All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Ring My Bell (Or, My Cell)

It’s finally concert day, and I’m on my way, gripping the steering wheel as if it will fly out of my hands if I dare loosen up. I hate highway driving and the venue is a good hour and a half away. Not good news for me, right?

The only thing squelching my fears is my brain’s constant replay of our last conversation. In the few days we’ve been talking, Niles has apparently gotten to know me better than I know myself. How could that be? He didn’t watch a hundred interviews of me, like I did him. He doesn’t know my friends. Or my family. Or the really real story behind my relationship with Brad. I don’t think he even knows I’m a mother. Yet, he knows how to pull me out from behind my own curtain. He knows how to get me to flirt, how to let myself be more vulnerable than ever, how to twist my guts by calling me out for something he’s guilty of as well.

Hiding.

I never thought of it that way, but that’s exactly what it is. Instead of talking through my problems with Brad, I hid from them by creating a fictional world. A world where I was in control and I called the shots. Where I could make anyone do what I wanted, when I wanted, and I could dictate every second of my own destiny.

In my book, Nash and Emily weren’t perfect, but they were close. The few hiccups they had (every book needs tension!) were solved within a chapter or three. The overarching plotline was dreaming big and being lucky enough to have those dreams come true. That was much simpler than real life and it made for a better story.

As I went to bed last night, I thought of Brad. Was it unfair of me to end our relationship without trying harder? Were we that far off? Was what we had really unsalvageable or could we have stuck it through?

I flopped around for a while, thinking I should feel sad about the empty sheets beside me. But, I don’t. I don’t miss his snoring or his grunting or the way his breath encased me as he rolled toward me while he slept. I don’t miss seeing him at breakfast or dancing around him as he fumbled in the kitchen. I don’t miss faking our good-bye peck or the emptiness of the “Love you” I’d obligatorily fire at him as he left for work each day. I don’t miss any of it. I don’t miss him at all.

He’s not a bad guy. He really isn’t. He loves our girls in a crazy way and is a really great dad. It’s just that somewhere along the way we stopped trying to impress each other, stopped having fun with each other, stopped wanting to learn more about each other. Each day was the same. We were on autopilot. There were no date nights, no weekends away, not even a quintessential princess-filled trip to goddamn Disney World with the girls. He likes predictability and I like excitement. We just weren’t a good match anymore, and carrying on as if time would fix that was just completely unrealistic.

When I woke this morning, my first thought was of Niles. He
knows
me. Already. Brad no longer knew me. To me, that speaks volumes.

The second I knew she’d be at her desk at work, I called Sara to share my big revelation.

“You want my two cents?” she asked after I finally shut up.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Niles is a smart guy. He’s a writer, too, so he gets it.” I nodded as a smile broke across my face. I knew she’d agree with me.

“However . . .”
Uh oh
. “Just because he ‘gets’ some of the stuff you’re going through doesn’t mean he knows you, Kallie. He’s still just a guy you ‘met’ a few days ago. You’ve spoken over text and email. That’s it. You haven’t even shared air with him yet. I mean, right?”

Of course she’s right.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” she continued, “and maybe it’s possible you two will have some sort of insta-bond. But just remember, this guy’s been around. He’s a professional performer who’s met a lot of people. Maybe not one who’s written a book based on her wildest fantasies with him, but still.”

To her credit, she tried to laugh and lighten the mood, but when I wouldn’t play along, she said, “Just be careful, Kal. You’re my best girl and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Hang tight before giving your heart away again, okay? Even to a rock star.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Good. I’m done lecturing now. Have fun tonight, take a million pictures, and call me first thing in the morning.”
              “Of course.”

“And Kallie?”

“Yeah?”

“If he tries to kiss you—or more—don’t let him. Not yet.”

Uh, right.

“Sure.”

“Good. Now, go get yourself together and get on the road. Your granny ass will take twice as long to drive there as a normal person.”

***

What can I say? The girl knows me. As she predicted, the hour-and-a-half drive turned into two hours and twenty minutes. But that’s fine, since I left plenty early. Now I’m here and I’m in one piece, and holy crap, I’m about to see and meet Niles!

I clench my ticket to within an inch of its life as I trudge through the open field that serves as the parking lot to the outdoor venue. Five minutes into my walk, the sweat is already trickling down my temples and my shorts are sticking in my crotch. Thank goodness I spent so much time toning my legs this winter, though, because crotch-intrusion aside, I am rocking the hell out of these white cutoffs.

I adjust my shirt, careful to show just enough of the The Ladies to be intriguing. (That was one of our final joint investments—new boobies—but even those couldn’t save Brad and me.) I’ve played with this shirt in front of the mirror so many times today I know exactly how much to yank before I get into the danger zone. Once I’m satisfied, I smooth down my humidity-destroyed hair to the best of my abilities and take my place in line.

As I stand there, my eyes sweep across the gobs of people that I fully consider “my peeps.” I can tell instantly who the old fans are and who are new. Those with concert tees from tours past feel like long-lost relatives to me. I’d love to embrace them all, one by one, but that might be a little weird.

Then there are the girls. For certain, at least half of them crush on Niles nearly as hard as I do. Each of the main band members are cute in their own right, and each has their own following, but Niles attracts the most attention, by far. (As the lead singer often does, I suppose.)

I eye up one particularly cute blonde, feeling smug because I will be touching Niles later and she won’t. She catches me looking at her and flashes a sweet smile. I flash one back, then reach for my phone as a distraction. It takes all my restraint not to run over and show her the many lines of text chats between Niles and me. Or the selfies. He’s only sent the original three, despite my telepathic encouragement for him to send more. But it’s three more than Blonde Girl has on her phone, so I still rule the world.

As I scroll through the extended weather forecast in an effort to keep my mind busy, my phone buzzes. I nearly leap out of my skin as Niles’s name and picture overtake my screen. I stand frozen with my eyes bugging out, not knowing whether to show the universe or hide my phone for privacy. It takes me a second to realize this is not a text. He’s calling me. Like, seriously, really calling me.

“Hello?” I hiss. There are people everywhere. And being loud and discrete at the same time is kind of a challenge. This is so weird.

“Hey. You here?”

In a flash, everyone around me disappears and I breathe in and savor his voice. It’s unmistakably his and I love hearing it even more than I thought I would. Just listening to his three-word utterance is like hearing a chorus of angels at the Pearly Gates. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but to me, it’s the most incredible sound. And it’s coming right through my phone.

“Yeah, me and the rest of the world,” I laugh.

“Awesome! What’s the crowd look like?”

“Hot and sweaty and ready to party.”

“Perfect. That’s just how we like ‘em.”

There’s some fumbling around in the background and the squeal of a guitar being tuned. Niles laughs at something someone says, goes quiet for a second, then lets out a loud, long breath.

“You okay?”

“Yep. Shot number two, down the hatch.”

Oh, man. He’s doing his preshow shot ritual. While he’s on the phone with me. What I wouldn’t give to be back there with him right now.

“So . . . are you nervous?” I try to keep my voice calm and even.

“A little. Wait. About the show? Or meeting you? The show, no way. It’s what I live for. Meeting you, yeah, a little.”

Awww.

“I, uh . . . I’m a little nervous, too,” I stammer, shuffling forward. If being smooth is my goal, I am failing so hard right now.

“Don’t worry. We’ll have fun. See you in a little bit?”

Oh, yes. Yes, you will.

“Can’t wait,” I breathe, as I push through the turnstile.

Holy crap, here we go!

CHAPTER FIVE

Backstage Pass

Backstage is not at all as glamorous as it should be. It’s a bit musty and surprisingly chilly, given the steamy summer night outside. Eight-foot tables are pushed together in a C-shape with food, beer, energy drinks, and disposable tableware covering every inch. I lean against a wall, not knowing what to do with myself. There are a few others trickling backstage, but Zeke, the bouncer, took only me to the part of the room with the food.

There’s some commotion and laughter, but it still sounds far away. My pulse picks up and there is no question that anyone within a ten-mile radius could hear my heart thump if they listened hard enough. This is getting too real. This isn’t words on the pages of a book anymore, or even some texts and a quick phone call. Niles is a real human being who just walked through the door backstage and is heading straight toward me. There is seriously nowhere—and no time—to hide!

He immediately catches my eye, and I lose my breath. I am one hundred percent sure my face rivals the color of red velvet cake. I break into a cold sweat so bad it feels like my skin is melting.

He slips past everyone else and, in an instant, is less than a foot away from me. “I got you on the first try,” he announces, clearly proud of himself. “I knew it was you. I knew you’d be blonde. Knew it!”

His lips part to reveal those teeth! I read once that he had veneers applied after busting a tooth at a show a few years back, and now I truly believe it. They are Colgate-commercial straight, pure white, and all lined up like little soldiers in his wide mouth. I’m dying.

From the first row, I could see every one of his fillings (there are four) and I quickly became fascinated with how he could sing and smile at the same time. When his eyes fell on mine, not five minutes into the show, I knew he knew. He didn’t reach for my hand until over halfway through, but we made eye contact several times. When his fingers finally clasped mine, it was electric. I was touching Niles Russell. He held on longer than he should have, making the fans around me—guys and girls alike — that much more determined to get their own piece of him. He surprised us all by grabbing a few more hands, but only mine did he grab a second time.

Now, he’s so close to me I can smell him. His hair is wet and messy, but his face is no longer sweaty, as though he stuck his head under a faucet on the way back. He has a towel wrapped around his neck and his concert T-shirt has been replaced with a clean, dry one. He smells of deodorant and hot skin. It’s intoxicating.

“Have fun?” He hands me a half-empty water bottle. “Shit! That one’s mine. Here’s a full one.” He shakes his head in embarrassment and switches the bottles, which is disappointing since I would have gladly taken his.

It occurs to me that I have not yet uttered one word—only smiled stupidly—so I take a breath and give it a try.

“You positively killed it tonight,” I say, my voice shaking as it finds its legs. “As always.” He beams.

I can tell I touched a hot spot, so I keep going. “Every performance gets better, I swear. And I’ve seen many.”

“Thank you.” He reaches out like he’s going to touch my arm, but his hand just kind of airballs and falls back to his side. “Much more fun than real life.” He winks.

As I attempt to collect myself (how am I still breathing right now?) he nods toward a group of people gathering near a doorway. It’s clear he wants to tell me something about them, but nothing’s coming out. He looks at me helplessly, then gestures and nods toward them once more. He looks so flustered, I wish I could reach into his mouth and pull the words out for him.

“Jesus,” he finally says, throwing his hands up. “I can’t talk. I warned you about this.” He laughs and unscrews the cap on his water bottle, only to replace it again without taking a drink. I smile and raise my eyebrows as if to tell him it’s okay—and that he’s absolutely freaking adorable for being so shy and awkward around me.

“Okay, let me try this again,” he says, extra slowly. “Bottom line? We have a lot of great fans who pay good money or pull a lot of strings to get back here. The other guys keep them pretty entertained, but I do need to sneak over to say hi. I won’t be gone long, okay?” He looks at me with wide eyes, as if half-expecting I might freak out if he goes.

“Oh, of course. Take your time. Really.” I hope my voice doesn’t reflect the burst of relief I feel, but we’ve already interacted more than my heart can handle. Him stepping away for a minute will give me a little time to regroup.

“Want a beer?” He motions to one of the tables sporting ice buckets filled with Coronas and local crafts.

I don’t hesitate for a second. “I’ll take about ten of them!”

He eyes me up and lets out a loud, sincere laugh. “You’re my kind of girl. Corona with lime okay?”

“Perfect!”

He pops open the top of my beer and slips a lime inside. A simple task, but it has me absolutely mesmerized. Niles Russell is fixing me a drink, for crying out loud. How whacked is that? He prepares one for himself and holds his toward mine.

“Cheers?” It comes out as a question rather than a statement. His eyebrows are cocked and a half-smirk pushes in the dimple on his right cheek.

“Cheers!”

We clink our bottles together, then with a departing smile, he turns and walks toward the crowd. After about three steps, he spins around and mouths, “Be right back.” I nod. And then die.

Once I resurrect, I take three deep breaths, just as
Shape
magazine suggests you do when you’re in a stressful situation, and try to quiet my heart. I watch him across the room, posing for pictures and making small talk with fans. He’s not as loud and chatty as the other guys, but he doesn’t look awkward at all. He’s in his element. He’s in control.

At one point, his eyes lift toward mine and he gives me a small smile. He tips his bottle back, draining it of its beer and I can’t help but think he’s onto something. I polish mine off like I’m trying to win a high school drinking game and instantly feel a little calmer. I grab another from the table and pop it open. It’s ice cold and feels amazing on my burning hot hands. I mosey around, trying to look natural, but I’m sure I’m not fooling anyone. That’s okay. I’m here. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.

He’s gone for what seems like ages, and with my back turned to the rest of the room, I feel him before I see him. I spin around to find him smiling wide, his drying hair all crazy and sexy. My entire body catches fire.

“You are really, really tiny,” he says, looking me up and down.

“You’re taller than I expected,” I shoot back. I was never able to pinpoint his height, but I always kind of assumed he was pretty short. He’s not. I’m guessing he’s about 5'9", which isn’t exactly gigantic, but still seems pretty impressive next to my miniature 5'2".

“Beer’s good, right?” He reaches for his second, this time a craft.

“Nothing like a cold beer on a hot summer’s night.”

“Yeah. Nothing better.” He gives me an appreciative smile. “And we booked you a room, so drink up.”

He says this so casually I almost think I didn’t hear him.

“Wait. You
what
?”

“Safety first,” he says, with a wink. I must have the ol’ deer-in-headlights vibe going because he looks at me almost sympathetically and says, “These after-parties can last a while. Especially when we’re here, since we’re minutes from our drummer’s hometown. If you think it’s crazy back here now, wait ‘til his family gets here. Those people are nuts!”

I still have no idea how to respond, so I just stare at him, smiling like an idiot. I expected to have a beer or two, get my book signed, maybe eat a jalapeño popper, and leave. As if to prove me completely wrong, Niles puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “This way, you can stick around and have a few—or a bunch—of beers with me, and you won’t have to worry about driving home.”

My bare skin ignites under his touch while I attempt to process this new information. Niles Russell wants me to stay and hang out with him? And they rented me a hotel room so I could do exactly that?
Good God!
This is more than what my wildest dreams could have ever expected out of tonight.

I take a long, long swig of my beer and let my mind go wild with the possibilities.

Because this, my friends, is the full-on definition of dreams coming true!