Page 3 of Wild Stars

“Fucking Jinger,” he growls as he nudges me in my stomach.“Get up,” he orders, and every bone in my body feels like it turns to mush.

I look up at him, his dark hair hanging in his steely gray-blue eyes.He looks like a fucking demon.

A demon with immaculately defined biceps that sports constellation tattoos that make the veins in his arms stand out all the more.

I grew up with this guy’s posters on my wall...

Fuuuck he’s so much hotter in person.

“Soft...”I murmur as I rub my face in the damn carpet, and then I feel it.

The distinct impulse.

Before I can even grasp what’s happening, strong arms pick me up.My legs wobble as an arm settles around my waist—which definitely isn’t as trim as Matty’s.His fingers sink into my squishy flesh beneath my shirt, and he pushes me forward.

“Move your fucking legs, Dare.Christ.”

Matty’s voice is deep and sexy.

Like Batman.

I don’t know what he’s going on about.I can’t even feel my fucking legs, but what I can feel is the onset of a heave coming, and the sweats.

Fuck.

My entire body collapses on the ground and Matty curses behind me.

I wretch uncontrollably into a trash can thrust into my face.My vision blurs as I vomit my entire night up.

I fall back when I’m done, on a cold, hard floor.I notice it is no longer carpet, but tile.White, pristine, marble.

I groan as I stare at the ceiling, at the bright white light, catching my breath.

Matty’s dark voice cursing me is the last thing I hear.

CHAPTER2

Mateo

Press isthe bane of my existence, but then again, I might be salty because I’ve been fielding it for the last year since my break up with my ex, Edward Haverish.Who just so happens to be Hollywood’s favorite actor at the moment.

Not that Edward doesn’t deserve his successes, but his rising stardom only sours my fucking life.

Seriously, every interview I manage to do, they find some way to bring up the fact Edward is starring in some fucking movie or has been photographed with some fucking guy who’s got two dicks and a front-row seat to Paris Fashion Week or some shit, all the while smugly waiting for me to crumble into a million pieces.

Fucking idiots.

But even I know how to turn on my charm and stare those fuckers in the face and tell Edward and everyone else about my epic tour and my recent cover with Rolling Stone, or my current number one hit,Satellites,which is well on its way to holding its number one spot for the fifth week in a row!After a hiatus of five fucking years!

But no one will even remember my accomplishments carefully pinpointed at tonight’s press junket, because Dare fucking Wylde had to have a damn stroke while trying to give a semblance of an interview, and then go on to live out hisCoyote Uglydreams in Luciano Sylvestro’s kitchen like this event was nothing more than a damn kegger in the woods.

And now he’s upchucking his insides violently, and I am more than annoyed.

I am pissed.

I had retired to Luciano’s observatory to getawayfrom the drudgery of dumbass reporters who want to shove my ex’s latest gold star down my throat, so I could drink and wallow in solitude and do the one thing that makes me feel less alone.

Stargaze.

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