I have to pull the phone away from my ear, that’s how abrupt her laugh is.

"Mr. Asher, you have a fundraising meeting with your father at eight AM, remember?"

I sigh. "Never mind." I pocket my phone and walk over to the glass wall that lines the terrace, resting my forearms on the thin ledge, as I ponder my feelings.

She’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen to her. I’m careful. I’ve been doing this for years and no one has ever gotten a speck of dirt on me. They won’t find her. I’ve only been to see her once.

Which means, even if my day was clear tomorrow, I can’t go. I need to keep the distance between us because if the media finds out about her, we have to call it quits.

That’s always been the rule, and even though I’ve never had to put it in practice, I will if necessary.

My phone buzzes again and I’m surprised to see Conner’s face lighting up my screen.

"Yeah," I say into the phone.

"So which one of you ass**les is spying on me?"

"Aw, f**k."

"Seriously, Vaughn? You need to spy—"

"It’s not me, it’s Felicity."

"That kid? Why the f**k is she digging through my shit?"

"Because she thinks you’re a douchebag and she wants to mess with you."

"Whatever. I’m not the one bringing a girl to meet Mom and Dad with a vibrator up her hole. And you know, it’s real interesting that Felicity is talking all this interest in me while she should be doing damage control for you. Did you forget that Sam invited Elite Lifestyles Magazine to the wedding so they could do a spread on her? Because they saw that whole brunch debacle."

"What? Sam never told me that. Since when does she do interviews?"

"Since her dickhead husband made her."

"I gotta go." I end the call and go back inside to make myself a drink. Holy shit, this day went all to hell. No wonder Sam was so upset the night of her wedding. If Tray wasn’t still back on Saint Thomas having a non-honeymoon for one, I’d kill that ass**le.

I pour four fingers of Scotch and sit down at the bar out by the pool. Something is very wrong. Something is very, very wrong. I can just feel it. It’s like a snake, slithering up behind me, just waiting for me to be complacent so it can strike.

I take a long swallow of my drink and then speed-dial Ray, my security coordinator. "I need you to double up on the Denver client and get a team to dig up information about the reporter who attended my sister’s wedding last weekend."

"On it, boss," Ray says.

"Check the Denver house for bugs and steal her phone."

"No problem."

“Discretely. And then put it back so she thinks she misplaced it.”

I end the call and swallow a long gulp of Scotch just as my phone buzzes in my hand. The number comes up unknown so I ignore it and take a seat on the couch to think things through. The magazine reporter is a wild card I was not anticipating. And f**king Conner knew all along back on the island. That’s why he was talking shit to me about getting discovered and having all my dirty deeds come back to haunt me.

But he’d never turn on me. We might fight a lot, but we’re brothers and that means something. All growing up Conner was the only real friend I had. Sam was too young, Conner was too young too, but when you’re isolated from the world for your own protection, well, you take what you get. And Conner was what I got.

He was secluded from the craziness that my father and I endured for being famous. He went to a real school, he had real girlfriends, he experienced a childhood. I, on the other hand, had celebrity fundraisers for social events. Or wrap parties overflowing with drugs. Or red-carpet events where the sole purpose of the paparazzi was to make me look bad.

This is the kind of shit I’ve been building walls against my entire life. And every time I think I have it all under control, it spirals.

My phone buzzes again, this time to signify a voice mail. I absently grab it off the table, my curiosity getting the best of me, and press the icon for messages.

"Vaughn," a crying woman says from the small speaker. How did she get my number? "I have to talk to you, it’s an emergency. Call me back at the hotel spa number."

No. This is not good. Something is very wrong.

I delete the message and pull up email instead. I hate to do it, but I can’t see Grace tonight. I need to think this over, figure out what’s going on, get my bearings, and make a plan of retaliation.

Sweets, please accept my apologies. Leaving town on business, don’t know when I’ll be back.

Damage control. If this magazine reporter is on to me, it’s better to cut that shit off now and lie low. I take another swig of my Scotch and kick my feet up on the table. There’s not much choice. This is my life. No matter how hard I try to be normal, no matter how far away I think I am, it’s never far enough. That traditional family I never had is just a dream. My life, for better or worse, is a string of side-show events that prohibits me from having a real relationship.

So f**k it. Why bother, right? Why bother fighting it. I’m lucky—at least I have Felicity, even if that relationship is about as unconventional as it gets.

I grab my phone and press Felicity’s face so I can fill her in on the reporter and tell her to leave Conner alone. The call rings through to voice mail. I know she’s in school and won’t answer, but it was worth a try.

I stare out at my ten-million-dollar view, lost in thought.

Why can’t I ever get what I want? Just once I’d like to get what I really, truly want. I want to fly back to Denver and sleep over at Grace’s house. But I can’t. Something is cooking and getting sloppy now will have consequences. Once the paparazzi has you on target, they never let go until they get what they want. They’re always around. Waiting in trashcans. Hiding in bushes. Following me three cars back. And they know one of these days I’ll get drunk, or sad, or desperate and I’ll f**k up. Then they’ll get what they’ve been tracking for years. Proof that my private life is nothing but a long string of sexual debauchery.

I down the rest of my drink and pull up my agent. That rings through to voice mail as well—figures—but this time I leave a message. "Larry," I say with a slight slur from the Scotch. "Set me up with a beautiful date for the IM2 premiere and I’ll go."