Bread . . . boring, it’s not even fancy, just plain old wheat bread. Steaks . . . no surprise, although I wish I could afford a nice rib-eye every now and then. Speaking of USDA prime beef, God, I could take a bite of his biceps. Yummy. Milk . . . so 1990. Wait, not milk. He’s buying milks, two different kinds of milk . . . skim and whole, a half-gallon each. And the skim milk is that special type for people who are lactose intolerant.
That’s unusual, right? I mean, if you drink milk, you’re not likely to go for two drastically different fat contents. Unless he cooks? Maybe the skim is to drink and the whole is to cook?
Hmm, could be. But then, why the lactose intolerant one? I’ve tasted it myself, and no matter what the makers say, it’s crap compared to the real thing.
I keep following as he walks . . . into the feminine hygiene aisle. Jackpot.
Why would a notoriously single man, one whom women literally throw themselves at and are routinely rebuked, be buying tampons and pads? Because he’s not single anymore! The little news ticker in my brain rolls by . . . Hearts break all across America as Keith Perkins confirms he’s off the market, ladies. News at ten o’clock.
He’s stockpiling his house. By the looks of the third box of goodies he tosses in the basket, he’s got damn-near a full medicine cabinet in there. I sneak another pic for proof and follow him up toward the front of the store.
Choosing the line behind him, I consider maybe taking a chance to say something. It’s risky, but I might be able to tease some nugget of information out of the potential encounter. After setting his items on the conveyor belt, he looks at me.
I smile my biggest, flirtiest smile, expecting him to see stars. This smile has gotten me into more private rooms, parties, and information trades than I could say . . . unless you’re paying.
But from Keith, nothing. Not even a returned smile. His eyes slide over me and then back to the conveyor belt as he watches the little display show each item as it’s rung up.
How rude!
The whole encounter, Keith ignores me and barely speaks to the cashier. Most of the noise is grunts and mmm-hmms coming from him in response to the cashier’s chatter. She doesn’t seem to know who he is either. I get that we’re not in a country town, but do none of these people listen to country music? Or music period?
You wouldn’t think he’d be able to take off his hat and be incognito, but apparently, he can. Clark Kent, eat your fucking heart out. He pays—cash, I notice—and grabs his bags, disappearing out the door in a hurry. Shit, did he make me?
I pay for my mismatched bread, soda, and candy bar and hustle out behind him, wishing I hadn’t grabbed that bag of tater tots as part of my cover for going down the frozen food aisle because it wasted precious time telling the cashier I’d changed my mind about them. I’m so busy looking left and right down the sidewalk, trying to find his bald head above the crowd, that I don’t notice when he steps out right in front of me.
His chest is like running into a brick wall, bouncing off a slab of iron hard muscle that barely gives. I cry out in surprise, more of a startled squeak really, but before I fall, he captures my arm in a tight grip. For a split second, we’re in tight proximity and I can feel the thrum of hot control resonating from him, and it makes me drunk. Suddenly, I’m aware of where my hand is, and it’s cupping something big, warm . . . and I bet it would get even bigger if I had a chance. I feel my face heat and am momentarily thankful for the caked-on makeup to hide the flush racing along my cheeks.
The makeup can’t hide the shiver that rushes through my body though, straight to my core as I’m reminded once again how fucking sexy Keith is. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I finally squeak out in a voice that’s about an octave higher than I normally have. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
It isn’t until I’m finished that realization hits me, and I start praying this was accidental. The last thing I need is his figuring out that I’m part of the press and that I’ve been following him.
Keith looks down at me, no small task considering I’m five seven in bare feet and usually feel part Amazon by the time I get high heels on. Even in running shoes, I can stand eye to eye with the average man.
As I look up, though, I realize I could wear my highest heels and he’d still be taller than me, still be able to bend me over and fuck me senseless. God, every thought I have of this guy is about sex. Either I’m really that desperate to fuck, he’s that sexy, or both. Either way, I need a new vibrator. Hello, Amazon Prime, you are amazing. Two-Day shipping? Yes, please!
Luckily, my traitorous eyes are covered in sunglasses so he can’t know what I’m thinking, but regardless of whether he can catch my vibe or not, he doesn’t seem impressed.
“Well, maybe you should watch where you’re going then,” he half growls, steadying me for a moment. “This isn’t the sort of place for daydreaming.”
Without another look, he strides off down the street. I stare at him, too shocked to even stammer a reply.
What an asshole! I think for a split second before I realize that yeah, I was following him, but he didn’t know that for sure!
A tiny thought jumps through my mind, reminding me how hard his body felt, how strong his grip on my arm was as he kept me from falling. And yes, the feeling of what’s inside his jeans, even if it was only for a microsecond. For a moment, I’m torn. Should I keep following him? Or now that he’s had eye-to-sunglass contact with me, would that be too suspicious? I decide the risk isn’t worth it. Besides, I think I have exactly what I need.
There’s a woman in Keith’s life. It isn’t me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to tell the world about it.
Get ready, Keith. Your dirty laundry is getting hung out to dry.
Keith
“What the fuck, Todd?” I explode into my phone as I do my damndest not to hurl my computer across the room to shatter into a million pieces against the wall. “Have you seen this shit?”
Through the phone, I hear Todd, my manager, trying to placate me. “I know, Keith. And I’m sorry. I’m looking into it as quickly as I can.”
Quickly? I’m paying Todd a lot of money to make sure this isn’t something that needs to be handled quickly. In this particular matter, I’ve made it clear that this should never be an issue. “Todd, the headline is ‘Keith, who’s the girl?’” I fume as I keep reading. “Fans want to know who’s captured the heart of the rogue country star. Why would they even think there’s a girl? I’m not dating anyone. Everyone knows that.”
Todd sighs, and in my mind, I can see him now, sitting at his antique oak desk, the little vein in his left temple pulsing to his heartbeat. “That’s just it, man. Everyone knows you don’t date, and that’s . . . odd for a celebrity of your success. I tried to get you to do some image work . . . show up for a few awards shows with another star, but nooooo, you didn’t want to hear it. So people get curious.”
I’ve heard all of this before, but I hate being fake. There are too many wannabes and fake ass people in this business for my liking as it is. I refuse to be one too.
“Well, fuck everyone’s curiosity. My private life is my own. I sing songs, I make records, ones that have won some pretty sweet awards. I put on concerts, and we’ve done some damn good shows, I think. But that’s it, I’m not available for public comment on my private life. I don’t ask what they do with the life-sized posters I sign for them, and they don’t get to ask what I do in my home.”