Close Read online

  I’m silent for a second, replaying what I’ve just said in my head. It was a lot. “It sounds stupid, I know. Forget it.”

  “I’m not forgetting anything. I think I get you. It’s the same way a vinyl recording has so much more magic than a single downloaded from iTunes. There’s a history there you can’t feel through digital.”

  “Yes! You get me. It’s just like that. There’s a novelty to it.” Why am I so thrilled? We don’t have to understand each other to get each other off. In fact, it would be preferable if we didn’t do as much of the understanding as the getting-off part.

  Still, I can’t ignore the leap in my chest at his words. Rowan and Hadley are dolls, but they think I’m being an old fuddy-duddy half the time when I say things like this. So I’m grateful, whatever that means, that I do.

  “But why couldn’t you just . . . go to the library, then? It can’t be any different than being spotted in a grocery store. Easier, maybe. Because you know you’re both readers. In the grocery, it’s like—everyone has to eat, so . . .” he trails off, but his point is fair.

  I sigh and bend my knees so my feet are flat against the wall now. “Yeah. Maybe. But libraries are hushed places. They require reverence. There’s absolutely no reverence once fans are climbing over each other to say hi or catch a quick photo. And forget about me getting any hush time. You can’t browse staff picks when six people are following you, tweeting to TMI the whole time. You know how fans are.”

  “I suppose I can see your point.” I hear a creak and imagine him stretching out on the king-size bed in his hotel suite. I briefly wonder if he’s naked. I really, really like the way he looks, and I like to imagine it even if I may not get to see it again. Now I’m imagining him naked covered with stacks of new, fresh-smelling books.

  But then he says something awful. “My family was never big on libraries. I guess I’d say that I’m kind of out of my element on the subject.”

  It’s the only unsexy thing he’s ever said.

  Part of me can’t believe I’m spending any of my time talking to someone who doesn’t know about libraries. Another part of me can’t believe I’m telling my innermost thoughts to someone who is only supposed to be showing me a good time in the sack.

  Another tiny part of me wants to fix that, to change it. I tell that part to quiet down.

  “Don’t tell me—you’re not a reader. I should have known.” I sound snobby, and maybe that’s not fair because the guy is only twenty-three years old. But even at twenty-three, I was devouring everything I could get my hands on. Maybe especially at twenty-three, because after even a small amount of fame, I had already realized I was no longer my own narrator.

  “Um, yeah, I’m a reader, thank you very much, Ms. Judgey. Maybe I don’t read the books you read, but my iBooks app is filled.” His voice is just as snobby as mine was two seconds ago, which makes me burst out laughing.

  He’s so proud and boisterous, and I’m not even sure I believe him, but his defensiveness is sort of charming. “Okay then,” I say, stifling another giggle, “what is the type of book you read, Mr. Ryder?” I’m already picturing it—shoot-em-up spy novels, or quick-paced thrillers. Airport books. Something by Clancy, or Patterson, or Dan Brown. Steve Berry adventures. Or, possibly, he’s got a hidden nerdy side and his bookshelf is lined with high fantasy ala Brandon Sanderson.

  Actually, I kind of like the idea of Nick believing in dragons. It makes the impossibility of our affair seem less crazy.

  But he surprises me. “Biographies. I love a good biography.”

  I raise my hand over my head stretching. “Like . . . musicians’ biographies? I read one on Janis Joplin one time. She was a hell of a woman.”

  “I read one on her, too. It’s the kind of cautionary tale every young musician should read. Fame doesn’t fix you, you know? But I like everyone’s biographies. Politicians, pop stars, presidents, popes. I love them all. There’s a glut of different people who have lived on this planet, and I’m greedy to know about every single one of them. There’s never been a person I’m not fascinated by.”

  I immediately feel guilty for judging. Fame doesn’t fix you. It’s a line I’ve actually said to Hadley in our private coaching sessions. Sometimes I wonder if I don’t give Nick Ryder enough credit.

  But rather than dwell on my false perceptions, I’m eager to throw the spotlight back on him. Eager to find out what other surprises live inside this man—boy. He’s fascinating, I’ll give him that. It’s still hard to think of him like someone I’d spend real time with.

  That small voice in my head pipes up. Aren’t you spending time together right now? I shake it off, because no. I’m not spending time with him. I’m killing time. Totally different.

  “And what would you do if you weren’t a celebrity?” I deflect.

  He doesn’t even have to think about it. “I’d travel.”

  I frown incredulously. “But you travel all the time. You tour at least once a year. You’ve been to more cities in the US than I can even name. And that’s just domestic travel.”

  “That’s not traveling,” he groans. “That’s touring. All these places I go, and not only am I barely in them in the daylight, but I’m barely in them and not on a stage. Like, I’m in Boston right now. I’ve played Boston a dozen times. I know the airport like the back of my hand, but I’ve never once been on a sightseeing tour. Is Harvard here? Was Paul Revere? The Cheers bar? I only know because the airport says so.”

  “That’s really sad.” I sit up and twist, turning around, then lean back against the headboard. “It’s ridiculously sad, actually. There has to be a solution to this. Like, you could hire a private tour guide. I know you have some days off on your schedule. Set up something for your next big city in advance.” I’m so proud of my idea that my voice speeds up in excitement.

  “And sightsee all by myself? That sounds a little lame. And Nat, I’m not lame. Uncultured maybe. But lame?”

  I laugh. He’s so not lame. I’ll forgive him on the libraries. “Won’t any of your band members go with you?”

  “I doubt it. Besides, we get enough of each other on stage. And at rehearsal. And on planes and busses. And when we’re stealing each other’s desserts.” He’s quiet for a second, thinking. “I guess the private one-on-one tour with a guide wouldn’t be so bad. If the guide was good.”

  All of a sudden I’m picturing him alone with a beautiful, young female guide. Some outdoorsy type who never wears makeup and can start fires without a lighter. I feel irrationally jealous at the thought.

  “No, you were right the first time,” I say. “One-on-one would be a terrible idea.”

  I’m ridiculous, I know. Feeling jealous over a hypothetical situation and a boy I don’t even have claim to.

  Don’t want to have claim to, I remind myself.

  Something about all of it still annoys me, and I change the subject. “So you’re in Boston right now. Where are you headed next?”

  “New Jersey, then Philadelphia. Then I have a few days in the Big Apple.”

  I sit forward excitedly. “When are you in New York? I’m there this week for part of the press junket promotion circuit of my next film.”

  “Seriously?” Goosebumps run down my body when he sounds as elated by this news as I am. “I’m there Saturday to Tuesday. How about you?”

  I have three shows to film—one each Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, boom boom boom. But there’s no reason I can’t stay a few extra days, and no reason to tell Nick that I’d be changing my agenda to meet his. That part’s not important. Reminding myself physically why this is only physical is what’s important.

  “I’m there through Monday,” I tell him, deciding that staying through Tuesday with him is too obvious. “Do you want to . . .?” I fade off, not sure how to go about asking for a hookup.

  Hoping he wants one, too.

  “Fuck, yes, I want to,” he answers, even before I finish. “I’ll dump the tour bus and fly out on Friday so we can
have a free day together.”

  “Oh, man. Yes.” A whole free day in his bed. I’m totally about that.

  “I’m already rock-hard thinking about it. So be a good girl and slip your hands inside your panties, will you? So I can tell you all of the things I’m going to do to you when I see you on Friday.”

  Yes, I think as I do as he commands, this is what we’re supposed to be about.

  For the next ten minutes, I lose myself in dirty talk and orgasms, and convince myself the only reason I let him chat with me so long on the phone was for this, and not because I enjoyed what he had to say.

  Not because it was the first real conversation I’ve had with a man without paying hourly in years.

  I’m just killing time.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  “This is not what I meant when I said you should get a private tour guide,” I say, my arms crossed over my chest, as I survey the situation I currently find myself in.

  I’m standing on a downtown Manhattan helipad, sternly explaining why Nick cannot expect me to get on that helicopter behind him. It looks like a very noisy tin can. And as much as I like the idea of being snuggled up like sardines with Nick, I’d much prefer it be in a fluffy hotel bed.

  “Right,” he says. “Because I said one-on-one would be boring and sad, and you agreed. If you come with me, it won’t be one-on-one.”

  I’d said that when I thought his private guide might be a young, attractive Nick Ryder fan. Instead, our pilot seems to be pushing sixty, and though he might be attractive for those who are into men in the nearing-retirement sector, I’m not really worried that he’ll catch Nick’s eye.

  “This is also not what I thought you meant when you said you had a surprise,” I scowl. Thank God I threw on my flip-flops this morning instead of a pair of heels. This is not the sort of environment to be parading my best pair of Jimmy Choos.

  Or any pair, for that matter.

  “If you had known what I’d meant, it wouldn’t have been a surprise.” Nick’s easy tone melts me, as though he isn’t asking me to risk life and limb for a bird’s-eye view of the city. He tugs at my elbow until I drop my hands from their protective placement around my own chest, and then he tugs one arm toward him, turning it so my palm is facing up. He rubs gently along the inside of my wrist.

  “Come on, Nat, I’ve been looking forward to this since I booked it, which was about seven seconds after I got off the phone with you the night we talked about sightseeing.” I stare at his full lips, entranced with the way he says my name. Like it tastes as good as his kisses do. “So I’m going to get into this little helicopter, whether you’re with me or not. I’d really love it if you were with me. Looking down at everyone. Holding my hand. What if I get scared?”

  I laugh out loud at his reversal of the situation. I mean, I do like the idea of holding his hand right about now. Mine’s shaking a little.

  I look at our pilot, who’s standing politely nearby waiting for us to decide to get on board. He gives me a friendly nod, and I look back at Nick. “How do you know this guy isn’t going to go blab to some gossip magazine?”

  “I don’t. But no one will believe it without pictures, and I already made the guy give me his phone.” He pulls a cell phone that is way too big and clunky to be Nick’s out of his pocket to show me.

  He’s thought of everything.

  I have no other reason to refuse, and I don’t really want to. Traveling over Manhattan in a helicopter with Nick sounds incredibly . . . what? It sounds incredibly romantic, is what. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t do it. Why I’m really feeling scared.

  “This isn’t sex. I expect naked fun when I’m with you,” I say stubbornly.

  He laughs. “It’s not naked fun, you’re right. But it is fun. Come with me and find out.”

  With a reluctant sigh, I let him drag me toward the helicopter, and my stomach flutters when he helps me inside, all gentlemanlike. I settle in and buckle up, already more excited than I should be for this adventure.

  Feeling guilty for my excitement, I give Nick one more dig as he slides in next to me. “How do you know I don’t get motion sickness?”

  “I guess I don’t. But if you do, I’ll totally hold your hair back while you puke.” He grins and I have to look away because he has me grinning now too.

  For the record, I don’t get motion sickness, and the ride is fun. I’ve been to New York plenty of times. I’ve seen the sights. I’ve experienced the city. I thought I’d seen everything that I wanted to see, but not until I am weaving in and around skyscrapers in a flying machine with Nick Ryder, have I really seen the best views of Manhattan. It’s incredible! Times Square looks so small and Central Park looks so big, and my perspective has been flipped on its head.

  At the end of the trip, the pilot takes us around the Statue of Liberty, and here we are with her now, face to face, so close I can see every crack and blemish in her stone. Somehow it makes her more beautiful. Enough to make me wonder, just for a second, if it isn’t my viewpoint that’s wrong, and not my life.

  I like that idea.

  I lace my fingers through Nick’s and laugh giddily as we drop down quickly for a second loop around the statue.

  “Better than sex?” Nick asks with a wink.

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Especially not better than sex with Nick. “But you are right—this is really fun.”

  Mostly, I admit to myself, it’s fun because I’m with him. And whatever that might mean is scarier than dropping dramatically from the sky, so I don’t think about it. I put it out of my head in the same way I stopped myself from imagining how fragile this little metal bird is. The same way I put Natalia out of my head when I’m playing a character.

  Acting, it turns out, is great practice for living a double life.

  It’s early evening when we land, and I’m suddenly so glad that Nick flew into the city instead of riding with his band. It means he doesn’t have a show until tomorrow night, and I’ll have him all to myself in my bed. Another whole night of every naughty thing we can think of, or discover on Tumblr.

  But as eager as I am to get back to a room by ourselves, I’m also a little disappointed that our adventure has to end.

  Stop it, Nat. This isn’t about adventure. There isn’t an “our.”

  I need to get us back on track, back in the bedroom, before this starts to feel like a date. Before I start to feel period.

  “Your hotel or mine?” I ask, batting my eyelashes, reminding him about the naked fun we usually have. That no one can know we’re having. That we need to keep having, or else give up our time together.

  “No preference. Except we have a stop to make first, so hold your horses, will ya?”

  “Nick! I can’t go anywhere. I’m not dressed for anything.” I hadn’t been so concerned about it when I thought I was leaving my hotel to head to his. It’s one thing to look like an incognito bed-headed random girl running errands and taking flights so that I won’t be bothered. It’s quite another to look messy and sex-haired if there’s any chance at all someone might see me running errands with a much younger man.

  A famous younger man who draws his own crowd anywhere he goes.

  “You’re perfect the way you’re dressed now,” he insists, opening the door of his hired car for me to get in. “No one’s going to see you.”

  My cheeks heat when I realize that should have been my first argument—that I can’t go anywhere with him because of the chance of being seen. Very clearly, I’m anticipating it happening at some point—and what, planning my outfit? No. It’s already gone too far, if this is the case. I’m getting too comfortable with him. It’s making me forget the things I value—my career, my reputation. I have to get my head back in the game.

  I have to remember to forget how much I like him.

  So I’m quiet throughout our ride while I mentally try to distance myself from whatever this is that’s threatening to happen between us. I tell myself that
the dizzy exhilaration I felt on our helicopter ride was all from the crazy ride and none of it from the man sitting beside me. A lack of oxygen related to altitude, and not to kisses. I’ve nearly convinced myself when we pull up at our destination.

  Nearly.

  “We’re here,” Nick says, and I’m already shaking my head before we even get out of the car, because I recognize where here is, and there is no way I’m going inside.

  “I can’t go in there,” I protest.

  “It closed at five forty-five,” Nick says.

  Oh. Then we’re just going to stroll around the outside? I suppose that might be okay. It’s not a typical paparazzi hangout. Then again, getting too comfortable at any landmark isn’t going to be a good idea.

  But . . . of all the places in this massive, glorious city that he could have chosen, this one is completely irresistible to me. Even more so than his body entangling with mine. It’s perfectly selected Natalia-catnip. And I’m biting.

  I step out of the car and follow at Nick’s warm, muscled side as we climb up the stairs past the iconic lions perched there. I sigh, lingering, not ready for him to pull me along. If only I had my own set of personal mental lions to ward off all the concerns that intrude and threaten to destroy every pleasant moment I’m having with the man who’s warming every bed for me these days. The man who’s heating every thought.

  But then he’s leading me to the doors of the building—the building that’s supposed to be closed. At five forty-five, in fact. A professionally dressed middle-aged woman is waiting there, and when we approach her, she pulls out her keys and unlocks one of the doors, letting us into the main branch of the New York City Library.

  Here, Audrey Hepburn skipped around when she wasn’t at Tiffany’s.

  Here, Carrie Bradshaw ran away from the wrong wedding.

  Here, Jake Gylenhaal survived the end of the world.

  “I don’t understand . . .” I say, as Nick pushes me gently inside this titan of film and culture. Leaving aside all the movies and shows ever shot here, the legacy of the most beautiful library in the United States is so overwhelming my feet are almost stuck still.