Page 3 of Popular (Private: The Extended Edition #5)

Janae

Yeah, it’s probably not healthy to be this into a stage combat panel.

But like…I am.

Because it’s dancing.

Violent dancing to an explosion soundtrack.

I mean what the fuck is better than that?!

Oh!

Maybe I should take a stage combat course if I don’t get offered the lead choreographer gig!

That could be a fun change of career choice unlike being told you’re now “too old” to be a professional cheerleader in the NBA because you’re a little over thirty.

And by a little over I mean a few months.

Literally.

Months.

Applause for the group of directors from The Society of American Fight Directors immediately begins upon their stated ending and continues with standing ovations I’m proud to be a part of for another forty seconds or so.

However, the instant the crowd begins to disperse, something I’m less pleased with appears.

“Hey, J,” slyly greets Wheeler from my left, appearing like he’s one of the long lost Duras Sisters. “Knew I’d find you here.”

Of course, he fucking knew I’d be here.

It’s a dance themed panel!

The only thing I love more than Star Trek is dance, although there have been times when I’m pretty sure I love the former more.

Probably because it never had someone tell me I was too fat.

Or too dark skinned.

Or too tall.

Or not tall enough.

Or didn’t have enough ass.

Or enough tits.

Or wasn’t worth the zeroes I worked tirelessly for on every contract I signed.

“Wheeler,” I cordially greet back knowing better than to fully engage.

Yeah.

He’s one of those give a person an inch, they take you screaming on a cross-country road trip type of individuals.

“Come on, peaches…” His body noticeably creeps closer. “You know I like it when my girl calls me Wheels.”

“I am not your girl, Wheeler.” Sliding my hands into the back pockets of my cut-off jeans occurs between declarations. “And I am not interested in being her ever again.”

“How about we talk about that shit?” The corner of his mouth villainously kicks upward. “See, if I can change your mind?”

“There’s no mind here to change,” is instantly declared. “No part of me wants any part of you .” My head tilts condescendingly to one side, allowing my dark strands to brush my white, classic Uhura tank top covered shoulder. “And I do mean no part of me, Wheeler.”

That’s typically the hard sell for most of my exes.

Guess it’s my fault for allowing them to stay past their contract dates simply to have someone I could call on when I needed a round in the sack to blow off post work steam.

Being jobless is an easy – albeit awful – fix to that issue.

Which is kind of my style like crop tops and tank tops.

To no surprise, he attempts to argue, “But-”

“ There you are, beloved, ” interrupts my dirty blond, fake – yet very real feeling – boyfriend during his entering of the row from the right side.

“Apologies for being so late I couldn’t sit beside you.

” As if in his arms are the only place I’ve ever belonged, he slides one along the small of my back so that his fingers can possessively clamp down on my hip.

“I keep telling myself these crises will lessen post launch next month, but I’m starting to think that’s just an unfortunate coping mechanism to deal with the constant, poorly timed calls. ”

“ Likely, ” I lovingly tease up at him to further sell the bit.

Alright, so, yeah.

Convincing a totally hot stranger at a Star Trek fan convention to pretend to be my boyfriend wasn’t the best top of the pyramid idea I could’ve concocted; however, it wasn’t the worst.

And you know what?

I blame my brother.

Had he been doing his part in our sibling getaway rather than letting his part do the doing then using a stranger like a cheap escort wouldn’t have been necessary!

But…admittedly…I kinda like the stranger.

The stranger who is a little less of a stranger now.

We met, scared off Wheeler, learned we’re both from Highland, and then shared a single drink while engaging in “Cadet Testing” – bar trivia – which began five minutes post our drinks arriving.

And despite my ex never popping back up, we continued to totally lean into our fake coupling for the rest of the night.

I liked leaning against him.

He liked having his arm draped around my shoulder.

And clearly, we both liked holding hands hence why we did it during the walk back to my room where I wanted to invite him in, consummate the pretend relationship, and burn off a bit of the lingering resentment over being turned down for another choreographer gig.

Not that I really wanted to work behind the scenes on that reality show.

No.

What I want to do is cheer in the league.

Sadly, that’s no longer an option.

However, I’d be happy to take over training and choreographing for my old team.

That actually is a possibility.

You know.

If they ever call me for a second audition.

“We were in the middle of a private convo, man,” Wheeler unhappily grumps. “Mind if we finish?”

“ Can’t, ” leaves me before J.T. has to even consider creating an excuse. “We’ve got a holodeck tee-time coming up.”

“I love that they chose glow-in-the-dark mini golf to represent that,” the man whose hold I can’t stop myself from leaning into declares.

“Sames!”

“I’ve got one within the hour too,” my ex casually informs. “Guess I’ll just have to find an opening to squeeze into.”

“ Won’t be one, ” J.T. firmly states.

“Hm,” hums Wheeler as he slowly retreats backwards for the exit, “we’ll see.”

Once he’s no longer within listening distance, I lock eyes with my sweet-faced savior and plead, “Please, tell me this doesn’t ruin your lunch plans.”

“Not at all.” His thumb delivers a soothing stroke to the skin underneath it. “I like any chance I get to spend more time with you.”

“I like that too.”

“ Plus ,” he proceeds at the same time he retrieves his vibrating cell from his board shorts pocket, “I like the fact I actually get to do the Voyager activity I had to miss doing earlier because of my vacay partner who is literally going to have the Grim Reaper cussing at his watch on the day of her death because she can’t tell time. ”

“Fuck off, Puppet Boy,” a feminine voice unexpectedly huffs, redirecting my attention away from his texting to where she’s now standing. “I can tell time. You just can’t stop working.”

“I can stop working,” mutters the male beside me, finger frantically racing across the keys.

“ Totally ,” mocks the almost intimidatingly beautiful woman on the other side prior to extending her light mocha brown skinned hand in my direction, “ Bryn. ”

“ Nae ,” is attached to our polite shaking.

This is the best friend he’s here on vacation with?!

Look, I don’t scare easy, especially in the looks department – because I would’ve never become one of the highest paid cheerleaders in the NBA or a celebrity style icon if I had – but this chick is fucking stunning.

Tall.

Fit yet curvy.

Great tits.

Striking blue eyes made to pop with blue eyeliner.

Great taste in entertainment along with clothing given that she’s here and wearing the exact same tank as me in a different color.

She’s a ten.

A solid fucking ten.

How could he not be secretly in love with her?

Or…is he and he just doesn’t know it?

Am I her fill in?

Is he using our fake thing to make her jealous?

To make her realize that he’s always been the right one for her?

ForSevenofNinesake , why does that idea piss me off?

And why do I feel like I have no right to be pissed off by it?

I guess I don’t.

I mean I’m the one using him to discourage my ex from continuing to pursue me.

I’m the one who purposely chose what appeared to be the clean cut, well put together, most likely to be voted America’s Sweetheart to make the bad boy, man ho, thinks he can have any woman in the world without trying asshat jealous.

I’m the one who got this fake shit in motion, so I’m definitely the one who has the least claim to being indignant.

Okay, but like I am, anyway.

Totally about to step into the clingy, fuck off, this is my man, role I’ve played before.

Although this time I’m not sure I’ll be pretending for the sake of the media that’s watching.

And of course, they’re watching.

They always are.

Even with J.T. and I both having sent body doubles elsewhere for them to stalk during what we had both planned to be a paparazzi free getaway.

Forcibly swallowing my irritation precedes me playfully elbowing my phony boyfriend. “You failed to mention your best friend was a fucking drop dead gorgeous bish.”

“Aw,” Bryn theatrically coos, “ you I TNG approve of him banging unlike that raggedy cunt blowup doll that went Chucky on my family.”

“That’s not…” his head profusely shakes as our stares find each other’s once more. “Th-th-that didn’t…” More head shakes. Stammers. “It…it…wasn’t…” Additional flashes of frustration are accompanied by cringes. “She wasn’t actually a blowup doll.”

“I like those a lot more than I ever did her.”

“I don’t have a blowup doll,” J.T. quickly insists.

“But to be fair I like the orcas in The Voyage Home more than I liked her, and I fucking hate those dolphin demon descendants.”

“I’ve never had a blowup doll,” my pretend partner shamelessly confesses louder than he probably intended considering the random glances he suddenly receives. Redness swiftly seeps into his cheeks prompting him to snip at her, “This is why I hate you.”

“Love me.”

“Tolerate you.”

“ Need me.”

“Need space from you.”

“ Siblings. ” Warm giggles of relief escape into the air. “You two are basically siblings.”

“Yeah,” they retort in tandem, allowing additional reprieve to settle into the situation.

“Nightwing over here has never done it for me.” Her thumb kicks itself towards him while he resumes texting. “But his Bat bestie?” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, moans, and bounces in place. “That’s my Mr. Wayne. ‘Til death or Day Octopus do us part.”

J.T. momentarily halts typing to uncomfortably claim, “You said they don’t hunt humans.”