Flirting With Fame (Flirting With Fame)

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This book is for anyone who has ever felt uncomfortable in their own skin.

I
f the Queen of England booked a gig at Fernbrooke’s only theater to do a lyrical jazz routine with a unicorn, I might’ve had an easier time finding parking than I did that night.

I dashed down Main Street, stumbling over my own feet as I texted Jin that I’d be there soon. Conveniently, I left out the part where I’d sat in the driveway for twenty minutes, covered in sweat, visualizing either a mob scene or an empty building. Neither possibility stopped the hum vibrating through my skin or made it easier to start the car. That took a few deep breaths, and the knowledge that if I backed out, Jin would show up and drag me there anyway.

The screen lit up with Jin’s reply—mostly expletives in all caps—and I glanced at the time.

Eleven fifty-five.

Crap. I had five minutes.

Picking up speed, I shoved my phone into my jeans. Perspiration beaded along my neck and snaked down my back as I pressed against the thick August air. I swerved around the crumbling town library, then skidded to a halt.

Hundreds of people lined the wall of the mini mall. They wound in front of the darkened stores and around another corner. The start of the line wasn’t in sight. My fingers instinctively traced the scar that ran from my temple to my jaw as I surveyed the crowd. Many sported horned hats or fur stoles. A boy wielding a foamy mug of beer saw me and grinned.

Yeah, there was no freaking way I was doing this.

I whirled away from the crowd and my phone buzzed against my leg. I knew what it said before I even glanced at the screen.

JIN:
Where do you think you’re going? Turn around and come back. I’m not far from you. You can do this, Elise.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, shutting out the world. I pictured Dag and imagined what he’d do in this situation. That was easy. He’d swallow his fear and go stand in the line, probably knocking people out of the way to reach the front. Of course, he was also a Viking hero and completely fictional, a creation of my own quixotic imagination.

Tugging a lock of dirty-blond hair over my scar, I spun back and found Jin’s familiar dark head about a hundred people away. The shimmering violet tips of his hair made him easy to identify among the crowd. Focusing only on the bobbing clusters of purple, I made it to him as the line began to move. He smiled as I approached.

I’m glad you came
, he signed.

Jin had worked hard to master ASL through high school and it had paid off. I was now easily able to understand his spastic body movements as opposed to insisting he speak instead so I could read his lips. While reading lips allowed me to get along just fine, it wasn’t a perfect means of communication. Lots of things could get in the way—like too many shadows, not enough light, or overgrown facial hair. Often, I understood a little more than half of what someone said, and interpreted the rest through their body language and my own creativity.

I don’t know why we’re here
, I signed back.
I have twenty copies at home.

Because you need to get a life. Or how will you survive college without me?

I ignored the impulse to roll my eyes. No wonder he was headed to Juilliard for theater soon. Jin and drama went together like chocolate and peanut butter.

I’ll write
, I signed.
Who needs people when I have my laptop?

You’re hopeless.

I shrugged and pointed behind him as the line moved up. We inched past the rows of darkened stores and toward the brightly lit Bookworm. I couldn’t suppress my smile as I spotted the green worm woven through the
O
’s of the sign above the door. I’d been coming to this store since I was a toddler begging my mother to buy me every picture book on the shelf. Bookworm always felt like home.

When we finally made it inside, my breath hooked in the back of my throat. The mingling scents of new books, teenage sweat, and air-conditioning wafted around us. I blinked against the lights and pulled my body in tight. The usually calm store was a flurry of activity as people raced to the shelves and the cashiers. My personal space dwindled down to almost nothing and I stole a longing glance at the exit.

The store had really gone all out for the book release. Banners announcing
Viking Moon Three: Sticks and Stones
hung from the ceilings and the ends of bookshelves. Models of the ships from the books marked the entrance to the young adult section. They’d even hired actors to play Thora and Dag. The pair stood on either side of the boats, greeting customers and posing for pictures.

I ducked my head at the rush of pride creeping through my skin, momentarily muting the anxiety. Although none of them knew it, these hordes of people were here for me.

Jin tugged my arm to get my attention. The store was packed; he didn’t have much room, so he spoke as opposed to signing. “This is insane!”

I widened my eyes and shook my head. “Crazy.”

He dragged me over to a rapidly emptying shelf of
Sticks and Stones
novels. Grabbing one of the last copies, Jin triumphantly held up his book.

“No matter how many of these come out, I’ll still never believe you wrote them,” he said. My heart skipped a beat. I grabbed his arm and scanned the crowd. When my eyes returned to his, he smirked. “Don’t worry, psycho. I whispered it.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Although,” he said, “if I’d written a bestselling series at sixteen, I’d sure as hell want to tell people.”

No thanks
, I signed.
I had no desire to tell people three years ago, and I don’t need to tell them now.

“So years of royalty checks and world recognition haven’t changed anything?”

“No.” I fingered my scar. “Not a thing.”

“Like I said. Hopeless.”

He shoved me gently as we pushed through the crowds to stand in line at the cash register. I pried the book from his hand and ran my fingers along the cover, marveling at the art. The artist had created a perfect version of Thora, her red hair flowing behind her like fire as she clutched her sword and shot a sensual smile at Dag, a well-defined hunk of a man. Dag was bare-chested, with a traditional Viking silver-horned hat on his head and furs around his waist. He stared down at Thora with a longing that caused a warm flush to creep up my cheeks and made me tingle in places lower than that.

I traced the raised lines at the bottom pronouncing my pen name, Aubrey Lynch. Flipping the book over, I opened it to the author bio page at the back.

Aubrey Lynch lives in Fernbrooke, Ohio. When she’s not writing, she enjoys water-skiing and hiking. She’s the bestselling author of the
Viking Moon
series, soon to be a television show.

I grimaced. The first part, about where I lived, was true. Fernbrooke had always been my home and probably always would be. The call of big cities was one I’d never felt the need to answer. The second bit, though . . . well, I’d never been on water skis. And the one time I’d tried to hike anywhere, I’d gotten incredibly lost and had been sure I’d die in the woods after consuming a poisoned berry. Thank goodness for cell phones and Jin.

Someone touched my shoulder. I looked up at Jin, his dark eyebrows furrowed. He tapped the bio page.

“I completely understand using a pen name and fake bio,” he said. “But I’ll never understand why you used a fake photo, too.”

I glanced down. Above the ridiculously untrue bio was the picture of a stunning girl who looked to be about my age. She had long, dark hair and piercing green eyes. She was free of any scars or insecurities as she smiled at the camera. Basically, she was everything I wasn’t.

When my editor had come to me three years ago and told me the publisher needed an author photo for promotion and the back of the first book, my stomach did more somersaults than if I’d been riding a roller coaster at superspeed. I’d spent years learning how to avoid having my picture taken. I had looking at the floor at just the right time down to a science and I’d perfected moving at the last second so everything came out a blur. This made finding a picture to send to my publisher an impossible feat. Despite the fact that my Instagram feed was full of other people’s selfies—with the odd pet or food pic thrown in to prove they weren’t entirely narcissistic—I didn’t have a single usable photo of myself.

After weeks of my editor badgering me and giving me a solid deadline, I did what any self-conscious teen girl would do—I gave her a picture of someone else. I’d never met the girl in the photo. I didn’t even know her name. But she looked exactly how I wished I could. The confidence in her eyes was something I would never master. Plus, the fans loved her. There were fan sites devoted to her hair, her eyes, her perfectly peaked nose. And the fact that her image gave me anonymity once the books hit it big was a bonus. I didn’t belong in the spotlight. She clearly did.

Shrugging, I handed Jin the book as we moved forward in line.

I don’t know
, I signed.
Didn’t want the attention.

“Where did you even get that picture?”

“Google.”

Jin shook his head and we found ourselves at the front of the line. He sauntered to the cashier and I stepped aside, my muscles unclenching as I stole a moment away from the crowd. I surveyed the plethora of teens around me. Many were already flipping open the book, their eyes darting back and forth as they skimmed the pages.

Although I usually tried to avoid lip-reading private conversations, curiosity overcame me and I studied the mouths of those around me. Sometimes—especially moments like this, when I wanted to know what people thought of my work but didn’t want to actually talk to them—it came in handy.

Jin once tried to convince me I should use my lip-reading ability for good and become a superhero, or a government spy. I’d reminded him I wasn’t one for binding leather outfits, or capes, or running. He’d rolled his eyes as far back as they could go and declared me “no fun.”

But surely it couldn’t hurt to see what my fans thought of my books now. I was here, after all.

“I heard one of the major characters gets killed,” said a girl with a red-haired wig askew on her forehead. Dressing up like Thora seemed to be a popular choice among the fans swarming the store.

“It better not be Dag,” her friend said. “I’ll never forgive Aubrey Lynch if she kills him off.”

The fake redhead nodded and clutched the book to her chest. “He’s so hot. I wonder who’ll play him in the TV show.”

“I heard they signed Gavin Hartley,” her friend said.

I froze. No one had told
me
that. I’d been anxiously awaiting a text from my agent to tell me the casting news. I could barely believe they were filming a series of
my
book. I wasn’t sure I could handle them casting Gavin, my all-time favorite actor, too. I’d suggested him to my agent as the ideal choice to play Dag when the news of the TV show first broke, but hadn’t heard anything since.

Jin came toward me, a smile pasted on his face and a yellow bag slung over his shoulder. He glanced behind me and stopped. His eyes widened. At the same moment, the energy of the crowd shifted. Everyone turned and gaped in my direction. Then they started to run.

My heart knocked around my chest. Oh no. Oh nononono. Somehow, they’d figured out who I was.

I shielded myself with my arms as they drew closer—and then ran right past me, a breeze in their wake, knocking me off balance.

Jin grabbed my wrist to steady me. He cocked his head as though he was trying to determine what to do. Then he spun me toward the commotion.

My breath gasped out of my chest and I almost fell to the floor.

“Impossible,” I whispered. “She can’t be here.”

But as many times as I shut my eyes and tried to blink reality back into place, the vision never faltered.

The girl from the back of my books was standing right behind me.