Kind of Famous (Flirting with Fame Book 3) Read online

We stopped short of the next cross street beside a brick building with a paint-chipped green door.

  “Hell yeah.” With my free hand I gestured up at him. “Not to mention, you’ve got much prettier hair.”

  That brought a full grin. “You oughta know.” He lifted his finger, and I swore he was going to muss my hair like he might a little sister, but as soon as his palm lay against the side of my head, he froze.

  The moon shone bright, but his eyes remained dark as the deepest ocean. He blinked twice and ran his thumb down my cheek to my chin. I confess that I’d had some illicit fantasies about the guys in the band, but I’d never felt the one-two punch to the gut that I got when his hand slid around the back of my neck and he pulled me forward to press his lips against mine.

  He drew back, slowly enough that his lips continued to touch mine for a lingering moment, and I opened my eyes before he did. He looked like he’d tasted ice cream for the first time and wanted to savor it. My mind reeled with questions, and I had this crazy thought that I wished he were more famous so I’d have read something about him on the Internet before, so I’d know who he was and what I might be getting myself into.

  If he were like Adam, I’d know to grab hold of him and never let go. If he were like Noah, I wouldn’t want to give him the time of day.

  But those lips.

  A tiny smile lit his face. “Should I apologize again?”

  With that, I threw caution to the wind and twisted both hands into his T-shirt. He laughed when I pulled him back into a less hesitant kiss, but his laughter stopped when my tongue brushed his, and he spun us around so he could press me up against the metal door behind us.

  It had been a long time since I’d been physical with a man. Way too long.

  Shane’s lips teased mine, and I felt like I’d lived in a desert my whole life, never knowing that water existed. Suddenly I’d fallen into a deep pool. It might turn out to be an oasis, or I might drown, and I didn’t care. My fingers traced his cheek, then brushed his neck, and his body responded in shivers. He lifted the edge of my shirt and explored my lower back, creeping up my spine until he reached my bra.

  I’d lost track of where we were. Everything was him. His mouth on mine. His hands on me. His skin. His . . . I gasped. He pressed harder into me, and I ground back, need flaring inside me.

  He took the first step away. “Layla.” The fact that his voice came out ragged and breathless only made me want to tear his shirt off and spend the next ten hours licking every inch of him while he said my name.

  “Shane.” My own shaky voice gave away my physical discomfort.

  “I’d really like to take you up to my apartment. Now.” He adjusted his pants. “Unless you still want me to take you back to Jo’s?”

  My body screamed: Take me anywhere. “Where do you live?”

  “Right here.” He stood back and pointed to the edifice behind me. Confused by what he was saying, I jerked my head from the metal door back to him, and a telltale blush crept up his cheek. He looked away.

  Had that been his plan all along? Did I care?

  Was he looking for a one-night stand?

  It wouldn’t be the first time I’d hooked up with a guy. Blind dates that turned into a second and third, leading eventually to a kind of inevitable night in his bed, followed by an awkward morning and a silent phone. I’d grown immune to the disappointment, but at least I’d gotten the sex out of it. Back when I’d gotten any sex at all.

  Shane’s interest had seemed genuine, but now that he’d led me back to his place, I put the odds on never seeing him again, whether or not I slept with him. Of course, I wanted to see him again, but if I had to look back on tonight with regret, I’d prefer it at least come with the fond memory of his bed.

  That may have been the lust talking, but damn I needed him, in me, on me, under me.

  One impossible-to-ignore wrinkle might foil my get-fucked-quick scheme. I was wearing a potentially pink pantyliner, and visions of Shane encountering that drew me up short. I didn’t want our first time to be that awkward. Even if this was a one-night stand, I still didn’t want to feel embarrassed about it tomorrow.

  I stared at him, memorizing the planes of his face, the curve of those lips, wanting to say yes, yes, yes. It was taking an effort to refrain from crushing my face against his. It was the tail-end of my period after all.

  He twined his fingers with mine and pressed his forehead against mine, his features obscured in shadow. “What do you want to do?”

  His body crashed back against me, and it was so unfair.

  How could I say no?

  “I could pick up a bottle of wine. Or a six pack.” His lower lip disappeared under his front teeth with a wince. “Or soda. Or nothing.”

  My mind churned, looking for any rationalization that would allow me to puddle his pants at his ankles. But that image brought with it my panties on the floor, sporting spots. It wasn’t that I was a period prude, but it wasn’t exactly the first impression I wanted to make with a near total stranger.

  I sighed. What I wanted to do and what I ought to do were not always the same. Not just because of my crimson cave. The truth was, I barely knew the guy. I couldn’t even tell him why.

  That realization decided me.

  My mom had passed on a bit of wisdom to me. She said, “Layla, if you can’t talk to a boy about sex, about your body, then you’re not ready for sex with him.”

  Knowing I had to say no, I felt three stabs of disappointment. First, the immediate frustration of needing a man, any man, now that my sexuality had been awakened. Next, the appalling realization that I’d always regret not banging the drummer, like some rocker-collecting groupie. And third, the dismay that I might lose an opportunity to get to know a genuinely nice guy if I didn’t latch on when I had the chance.

  But none of these would seem like compelling reasons in the cold light of morning.

  So, I gave him another kiss, and reluctantly told him, “Not tonight.”

  As if we’d suddenly been reverse polarized, he dropped back a step. “Sure.”

  I hadn’t meant to reject him outright, but before I could think of something that might take the sting out, he turned and walked in the direction we’d come from. I fell in beside him, wondering if I’d wrecked any chance with him, which in turn made me a bit angry at how shitty it would be if he pouted or treated me like I’d wronged him because he didn’t instantly get what he wanted.

  I’d had experience with guys like that. Guys who thought I owed them something because they’d bought me dinner. Guys who sent me hostile messages when I suggested I wasn’t as interested in them as they were in me.

  Despite what he’d said before, I supposed Shane got whatever he wanted from girls out on the road all the time. And that in turn made me sad because I hated to think I’d misjudged him so much. I’d pegged him for one of the good guys. Had it all been a bunch of lines? Had he lied to me?

  Before I could work up a strongly worded feminist manifesto to unload on him, he said, “Can I still hold your hand?”

  It took me aback. The question sounded so shy, so unsure, even though he’d had his tongue in my mouth five minutes earlier. Instead of pointing that out, I said, “I’d like that,” surprised to hear the same shy, unsure tone in my own voice.

  We were an awkward pair.

  Rather than snatching me like a teenager, he slid his hand down the inside of my wrist and across my open palm until his fingers clasped mine. It was at once so hesitant and confident, so seductive, that I nearly changed my mind about going to his place.

  For another block, we walked, together yet apart. I was aware of the contact between us, but there was a divide. I didn’t know how to cross it.

  As if life wanted to bring metaphors to life, a traffic light forced us to wait for the signal to continue. He dropped my hand and spun to face me. “I’m sor
ry for coming on so strong. I tend to rush into things when I know what I want.”

  “Oh?” I focused on keeping my eyes from bugging out.

  “I’m like a kid seeing the best toy at the store and demanding to have it now.”

  “Toy?”

  He pressed his fingertips against his closed eyelids with a shake of his head. “Bad analogy.”

  The white hand beckoned for us to walk, so we crossed the street and passed a coffee shop I was sure I’d seen before. Was that where I’d seen Micah and Jo in the tabloids?

  Another tree-lined street, another row of townhouses, but things began to look familiar. We were close to Jo’s now. As we closed in on the steps to her house, Shane slowed. He took a breath and looked me straight in the eyes. “Can I just speak plain? I mean, is it too soon to tell you what I really think?”

  A shiver shot down my spine. “No. Tell me.”

  “Okay, but if I freak you out, just pretend we’re cool for at least as long as it takes for us to get to Jo’s. I don’t think I can bear an outright rejection.”

  I lay my hand on his chest. “Do I look like I’m freaking out?”

  “You look like you’ve stepped through a portal into another dimension and your normal rules no longer apply.”

  “Huh?” His analogies were more confusing than the plain speak he’d promised. I tightened my fingers in his to lend courage. “Okay. Go on with your plain talk.”

  “There’s a lot going on here, and I’m chasing after the puzzle pieces trying to make sense of the big picture.”

  “Explain.”

  “So, you’re new to town, right? And you haven’t figured out what’s up and what’s down. You don’t even have a place to live.” He didn’t wait for me to agree. “Part of me wants to warn you not to trust that stranger you only just met. That you shouldn’t be here with me on this dark street. That you should not under any circumstances go up to my apartment.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up his hand.

  “However, you happen to have exceedingly good judgment.” He flashed a sheepish grin. “I mean, I’m a nice guy. I have no intention of taking advantage of your apparently trusting nature.”

  “How do you know I’m not the sociopath?”

  “I’m getting to that.” He scratched his neck. “I don’t know why I felt immediately drawn to you. Maybe it was because you sided with me against Noah’s stupid teasing. Maybe it’s simple physical attraction. Maybe it’s love at first sight.”

  My heart hammered in my chest. Was I starting to freak out?

  “Shit. I’m not good at this.” He clasped my other hand, and we stood there on the sidewalk, looking like we were exchanging vows.

  He really was not good at this. I squeezed his hands and waited.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know what you expect, and I can’t predict the future, but I’m interested in getting to know you.”

  It was a bit unnerving that he came on so strong, so honest, but at the same time I found it endearing that he was floundering. Then it hit me. “Are you nervous?”

  He snorted. “Of course, I’m nervous. Do you know how rare it is to connect with anyone?”

  I did. But how could he know that we had a connection? We were practically strangers. I nodded anyway.

  “I don’t want to screw this up before it’s even anything.”

  It occurred to me that this wasn’t about him. This was about me. I lay my head against his chest. “Hey. I like you.”

  He wrapped his arms around my back. “I like you, too.”

  The front door opened, and Jo peeked out. “Layla? There you are. I’ve been trying to call you.”

  I pulled back from Shane and gave him a serious eye fuck, wishing it could be more. He lifted my hand and planted a kiss on my knuckle. Somehow that small gesture nearly killed me. I was going to literally die because I couldn’t have this man tonight.

  “Goodnight, Layla.”

  “Night, Shane.”

  He turned to go but spun back. “Can I call you?”

  “Yes!” I bounded up the steps and into the house, and Jo crossed her arms like she wanted to hear the whole story.

  Talking Disaster Blog

  ON REVIEWS AND REVIEWERS

  —Pumpkin39

  Yesterday, on the forum, several fans organized an attack against a review of Walking Disaster’s latest album. Those of you who know me won’t be surprised that I asked you to resist the urge to defend the band against the unnecessarily harsh words of the reviewer Gabriel Sanchez. (Yes, I share your outrage, even if I didn’t share your solution).

  You’ll be happy to know that I have since had a change of heart. While I don’t normally condone pissing off reviewers who may simply continue to pan future albums out of animosity toward the fans, in this one case, I concede that you all were right.

  And in that light, I’m unlocking that review thread. I won’t be participating in this particular crusade, but if you feel like unloading your disgruntlement on Mr. Sanchez’s article, feel free to strategize and high five in the forum.

  Chapter Nine

  Jo closed the door behind me. She’d already changed into her pajamas, and her hair was up in a ponytail.

  “Well?”

  “I’m sorry. I turned my phone to airplane mode back at Eden’s, and I guess I forgot.”

  She waved me off. “No need to apologize. I worried a bit since Eden said you’d left over an hour ago. I thought maybe you’d decided to spend the night elsewhere.” She gave me that look again, like she expected a tell-all account.

  “Nah. We just decided to walk and—”

  “You walked?” She shook her head. “That explains a lot then.” She headed toward the kitchen. “You want something to drink?”

  What I wanted was to flip my phone back on and find out if I’d missed anything important, but I chided myself. Live in the moment. “Sure.”

  In the kitchen, Micah sat at the island writing in a notebook on a page covered in black ink, most of it scratched out. He glanced up. “Hey, Layla.”

  The thrill of having him recognize me hadn’t worn off.

  “Hey, Micah.” I scooted up and tried to read his handwriting. “What are you working on? A song?”

  He set the pen down. “Would you rather hear unreleased songs or covers?”

  “Uh.”

  Jo laid a hand on his shoulder. “You want to give her some more context, babe?” She reached in the refrigerator and said to me, “Juice or water?”

  I thought back to Eden’s fridge full of soda and beer, and the difference reminded me of how Jo had left earlier. I wanted to ask her how she felt now, but I didn’t want to pry either. “Water’s fine.”

  Micah leaned on his elbows, pen twirling in his fingers. “We’ve got a festival coming up, and I’m still working out the setlist. We only have a few days left to rehearse before we hit the road, and I can’t decide between a few songs.”

  I craned my neck. “What do you have so far?”

  “We’ve already got a couple of our new songs on here, so it makes sense to do a cover. I’m just not sure if we should waste the slot on someone else’s music.”

  He showed me the notebook, and I understood how it must feel to be an archaeologist handling an artifact from an ancient civilization. I would have died to get my hands on this setlist after a show. But to be a part of the process? To potentially shape the resulting list? This went beyond expected fan experience. I’d found my way to the inside somehow.

  “Layla?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about other shows I’ve been to. The thing is, if I’m really into a band, I want to hear new songs because it’s like a secret that you’re sharing with us for showing up. But I always love covers.”

  “Yeah?” He tapped his p
en on the list. “Why?”

  “Seriously?” Cover songs were always a hugely popular topic. Fans fantasized about which songs they wanted Walking Disaster to cover, and the list was endless. “It’s just fun to hear one favorite band interpreting another.”

  “But if you’ve paid money to see a show, wouldn’t you rather hear the band’s own songs?”

  “You’d think.” I combed through my knowledge of fan behavior and tried to articulate something more meaningful. “To be honest, a lot of it comes down to identity.”

  “What do you mean?” He leaned in, really listening now.

  “Fans want to think their favorite artists are fans of each other.”

  He chuckled. “Validation?”

  That gave me an idea. “Have you ever covered any of Adam’s music?”

  As far as I knew, neither band had ever covered each other.

  Micah scoffed at the suggestion. “Cover Walking Disaster? That would be—”

  “Incestuous?” Jo piped in.

  “But Eden’s covered both of you, right?” Was I showing too much of my hand? Eden’s style wasn’t remotely similar to either band, and she’d recorded acoustic versions of their music. Micah had a whole acoustic solo career. Maybe he did WD covers on the side that I wasn’t aware of. “It would be really interesting to hear your take on some of their older songs.”

  Micah rubbed his chin, scratching at the golden scruff that hadn’t been there a few hours earlier. He drew a line under something he’d scrawled. I wished I could make out his illegible handwriting. I wished I could sneak a photograph of his notes.

  He looked up from the paper. “You ought to come out to our rehearsal tomorrow.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “What? I mean—” Fuck I wanted to say yes. “I have to work.”

  “Ah. That’s too bad.” He seemed legitimately sad, and it fed into my own sense of tragedy. Life was unfair.

  I mentally slapped myself. How could I pity myself when I was sitting across a kitchen island talking music with Micah Sinclair? And not just talking, but actually advising him. How easy it was to want more, but I needed to count my lucky stars.