So many people pawing at you.
I also look over at the photography equipment, studying each piece like I’m taking a class.
I’m burning with jealousy. I’ve always wanted to be a professional in some creative field, but I’ve never been on a real, live photo set for a major publication.
I watch one of the photographers instruct Logan to lie on his side on the ground. I still think I’d get better angles than she’s getting, but it still looks cool. She steps over him, pointing the camera down, flashes from various light sources going off around the room.
“Okay, time for the kiss prints,” she calls out.
An assistant brings over a little rubber object that she presses onto Logan’s cheek.
I realize it’s a stamp, and when she pulls it away, it leaves a red lipstick kiss mark on Logan’s skin.
She presses another to his forehead. His neck. A couple along his chest.
“Want them down here?” she asks the photographer, pointing at the bottom of Logan’s abs.
“Absolutely.”
When she walks away, Logan is covered in kisses.
“Okay, Logan. Part your lips a little. Yes. Like that.”
Logan’s mouth hangs open a little and I stand behind the bar, forgetting entirely that I’m supposed to be pretending to work.
I can’t stop staring at him.
I want to make those marks on his body.
Mine wouldn’t be with lipstick, butrealmarks. I want to suck them onto his skin, little hickeys and bruises all over him, and I kind of fucking wish I had already done that last night, so those photo assistants would have to cover my marks with makeup.
I’m heated now.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard, watching closely.
And it doesn’t help that Logan’s confusing my whole body. He’s wearing the clothes that the guys I hated in high school wore. The football uniform my father always wished he could see me in, too.
I’ve successfully avoided watching anyYard Lineepisodes or even online promo. Other than the ad I saw on the side of a bus, I haven’t seen Logan like this.
A thread of rage curls itself around my stomach.
The rest of the world has fallen in love with this version of Logan. And it’s so unfamiliar to me. Logan isn’t Damien Vance. He’s not “Big D,” or a football player on a show I would never watch. I like my version of Logan better.
His fans have no clue how sensitive he is. How much fame affects him, and how deeply he needs to recharge but never gets a chance to. His fame is just a reason he still has to hold back around me, and a reason his eyes end up looking so tired at the end of long days.
But I also recognize how good he looks like this.
Logan looks like a star.
I thoughtlessly reach for the silver tequila bottle in front of me, unscrewing it, tossing some in a glass, and taking a long swig, not bothering to see if anyone is watching.
I’m just a hotel worker.
A hotel worker who needs a fucking drink.
The liquor hits my blood and I watch Logan in front of that window, being touched and ordered around as a fire stokes in my chest.
None of them can touch you like I do.
