"No, actually. Why?"
"Because it's almost midnight, you asshole," my publicist growls. "What did you do and what do you want?"
"My bad," I mutter, not really meaning it. The man is the biggest pain in my ass to ever exist. I also pay him a small fortune. So what if he's losing an hour of precious beauty sleep? It's not like I ever ask him for anything. "I need a favor."
"Heard you the first time," he sighs. "What is it?"
"I need a ticket to Evie Alexander's show tomorrow. As close as you can get me to the stage. It's sold out." I've already scoured every resale site out there. There's nothing. At least, nothing that isn't in the nosebleeds. I want her to see me from the stage and know that I'm there for her. I want her to know that I meant it when I said that I'm not going anywhere.
She's mine. Sooner or later, she's going to accept it, too. The fact that she messaged me tonight tells me that she's close. She just needs a little push.
Davis is dead silent.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard you," he mutters. "I'm just trying to decide if I want to help you or not."
"Why the fuck wouldn't you help me? You know people. If anyone can find a ticket, you can," I remind him. "And I pay you a helluva lot of money."
"That, you do. But you aren't Kasen Alexander, either."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the whole world watched his daughter step over your dumbass on live television. And if you're begging for a ticket, it's because she didn't invite you as a guest, which means she doesn't want you at the show. Which means you're creeping toward stalking territory, and I'm not sure I want to be themotherfucker aiding and abetting this shit when we're talking about Kasen Alexander's daughter," he says. "The man will murder us both, Kingston."
"I'm not stalking her. We're talking."
"Define talking," he growls.
"Well, Davis, it's when two people exchange dialogue," I say, grinning as I settle back against the headboard. "I say things, she responds, and vice versa."
"And are any of the things she says, 'Stop talking to me, you weirdo?'"
"Not yet."
"Do they involve threats of protection orders?"
"No?"
"Your tone instills so much confidence," he says, deadpan. "Fine, I'll find you a ticket. But if you manage to piss Kasen off, I'm firing you as a client, denying involvement, and writing a statement about how you've always been unhinged and in need of copious amounts of therapy."
"Man, fuck you," I say, laughing despite myself. Why are all my friends assholes? Clearly, I need more supportive friends.
"Just do not make more work for me, you prick. I'm still dodging calls about the shit you pulled at the game."
"Tell them we're getting married," I say, shrugging.
He laughs abruptly. "You've lost it, brother."
He isn't wrong. I have lost it. I'm also not kidding. I'm marrying Evie Alexander. I refuse to accept anything less than that outcome. It's simply not an option. And I'm willing to be as unhinged as necessary to prove to her that I'm her future.
We both know that's what she really needs from me—not for me to back off or act like I'm fucking normal or cool or whatever, but for me to go all in and prove that there's nothing I won't do for her. I'm guessing no one has ever done that. They were all too goddamn busy chasing her star to seeher.
I see her, though. Underneath all that sarcasm, she wants to be loved. She wants it so fucking badly. She's just afraid to let herself trust that it might be real.
This is, though. So fucking real.
Chapter Five