The Fakers

11: Liam

"We're here live with controversial Hollywood heartthrob, Liam Black. He's the star of the hit television show, Confessions of a Hollywood Vampire. Liam, how are you this morning?"

"I'm great, Nancy, thanks for asking," I said enthusiastically. Truth be told, I was hungover and sleep-deprived, but I pushed through the pain and smiled winningly for the rolling cameras.

"Liam, you caused a tabloid firestorm when you married a woman in Las Vegas a few days ago. Some say it was a publicity stunt, while others believe you're on the verge of a mental breakdown a la Britney Spears. What do you have to say about your Vegas wedding?"

Nancy, you filthy whore.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matt put both hands on his head and mouth a certain f-word. I echoed the sentiment. However, the purpose of this interview was to endear me to the public, and more importantly, to the CW executives who had been voicing concerns about my wild behavior, so I had to keep my cool.

"I didn't get married at all, actually," I said with a practiced chuckle. "I had a wedding-style photoshoot with one of my lovely fans, Norah, for her birthday. I truly have the best fans in the world, so I always try to show them my appreciation. As luck would have it, I broke my phone right as the photos from our shoot went viral. I had no idea everyone thought it was a real marriage until I returned to L.A." I smiled at Nancy, expecting the middle-aged talk show host to swoon at the sight of my dimples.

She didn't.

I knew right then that Nancy George had it out for me.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"So you were in Vegas, thought it was a good idea to fake-marry one of your fans, and broke your phone. Liam, I have to ask what we're all thinking: just how drunk were you?"

The infamous wedding photo appeared on the screen behind us, and as much as I hated to admit that Nancy was right, I really did look trashed. My eyes were barely open, my shirt was completely unbuttoned, and I had one arm slung around an overfed Elvis. My groomsmen were cheersing the camera with their flasks (thanks a lot, assholes), and my fake bride – clad in a hot pink bodycon dress – was crying hysterical tears of joy.

I forced another chuckle. "I have to admit, Nancy, I may have had one too many Bloody Marys at brunch."

The overly-Botoxed talk show host just nodded knowingly as she stroked her chin, which she probably had to wax. I hated everything about Nancy George, from her terrible chunky highlights to her tacky red pantsuit.

Nancy was supposed to fawn over me and give me softball questions to answer, but she had pulled every celebrity's worst nightmare: the dreaded bait-and-switch. I had expected a fluff piece of an interview, but instead, I was on the receiving end of a straight-up character assassination. Once this interview was over, I was so going to revenge piss all over the plants in my dressing room.

"Is that Tony Pettyfer and Derek Hoechlin in the photo with you?" she asked.

"Indeed it is," I said flatly.

"The bad boys of teen television," Nancy said with a sarcastic grin, showing an unnerving amount of small teeth. She reminded me of the evil shark from Finding Nemo. "The press has drawn parallels to Oscar winner Leonardo DiCaprio's own entourage, the Wolf Pack," she continued. Her insulting emphasis on "Oscar winner" wasn't lost on me, but I brushed off the slight. "Are you familiar with the Wolf Pack?" she asked.

Of course I was familiar with the Wolf Pack, a.k.a. the Pussy Posse. They were notorious for their hard-partying, womanizing ways, and their yacht parties were what wet dreams were made of (Victoria's Secret models and a literal buffet of drugs).