design school all those years for naught.”

“You sure it’s Goodwill and not Good Samaritan?” I tap my chin in thought. “Sorry, I underestimated your ability to tell Italian leather from pleather.”

“Honey, I can smell it.” Madi touches her nose like we’re playing charades. “Know what else I smell?”

“Weed?” I guess. “You know my theory about him being a drug dealer.”

“No, not weed, dumbass.” Madi huffs. “Rosemary, sweet basil.” She sniffs the air, wafting her hands about. “And a pepperminty-orange smell.”

“Jesus, my sinuses must be clogged. You smell all that?”

Madi stares me down for a second before tinkering around the room. She picks up a glass object from the coffee table and brings it to her nose. After taking in a deep breath, she smiles. Face lighting up, she gestures me to join her.

“Is that a one hitter? A crack pipe? Told you he sells drugs.”

“It's an oil diffuser.” She rolls her eyes.

I tentatively take a whiff. “Rosemary and oranges. Is there some sort of hidden meaning to this scent? I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Sighing, Madi returns the oil diffuser to the table. “Rosemary, oranges, sweet basil. They all help inspire the creative process. Whatever Eight does for a living must require thought and creative inspiration.”

Not sure where she’s going with this. “Doesn’t every career require thought and creative inspiration?”

Madi glares. “Does flipping half-frozen burgers at Atlanta Burger require much thought?”

I throw up my hands. “Jeez, calm your tits. Okay, so he’s a daydreamer and a nighttime thinker who also happens to have an affinity for fine Italian leather. Anything else, Nancy Drew?”

“This apartment is exceptionally clean.” Madi runs her finger over the sill of a nearby window. The tip of her finger is spotless. “Almost OCD clean even.”

“Now you’re not only a detective, you’re a mental health professional?”

“Hey, I took a psych class my first year of college.”

I wear down my thumbnail between my teeth. “So did I, and look at me now. I’m a certified nutjob. Snooping around inside people’s apartments and shit because I’m too dumb to just ask him outright why he’s so secretive.”

Madi crosses the room and opens the super-large silver fridge. “Oh my God.”

Pulse quickening, I skip across the room and into the kitchen to peer over her shoulder. “What?”

Madi slams the door before I can sneak a glance. “He’s a freaking vegetarian. Ugh, red flag. Abort mission, abort mission.”

My best friend skirts around me with her nose curled up and heads toward the door. I grab her hand before she can turn the lock, swinging her around to face me.

“You’re okay with the fact that he’s possibly an OCD drug dealer, but you look down your nose at his heart-healthy lifestyle?”

“Girl, please. I can’t fool with a guy who doesn't eat meat.” Madi wrenches her hand from mine. “No tailgating parties during the Super Bowl? No Friday night BYOBs while the steaks are sizzling on the grill? That’s not a life partner I’d choose for myself, and if you’re smart, you’d do the same.”

“Unbelievable.” I palm my face. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t care about tailgating or grilling steaks. Hell, I barely leave my apartment.”

“And you know what? I let that shit slide.” Madi gnaws her bottom lip, and experience says she’s contemplating her next words. “What happened to you, Alex?”

“Huh?” I drop her hand and cross my arms over my chest. “What do you mean?”

“We had so much fun back in the day.” Sighing, she leans against the closed door. “Beer pong and keg parties on Friday and Saturday nights, cramming for tests in between. We went to art galleries, went bowling. You were as comfortable eating a hot dog from a street vendor as you were ordering from an expensive restaurant. You were flirty and fun. You hit on guys. Guys hit on you. You lived in the moment. What changed?”