Breaking Her (Love is War #2)(7)

Still, I'd never get over being paranoid around law enforcement, and I knew that he would always make me nervous.

Of course I could never let that show.

We took two cars, and Anton and I ended up in the car with Mitch and Farrah. Which is how I found out that Anton did not share my opinion about Harry.

"What a smarmy little punk," he muttered as we parted ways with the other group, climbing into cars to head to the beach. His eyes were on Harry, who was opening the door for Demi, so I didn't have to ask whom he meant.

Mitch was driving, Farrah in the passenger seat, and I was sharing the backseat with Anton, so I had an unimpeded view as I shot him a look. "What is your problem? Harry is a doll." I hadn't been aware there was any animosity between them, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where it came from.

"I guess. If you like pretentious little mamas' boys."

I blinked at him slowly, letting him see how crazy I thought he was. "What the hell, beardo? Leave the poor kid alone. What'd he ever do to you?"

His arms were crossed over his chest, biceps bulging in a way that would have been very distracting if I wasn't starting to see him as a brother, and his face was set in what I would have called a pout if he weren't a huge dude with a man-bun and amazing facial hair.

Nope, I decided. It was still a pout.

"He didn't do anything," Anton finally answered, "but there's no way he's good enough for Demi. She's out of his league."

I don't know why, but I still didn't connect the dots. I was preoccupied, had too much going on in my head, and yes, I was being self-absorbed, were the only excuses I could come up with later.

At the time, though, I only said, "She's out of everyone's league. She's a perfect f*cking angel, but a girl's still gotta date."

Anton just curled his lip. "I bet he doesn't even need to wear those glasses. And the douchebag called me his f*cking bruh." He snorted. "Bruh. I bet he uses the word hella."

That made me laugh, because I'm a little bit evil (on a good day), but I quickly stifled it. "Just be nice. Jesus. If I can pull myself together and be pleasant for a day, so can you."

"I don't even think they're dating," Farrah added helpfully from the front seat. "They're just friends. She likes to hang out with him. Kind of like you two."

That seemed to improve Anton's mood dramatically, but again, I still didn't catch the significance.

"And us," Mitch added.

Farrah gave him one of those looks you can only give to a lover who has just said something that offended you. "Not like us. We have sex. Sometimes."

I saw Mitch's baffled expression in the rearview and it almost made me laugh.

"You guys aren't sleeping together?" he asked either Anton or me or I guess both of us.

At that I did laugh. Maybe I should have been offended at such a personal question, but I knew he wasn't trying to be rude. He was genuinely shocked.

Anton was smiling and shaking his head as he answered, "Not at all."

"Like ever?" Mitch seemed unconvinced.

"Never," I added. "We're literally just friends. So un-L.A. it hurts."

"Dude," Mitch said, and it was definitely directed at Anton.

"Dude, I know," Anton shot back, still grinning.

Farrah and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. "Relax, bruhs," I said, mocking them. "You don't need to feel sorry for Anton. He gets around plenty. Just not with me."

"Dude," Mitch commiserated again.

Whatever. I gave up. Men were from Mars, and Mars was stupid.

The reason for our beach day wasn't just to get my depressed ass out of the house on our time off. It was also an ongoing PR project for Anton, whose publicist insisted that he be seen more at all of the 'spots.' His show was building a steady and loyal following, and every time he showed the world how hot he was off the set, it invariably got them a boost of viewers. And on a beach day, where he could show off the killer body he worked his ass off to perfect, the rewards would undoubtedly be tenfold.

We were only too happy to help him. It was, after all, exposure for each one of us. We'd all gotten roles, albeit small ones, from opportune TMZ moments.

These little outings used to be fun for me. The attention. The potential exposure. The hope of being discovered.

Not anymore. I played the game, acted the part, but the crushing weight of reality was too oppressive for me now. Growing up, when fame had been my dream and I'd envisioned a future in Hollywood, it'd been all about doors opening and directors fawning over my incomparable talent and beauty.

The reality was nothing like that, and it felt as though the magic was gone. I was broke, nowhere near famous, and I sure as hell wasn't having a good time.

Still, for whatever reason, I hadn't yet given up. Likely because I was too cursed stubborn.

I spotted a few paparazzi camped out at the entrance to the beach as we were still parking. "Did your publicist call them, or is this a coincidence?" I asked Anton.

He looked annoyed even with his sponsored shades covering his eyes. "I told her what I was doing, so I'm sure she called."

He seemed salty about it. "It's all part of the job," I reminded him. Small price to pay for the world to know your name, as far as I was concerned.