Shooting Star: A Star Bright Prequel Novella Read online

  Shooting Star

  A Star Bright Prequel Novella

  Staci Hart

  Copyright © 2020 Staci Hart

  All rights reserved.

  stacihartnovels.com

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover by Quirky Bird

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

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  Playlist: https://spoti.fi/3dSGpfc

  Pin Board: https://bit.ly/2BZ0oLK

  Contents

  1. Excelsior!

  2. What If

  3. Truth Hurts

  4. Go Big or Go Home

  5. As You Wish

  Epilogue

  Also by Staci Hart

  1

  Excelsior!

  The dance floor bounced.

  I meant that literally—the reverberation from my swing-dancing friends shook the floor all the way up to where I stood on a platform off the side of the parquet. It was a sight to behold. The victory rolls and saddle shoes. Costumed sailors and soldiers. The occasional glimpse of petticoats as a girl was flipped over somebody’s shoulder under the golden glow of naked Edison bulbs.

  None of my friends had known how to swing dance before tonight. The professional dancers I’d planted in the crowd showed them how. And from the looks of things, they were quick studies.

  I smiled at the thought, glancing at the gigantic banner over the stage that read, Victory!

  The party was Zeke’s idea—one of my best friends, though tonight, he was here as Zelda Fitzperil, her drag name—a victory party to celebrate the end of lockdown. It’d been so long since we’d all been in the same place, and you could see the relief and joy on every face under the roof.

  All I had to say was, thank God for inoculations.

  Our freedom warranted a celebration, and this one took the cake. My closest friends had pitched in ideas—their specialty. The trick was getting it done, which was where I came in. I’d taken their ideas and multiplied until every little detail was planned, and the end result was nothing short of spectacular. The theme was World War II, and to find the location, I’d come up with a treasure hunt—telegram invitations with instructions as to where to start and where their first clue could be found. A Rosie the Riveter street performer in Washington Park had one. A diner in The Village had another when you ordered a milkshake. An ammo box full of dossiers of every attendee waited under a park bench on The High Line to direct them here.

  And God, did it feel good to be out.

  The energy in the room was palpable, and I wanted to soak it up like a big, fat sponge.

  I spotted my closest friends on the dance floor. Betty, her raven hair up in victory rolls with a giant red flower behind her ear to match her dress and lips, which were curled in a downright wanton smile at the sailor who’d been twirling her around for the last half hour. Joss’s strawberry-blonde Hollywood waves bounced—ever the epitome of effortless glamour, befitting the Hollywood starlet she was—as she jitterbugged with one of our friends. And Zelda was—

  I looked around, frowning when I didn’t find her.

  “Looking for this?” she asked, placing an old fashioned in my hand.

  Z was gorgeous, more gorgeous than any of us on a regular day—alabaster skin and bone structure to die for—but in her pinup Army outfit, she was spectacular. A wool garrison cap sat nestled in platinum victory rolls—this particular wig was named Sally—and her uniform was a tiny, tailored cap-sleeved crop top coupled with high-waisted shorts. It was one of her favorite drag show outfits, the usual performance to “I Wish I Was Back in the Army.” In her vintage red heels, she was at least a foot taller than me.

  “Cheers, Stella. You outdid yourself, which is a feat, given how extra you are.”

  I laughed, clinking my glass to hers. “You’re one to talk.”

  She shrugged. “Why aren’t you out there dancing?”

  “Dex disappeared.”

  A derisive snort at the mention of my boyfriend-not-boyfriend.

  “Stop it. I wanted to come up here and watch you all anyway.”

  “Oh, I’m sure standing up here all by yourself is preferable to dancing with your … Dex.”

  “Well, Miss High and Mighty, where’s Roman?”

  “He’s around here somewhere,” Z said with the wave of her hand.

  “So exactly where Dex is?”

  She gave me a look. “I trust Roman.”

  For the life of me, I had no idea why. “I trust Dex. That’s what open relationship means—open. He tells me everything.”

  Her look intensified.

  “Well, everything I need to know.”

  “Open relationship,” she scoffed. “Him fucking who he wants and you only fucking him?”

  “Don’t be vulgar,” I teased.

  “Dex rhymes with ex. I’m just saying.”

  I laughed. “If it doesn’t bother me, why does it bother you?” I asked with enough conviction, even I believed it.

  Z didn’t.

  “We’ve been together well over a year. Why are we still talking about this?”

  “Because I don’t believe you, Stella Spencer.”

  “Well, believe it, baby. I’m a modern woman with modern ideals. Love and monogamy aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

  “You’ve gotten so good at bullshitting through Dex’s line, I think you might actually believe yourself.”

  “God, look who put on her judgy pants tonight,” I joked, deflecting.

  Z sighed, an impatient sound. “What if I’m not just fine with your … arrangement with Dex? You’ve been together all this time, and he hasn’t figured out that you’re the end all. Which either means he’s stupid or he’s really fucking stupid.”

  I frowned when I realized this was more of a trigger than an ambush. “What happened?”

  This time, the noise she made was a huff. “Nothing. I just saw him talking to Veronica Fisher, and the look on her face said she was about to shimmy out of her panties and stuff them in his mouth.”

  I smiled through the pluck of jealousy in my ribs. “Veronica Fisher would stuff her panties in your mouth, if you let her.”

  Z rolled her eyes. “Who wouldn’t? If he hadn’t kept his hands to himself and three Bibles’ worth of space between them, I would have swept the leg.”

  At confirmation that Dex hadn’t accepted Veronica’s undergarment invitation, my smile widened. “He’s here with me. He’s always here with me.”

  “I’m just saying—if I saw Roman with ass that eager in front of him, I wouldn’t be smiling about it.”

  “Oh, really? You’d jump in the middle of it and mark your territory?”

  At that, she huffed again.

  “Exactly. Because Roman wouldn’t be amused. You two are honest with each other when you fool around. And last time I checked, you weren’t fooling around. Our situations aren’t so different.” I softened, meeting her eyes with understanding. “We love who we love, and we put up with a lot of shit to hang on to that feeling. Don’t we?”

  A pause. Her eyes searched mine. “You know he’s no
t right for you, Stella.”

  “And you know Roman isn’t your forever either.”

  That truth hung heavy between us for a long moment. But before either of us spoke again, her eyes flicked behind me, and whatever she saw soured her face.

  I knew who it was the second his hand slipped into my waist. I turned into Dex with the smile his proximity always evoked.

  Z watched on in thinly veiled dismay.

  “Hey, babe,” Dex cooed, kissing me sweetly. “I was looking for you.”

  I sighed into him, curling into his chest like a kitten. He was handsome on a regular day, but in his vintage Army uniform? With his crystal-blue eyes and sandy-blond hair, being in his arms was like being on a tropical island—nothing else mattered.

  That was part of his magic. No matter what he believed regarding monogamy and marriage, no matter who else he saw, when I was with him, I was the only girl in the whole world.

  When I wasn’t with him … well, I didn’t think much about that if I could help it. Z did not make this easy.

  “Dance with me,” he commanded hotly, his smile tilted and eyes on my lips. “You, in this dress, in these garters …” His hand trailed over my hip to the hem of my black A-line dress, and his fingers curled, gathering the fabric until his knuckles brushed the bare flesh over my stocking. “You’re the prettiest thing in Manhattan.”

  I laughed. “You’re shameless, you know that?”

  “It’s been said.” He kissed me again, hard enough to buckle my knees. When he broke the kiss, he stepped back. “One drink, and I’m going to spin you around on the dance floor until you’re dizzy.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” With a wink that, beyond all reason, was hot, he turned for the bar.

  I sighed, watching him go before turning back to Z.

  Her arms were folded, her hip was popped, and her eyes said a whole mouthful without speaking a word.

  This is less about you and Dex and more about Roman.

  They’d moved in together, taken a step in their relationship that Z took far more seriously than Roman did. Before, it’d been fun and games. But now? Now they were committed in a whole new way, which felt like the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. We all knew Roman wasn’t cut out for it. But all we could do was hope we were wrong.

  Z’s distrust of Dex wasn’t much different, and I didn’t blame her for thinking it. Dex and I had been close friends for a decade, lovers for well over a year. We were each other’s plus-ones, the constant. The steady, even though we operated under convenience and the pretense of independence. By the media’s account, we were an item, photographed together more often than not. In my heart, we were too. But there were no promises made, no strings on us, only the condition that Dex didn’t believe in monogamy, even though I was the girl he dated and they were the girls for sport.

  But in the small hours of the morning, whispering in the dark, he was mine, and I was his. And that was enough.

  Did I wish I could have him all to myself? Absolutely. But he had his beliefs, and I couldn’t change them. Mine were flexible enough to accommodate him. So it was open and honest between us. I took what I could get because what I got, I loved. And when he looked at me like he was just then, I was in the only place I wanted to be. Even if I knew it was temporary.

  Mercifully, our friends mobbed us, talking all at once—Betty with a sailor on her arm, Joss glistening and apple-cheeked, and Roman, who was also dressed as a sailor but with a fifth of the fabric.

  Roman was only shorter than Z for her heels—a tan, built, sharp-jawed hunk who basked in Z’s attention like a snake in the sun. Really, that puppy look Z had just silently berated me for glowed on her face as she laughed at something he’d said, the two of them in their own little bubble the second he’d entered her orbit.

  Betty and I shared a look at the sight of them.

  Roman was one of those guys—you know the type. Too much charm, too frequent a smile, with cunning eyes and a silver tongue. Before Z, Roman was a notorious whore, an untamable beast. But Z had domesticated him. Supposedly. The occasional dalliance was allowed as long as it wasn’t serious and under the condition that they were honest about it.

  But I wasn’t one to judge, and until recently, Z hadn’t been either. Z loved him, and we loved Z. So that, as they said, was that.

  Betty made a noise, and when I looked, her face wore a hint of a snarl as her eyes fixed on the bar. “Who invited Dominique?”

  Her name sent the standard jolt up my spine, and I whipped my face toward the bar. Dex was facing her with his cavalier smile that made every girl feel special, and she leaned right back, laughing like an asshole as she trailed a hand down his shirtfront. She wore a gorgeous emerald dress with a tiny belt around her tiny waist, her skirts swaying with even the smallest motion. Somehow, she managed to look both demure and sultry, and the effect had caught Dex’s attention.

  This did not improve my mood.

  To my pleasure, he removed her hand from his chest. To my displeasure, his smile was still velvety and inviting. She pouted prettily as he picked up his drink, nodding at her before heading back to me.

  I didn’t avert my gaze, didn’t pretend like I hadn’t seen the exchange. I just smiled at him like it was all good as he approached. Because I wouldn’t flinch, not because of Dominique. Even if she was smirking at me with the confidence of a girl looking for a fight.

  It didn’t matter.

  He always came back to me.

  Dex slammed his whiskey and grabbed my hand, towing me toward the dance floor to spin me just like he’d said. With a smile on his face and his eyes full of love, he grabbed me by the waist and the hand and whirled us until I was laughing, hanging on to him so I didn’t fly away. And when he slowed, my body was pressed to his, his lips at my ear to remind me of all the ways I wished I could keep him, even though I knew it was all wrong.

  Warmth bloomed in my heart, the glow of it spreading over me like sunshine.

  The air bubbled and fizzed like champagne, every face and smile around me living the same moment, and that moment was pure joy. These were my people. This was my home. We weren’t only here for the thrill of it—we needed each other. We craved the connection of our friendship and the comfort and safety we found. And with all of us here together, celebrating life, I was filled with a sense of belonging I only found in this space, with these people.

  Here, we belonged.

  And I’d brought us all here tonight. I’d orchestrated the circumstance, built the environment for it to exist.

  I didn’t want to lose the feeling—I wanted it to last forever. I wanted it intensely, and I wanted it often. I wanted to fill that well and keep it full.

  I had the means to make that happen.

  And with a detonation of pleasure in my heart at the thought, I figured out just how I might do it.

  2

  What If

  “I have an idea,” I said with a smile on my face and my pink-and-gold planner under my palm.

  Joss and Betty perked up in their seats. Zeke flinched, sagging in his chair, looking dapper by way of fashion but hungover behind his sunglasses.

  “You don’t have to yell, Stella,” he said.

  “Drink your Bloody Mary and hush,” I ordered. “So last night, I was just watching everyone be together. I could feel it. Euphoria.”

  “Collective effervescence,” Joss offered. “When we come together and feel the same experience. Like tapping into the same energy at the same time. Like what you feel when you go to a concert. Or church.”

  Zeke snorted. “If we walked into a church, I think we’d spontaneously combust.”

  “Betty would for sure,” I said, dodging a potato wedge. “But yes, exactly that. God, I missed that. But it wasn’t just the party—it was the whole thing. The treasure hunt. The costumes. The atmosphere. It felt like we’d walked through a doorway into the ’40s, totally immersive. All I could think was how I just wanted to live in that feel
ing. And I had an idea for another party.” My lips curled up in a smile. “So remember the Bright Young Things?”

  Zeke popped up straight, flipping up his glasses. At the intensity of the light—which was nil inside the restaurant—he put them back, but rather than sag back into his seat, he leaned in. “It’s like you’ve never met me. They’re the reason I dress like this.” He gestured to himself, a decidedly vintage look to his cuffed shirt and suspenders, his hair—which was chin length in the front when down—neatly combed, exposing his undercut.

  I sat back with a smile on my face and let him take it away, just like I’d known he would.

  “Here we go,” Betty said, tossing a potato wedge in her mouth rather than at me.

  Zeke cut her a look.

  “You can tell me, Zeke. I can’t remember,” sweet Joss said, smiling as she lied her face off.

  “Celebrity culture wouldn’t exist without them. They were the face of the youth in London after World War I, the generation of carpe diem. The country lost nearly a million people in that war, and the younger generation had a lust for life that broke the mold the aristocracy had used for hundreds of years. And from the most audacious of those youths was born the Bright Young Things. Everyone wanted to know where the were, what they were doing. Everyone wanted to be them. Well, everyone young, at least. And their king was Cecil Beaton.”

  “Well, I don’t know about king,” I started. “Stephen Tennant—”

  Zeke cut me a look. “Cecil Beaton was king. End of.”

  “So I was thinking. It’s almost New Year’s. What better way to ring it in than with a Bright Young Things party? It’s the ’20s all over again.”

  Now all three of them leaned in. Zeke looked like he was about to crawl out of his skin with excitement.