Kind of Famous (Flirting with Fame Book 3)

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  His cheeks sported splotches of red from his own anger. “Noah’s been out of control all week.”

  “Why is he taking it out on you? Or me, for that reason?”

  “It’s not about you. His girlfriend dumped him last Saturday night.” His eyes narrowed, and he added. “For Samuel Tucker.”

  I gasped at that. “The lead singer of Whiplash?”

  “The very same. Noah met the girl on one of our tours. I don’t know what he expected.”

  If that was true, she’d done the exact thing Shane said fans did to him, climbing Noah to gain access to another musician. Samuel Tucker was a much bigger deal than Noah. Whiplash played huge arenas.

  Damn. What a cold-hearted bitch. Poor Noah.

  “I’d warned him she was a fame fucker. And then two days after she proved me right, I met you. I think he’s jealous you’re so obviously not working an angle. That’s why he’s mad at me. You got caught in the crossfire.”

  “And so now he’s suspicious of any fan girl?”

  “Pretty much.” He shook his head. “Unless he pulls his shit together, one of us is going to have to go.”

  “What about the band?”

  He scowled. “Fuck the band.”

  That didn’t make me feel better. Of the two of them, Shane was probably the more easily replaced. After all, Noah wasn’t a household name, but he was known to any serious music fan.

  “Oh, Shane.”

  “Come on, Star Shine.” He dropped a little kiss on my forehead. “If you come home with me, I’ll confess the origin of your nickname.”

  That did the trick, and I let him lead me the few blocks back to his apartment.

  Once inside, he ran up the spiral stairs and returned with the last thing I expected to see him carrying: an acoustic guitar.

  “This is going to be brutal, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret: I sometimes write songs.”

  “You write songs?”

  His cheeks reddened. “I’m trying. What people don’t realize is that Micah doesn’t just make money from the band. He writes more songs than we can record, so he sells his music to other artists. Most of the money he makes now is from songwriting credits. I don’t expect to ever achieve what he has, but he’s an excellent role model, and he’s pushed me to be more courageous with my art.”

  I didn’t know any of that, but it explained why Micah had the private car while Shane had the Uber service. Still, I wasn’t interested in the business side of the music industry.

  “I just want to hear the song.”

  I dropped on the sofa, feet crossed under my knees, eager to hear what Shane might play for me. I braced myself for what I would say if he sucked. It was one thing to tell someone as competent as Micah that one song was better than another, but Micah was a professional songwriter. Shane’s effort might need some gentle encouragement. I was prepared to blow smoke up his ass. I loved the fact that he was letting me see this side of him, after knowing me only three days.

  That fact kept blowing my mind. It seemed like we’d always known each other.

  “Okay, so let me warm up a little.” He began by strumming some chords, then a single string. He adjusted the tuner for a bit, and then he started walking his fingers on the neck in a way that was far beyond my abilities.

  “Show off.”

  He blushed. “Just a little.”

  “You’re raising my expectations.”

  “I was hoping to raise more than that.”

  I snickered. “That’s what she said.”

  Finally, he stopped fiddling and assumed the guitarist position. “You’re not allowed to laugh. In fact, flat out lie if you hate it.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

  He strummed a melody that sounded incredibly familiar, then sang the first line from Layla.

  I threw a pillow at him, and he ducked so it bounced off his back. He sat up, laughing. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

  “You just lost any chance you had of me taking pity on you.”

  He grimaced. “Crap. No pressure.”

  “It will be fine. Play.”

  “So, by way of introduction, Micah recently challenged me to write a love song, but I didn’t have a girlfriend, and my exes would inspire a different kind of song. I’ve got a pocketful of sad songs. Those are easy to write.”

  My heart picked up a beat at the notion of this guy sitting on the floor playing a love song for me that nobody else had ever heard. Was I dreaming?

  “Without further ado, then.”

  He strummed a C, then an E, an F, then back to C, standard chords. The strum pattern was more interesting, kind of down, down, pause, up, pause, down, up, down. He played this pattern through twice, then coughed and laughed. “Shit, here goes.”

  His face lost all traces of humor, and his eyes closed. And there he was, a man with a guitar. Sexiest thing alive.

  His voice cracked on the first line but smoothed out. “Another tequila sunrise/misty and gray.”

  If I’d worried about his ability to play or sing, those fears were assuaged right off the bat. He wasn’t doing anything super fancy, but he handled the guitar like someone who’d spent enough time with it to instinctively know how to slide between frets without missing a note. His voice was a bit scratchy, a little bit bluesy, but low and warm. His sexiness quotient kept going up, up, up. I leaned back and listened to what he was saying, what his song meant to convey.

  Empty house

  Empty bottles

  And the sun sets

  On another lonely day

  So much for the love song. He was painting a depressing picture of hungover heartbreak.

  Hope glints against the darkness

  Pinpricks of light

  Fill the night sky

  Moonage daydreams

  And her star burns bright

  I covered my mouth with my hands to stifle a gasp. I loved the Bowie reference, and the unexpected turn from pessimism to hope took me completely off guard. His eyes opened, and he sang the chorus, baring his soul, wide-open.

  Constellations turn

  Turn around in flight

  Stars shine

  Shine against the night

  Wish I may

  Wish I might

  Find my one true love’s light.

  Tears brimmed in my eyes, as the revelation of what he’d meant by calling me Star Shine hit me. He strummed a few more chords, then dropped into a minor key, and sang, “This is where the bridge will go.” Then went back to the chorus, but he was laughing now. He sang it again, then stopped. “I haven’t really finished it.”

  He set the guitar to the side, and I took the opportunity to rush him. His chest shook as I climbed into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  “That was incredible.”

  “You think?” His eyebrow dipped with suspicion, like I might be humoring him.

  “Amazing. Really. You need to finish it.”

  He nuzzled into my neck, and his lips brushed my skin, lighting me up like the stars in his song. He whispered in my ear. “Maybe I will now that I know how it ends.”

  I didn’t know what to say. How could he think of me as the one he was searching for? Was he just looking for a body to fill the void, the empty house?

  “Shane.”

  “Don’t panic. I know we’re just getting to know each other. I’m really not this impulsive.” He adjusted his position and created space between us. “Normally, I wouldn’t even be able to be so honest with someone like this, but I keep finding new reasons to think that maybe this is stronger than I thought it could be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He ran his tongue along his lower lip, and I followed it with my eyes, jealous. I wanted to suck on that lower lip, but he was clearly
contemplating. I didn’t know if he was hesitant to extrapolate or if he was searching for the right words. Finally he said, “When I first saw you, I knew I wanted you. Physically, I mean. I considered myself a lucky guy when you felt the same way.”

  My heart beat a bit faster. I’d wanted him right away, too. “Mmm but you get sexier every minute.”

  “The more I learn about you, the more I like you. The more I think you might be the girl from my song.”

  My pulse traveled south and was now drumming out an urgent need.

  “You think you created me with your art? Be careful, you know how that usually works out.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She’ll wrap herself around you and never let go.”

  His arms snaked around my waist. “That would be terrible.”

  There was mounting evidence he was being sarcastic, and I adjusted myself so I could feel that evidence in just the right place. Face to face with him, I gave into my growing need to be as close to him as physically possible and pressed my lips against his. He sighed and slid his strong hands inside my shirt, holding my back, drawing me to him for a lingering kiss.

  When I looked down, my eyes landed on the bulge in the center of my view, and I reached down and unsnapped his jeans. Just like that.

  “Layla,” he sighed.

  I slid down the zipper. Shane’s boxers beyond didn’t provide much in the way of camouflage, and something monstrous lurked beneath the white fabric. I had a wanton desire to wrap my lips around that part of him.

  I lay one hand on his thigh and nudged him onto the sofa, where he fell back. He didn’t need any more encouragement than that to weave his fingers in my hair. His hooded eyes mirrored the desire I felt.

  There he lay on the sofa, partially naked, totally panty-melting. I got down on my knees. Yup, just like the song.

  It was time to get to know his penis in greater detail. We’d only had a brief introduction, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen the night before.

  He watched me without protest, as I grabbed the waist of his jeans and boxers in my fists and tugged them down. I was glad he didn’t try to tell me not to worry about him.

  They say it’s not what you have, but what you do with it, and I’ve always believed that, but Shane’s cock was simply beautiful.

  I stared in admiration. “Damnation.”

  As if he didn’t already know it, he said, “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I wrapped my hand around the base, excited myself by how hard he felt. “I want to watch you lose your mind.”

  As I ran my palm along the shaft, he sank down further into the sofa with a soft moan.

  I dragged my thumb through the precum pooling in the hole in that perfect head, then followed with my tongue, licking, sucking, stroking. His eyebrows scrunched together, making him look more like someone in terrible pain than pleasure.

  When I’d brought him close to the edge, I reached under and tickled his balls, loving how they tightened.

  Everything in his body arched.

  I picked up the rhythm, my mouth sucking his corona, my tongue licking the sensitive skin beneath, my right hand and thumb stroking up and down his shaft, and my left hand now gently kneading his completely hard balls until he cried, “Layla, I’m going to . . . Oh, God.”

  His face went slack, like he was in free fall, and when he blew, it was impressive.

  I licked him until he dropped his hands on my shoulders and tugged at me to climb into his lap.

  “Fucking hell, Layla.”

  I climbed up next to him and nestled my head on his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He sighed. “A girl who can do that? I might have to hang onto forever.”

  Between the song he’d played just for me and watching him fall apart so sweetly, I wanted him more than I had the night before, but when his hands roamed down my thighs to the edge of my skirt, I stopped him.

  “I need to—” I didn’t know how to be delicate about how gross I felt, having gone to work in dirty clothes that morning. I blurted out. “Can I use your shower?”

  His grin turned wicked. He practically carried me to his upstairs bathroom where he slowly peeled my clothes off, then his own. Under a spa-like shower head, he reverently shampooed my hair, between soapy kisses. He lathered up his hands so they slid across my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my stomach, and my breasts. His fingers found where I needed him. Kissing me slow and sweet, he stroked me until my knees began to wobble.

  I feared I might collapse before he’d gotten me there, but he shut off the water and wrapped me in a perfectly fluffy towel that he probably bought from the Argonauts, then carried me to his bed, where he laid kisses down my body right back to the spot that was craving his tongue. And what a talented tongue he had. I groaned out his name as he slid a finger inside me while his mouth sucked and licked me until I was chasing after the pleasure he was giving me.

  And the one thought that put me over was the certainty this wasn’t casual to him. Shane was someone who could be in my life, like this. I could be his Star Shine.

  After I fell apart, Shane lay beside me, not talking for once, just sharing the post-sex haze that felt an awful lot like love.

  Then his stomach growled, and I kissed his nose, and we rolled off in search of clothes.

  We ordered in and sat across from each other at his tiny kitchen table, him in boxers that barely hugged his hips, me in a pair of his sweatpants that swallowed me whole. His borrowed T-shirt smelled of him and threatened to fall from my shoulder. As we ate, he reached over and lifted the slipping neck back into place, followed by a touch here, a caress there.

  And we shared secrets.

  Some secrets.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For the second day in a row, I went to work wearing a day-old outfit and a two-day old grin. Dreamy-eyed, I rode the elevator, replaying the night before—and the early morning before I had to leave.

  The words Shane whispered in my ear.

  The way he touched me, gently and then desperately.

  My hand drifted up to my neck where I was certain a hickey was forming.

  Once I got to my desk, I dropped my laptop onto the charging port and went for a cup of coffee. As I passed Byron’s office, he called my name. I stepped through the door, and he acknowledged me with a quick nod but kept typing furiously. When his fingers finally stilled, he motioned to a chair.

  “I understand you had some fun yesterday.”

  Five days in, and I was already going to be reprimanded. “Lars sent me. It’s part of the whole ‘web content’ side of this job.”

  He sucked in his cheek. “Hmm. Yes. I’m not really seeing how all that fits in with your day-to-day responsibilities. We’re still waiting for your requirements doc.”

  “Right.” I kicked myself for not sending that over the day before. It was all but done.

  “And will you be able to attend our daily stand-up today?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Of course.”

  He turned back to his computer, so I left and went to get the coffee I’d need to wake up. Shane had kept me up way too late.

  In the breakroom, while I waited for the machine to finish sputtering, two ladies I hadn’t met came in, midway through a whispered conversation.

  “But then he said, ‘Why don’t we just get dinner instead?’ ”

  “I bet he didn’t even have tickets to the show.”

  “And that was the only reason I said yes.”

  They glanced over and caught me staring, so I quickly left the room, wondering if they’d been discussing Gabe and his promise of Kinky Boots tickets. If so, Jo wasn’t wrong. He really was the office Lothario. It would be a relief to know his constant attention wasn’t specific to me.

  Armed with a steaming cup of Joe, I dug u
p my doc, scanned it for thoroughness, then emailed it over to Byron and cc’ed the developers.

  Then I started splitting the videos I’d recorded, hunting for the new song Lars wanted. He’d set me up with permissions for the Rock Paper contributors’ section, so I started a new blog post and uploaded the video file.

  I’m a huge fan of Theater of the Absurd. Yesterday I had the amazing opportunity to sit in on band practice and soak up the experience. The guys generously allowed me to record them performing their new song ‘Aftershock’ which sounds like a definite hit. Judge for yourself.

  I centered the video below my paragraph, then saved it to draft and emailed the link to Lars with the heading: Is this what you had in mind?

  My name was going to appear on an article on the freaking Rock Paper. How was this my life?

  Freed for the moment, I texted Jo to apologize for abandoning my stuff at her place, promising I’d come and get it, but then what?

  As if she read my mind, she texted: Are you sure? You’re welcome to stay here. Or I could have Micah swing your things over to Shane’s.

  I couldn’t impose upon her indefinitely, and moving my stuff to Shane’s felt presumptuous and impetuous.

  I’ll check craigslist today. I’ve put it off too long.

  She had a better proposal: Call or text Zion before you do that. My old room is still vacant.

  I stored his phone number in my contacts and made a mental note to call him after lunch.

  Then I got back to work for real. I went to the morning meeting where Ajit had no problems with my designs. During lunch, I lined up all the Tweets to send out for the latest articles. Once we got the new features in place, this chore would become obsolete, but there was no reason to ignore the potential click stream.

  My Chatter app blinked in the taskbar with a message from Lars. Can you come by?

  When I opened his door, I could hear the music from my video playing. Lars bopped his head along with the rhythm.

  “I love this. It’s exactly the kind of fan-sourced video feel I wanted.”