Read Online Star Struck by Jane Lovering - Free Book Online

minutes? Always with the showering and the changing … I’m talking too much, aren’t I?’
    â€˜A bit.’
    â€˜Sorry.’ An unabashed grin. ‘Spent too long at the keyboard again, always makes me a bit … I forget real people need gaps to reply.’
    â€˜Real people?’
    A one-shoulder shrug. ‘I’m a writer. Which, weirdly, doesn’t make for great communication skills. Obviously. Words on paper, yep, that’s my forte, I can do that, no problems, oh God, shut up Jack.’
    Gosh. I’m here with one of the writers. Even the Valium couldn’t quite stop my eyes widening with a flash of hero-worship, quickly stilled in the face of those tatty pyjamas and unbrushed hair.
    The room smelled of her perfume. Sweet and pink, like overblown roses. The bed was rumpled and I had to work hard not to imagine this dark man and his preciously blonde Lissa busy rumpling it. ‘Won’t your girlfriend mind you having me in here?’
    The click and flare of a lighter. ‘I’m not intending to have you.’
    A horribly disfiguring blush rose up my cheeks and neck. I knew from experience that this would make my scar stand out even more, a jagged white against the dull red skin. Fortunately he wasn’t looking at me, but was desperately trying to get a bent remnant of cigarette into conjunction with the flame of the lighter, sucking at it until it squeaked.
    â€˜Besides, Lissa isn’t my girlfriend. She was , once upon a time, and that’s not any kind of fairy-tale you’d want to hear. But, yeah, I guess you’re right, she probably wouldn’t like it all that much, so, would you mind standing out in the corridor?’
    I balanced awkwardly on one leg, not sure whether he was being serious or not. ‘It’s just, you know, I don’t want to upset anyone.’
    â€˜Lissa is a big girl. She can cope with a few upsets.’ He smiled, and it was a nice smile, a proper smile. His eyes creased under the weight of it and it took away some of that look he wore that said the world had disappointed him in some way. ‘Stop worrying. Hey, what about a drink?’ He crouched down to look under the bed and I tried really hard not to stare at his pyjama bottoms, which were baggy and striped and almost cartoonishly loose, held up with a piece of frayed cord. ‘I’m not supposed to smoke in here, but sometimes … ah. White do you?’
    â€˜Do I what?’
    He straightened up and I had to drag my eyes from their natural resting place which happened to be directly level with his flappy crotch. ‘Would you like a glass of white wine?’
    â€˜It’s a bit early.’
    â€˜Convention, remember? They’ll all be on the Southern Comfort downstairs and no-one will be sober until Monday. What are we now, Thursday? Can you really stand the idea of being the only person sober for five days? Might as well join them.’ A pause and his eyes looked inward for a moment, fingertips flicked in a kind of low-level mini shrug. ‘At least …’ He spun away, leaving a smoke trail like a low-flying aircraft and now I was free to stare at his back view, a crumpled picture of Mighty Boosh and a sagging pair of pyjama bottoms which managed not to make his backside look wrinkly and enormous by some fluke of tailoring. The T-shirt did nothing to cover his scarred arm but he didn’t seem to care. ‘Right. Not especially well-chilled, but still better than downstairs’ Tequila Slammers.’ He leaned forward, glass in hand. ‘Oh. My name’s Jack, by the way. And you’re …?’
    â€˜Skye. Skye Threppel.’
    â€˜Well, Skye. Here’s to hiding from the world.’ Jack picked up another glass from next to the laptop and raised it, seeming to toast the screensaver picture of purple-heathered moorland, as though he was blocking out the Nevada desert with a picture of