Wicked Heart (Starcrossed #3)(68)

I shrug and gesture to the lady in the corner, who’s now making unmistakable moaning noises as she sips from her glass. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Liam looks over at them and frowns. “That must be some good wine.”

“Right?”

Liam orders the most expensive whiskey available, which turns out to cost a grand total of six bucks. When our drinks arrive, we head back to our table.

I sip my wine and study Liam. He looks like he hates the world right now, and I don’t know why.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask. “You’re fighting with Angel?”

“These days I always seem to be fighting with Angel.”

“About?”

He shrugs. “The show. The wedding. The ever-present goddamn cameras. All of it.”

“You guys seem happy.”

He laughs bitterly. “Of course we do. It’s required.”

His phone buzzes on the table. When he picks it up and taps the screen, a synthesized female voice comes out of the small speaker: “Liam, where the hell are you? Call me when you get this.”

I frown. “What’s that?”

“Text to voice app. Saves me trying to read stuff. It works for e-mails, too.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be for blind people, but it works for dumbass dyslexics as well.” He turns off the phone and places it back on the table.

“That was from Angel?”

“Yep. I’m supposed to be at a party the network is throwing for the premiere of the show. Just more photo opportunities. As if the world needs any more goddamn pictures of us. How are people not sick to their stomachs by now? We’re like the Kardashians. Fucking everywhere.”

“People love you guys. You’re inspirational.”

He laughs. “People have no clue. If they knew the real us, they’d despise us.”

“Why?”

He takes another sip of whiskey. “Soooo many reasons.”

“Any you want to talk about?”

“Yep, but I kind of like you looking at me like I’m not a piece of shit, so let’s just drop it.”

Intriguing. I don’t want to push him to talk more about his problems with Angel, because it might make me seem insensitive, but dammit, I really want to know.

A few more people file into the bar. A thirty-something guy scans the room before sitting on the bar stool closest to us.

I sip my wine. It tastes freaking awful. The enthusiastic chick in the corner isn’t even pretending to drink hers anymore. She and Handy Andy are fully making out. It’s fascinating, in a train-wreck kind of way.

“Affair,” Liam says, pointing at them.

“You think?”

“Yep. This bar? That table? Definitely trying to stay off the radar.” He gestures at the rest of the room. “Why do you think I’m in here? No one’s looked at me long enough to recognize me. Not one person has asked for an autograph or picture. I’m just a no one here, like everyone else. It’s heaven.”

I study him for a second. “That’s what you want? To be a no one?”

He gives a one-shoulder shrug and swirls his drink. “Sometimes. Actually, most of the time. Things were so much simpler when I was a no one. Now, everything I do is put under the microscope. Every decision. Every piece of personal information is picked over by media vultures desperate to find something to sell their damn magazines and Web sites, no matter the cost.” He reaches into his bag beside the table, then puts an iPad in front of me. “This happened today, which is nice considering it’s the anniversary of my brother’s death.”

I pick up the tablet. A popular gossip site is emblazoned with the banner, HOLLYWOOD HEARTTHROB’S PRIVATE HELL.

There’s a picture of Liam sitting in front of a gravestone, crying. The caption reads, “Macho action man Liam Quinn breaks down at brother’s grave. Exclusive pics!”

Oh, God.

I glance over at Liam. His jaw is tight and his eyes are hard. “I went to visit Jamie’s grave a few days ago and I guess some piece of shit followed me. By tomorrow, this will be everywhere.”

Over the years, there hasn’t been much information about Jamie’s death in the press. “Killed in a construction accident” is about all that’s ever said, but I have no doubt that these pictures will unleash a fresh burst of interest into the death of Liam’s twin.

“Liam. I’m so sorry.” There are more pictures of him farther down, and I get a hot flash of anger that someone would think to profit off him in his private moment of grief.

“I go to his grave every year,” he says. “Sometimes Mom and Dad come with me, but most of the time I go by myself. I like having the time to talk to him. Tell him about what’s going on in my life.” He looks down at the table, and I reach out and touch his hand. The contact makes him tense, and his breath hitches, but he doesn’t look up.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say, “but if you’d like to vent, I’m a decent listener.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath and lets it out slowly. “How much do you know?”

“Only that it was on the Mantra project. Five or six people died.”

He nods. “Six. Mantra was my dad’s construction company. Jamie and I were on his crew from the time we left school. One day, the crane operator forgot to double-check that the anchor points were properly braced. When the crane started lifting two-ton slabs into place, it tipped over and crashed backward onto the apartment block across the street. Jamie and I saw it happen, so we raced to the other building to see if we could help. It was freaking mayhem in there. Debris was falling. People were screaming.