When we pull up to the door, Niles discovers he has no money to pay the cabbie, so I pull out my wallet and fake-roll my eyes. A rock star without money to cover a twelve-dollar cab fare? Seriously classic.
As we make our way toward the entrance, Niles’s hand brushes against mine more than once. There’s no way he’s not doing that on purpose. I almost think he’s going to grab hold, but in an instant, he’s migrating away from me as though I just announced I have the bubonic plague. It takes me a second to realize there are several fans hanging around the hotel lobby, waiting for their chance to catch a glimpse. Clearly, Niles realizes it, too. I flash him a knowing look and he nods in my direction and takes off toward the restroom, which totally, totally sucks. I didn’t expect such an abrupt ending to our amazingly awesome night.
A few fans look my way, but I pretend not to notice and go about checking in like a normal old schmuck who didn’t just spend the evening with her rock star obsession. I make a big show of having my key card in plain sight so that any onlookers know I have my own room and I’m not a groupie simply there to score with one of the guys. Once I make it through the lobby, a pout takes over my face. I mean, shit! Just like that, the night is over. I wish I could have told Niles thanks. Wished him a good night. Gotten one last picture with him. Something.
My heart hurts as the thoughts cut through the fog in my head. Will I ever see him again? Will all I have of this evening be pixels on my phone and memories in my mind? If so, I don’t think I’m okay with that. At all.
I burst through the door of my room and land in a heap on the bed. My head completely explodes, and so do the tears. Maybe it’s the drinks or maybe it’s the emotions, but I blubber on and on until I am a mascara-smeared mess.
And I don’t even try to fight it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Boy Next Door
Ringing. Buzzing. My ears hear both, but my brain processes neither.
My eyes crack open, a paste made of dried tears and not-very-waterproof mascara making it harder than it should be. When I finally focus, I realize I’m in my hotel room and that both the room phone and my cell phone are ringing. Because it’s louder and far more annoying, I fling my arm out and swipe at the room phone first.
“Yes?” I croak. I sound and feel like death.
“Morning, sunshine!” With those two words, my pulse immediately quickens. I push myself up and look around my room, all the details from the night before flooding my brain and my senses.
“Hi,” I breathe. It is so good to hear his voice.
“Sleep well?”
I look at the clock. 6:45 a.m.! Why is he up at 6:45 a.m.?
“Um, I guess so. Did you?” Jesus, Kallie. Lame response, much?
“Didn’t sleep much at all, actually. I wanted to be sure I caught you before you took off.”
Whoa, now. He lost sleep? Over me? Because he didn’t want to miss out on talking to me? Hm, tell me more.
“So . . .” he continues, “I waited ‘til an acceptable time to call. Glad you’re still here.”
“6:45 is acceptable, hey?” I laugh. “Yes, I’m still here.”
“Can I . . . can I come to your room?”
My heart stops. Niles Russell wants to come to my hotel room.
Holy shit. Niles Russell wants to come to my hotel room!
I stand up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. Disheveled hair. Raccoon eyes. Rumpled clothes.
“No!”
“No? You don’t want to meet up? Is something wrong?” He sounds genuinely worried.
“No, I mean, yes, you can come. But give me a bit. I seriously look like shit.”
“I doubt that, but take your time. Fifteen minutes good?”
I’m thinking it’s going to take more like fifteen hours to whip myself back together, but I really don’t want to wait another fifteen seconds to see him again, so I say, “Fifteen minutes is good. I’m in room 224.”
“Wait. You’re kidding, right?”
“Kidding about what?”
“I’m in 226. We’ve been right next door to each other all night.”
Oh. My. Lawd.
This revelation hits me like a hurricane hits the coast, because, A) if he was right next to me all night, it would have been really easy to “meet up” without being detected by any fans or fellow bandmates. And B) if he was right next to me all night did he (gasp!) hear me crying? Maybe that’s why he wants to see me so badly. Maybe he heard me boo-hooing and carrying on for the good forty-five minutes I did, until I finally zonked out, too tired to think anymore and too dried out to produce more tears. But wait, he just now figured out we were neighbors. That means that if he did hear me, he wouldn’t even have realized it was me. Right?
“Still there?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You have fourteen minutes now. So hurry.”
***
After ten minutes of fighting the good fight, I realize I can’t do much more for myself without makeup and other necessary beauty supplies. I have at least assembled a remotely okay hairdo and erased the raccoon marks from around my eyes. I brush my teeth until my gums are raw (thank you, God, for one-time-use toothbrushes!) apply a little lip gloss to the apples of my cheeks (nod to Sara for that oldie-but-goodie beauty tip), and settle on the edge of my bed, awaiting the arrival of my guest. What’s going to go down when he gets here, I have no idea. I contemplate calling Sara, but what I have to say to her will take hours, not mere moments.
Niles knocks at my door exactly fourteen minutes from when he said he would. (Punctuality for the win!) I peek at him through the peephole and swear that even after being glued to his side for most of last night, I’ll never get used to seeing him up close.
I lift the handle and he pushes the door open the rest of the way with his hip. He has a cup of coffee in each hand and it smells amazing.
“Please tell me you’re a coffee drinker. Because if you’re not, we’re done here.” He cracks a wide smile and my stomach drops down to my feet. Even if I hated coffee (which I don’t), I would drink it just because he wants me to. Seriously.
After sneaking a look, I decide he’s even cuter right now than he was at the after-party. He has clearly taken a shower, and he’s got product in his hair that he didn’t have last night (pretty much confirming my suspicions that he stuck his head under a faucet on his way backstage). He must not be interested in shaving today, though, because his stubble is growing in pretty thick. He’s got his trademark black jeans on and, from what I can tell, three separate shirts. This guy is an excellent layerer.
Even though he’s peppy, he’s sporting some dark circles. I can’t tell if it’s because he had stage makeup covering them up last night or if they’re due to his lack of Zs. He sets the coffees on the table and slips his hands into his pockets.
“Coffee? Yes or no?” He nods at the table.
“If I could marry coffee, I would.”
He beams and grabs one of the cups, folds back the plastic flap covering the mouth hole, and hands it to me. “French Vanilla creamer.”
“Divine.” I smile and take the cup from him. Our hands touch (yes, I probably did that on purpose this time. Or did he?) and the electricity between us flows all over again.
“You look pretty darn cute for having only fourteen minutes to get ready,” he says. I’d be inclined to think he was joking, but there is no trace of a smile on his face. Niles Russell just said I’m cute.
“You look pretty hot yourself.”
God, did I just say that? I take a sip of coffee to hide my mortification.
Unlike stupid me, Niles is completely unfazed. “My sister’s name is Kallie,” he says, walking around to the unrumpled side of the bed. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
He kicks off his shoes (he has no socks on, as always) and props the pillows up against the headboard. He sits on the bed, leaning his back into the pillows, and pats the spot right next to him. Oh. My. God.
I try to move toward the bed, but I’m paralyzed. He stretches his legs out and buries just his feet under the covers. He wedges his coffee cup between his legs and starts poking at his phone.
“Remember this?” He angles the device until I can see one of the pictures we took last night. The one where Austin was pushing our foreheads together and the tips of our tongues were touching. I remember the moment vividly (obvs!) but didn’t know it was his phone we were using. I assumed most of the pics were taken with mine.
“Of course.” I nod.
He pats the bed again. “You coming? I promise I’m not a biter.”
Shiver.
I slip into the spot beside him, unsure of how close to get. You could fit a full person between us right now. This must be unacceptable to Niles, since he pulls over my pillows and props them up right next to his. I scoot over, but we’re still not touching. Last night, I probably would’ve wiggled right onto his lap, but without the drinks flowing, my inhibitions are in full effect.
“This pic is particularly interesting to me,” he says, shimmying even closer. His shoulder touches mine, sending a jolt all the way through my fingertips. “I’m a bit of a germophobe, so the fact that you got me to touch your tongue is kinda crazy.” I squeak out a laugh. “Seriously. I make a really shitty boyfriend because making out with tongues is not my thing.”
Is he serious? There’s no way he doesn’t kiss with tongues. Although, not gonna lie, the thought of him not playing tonsil hockey with other girls makes me very, very happy.
“I drank off your bottle last night, too.” I’m surprised at the smugness that laced through my voice.
“Yeah, I know. And that was before either of us even had a good jag going. What did you do to me last night, Kallie?”
Those words send a firestorm of excitement screaming through my body. I am sweaty hot right now, despite still wearing shorts and my sleeveless shirt. My hands feel so wet, I swear I’m going to drop my coffee. If I were thinking straight, I’d pull the covers over my legs to try to hide the goosebumps. But, I don’t. I just sit and stare straight ahead.
“Do you run?” he asks. “Like outside? For fun or exercise or whatever?”
Helllloooo, left field!
“No,” I say. Or try to say. My nervous system is not yet back to functioning and the word is barely audible.
“Well, do you have any decent trails near your house? You know, that you know of?”
Sara is a runner and has been trying to get me to run with her for years. I have no interest, partly because I always end up with shin splints, and partly because I had asthma as a kid and am terrified of a relapse. Sara begs me almost weekly, though, especially since we have some exceptional trails in town. So yes, I guess I do know of some.
“Yeah, we actually have some great trails.”
“Will you take me?”
I’ve been looking straight ahead this entire time, but his question yanks me back. I lift my left hip and turn toward him. “Huh?”
“Will you take me home with you for the day? We’re wide open since Austin’s visiting family. We always build an extra day or two in when we stop here. No rehearsals or anything. I don’t feel like wandering the streets and I could use a good run.” He looks at me hopefully, eyebrows raised.
I assume by the smile on his face that I say yes, but I don’t even remember the words coming out.
“Awesome! Thank you! But let’s take a quick nap first. We’ll leave at ten. That okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, he sets his coffee on the nightstand, scoots our pillows down until they’re flush against the bed, and nestles right in. After I do the same, he pulls the covers over us and almost instantly falls asleep on his back. I slowly ease myself onto my side until I am facing him. I sneak a few glances at first, but once I am sure he’s totally out, I give my eyes permission to stare. Like really, really stare. At my rock star crush. Who is in bed with me, just inches away, sleeping as though it’s the most natural thing for us to be doing right here, right at this moment.
Oh my God. This is so unreal.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Home-Field Advantage?
An hour and a half into our nap, Niles starts wiggling around, causing my eyes to pop open. I am shocked to find that I had actually fallen asleep, and even more shocked to discover that my forehead is wedged against the outside of his shoulder. I lift my head to see him staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.
“Hey,” I say. “Feel better?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs his phone and starts pecking away. After a few moments, he turns to me.
“Sorry. Lyrics. When inspiration strikes, I gotta go with it.”
I know exactly what he means. While writing my book, hopping out of the shower or stopping in the middle of the grocery store aisle to capture random thoughts or dialogue ideas was status quo. I am super intrigued by what exactly inspired him right now and what lyrics he came up with, but as much as I want to ask, I keep mum. I know the creative process can be very personal.
“You ready?” He pops up and takes a sip of his coffee.
“You know it!”
I wish I felt about one speck as confident as I sound. As cool as this is, how weird will it be having him in my house? Jeez, is it even clean? I’m usually pretty tidy, but I was so flustered before I left yesterday, I probably have makeup all over the vanity and toothpaste splashes on the bathroom mirror. What if he wants a snack and I have nothing he likes? What if he sees the pile of laundry sitting on my dresser? You know, the one with my not-so-sexy undies situated right on top. What if he’s disgusted that I live in an apartment instead of a house? What if we have nothing to talk about and we’re trapped with each other all day and things get weird and awkward and we should have just left it all as is?
What it, what if, what if?
After packing up and discreetly getting a cab ride to my car, which is now one of only five left in the concert venue’s field, we stare at each other with “what’s next” looks all over our faces.
“Can I drive?” he finally asks.
I consider his question. Do I let someone who hasn’t driven a car in an entire year take the wheel, or do I take it myself and die of embarrassment as I granny my way down the highway? Decisions, decisions.
“You want to drive my Mom Car?” We’ve yet to broach the subject of my children, but I suspect he’s figured out I have them. And if he hasn’t, he knows now.
“It’s a nice little ride. I haven’t driven in a while, though.”
“In over a year. Yeah, I know.” I wink at him.
“Of course you do.” He moves toward me and swipes at my hair. “Bug.”
I catch his wrist as it’s still on its return back to his side and hold it a second. I can feel his bones and the warmth of his skin. I want to pull him toward me and kiss him right here, right at this moment, but instead, I let go and rummage around in my purse for the keys.
“Here you go.” I put the keys in his palm. “I trust you.”
He breaks into a huge smile and unlocks the doors. We get situated and he shifts into gear, navigates through town, and merges onto the highway like a pro. He’s doing way better than I would have been.
“Like riding a bike,” he says with a wink.
An hour later, our conversation is lively (yay!) and things are going great (double yay!). Until a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and my stomach turns . . . and not in a good way.
“Oh, man,” I groan. “I’m starting to feel like crap.” Memories of last night’s beers and shots come flooding back. I bite my tongue to keep from throwing up. “Aren’t you hung over?”
“Ha, no. I’m a ‘rock star,’ Kallie, remember?” he says with air quotes. “I don’t get hangovers anymore.” He gives me a sideways glance, then squeezes my knee. “Whoa. You’re white as an Irish ghost. Want me to pull over?”
I shake my head, even though I want to say yes. All closed up like this, I can
really smell his awesome scent, but the air is stifling. I crack a window, which of course breaks the sound barrier as the wind whips in.
“Have some water,” he instructs, pointing to the mini-cooler he brought. I want to reach back and grab a bottle, I really do, but I’m afraid doing so will jar my cookies loose. Instead, I lean against the headrest and close my eyes.
“Just relax,” he says gently, his fingers brushing against my cheek. “We probably have another fifteen miles on this stretch, then I’ll need you to watch for our exit. Can you do that?” I nod. “Okay, good. You’re going to be fine.”
And I am. I focus on the fact that I am sitting next to Niles Russell. He is driving my car. We took a nap together in a hotel bed. I partied with him last night. He grasped my hand during his incredible, amazing live performance. He’s coming to my house, for chrissake. Thinking of those things diverts my attention, and before I know it, he’s wheeling into my assigned parking space, looking up at my Melrose Place-wannabe apartment building.
“My ex got the house.”
He nods and shuts off the car.
“Uh, do you have, like, a lot of people who walk around here?” he asks.
This is an excellent question because the logistics of smuggling a Grammy-winning front man into my house isn’t exactly something I’ve had to give a lot of thought to. Sure, he’s no Paul McCartney, but it’s likely someone will recognize him, and showing up at a random fan’s house could do a number on his reputation. I’m guessing there are no paparazzi hiding in the bushes, but still. I check the clock and see that it’s not quite noon. It’s a hot Saturday and we have to walk by the community pool to get to my unit. There are bound to be a lot of people there.
“I’d grab your hat and sunglasses, for sure.” I know he has them because I saw them poking out of his running bag before he zipped it up. “Also, maybe take off a couple of your shirts. People around here don’t wear so many clothes. Your mad layering skills scream, ‘rock star!’” He laughs and awkwardly peels off two of his shirts, bumping the steering wheel and narrowly avoiding cuffing me in the jaw. When I look over at the finished product, he looks like a normal guy—albeit a very cute normal guy.
All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) Page 4
