Matt jolts his head back in shock as his eyes widen. “Where are you going then?”
As I pass the kitchen bar, I grab an apple and decide not to tell him, then turn around and walk out the door toward the garage. I slide into my car and turn on the Bluetooth hands-free navigation system. I speak the Hollywood Hills address into it, and it plots a navigation route for me to follow. I love that I can talk into it and it sets the course so easily, since obviously I can’t type it in. Technology like this makes it easy for me to live, and I’m grateful for that.
After a short drive, I pull up a steep embankment and go to a fenced-off area where a security team mans the fence. I raise my brows as they walk toward my car. Pressing the down button on my electric window, I wonder what the fuck’s going on.
A shaved-headed Jersey Shore-looking guy lifts his dark glasses to stare me down. “Are you the artist formerly known as Nate?”
I give a curt nod, then chuckle as the Jersey dude stands back up and gestures to his counterpart, who types something into the gate console, and both gates swing wide open.
This all seems so official, but then again, Zaria is a massive movie star, and I guess she needs this type of security around her. After all, she’s way more famous than I am.
Jersey waves me on, so I accelerate, kicking up some stones, and drive through the massive black wrought iron gates, continuing up the long drive. The driveway curves and is made up of what appears to be cream cobblestones, but right in the middle, toward the end, as I reach the mansion, is a gigantic Z in black script. It’s quite impressive, even if a bit over the top.
The driveway then curves around a massive fountain with a small green hedge, where I park. I’m pretty sure this fountain is probably bigger than my fucking bedroom, and my fucking bedroom is enormous. Shaking my head at the opulence, I get out of the car and walk up the marble staircase to the incredible white double doors.
“Fucking hell,” I murmur, taking in the expensive appeal of this mansion. It’s not like I can’t afford something like this. It’s just never occurred to me to even want this type of luxury. And let’s face it, this might actually cost me most of my savings.
I almost don’t want to step on anything, including the stairs, in case I fucking break them. There’s not one thing I’ve looked at that doesn’t appear like it could cost anything less than six figures. Apparently, by the looks of this shit, no expense was spared.
I gently rap my knuckles on the door, trying not to knock too hard. I don’t want to break that either. My heart races so fast that I feel a little lightheaded. Sure, I knew she was worth a lot of money, but knowing it and seeing it are two entirely different things.
I have a bucket load of money, but fuck, Zaria’s got to be worth billions.
The door swings open, and my eyes open so largely that I must look like a fucking idiot as she stands there wearing asee-through sarong and a white bikini underneath. It shows her perfectly toned body and leaves little to the imagination. My cock twitches in my shorts, and I have to think of toads and mud to try to stop myself from getting a full-on boner while checking her out.
“You never seen a girl in a white bikini before, Nate?”
I smirk. “Sure, but you rock it so much better than them.”
She steps aside for me to walk through. She’s holding a drink, and the first thing I notice is the glass has a straw, a colorful straw that is twisted in the shape of a love heart.
“You certainly love your straws!”
She swallows hard, then fakes a smile. “I’ve used them ever since I was a kid.”
Zaria turns and walks away, effectively ending the conversation.
Okay then!
I step through the door fully, close it behind me, and casually look around. The place is a letdown once you get inside. I was expecting it to be opulent and extravagant, but it’s basically pristine white furniture and marble floors. I mean, it’s nice, but it’s not the glamor Zaria portrays—the diva she depicts herself to be.
I can’t help but notice one piece of artwork on her wall—a movie poster featuring her, surrounded by a slew of awards. It takes a second to sink in, but then I realize—they’re her Oscar awards. I gasp slightly at the thought. In the poster, she looks incredible, every bit the glamorous A-list celebrity she is. I have to admit, I’m having a bit of a ‘fanboy’ moment, glancing around in awe.
Zaria laughs, shaking her head. “How can a rock star be awestruck? You’re famous, too?”
I scoff out a half-laugh. “Out of the four members of the band, I’m theleastfamous. I am the fricking drummer, after all.”
She furrows her brows and tilts her frame slightly. “Funny, out of all the guys, to me, you’re themostinteresting.”
Trying to hide my smile, I have to admit—I get a little buzz from hearing that. I’m not usually the one people find appealing, so the feeling catches me off-guard, but I kind of like it.
“Why me?”
She smirks. “Because you see me for me… therealme.”
“So the diva attitude is just an act?” I flash her my best rock star smile.
She nods, her expression softening. “I was born in Israel. My father was anAluf Mishnein the Army.” I furrow my brows, and she catches it. “Sorry… that’s a colonel. When he died, my mother wanted a better life for me, so she moved us to America. I was still incredibly young, around twelve or thirteen.
