All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Reality Rocks

I stare at my screen in horror.
Horror.
What am I doing? Am I flirting with him? I tell myself, no, of course not. I’m just fangirling over him. What self-respecting fangirl
wouldn’t
fangirl over her biggest rock star crush with whom she just happens to be texting?

Yes, I am definitely fangirling.

But maybe also flirting.

I think fast, trying to come up with a response that will make me seem a little less like a freaktastically-forward ho-bag. Too late. I hear a ding.

“Is that right?” he asks, adding a surprised-mouth emoticon. “Well, maybe I wish I were there, too.” Wink.

Have mercy. Niles Russell is totally toying with me.

As every single winged creature in my stomach explodes into flight, I inhale a huge breath, thinking about how well I “know” him thanks to my book. I’ve tracked down every interview I could find, covering everything from his punk scene high school days to his random quote to a fan who saw him in a Tim Hortons just yesterday. I’ve watched more videos of him than I can comfortably admit. I know details about his family (including his sister, Kallie, who shares a name with yours truly!), his current and past relationships, and the fact that he hasn’t driven a car in over a year because, well, he doesn’t have to.

Of course, I twisted some of these facts when I created the character of Nash, but he obviously sees right through that. Obviously.

Ding.
“You going to our concert on Friday? Maybe we can say hi after the show or something. I can sign your book, haha.”
Pause.
“Wait. Is that narcissistic? That’s probably a little narcissistic. Sorry.” Sad face.

Is he even kidding me right now? Seeing him in person. Having his name hand-scribbled in a book I wrote based upon my hella-hot fantasies with
him
. If he wants to call it narcissistic, he can go right ahead. I call it
pinch-me-I’m-dreaming
!

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of my laptop screen. It’s hard not to notice my smile has just about taken over the entire circumference of my head. I’m nervous, but excited. Freaked out, but stoked. In five days, I’ll not only see Niles in concert again, I’ll actually meet him, too! Eek!

“Of course I’ll be there,” I type, finding my composure. “Sixth row this time. All that was left. Somebody is getting pretty popular.” I almost erase my winking emoticon but, given how many he’s thrown out there so far, decide to keep it.

“I’ll get you up front. Let’s see if I can pick you out of the crowd. If I reach for your hand, you’ll know I know it’s you.”

My stomach flops again as I think of Niles on stage, looking out over his adoring crowd. Lights in his eyes, sweat pouring down his face, his earpiece dangerously close to falling out, as it seems to at every show. What a thrill that must be (except the earpiece part).

I wonder how often he recognizes faces in the crowd. I’ve seen him make eye contact with people before—even me once when I was in the second row—but he never touches anybody. Ever. He’s a total germophobe and never executes “the reach.” A lot of fans don’t know that about him and get pissy because he doesn’t go crazy making friends with the crowd. But I secretly adore it. Especially now that I might be the lucky one who
will
get to touch him in just a few days.

“I thought you hate touching fans during your shows,” I challenge.

“Yeah, your right. But I feel like I could probably touch a girl who seems to know me so well.”
Pause.
“Wait. Make that *you’re. Better step it up a notch when I’m texting an author.”

As if I weren’t already, I am now officially dying. I seriously can’t even feel my legs. I am floating—levitating—above my chair. I don’t know much about music, but I do know that Niles is one of the most incredible songwriters in the business. His lyrics are bold and touching and raw and real. He’s had some of the biggest-named recording artists recruit him to write with them. A few have even convinced him to record duets and/or features. In my little word-nerd world, having someone like him refer to me as a legit
author
is nearly as incredible as actually conversing with him.

“Make sure you save my number,” he types. “My memory is shit these days. If you haven’t heard from me again by Thursday, give me a yell. And watch your email for tix. You bringing your husband?”

Dude, please. If he read my book, he knows damn well I don’t have a husband anymore.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Right. Good. One ticket. Watch for it.”

One ticket. Niles Russell wants me to watch for one ticket. To his show. Where I’ll see him. And touch him. And—ermergerd!—meet him. How is this even happening?

I know I’m pushing it, but dammit I’m on a roll, so I gather up my big-girl bloomers and ask the one big question that’s been on my mind since the minute he texted.

“So, how did you get my number, Niles? And why?”

“My people called your people, LOL. We had to jump a few hoops, but we got ahold of your agent who had a pretty good feeling you wouldn’t mind hearing from me.” Winky face.

“She was right. Really, really right.” I make a mental note to call Lucy first thing in the morning. She was already my hero to begin with, but now I might have to propose marriage or buy her a house or something as a thank-you for this one. Seriously. I really might.

“What you did was cool. Freaky and trippy, like I said. But cool. So thanks.” Blushing smiley. “See you at the show Friday. Later.”

I set my phone face down on my leg, my mind trying so hard to process this whole thing. But it can’t. I can’t even breathe, let alone understand what just happened.

My phone dings again, and since I’m sure it’s Sara and she is going to
die
when she hears this (after I actually get her to believe me, of course), I flip that puppy over and get my typing thumbs ready.

Except it’s not Sara. It’s yet another selfie of Niles. This time, he’s holding my book in his left hand while giving a thumbs-up. His hair is flopped over his left eye, his right eye is clear and twinkly, and I see just enough of his shirt and jacket to know exactly what he’s wearing to the concert tonight. He is so sexy, I die on the spot.

What. In the hell. Am I getting myself into?

CHAPTER THREE

Let’s Make a Deal

As predicted, Sara doesn’t believe me when I call to share my news. Even after I send her Niles’s first two selfies, which, she claims, I lifted off the Internet. Nope, instead of freaking out with me like I hoped she would, she insists I am finally off my rocker and that my obsession with Niles has morphed from “healthy outlet” to “next stop: Psychoville.”

“Okay then, watch this.” I send her the last thing in my arsenal: the picture of Niles with my book. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

I wait a moment then hear her squeal. Bingo!

“Kallie, where did you get that?! That’s incredible. Is that really him? With your book?”

“Told ya.”

I have a totally captive audience for the next hour as Sara hangs on my every word. I recap our whole texting conversation, and the fact that I’d already heard from him again this evening. He wondered what side of the stage I prefer and if I could text him my email address so his people could send the ticket. I told him I didn’t care where I sat, that every spot within ten yards of him was perfect. (I nearly puked in my own mouth after I sent that one.)

For sure, I am bordering on crazy. He’s just being nice. He wants to know where I want to sit to increase his chances of finding me in the crowd. He’s trying to act like he cares about my silly book, but no doubt this is something his PR people think is necessary since I devoted an entire tome to him. Not that most people would know it’s about him. But still. I need to talk to Lucy to see what she knows about all this.

Of course, I don’t sleep a single second all night. Not one. Thoughts of our conversation, thoughts of meeting him, thoughts that both his email address and cell phone number are now permanent residents in my electronic devices—seriously, I can’t even handle myself! This is so beyond real, I swear I must’ve dropped dead at some point without knowing it and this is my little sampling of heaven.

Finally,
finally,
after a night of everything but rest, it’s morning. And the second nine o’clock hits, I’m on the horn with Lucy.

“So, uh, I got a text from someone kind of interesting last night,” I tease after an as-professional-as-I-can-manage hello.

“
You did
?” She knows exactly who I mean. It’s written all over her voice.

“Any idea who?”

“Oh my gosh, Kallie! He really texted you?” It’s hard not to notice that her voice registers even higher on the squee-meter than Sara’s did. I love it! (Lucy’s a huge fan of Niles now, too, thanks to my excellent sales skills—as in, every conversation we have, I sneak something in about Niles or the band). When pressed, she assures me that if this is a PR ploy, she’s not aware of it. And she can usually smell stuff like that from a mile away.

“I promise. I have never talked to his people before. This came out of nowhere. I thought it was a joke, but then they put him on the line and his voice is, well, pretty recognizable. Under most—well, pretty much all—circumstances, I’d never give out a client’s info. But in this case, I kind of thought you wouldn’t mind.”

What would ever give her that idea?

Now, please excuse me while I go pass out.

***

For being so busy and having a “shit” memory, Niles seems to have figured out the art of keeping in touch. He’s currently blowing up my phone, telling me that they always have food after the concert. Mostly junk food, since he likes to binge after burning off somewhere close to a bazillion calories during his shows.

I’ve always marveled at his energy level. He’s not a stand-there-and-belt-it-out kind of guy. He’s everywhere. He bounces and jumps and runs and sometimes even slides. One thing he doesn’t do is dance. I hate to say it, but I don’t think he has a lick of rhythm in that super-fly body of his. But, for sure, they (whoever “they” is) should do a study on his pipes. Even after all that gallivanting on stage—and the fact that he just quit smoking after a fifteen-year habit—he somehow has the lung capacity to carry a note for ages. It’s pretty incredible.

He asks me if I want something special after the show. Any type of drink or salad or smoothie or whatever. He tells me he likes to down some Scotch on the rocks before his concerts (I already know this), but usually sticks to beer after. I say beer is just fine, and no food is necessary. He tells me there will be jalapeño poppers, since those are his favorite, and I promise to eat a few with him. This must make him happy because he responds with a series of seven smiley emoticons.

Who knew rock stars had such a penchant for emoticons?

But let’s get serious for a minute here: the idea of sipping beers and eating poppers with my rock star obsession? Yeah, I’m kind of tingling all over. And the fact that he keeps texting me? Even more tingling. True, the texts usually start out as business-type inquiries (tickets, backstage food, etc.) but in no time they develop into borderline we’ve-been-friends-for-ages chats that go on longer than they need to. Over the course of Wednesday and Thursday, we chat five more times, in between me visiting the hair salon for a highlight refresh and lounging outside to catch a tan.

I am grateful now more than ever for my flexible writer’s schedule, though the mom in me feels sad that I’m not with my girls. For years, I coveted a schedule like this so I could be home with them during the summer and on snow days, baking cupcakes and making Etsy-worthy crafts. Now that I’m finally around, they’re staying with Brad at his parents’ in North Carolina. For the whole freaking summer.

My stomach turns over as I walk past their bedroom. It’s nothing special, especially since Brad kept the house and they have to share a room here. But it’s cute, anyway. It’s a mix of princesses and ocean life, true to each girl’s personality. It’s tidy and colorful and looks like a nine- and seven-year-old girls’ room should.

Seeing it makes me miss them. A lot.

I think about our lives now, and yes, it’s different and hard sometimes, but I know I didn’t make a mistake. Since Brad and I split, the girls and I have gotten along so well. I’m happy now, joyful and (pretty much) carefree. We take off and shop until someone has a meltdown, sometimes never buying a thing, but always enjoying each other’s company (until said meltdown occurs). We eat ice cream for dinner, then make up for it the next day with vegetable omelets and whole grain toast with organic honey. They giggle nonstop and I do, too. We paint each other’s toenails and comb each other’s hair. When Brad and I were married, it was one strained Family Movie Night per week and the rest of the time we spent avoiding each other. It was no way to live and I think the girls can see that now.

I flop on my couch and reach for my laptop. I really need to send Lucy the first three chapters of my next book—the highly anticipated sequel to Emily and Nash’s story—but my mind is a little, um, preoccupied. I check my phone, hoping for a text from Niles, but there isn’t anything other than a missed call from my dentist, confirming my cleaning appointment for Monday.

I lift the lid on my laptop and am immediately lured in by the number on my inbox. I dig right in and see not one, not two, but
three
emails from Niles and his “people.” The ones from his people are confirmations of my front row ticket and backstage pass. I am allowed to bring a camera, but no backpacks or anything else aside from “my person.” Sure, fine, that I can do.

The one from Niles starts out innocently enough but gets personal in a hurry. He tells me he’s excited to see me and that every time he starts envisioning what I look like, he pushes it out of his head because he doesn’t want any preconceived ideas.

For real? That’s kind of adorable.

As I think about how to respond to his email, a text from him comes in asking what I think he should wear to the show on Friday. My poor mind can’t keep up with him. He’s all over the place.

But, hey, I know what you should wear, Niles.

How about
Not. A. Thing?

After my cheeks catch fire thanks to my naughty thoughts, I yank my mind back out of the gutter, pull myself together, and tell him that I love the black jacket he’s worn in the past, but I think it will be way, way, way too hot for that. As in, 90 degrees hot. He says he’ll wear it anyway and ditch it when the sweat starts pouring. I shiver. Niles Russell is wearing my favorite jacket. Because I asked him to. Wow. I couldn’t even get Brad to wear a shirt without holes in it on the rare occasions we went to the mall.

“Kallie, I just want to prepare you . . .”

Uh-oh.

“I’m not the most outgoing guy IRL. So if I’m a little awkward after the show, don’t be surprised. I figured I’d better just apologize in advance.”

Not outgoing? That makes no sense. All of our conversations, his stage presence, the zillions of interviews I’ve seen him do. If he’s not outgoing, then he’s a darn good faker.

“I hide behind my music. But you probably know something about that, don’t you?”

I let this digest a second, then shake my head as if he can see me. I have no idea where he is going with this.

“You don’t need to hide behind your words with me, Kallie. When we meet on Friday, be yourself. And I’ll be me. Let’s at least try. Deal?”

Oh. So
that’s
what he meant.

Okay, then.

“Deal.”