Free Flirting With Fame (Flirting With Fame) by Samantha Joyce Page B

Hill, Fernbrooke, Ohio.

L ater that day, I sat in my car outside the modest two-floor home on Gentry Hill, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles hurt. It wasn’t hard for me to find fake Aubrey’s street. She lived only a few blocks away from my parents. But really, in a town as tiny as Fernbrooke, everyone lived only a few blocks away from anyone else.
    I scanned for signs of movement through the windows, running scenarios through my mind. It was possible this was all a setup. That this Dean Adams person was actually a serial killer, luring young fans of Viking Moon to his home with a false story about knowing the author. For all I knew, his basement was a collection of cages full of Viking wannabes or his lawn a freshly dug graveyard.
    The house itself didn’t help. Nothing about it screamed, “A serial killer does not live here.” In fact, it barely looked like anyone lived there. If the smell of freshly cut grass weren’t wafting through my window, I might have assumed the home was vacant. It had a sad, unloved quality that made my heart ache.
    I double-checked and triple-checked the address against the message on my phone. This was definitely the place.
    I took a deep breath and opened the car door. My legs wobbled as I drew closer to the white fence surrounding the front lawn.
    If I survived this meeting and a serial killer didn’t reside here, what would I say to this woman? What if she was a crazy person who had somehow convinced herself she actually was the writer of my books? Was she angry I chose to plaster her face on a series of young adult novels? She hadn’t seemed angry that night in the bookstore, but the first Viking Moon book debuted three years ago. I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d felt when she first saw her picture on the back cover. I’d spent the first year after the release waiting for my agent to barge through my door with the girl in tow, asking what the hell was going on. Every year since, I’d waited for the ax to fall and nothing had happened.
    I stood at the door and took a few shallow breaths before pressing the doorbell. Then I waited. When the door remained closed after a few agonizing minutes, I pushed the button again.
    My finger still hovered over the bell when the door flew open and a pair of angry eyes met mine. The woman from the bookstore stood in a white robe with a towel wrapped around her hair.
    “What the hell? Didn’t you hear me tell you to hang on? You didn’t need to keep hitting the button like a freak.”
    Her minty breath breezed across my cheeks, punctuating the sharpness of her words.
    Well, we were off to a good start.
    “Uh, sorry.” I rubbed my neck and stared at the hotel logo on her robe. It was from a popular spot in Las Vegas. “I’m actually deaf. I didn’t hear you.”
    “Oh.” Her body remained tensed and she clasped her robe tighter. “Well, what do you want? Are you another fan? I don’t have a marker on me to sign anything right now.”
    “Um, not really. I was actually wondering if I could come in and talk to you.”
    “What? Are you crazy? No, I’m not letting a stranger into my house. You could be a stalker or something.”
    I laughed under my breath. “I’m not, I swear.”
    “Oh, and I’m supposed to take your word? Is that it? What, I should feel sorry for you ’cause you’re deaf and have a horrible scar on your face? Is this some kind of Make-A-Wish thing? Because I’m really not in the mood.”
    Shame ripped through my body with hot talons. I lowered my head so my hair would fall over the sides of my face and I stared at her bare feet. They were perfectly pedicured, the toenails painted a deep violet.
    “No,” I whispered. “That’s not it at all. I need to talk to you about Viking Moon and—”
    Her hand shot out to my chest, nudging me back on the stairs. Her fingernails were the same purple as her toes.
    “Look, I already said I’m not talking to any fans today. I don’t even know how fans