How to (Not) Date a Popstar |✓|

1.2 Somebody That I Used To Know

Turns out Tyler couldn't stay away, overnighting his hotel key, along with a personally written apology. But I didn't want him to get the wrong idea, so I dragged Quinn along.

A platinum popstar with his own private jet, and the hottest songs on the radio, Tyler lived on the top floor of a luxury hotel; apparently he wasn't home.

"Whoa." Quinn dragged her ombré blonde waves from her face for a better view of the apartment's bells and whistles. "Ya boy is loaded. Look at this stuff."

"I still can't believe he lives like this now," I breathed, running my hand along a Victorian accent chair.

Quinn circled a sleek pool table in the sitting room. She grabbed a stick, racking a new game as I plopped on a settee the color of champagne.

"Tyler was a jackass at the signing and his manager is the devil in Gucci. Why are we even here?"

"He apologized and gave me a room key. I'm willing to hear him out. I just don't want him to think I'm a toy he can play with when he feels like coming home and put me back on the shelf when he leaves."

"You could have said that in an e-mail." One sleeve of her jean jacket had slipped, exposing one flawless, tanned shoulder. She tucked her long, honey waves behind her shoulder, closing one eye as she lined up the shot...

We heard a noise from down the main hall, followed by the sound of approaching voices. Eyes on the door, Quinn took a step back, bumping into a small end-table furnished with a giant yellow egg. I sat up when it fell, clapping my hand over my mouth at the sight of the Fabergé in a million pieces on the floor.

Naturally, we panicked. I leaped from the settee; Quinn threw down the pool stick. I grabbed her arm, dashing into the closet across the room. We sat on the floor, clutching each other in the darkness. The door was shuttered; we had a perfect view of the three men who entered the sitting room.

"It's Tyler's dad!" I whispered.

"Shit! Are we gonna die?"

"Yes!"

I held my breath, listening to Tyler's dad as he addressed two men that had followed him inside. One was a balding giant, the buttons bursting from the business suit stretched across his massive frame. The other man wore a turtleneck with gold and silver jewelry. He was tall and thin like Mr. Moore, blonde hair pulled into a bun.

"I have it, it's right here. I'm telling you it's worth a fortune. My son's grandmother left it for him. But Tyler doesn't even know how much it's worth. Kids these days..."

"Just give us egg," said the giant, in a curt, Russian accent. "Then we are circle."

"The word you are looking for is square, Bortnik." The thin man was also Russian. He lit a cigarette, glancing around the apartment. "Your son has provided you with a comfortable life, Mr. Moore. And you repay him by stealing?  Is there no honor among thieves?"

"Don't use my son against me, Aleksandr. You want your money, don't you? Then take the egg. After that, you tell your father I'm done."

"Za Zdarovje, Mr. Moore." Aleksandr flicked his ashes and took another drag. "Circles and squares."

Pete circled the couch, heading for the end-table. Goosebumps rippled across my skin as I watched his gaze travel from the empty table, to the egg fragments under his feet.

Pete cursed.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Moore?" Aleksandr's lazy drawl was heavy with amusement.

"It-it's broken. The egg is goddamn broken!"