The Fakers

9: Liam

"I don't," I admitted. "Are you in bed?"

"Liam."

"Yes?" I asked innocently, grinning like a fool. I wondered if she slept naked.

"You know I charge for these phone calls. I'm going to do you a favor and hang up now."

"Wait!"

She muttered something under her breath that I didn't catch.

"I do have a question," I said. 

"Okay." 

"Do you know what unrequited love feels like?"

"Can't say I do, no," she said. Of course she didn't. "Good night, Liam."

"Good night, Gemma."

* * * * * *

I was eating breakfast with Tony, who was wearing his sunglasses indoors like a douchebag, and our other actor friend, Derek, who was covered in stripper glitter. Well, I was eating breakfast – they were throwing back mimosas like the hair of the dog was an actual hangover cure.

"For the record, you two look and smell terrible," I said as I chowed down on my egg white omelet.

"Please, for the love of God, swallow your food before opening your mouth," Tony groaned. "I'm queasy enough as is."

Derek giggled like a slaphappy child drunk on sugar. His thick black hair was sticking up every which way, his pale green eyes were bloodshot, and he was in desperate need of a shave, but he was still one good-looking son of a bitch.

"Swallow," Derek repeated, his smile widening. "There was some of that happening in the champagne room."

Tony flung a piece of buttered toast back onto his plate. "Thanks for ruining what little appetite I had, asshole," he snapped at Derek.  

I was racking my brain for reasons why I still hung out with these two dipshits when my phone began to ring. "Crap, it's my manager," I muttered, standing up.

"You don't have to leave the table because of me," Tony said with only a hint of bitterness. My manager, Matt Tulsa, used to be Tony's manager, too – until he dropped him for being too difficult. "I'm a big boy," he continued. "Just ask Crystal."

I made a noise of disgust. "You're just as bad as Derek," I said, and they high-fived each other across the table. I sat back down in my chair and answered on the last ring. I didn't particularly want to have this conversation at the restaurant table, but after Tony's blessing, it would have been awkward if I left.   

"Hey, Matt," I said cheerily. "What's up?"

"What's up is that you keep calling a Vaughn & Carmichael attorney at all hours of the day!" he shouted at me. "Must I remind you yet again of her hourly rate?"  

"Nah, I'm good," I said, sliding my eggs around my plate with my fork. Matt was rubbing salt in the wound, and I couldn't wait for this conversation to be over.

"Liam, I get that you're young and rich and you do what you want. But please for the love of Jesus, unless you have a legitimate legal problem, do not call Gemma Vaughn anymore."

"Okay," I said, snatching Derek's mimosa out of his hand. I needed it more than he did, and I was the one picking up the tab anyway. Derek cursed at me before signaling to our waiter for another round. 

"What was that about?" Tony asked when I hung up.

"I think he just missed hearing my voice," I shrugged. "He wanted to update me on some lawyer nonsense blah blah whatever."

"Oh, your DUI?" Derek asked.

I made a noncommittal noise before chugging his mimosa. I didn't want to admit I was harassing someone who was way out of my league, and that she freaking told on me to my manager. It was too embarrassing, and I had a reputation as a ladykiller to uphold.

"Holy shit, that was refreshing," I said, slamming the empty champagne glass down on the table. "Let's get drunk." 

And so we did.

Two hours later, I stumbled into the Graceland Wedding Chapel and married one of my adoring fans. I don't really remember it, but she posted the pictures on Instagram, which were instantly screenshotted and sent to TMZ. As soon as the news went viral, my irate manager called me seventeen times until I finally woke up from my drunken slumber on the bathroom floor of my hotel room. I picked up the phone, slurred, "Now can I call Gemma?" and then dropped it into the toilet before passing out with my face on the seat.

* * * * * *

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