CHAPTER FIVE Jude

CHAPTER FIVE

Jude

"Come on, man. Stop looking at the headlines. Just put your phone down. You're being a buzzkill, and we're here to have fun."

Here is a bar I didn't want to go out to. But thanks to Dylan and her scheme to get me back on the good side of the press, here I am—sitting in Diablo, the latest hot spot for celebs in New York, with my brother, having a few drinks and making sure I'm in perfect view of the paparazzi lined up outside with their cameras. From our spot at the bar near the window, we're giving them a glimpse into our evening together. I hate every second of it, but at least I have my brother here to keep me company in this god-awful place, which is packed wall to wall with people. Everyone is shouting at one another even though they're sitting just a few feet apart, because the music is too damn loud for such a small space.

After I managed to shirk them this morning and grab a coffee without a single camera pointed my way, Dylan was insistent that I show up tonight so they could get some shots. I was in no mood to argue with her, especially not after my run-in with Little Miss Sunshine.

She'd folded her arms over her chest and called me an asshat ... It was the last thing I was expecting. I'm a Rafferty. Nobody has ever talked to me like that, but I liked that she wasn't afraid to call me out on my shit. Sure, I shouldn't have cut in front of her, but I felt feisty this morning, especially after having to sneak down the fire escape of my own damn building just to avoid cameras being shoved in my face.

"I'm not looking at headlines," I shout—the only way to be heard above the music—at my already buzzed brother while looking down at my phone, doing exactly that.

I know better—better than most—that I shouldn't be doing this, but I can't help it. I have to know what they're saying about me.

I just wish they were saying better things. I've seen articles declaring everything from my new movie that's not even out yet already being a flop to me checking into rehab.

But I think the worst of all? The "nepo baby" headlines.

Those headlines sting.

If they only knew all the grueling, long hours I put into my craft. All the time I've spent at auditions when I could have easily just called up any director and put a bug in their ear that I wanted a particular role and gotten it quicker than anyone would believe. I know my last name opens doors, sure, but I work hard at what I do, and I do it because I love it—not because I have to fulfill some family tradition.

I love being on set. I love slipping away into another world, where I don't have all these asinine expectations heaped on me because of who my parents and grandparents are. A world where I'm just Jude. Not Jude Rafferty.

Just Jude.

A hand closes over my phone, tugging it away from me.

"Hey!" I yank the phone out of Jasper's grasp. Lucky for me, his reflexes are shit thanks to the number of drinks he's had, so I wrestle the device back without much of a fight.

He slumps in defeat, his bottom lip jutted out in a look I haven't seen from him in ... well, a long damn time.

Maybe he's a little more drunk than I thought.

I quickly snap a photo of him still pouting, then switch to Instagram and make another post to his account so Dylan sees I've fulfilled my promise. I turn the camera to myself and snap a pic, then upload that one, too, making sure to tag my profile in the photo before swapping back to the article I was reading.

It all feels so damn dumb, but I know this is the game Dylan wants me to play. She wants it to appear like I'm not affected by what's happening in the media. Like I'm hanging out with my older and much more famous brother and nothing is off with me, even though it couldn't be further from the truth. Because right now? I'm kind of freaking out.

I know my public mishap will create more buzz for my upcoming movie, which could be a good thing, but it also means that I will be bombarded with endless questions and stalked for photos for proof of all my alleged issues. I don't want that. I just want to act and be left alone. Is that too much to ask?

"I'm telling you," Jasper rambles on, "everyone will forget about it soon. Besides, that sassy little publicist of yours seems to have a good plan cooked up. Just sit back and let her do her thing and handle this one for you." He shrugs, lifting his bourbon to his lips and knocking back the rest of the glass.

I should probably tell him to cool it on the booze, but Jasper's a big boy. He knows when he's at his limit.

I'm guessing he's not. At least, not yet, with his gaze now on the blonde bartender who's leaning her forearms against the bar in a way that showcases her cleavage.

I pull my attention back down to my phone. I'm still logged in as Jasper; he's already at more than five thousand likes on the photos I posted moments ago, his notifications increasing by the hundreds every few seconds. My brother's career is massive compared to mine, and I know that's why Dylan wants him to feature me on his social media. He has reach that I don't, thanks to the several years I took off for college. As much as I hate to admit it, I need Jasper's help navigating all this insanity now that I'm being thrust back into it.

The bubble at the top of his profile keeps popping up, so I click on it, hoping it'll go away, but instead, it just pulls up the hundreds of messages that are flooding in. It's wild how many people are responding to the posts or dying for just a little bit of his attention.

I remember when I wanted that kind of fame and admiration, back when I was on Lakedale. I wanted to be everyone's favorite celebrity. But the older I got, the less I wanted it. And now I just want to make good movies and enjoy a quiet life. No fanfare. No attention. Just to live.

But ... I can still live a little through Jasper. I scroll through the messages, curious about what people are saying. They're all pretty much the same thing.

Ur so hot!!!! x

I swear I'd let u do N E THING 2 me, Jasper. N E THING.

I'd love to be in that sandwich.

brO! Where was my invite?!

LOL Fun!

Remember our night in Paris? Call me. Xo

The messages blur as I flick my thumb over the screen repeatedly. Each one is just another variation—all drivel and superficial, and a few that make me blush. I wonder if he's ever thought about setting it so only people he follows can message him, but then I remember this is Jasper I'm talking about—he's completely social media inept.

So I keep scrolling and scrolling. So many messages, so much begging for money or attention with inappropriate offers.

I have a big photo shoot tomorrow. I'm nervous because ...

I slam my thumb onto the screen, stopping the maddening scroll, then navigate back to the message that caught my eye.

It's so ... boring. Normal. Different from all the other messages coming in, that's for sure.

But that's not all that sticks out. This person—whoever the hell they are—is talking to Jasper like they know him. Like they're friendly with him.

Curious, I click on the message.

"Holy shit," I mutter, my eyes widening as I take in what's before me.

Messages. Hundreds of them. So many that no matter how fast I scroll, I'm still not at the beginning.

They go back a long time.

One month.

Two months.

Six months.

A year.

A whole damn year. That's how long this person's been sliding into Jasper's DMs.

I let my eyes wander over the one-sided conversations this person has been having for so long, immediately recognizing what's happening.

It's a diary.

They've been using Jasper's inbox as a digital diary, probably assuming nobody would ever read it.

Until now.

Until me.

I'm sitting here scrolling through the messages like an asshole, completely invading their privacy.

But that's not exactly true, is it? They wrote these messages for someone to see. Maybe not me, but it's not stopping me from reading more about them.

I click on the profile, surprised to see it's not private. It's public. Very public.

In fact, she's very public, with half a million followers watching her every move.

A quick look at her bio tells me she's Olive O'Brien, a plus-size model—and apparently a damn good one, based on the company she has tagged. I've been in entertainment long enough to know that Uma Danford doesn't work with just anyone.

"Who are you, Olive O'Brien?" I murmur.

"What?"

I practically throw my phone onto the counter so Jasper can't see me snooping around his inbox, then peer over at him.

His brows are lifted high, and he looks at me like I'm the drunk one. "You good, man?"

"Yep." I swallow, nodding a few times. "Yep. All gravy."

Jasper scrunches his face like he's in pain, groaning. "Ugh, Jude. This is why you can't get a date that your publicist hasn't set up for you. You say weird shit like all gravy." He lowers his voice, mimicking me. Funny, because his natural voice is already deeper than my own.

I shrug off his comment. I'm not looking to date, so his words don't bother me. I'm too focused on bringing back my career to care about getting laid.

Besides, dating hasn't really panned out for me before. Nobody is interested in the real me. They just want Jude Rafferty, not Jude. I'll pass on being used again, thanks.

"Fuck." My brother shakes his head. "Now I want gravy. Let's split and get some chicken tenders and gravy. There's gotta be a diner around here."

As amazing as that sounds ... "We can't go yet. I promised Dylan I'd stay until nine."

"Boo." Jasper pouts. "Can we at least order some food? I'm starving."

"You good with a pretzel?"

He grunts, and I take his answer as a yes. I call over the bartender and order a pretzel to split while Jasper asks for another refill.

"Why'd Dylan have you come here?" my brother asks after the bartender scampers off. "This place isn't your usual scene. I'd figured you'd rather be at a poetry reading than at some bar that's too damn loud and crowded."

"Poetry reading? I don't even like poetry." Though he does have a point about this place being too crowded.

"Then what do you call those things in your diary?"

Just the word diary has me feeling guilty for looking at the messages from Olive. I used to write all my thoughts down too—and I was mortified when Jasper discovered my journal and read aloud from it, back when we were teens.

I really, really shouldn't be intruding on her like this. It's wrong. So wrong.

But it doesn't stop the pull I feel to keep reading ...

"You're daydreaming about your diary, aren't you?"

I stare daggers at my brother. "First of all, it was a journal, not a diary. Second, no. I'm not."

"Journal. Diary. Same damn thing."

"A journal is much more personal, which is why you're a total dick for reading it."

He shrugs, then nods toward the guy who has just dropped off a fresh drink for him. "Shouldn't have left it out in the open, then."

"I didn't!"

"Under your mattress is totally out in the open. That's where you're supposed to hide porno mags, not your diary. You lock that shit up tight."

"Journal," I reiterate.

He rolls his eyes. "If you didn't want me to read it, you should have moved it."

"I did move it. Several times. You just always snooped and found it anyway."

"That's your fault for being such a good storyteller. Are you sure you don't want to be a writer instead of an actor? You wouldn't have to deal with all this bullshit." He waves his hand around the bar. "You could be at home right now, safely tucked away in your office, plugging away on Hollywood's next big hit."

I've thought about what he's suggesting too many times over the years. I love writing in my journal—it's something I do to this day—but writing a screenplay? That's an entirely different beast. Besides, I like being in front of the camera too much. I could never give this up, no matter how much I hate all the other crap that comes with it.

"Nah. Not for me."

He lifts his now half-empty glass to his lips. "Suit yourself," he mutters before throwing back the rest of the booze.

How he's comfortable drinking like this in public is beyond me. I never let myself have more than two drinks outside the house. I don't like losing control in general, but I like it even less when cameras are constantly pointed at me—like they have been since we walked into this bar.

With the way Dylan talked about this place, I assumed it would be crawling with celebrities. But so far, it's just me and Jasper here, surrounded by crowds of regular twentysomethings looking to blow off steam. I wonder if my publicist has anything to do with that. Keep the attention solely on us.

"One pretzel with hot honey mustard." A plate slides across the bar in front of me, bearing a huge and delicious-looking pretzel covered in garlic butter sans salt, as requested. "Anything else I can get you?"

I shake my head at the bartender. "Nah, man. I'm good. Thanks."

"No problem," he says before hurrying off.

"Thank god. I'm starving." My brother rips off more than half the pretzel before I can even protest, and I really want to protest. I haven't eaten anything since this morning. I'm running on coffee, anxiety, and pure fucking adrenaline at this point. I need this more than he and his grubby little hands do.

He dunks the pretzel into the mustard, then shoves a huge bite into his mouth, smiling at me in a way that would have Mom pissed if she were here—all his food is showing.

"You're an ass," I tell him, taking a piece for myself.

"Your point?"

He sounds so unbothered as he helps himself to more of our snack, and I'm sure he is. Jasper's always been like that—completely indifferent to what others think of him. It's a trait I've always been jealous of because I care what people think. Probably a little too much, even.

"I don't know who you heard about these from, but whoever they are, I want to kiss them. Like a big, wet sloppy kind of kiss. This is fucking amazing." Jasper sticks his fingers into his mouth one by one, licking off all the pretzel's buttery goodness.

He looks like a damn caveman, but I get it—this thing is incredible, and we finish it off in record time. Before I can ask for another, Jasper orders one.

Oh yeah. He's creeping closer and closer to drunk. He always gets hungry when he's had too much.

"So Jude ..." He starts, and I know I won't like whatever he's about to say next.

"So Jasper ..." I mimic, resting my elbows on the bar top, wishing I didn't have that damn two-drink rule right about now.

"Think I could get Dylan's number?"

A burst of laughter flies out of me. That is not what I was expecting, making his question ten times funnier.

"Good one, Jas." I pat his shoulder, relaxing in my high-backed chair. "Good one."

He settles back, too, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering at me. "‘Good one,' what?"

"Your joke. Asking for Dylan's number. It was funny."

His eyes narrow further. "It wasn't a joke."

"Yes, it was."

"No, it wasn't," he snaps.

That's when it hits me: he's being serious.

It's not a joke. He wants my publicist's number.

I mirror his pose. "You're thinking of changing publicists, then?"

He shakes his head. "Hell no. Kyle would have my balls if I ditched him, and I'd rather keep those intact for obvious reasons."

Kyle, his best friend—since childhood—turned publicist, totally would castrate him if Jasper left. Not that Jas wouldn't deserve it, but still.

Which only means . . .

I sit up straighter. "You want to date her."

He curls his lips. "Ew. Gross. No."

I relax at his words. Good. That's good. I don't want Jasper and Dylan dating. That's a bad idea for so many reasons.

"I just want one night, is all."

I snap my head toward him. "Are you serious? She'll eat you alive."

He grins. "I fucking hope so."

I shake my head with a laugh. "No. No way in hell. I am not giving her number to you. Ask her yourself."

"But she scares me."

I laugh again because, truthfully, she scares me too. "Then that's just something you'll have to get over, because you're not getting her info from me."

"I gave you full access to my Instagram."

"As if you ever go on it yourself anyway."

"It's still my page."

"Then kick me out of it."

He can't. I know he can't. He has no damn clue how the app works. He's never been a big social media guy, and I know he's "on" the platform reluctantly as it is.

"How's that going, by the way?"

"Fine?" I run a hand through my hair. "I don't know. I have no clue what I'm even supposed to be doing."

"Show everyone you're unaffected by the headlines. Be normal. That kind of thing."

"Normal?" I scoff. "I'm a Rafferty. Nothing about my life is normal."

He huffs out a laugh. "Ain't that the damn truth."

We don't talk much about what it means to be part of this family. We don't have to. We both feel the burden of it daily, Jasper even more so—I don't think he's taken a day off since he got his first role at eight.

Before we can dive headfirst into a way-too-deep-for-the-venue conversation about our family drama, a woman slides up next to Jasper. They flirt back and forth, and he offers to buy her a drink, which naturally sweeps her off her feet. Before I know it, Jasper's ditching me for the girl and her friends.

I don't mind. I'd much rather be left alone, anyway.

"Don't wait up, little brother." He gives a suggestive smile.

"Wear protection, big brother," I counter.

He flips me off, and I laugh as he trots off with his flavor of the night like he didn't just beg me for my publicist's number.

Fucking Jasper.

I shake my head, then pick up my phone off the counter.

"Just thirty more minutes, and you can bail, Jude," I tell myself. If I look foolish, who cares? I'm already in the headlines for much worse.

I could leave early, especially now that Jasper's ditched me, but I promised Dylan I wouldn't, and I'm a man of my word.

I pull up Instagram again just as Jasper's now-forgotten pretzel appears on the bar top. With one hand full of stolen food, I tap my phone's screen twice, and Olive's page roars back to life.

With all Jasper's antics, I almost forgot I was about to cyberstalk some random woman on his profile.

And now that I'm looking at her, I'm forgetting why I shouldn't.

From her long brown hair to her summer-blue eyes to her full figure—her hips are hypnotically round, and her belly has a bit of squish to it—to the way she carries herself ... it's all there.

She's gorgeous, and it's no wonder she has a modeling contract with one of the top management agencies in the world.

Something about her seems familiar, though I can't figure out just what it is. Have I seen her in a campaign somewhere?

I shrug it off, continuing to stalk her through her feed. In her latest post, her brown hair is styled in big curls. She stands on a Manhattan rooftop, gazing directly into the camera, a pouty look on her face as she angles her body to show off the curves beneath a golden dress shimmering against the soft sunset in the background.

The next one is of her in a Barbie-pink jumpsuit, a pair of white sunglasses tugged down her nose, and she's looking over her shoulder, calling attention to her bright baby-blue eyes.

The photos go on and on. So many of them. Some are themed, and some aren't. But she looks gorgeous in each one.

It makes me curious about the person behind the photos. I swipe back over to the messages and begin scrolling back.

Some of them are about funny, random things, like the time she was on the way to a photo shoot and got pooped on by a pigeon. But some of it's serious. Too serious. Like so serious that my heart begins to race because I really shouldn't be reading this stuff.

And yet I can't look away.

The more I read, the more interested I become. She seems ... normal. Which sounds stupid, but after growing up in the world I did, normalcy is a good thing. Olive is lucky she has it.

I crave normalcy as much as I crave being in front of the camera. It's ... confusing.

"Damn, man. You ate that fast."

I startle at the sudden intrusion, looking up from my phone and at the bartender for the first time in I don't even know how long. I take in the empty plate before me, the pretzel long gone. I was too engrossed in scrolling through Olive's photos and personal thoughts like some creep.

"Oh, um, I guess it's just that good, huh?" I send him my best on smile.

True to my other interactions with him, he doesn't smile back. He grabs the plate and walks away, and I turn back to the messages I shouldn't be reading.

@OliveMe: I have a big photo shoot tomorrow. I'm nervous because it's with a photographer who could skyrocket me to a new level of modeling. I want that. I think. Is it weird to be excited and grateful but also completely and utterly terrified? That's what I'm feeling right now, but maybe it's just the wine talking.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to know how the shoot went, which is ridiculous since I've never met this woman.

But if she's brave enough to do this, maybe I should know her.

Don't do it, Jude. Just click out of it. Pretend you saw nothing and move on.

This is Jasper's account. It would be wrong to pretend to be him. I shouldn't.

But ... I'm curious about her. I want to know more.

No. I need to know more.

So, for the first time, I do something reckless.

I hit "Accept" on her messages, and I type.

@JasperRafferty: How'd the shoot go?

I set my phone down with a shaky breath.

Then I lift my hand to the bartender and break another rule tonight.

"I'll take that third drink now."