Page 3 of Anyone But the Superstar

Seemingly recovered, Thomas clears his throat. ‘I also called to remind you of your niece’s birthday next month.’

My smile turns wistful at the thought of Mary, my brother and Alice’s adopted daughter. Unlike me as a child, Mary adoreseverything princess and spends most of her time wearing the poofy-style dresses I dreaded having to wear as part of New York City’s social elite. To this day, ruffles give me chills, reminding me of the awkward family photoshoot sessions before gala events. Flashes of light from newspaper camera men, my ‘father’s’ jovial laugh at being called a family man, before I was whisked away by whatever nanny or event caretaker on staff to a playroom that was more like a mausoleum where I and the rest of the elite’s children would have to sit quietly until it was time for an exit photo op.

Shaking away the memory, I replace it with the video Alice sent me of Mary practicing her curtsies in a dress with at least three puffy petticoats, King Dick Moore clutched in her skinny arms. ‘I won’t forget.’

‘And Chase wants you to know that Michael enjoyed the catnip-stuffed crocheted dildo you sent him.’ Thomas snorts. ‘He says he’ll make sure to pay you back at some point in the future.’

I chuckle at the thought of my second eldest brother’s hairless cat humping the one-of-a-kind cat toy I had made for him. Chase found out the hard way what catnip did to the neutered but still frisky Mike Hunt during his destination wedding trip to Vegas.

It isn’t until Thomas and I say goodbye and I re-pocket my phone that I realize he never asked me where I was. Something Thomasalwaysdoes.

I drum my fingertips on the bar.

Maybe Alice made him promise not to. Maybe he’s given up trying to corral me home. Or maybe he already knows.

I frown at my warped reflection on the high polished countertop before laughing that last thought off.

There’s no way he knows I’m in Texas.Ididn’t even know I was heading to Houston until last week when my former digitalarts professor offered me an internship as his assistant while he worked as a storyboarder on a big-budgeted movie. I’d been all set to say no, having no clue what a storyboarder even was, until he mentioned I’d be working on site at NASA.

The bartender sets the water I ordered in front of me.

I know it’s air-conditioned in here – thank God – but it’s crowded and he’s busy. And yet, even with a heavy beard and a thick, shaggy mop of hair, there isn’t so much as a glisten of sweat on his brow. And he’s wearing asweatshirt.

Texans are nuts.

‘Thanks.’ I chug my water, eyeing the second bartender who’s standing at the far end who also has a beard and a long-sleeve t-shirt with the pub’s bulldog logo. Shaking my head, I lower my near-empty glass.

Who sports a beard in southeast Texas, which would be better described as the Devil’s Taint?

‘Devil’s Taint?’

I jump in my seat, surprised that one, I said that last bit out loud, and two, the guy next to me heard it. Wiping an escaped water drop from the corner of my mouth with my hand, I turn to apologize, pausing when I realize this guy also has a beard.

Welp. This is awkward.

Felix

The hilariously vulgar-mouthed woman next to me sputters before turning pretty blue eyes my way. Eyes that widen as she looks at my face.

Merda. I had to open my mouth, didn’t I? And not even a minute after Jack specifically told me to keep to my corner andstay quiet before he left,despitehis parting gift of condoms that he found hilarious due to my recently self-declared celibacy.

If this woman recognizes me, I’m done for. I glance nervously around the bar, worried I’ve garnered too much attention just by looking somewhere else besides the lacquered wood bar that I’ve been hunched over for the last hour. I got too comfortable enjoying blissful anonymity. The papers don’t think I’m arriving until on-set filming starts next week, and with the bearded, unkept look I’ve adopted since I started laying low in between studio shooting and location shooting, I planned to have one more night of normalcy before filming at NASA begins.

What I hadn’t planned on was a hot – in both senses of the word – blonde woman making a weird connection between facial hair and Satan’s small strip of skin residing between his testicles and asshole. Which cameafterher comment about a picture of someone’s hairy pussy.

At this point, whowouldn’tbe intrigued?

‘Ah, sorry about that.’ She pulls at the front of her sweat-stained shirt and grimaces. ‘I just don’t get how Texans can stand this heat.’ She waves a hand in my direction. ‘Your, ah, beard looks great.’

Relieved at her mistaking me for a local, I can laugh at her blatant lie as I run a palm over the alternating patches of straight and kinked hair covering the lower half of my face.

I’ve played plenty of survivalist characters in my rise as the summer blockbuster action star, including the lead in a plane crash survival movie shot in the wilds of Canada. Each time, I was told by the film’s stylist to grow out a beard, and each time, the facial hair was immediately nixed when I showed up on set looking like I had mange.

The bartender sets another glass in front of the woman beside me, this one full of cider.

‘Thanks.’ She points to the half-full pint in front of me. ‘And whatever he’s having. My tab.’

‘Not necessary.’ My glass is still cold against my palm. ‘But thank you.’ I promised Jack that the beer in front of me would be my last before I called the chauffeur for a ride to the hotel downtown.

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