CHAPTER 1
JACOB
Iam not a morning person. I have never been a morning person. I have lived the kind of life that has allowed me to get up whenever I damn well please, work all day at home, and only see people when I want to, on my terms.
That last part isn’t true. I wish it were, but it’s not.
The unfortunate fact is, I’m LA’s hottest billionaire, and the blogs reporting that don’t mean ‘hottest’ like ’most successful’. And because they all think I’m some sort of dream guy, they believe my time, my body is theirs to look at whenever they want.
It’s exhausting.
And that’s why I go through the misery of waking up at 5:30 a.m. just for the pleasure of going for a run. People have advised me that if I don’t want strangers to watch me running, I should use the private gym in my home and run on the treadmill, but it’s not the same. I like the fresh air, the ocean view.
I want to live my life without having to become a total recluse.
With a yawn, I drag myself to the front door and slide my running shoes on. I don’t want to be awake, but I have no choice if I want to run. Slowly, I rise to my feet, stretching my fingers all the way up to the ceiling, trying to will some sense of being awake into my body.
Then I grab my face scarf and wrap it tightly around my mouth and nose, completing the look with huge dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. I know this looks utterly stupid, but it’s the only hope I have to not get recognized. Even with all this, I still get stopped more often than not.
Maybe I stick out looking like this. After all, it is already a gorgeous summer’s day here in the city, and I’m wearing a scarf.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Why can’t people mind their own business?
It doesn’t matter how much I move, which back streets I go down, whether I use a private beach or a public one, whether I use a cab or public transit or a driver — people always recognize me, and stalker journalists always find out where I live. In my dreams, I live in the middle of nowhere, a forest or a desert maybe. Just somewhere that I can look out my window and not see another soul for miles.
Somewhere where no one cares who I am. Maybe I’m destined to be a hermit. That, or maybe I should move continents.
I don’t exactly want to leave what little life I have here, though. Moving halfway around the world is for people braver than me.
Carefully and quietly, almost like I’m afraid someone is going to overhear, I step through the door and pull it closed behind me, waiting to hear the electronic whir of the lock. To be safe, I rattle the handle. Only when I’m satisfied that my space is secure do Ishove my earbuds in my ears, start blasting something upbeat, and turn to leave my luxury apartment complex.
I always slip out through the back elevator, despite the way it creaks, and the fact that it deposits me by the back door in the alley where the trash lives.
It seems appropriate, somehow, that I get dumped out here. Appropriate and a little ironic.
It’s times like this when I wish more than ever that I was just a normal person.
I take a breath, stretch side to side, then jog off into the morning sun. Dawn in the city is always the most beautiful time. I might not be a morning person, but even I can appreciate the way the sun, low in the sky, looks utterly stunning as it sparkles across the waves, and the way its orange rays catch on the glass of the tall buildings. I love the way the shadows start to shrink around me.
It’s warm, despite being early and breathing into my scarf is already becoming uncomfortable. It’s a test of endurance. That’s how I have to see it. It’s all about how you frame these things in your mind. If you start thinking that something is too hard, it will be.
That’s why I keep succeeding. Because I know I can.
That, and being the son of two of the wealthiest people in town. I can’t pretend that my family hasn’t helped me get where I am. Inheriting a giant tech business from my father has given me one hell of a boost. I’m thankful for it. Most people don’t get this kind of opportunity, so I’m not going to waste it. I have a chance to be rich and successful. Why wouldn’t I take it?
Unfortunately, I do have an answer to that question: because it’s way too much effort to deal with normal people who think they’re entitled to something.
Normal people are fine. Mostly. I don’t understand why they feel the need to stop you every four seconds just because they recognize you. I don’t understand why, just because I’m a little bit famous, it means everyone’s got a right to me.
I don’t exactly have loads of friends, but if I did, I know what they would say. Stop complaining. You’ve got it so good. You should be grateful that a few people want to say hello to you in exchange for everything you’ve ever wanted.
I know all that. I am grateful — sixty percent of the time. It’s the other forty that I can’t stop fantasizing about running away.
I head for the beach. I don’t like running on the sand, but I do love the sound of my feet thumping against the boardwalk. It’s silent out here. Well, aside from the rush of traffic murmuring in the background and the soft rhythm of the waves against the shore.
These are the sounds of the city I love. These brief moments when I can imagine that no one else is here, yet life is happening all around me. Still and calm and alive.
There are some other early birds out running. We nod at each other in acknowledgment as we pass, and I hold my breath each time, bracing myself for someone to go, “Oh, my God, it’s Jacob!”
