Page 35 of King of Hollywood

“But at least we were pariahs together,” Felix murmured, his voice buzzing my fingertips.

I knew I should let him go, but I didn’t.

“That is better, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Felix agreed. I jerked, surprised when I felt his chilly fingers curling in the hem of my shirt. A beat passed. A beautiful moment where suddenly the stars were close, and the forest was friendly. The cicadas continued to chirp. The rain that pattered on the windows was muffled through the glass.

Heat simmered between us.

“Allen says that cheeseburgers are not a proper way to comfort someone,” I blurted because I didn’t know what else to say.

I never want this moment to end.

“Does he?” Felix murmured back, his lips nearly brushing my palm. God, he looked delicious pressed against the leather seats of my Mercedes, like he belonged in luxury. Like a king. Regal.

“He says that you could’ve been lying when you said you were fine earlier.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So…” I felt like a jerky, awkward teen again. “Were you?”

“Was I lying?”

“Yes.”

I hadn’t realized how much his answer meant to me till I watched his brow furrow—and his lips twist. “No, Marshall.” Relieved, I couldn’t stop my grin. “That would be idiotic.” Felix laughed.

I wanted to taste that laugh.

Christ.

He was heavenly.

“That’s what I said!” I chuckled, releasing him, my palm tingling where his lips had brushed it. I settled back into my seat, pulling us back out onto the road from where we’d been hidden in the trees. My thoughts were, however, not on the road. Not on the stars above. Not on the body I’d left behind with Allen.

No.

All I seemed able to think about was Felix’s lips, and what they might feel like—not against my palm—but pressed to my own.

I carried that thought with me all the way home.

Chapter eight

Ithought I wouldn’t see Felix again until our date. I was wrong. Very wrong. Because Thursday night, he came to my rescue once again, my tiny Prince Charming. Not that I necessarily needed rescuing, as I probably could’ve saved myself quite easily.

But still.

I was detailing my car while parked in the driveway, bent over the front seat, vacuuming my cup holders when the anti-Christ himself decided to appear. The sun was setting, dipping behind the trees—which was why I felt the pressure to finish up before night truly fell.

What if Felix murdered another guest tonight? Or! Wanted to visit me? I couldn’t be busy if that happened.

“Marshall Warden,” Barry (the ballsack) addressed me.

I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Because I hated it more than I hated picnics and pop music combined. And that was saying a lot. It was grating and simultaneously too high and too low—and Barry always sounded like he was trying to speak two octaves lower than his natural voice, because he hoped it would make him sexy.

It did not.

It made him sound like a buffoon.

“Barry.” I didn’t use his last name. I didn’t know it. I’d made a point not to know it. Out of rebellion. And every time someone said it—I mentally plugged my ears and sang La La La. Not knowing Barry’s last name gave me the opportunity to give him new and more accurate names every time I thought of him.

“Are you going to the carnival?” Barry asked, without so much as a “how do you do.” My mother would’ve found him repugnant. I knew that for a goddamn fact.