Page 146 of Reckless Hearts
Instead, he pulls me in for a quick hug. “Thanks for everything, man,” he says.
“Take care,” I reply. “I’m rooting for you guys.”
“Thanks.”
I open the door to Marcus’s car. As I slide in, I catch Jamie’s eyes widening in recognition as he spots Marcus. Shock overtakes his face. I guess he didn’t expect my pickup to be a Hollywood superstar.
“Everything okay?” Marcus asks, his eyes flicking between me and the road.
“Yeah,” I say.
“How was your catch-up?” he asks.
“It was good.” I don’t have the emotional energy to share Tim and Jamie’s story with Marcus right now.
Marcus smiles his charming smile, and I know it’s the fake one he gives everyone else. He usually doesn’t give it to me though.
“So, I thought we could go on a date,” he says.
I try to pump some enthusiasm into my voice. “Sure. Sounds good.”
Marcus drives us to a swanky rooftop bar in the heart of London. As we approach the entrance, I notice the long queue snaking around the block.
Awesome. The British do seem to love their queuing.
But I’ve forgotten I’m with a Hollywood movie star.
Marcus just strolls past everyone.
“Mr. Johnson,” the bouncer says, immediately unclipping the velvet rope, his eyes barely registering my existence.
Inside, crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the well-dressed patrons, and floor-to-ceiling windows offer abreathtaking view of the city skyline. I feel woefully underdressed in my casual clothes.
We’re barely seated at one of the VIP tables when a server appears, offering us a bottle of champagne compliments of the house. Marcus accepts with practiced grace while I fumble with the delicate flute.
As I take my first sip, I’m suddenly aware of the whispers of Marcus’s name around us, everyone craning their necks to catch a glimpse of him.
A glamorous blonde from the next table saunters over, her smile dazzling.
“I loved you inMidnight in Monaco,” she gushes. “Would you mind if we got a selfie?”
Marcus obliges, flashing his megawatt smile as the women crowd around him for selfies. I sit there, feeling as if I’ve faded into the plush upholstery of our booth.
Marcus Johnson.
Marcus.
Marcus.
The whispers seem to be coming from the walls.
Everyone wants a piece of him.
I sip my champagne, watching Marcus as he heads to the restroom. He’s stopped every few feet by fans, and it seems like every gesture and laugh is perfectly calibrated for maximum effect. He’s in fairy-tern mode again, camouflaging with the rest of the beautiful and charming people, never revealing his true self.
I understand why he’s so good at this—he’s been performing for so long. Each perfect smile, each charming response is armor he forged in childhood, protecting himself from anyone getting close enough to see his pain.
It’s been so long since Marcus and I started. For almost all of my adult life, I’ve been hung up on the most beautiful man in existence.
