Read All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Liberty Kontranowski
What Do You Want From Me?
I knew this would happen. Freaking knew it. My life is a whirlwind for five days, I see and talk to Niles almost nonstop, we get close and then closer, then bam! It’s a new week and I haven’t seen him at all.
“I miss you!” I whine, staring at his pic on my phone. “When am I going to see you again?” We talk daily—sometimes multiple times per day—but this stretch of their tour schedule is particularly heavy and they go from one stop to the next, leaving the stage, having a one-hour meet and greet with fans, then heading onward. No after-parties, no chance for me to hang with him. I’m a mess.
I’ve been trying to work on Book Two, but my inspiration has waned. I’m starting to think having Niles as a muse was easier before I knew him because I could just project characteristics onto him without knowing whether or not they were accurate. Now, whenever I try to write a line or a scene with Nash, I think more about the real Niles than Nash—whom I actually created and hence “know” a lot better than Niles. It’s all kinds of confusing and it’s making things pretty difficult.
To my delight, Niles is turning out to be every bit as romantic and caring as Nash. But he’s also a bundle of contradictions.
Yes
, I want to have sex with you, but no, I’m not going to do it yet—even though I’m a rock star and rock stars are known for that exact type of behavior.
No
, I don’t want to ever make you cry, but it’s been a week since we’ve seen each other and now all you do is mope . . . and cry.
Yes
, we’ll kiss someday, but not yet—even though I almost kissed you on the running trails when I was at your house, being “normal.”
I mean, what if we
would
have kissed that day? Would that have been it? Or would we have gone back to my apartment and done more? Even if not, with that first kiss out of the way, would we kiss every time we see each other now? Would that night in Philly have been our first roll in the hay? So many questions messing with my mind I can hardly stand it.
And the irony of it all? Niles’s promise to me was that he’d distract me from the girls this summer. Now, it’s my conversations with the girls that distract me from Niles.
They’re having a ball in North Carolina. And even though we miss each other a ton, I think being away is getting easier for them. Brad’s mom has them constantly on the go, even taking summer gymnastics classes at a local dance studio and cooking classes from a friend of a friend.
Of course, they have no idea what my life is like back here and I don’t dare share any of that info with them or Brad. Brad is already so bitter over my book for reasons spanning from its success (hey, it’s
hard
to get a book published) to the obsessive passion and time dedication it takes to fuel a project like that, to the fact that it was about another guy. If he ever found out I actually met and hung out with Niles, oh boy! But the more I think about it, the more I know he will someday find out. After all, Katherine has already called and texted multiple times to get the scoop on how/why Niles was in town with me, how we met, and what our relationship status is (“just friends” will not fly with her—not after what she saw on those trails). I’ve ignored her completely, which is probably only fueling the fire. With tongues wagging like they do in this town, I’m surprised the whole world doesn’t already know.
As soon as I hang up from the girls, my phone springs right back to life with the text message I’ve
so
been waiting for.
“How does a trip to Beantown sound? On Wednesday? We have a little breather. Didn’t think we’d be spending the night there, but now I guess we are. Flights are confirmed, concert ticket is ready, VIP pass is yours. All you have to do is say yes.”
Pause.
“PLEASE say yes. I miss you.”
He misses me?! Did I just read that right? As much as
I’ve
missed
him
, I’ve never actually come out and said that to him for fear of sounding like a lovesick fangirl. Even though I’ve been Mopey Maggie over here, he’d never know it because I always try to be full of sunshine and unicorns whenever we talk. Sure, I’ve told him multiple times that I can’t wait to see him and hang out again, and that I’m dying to watch him kill it in front of a crowd once more, etc., but I know he’s under a lot of stress and he’s probably tired. He doesn’t need some crazy fan whom he’s befriended blathering on and on about missing him when he’s out there doing his job of entertaining the masses.
In a not-so-surprise move, my stomach squeezes tight and so does my heart. “I. Miss. You. Too.” I type. “And my answer is HELL, YES!”
“Awesome! I know I’ve been busy, but you’ve seriously been on my mind. A lot. I can’t wait to see you. Thanks for saying yes.”
Suddenly, all the time I’ve spent in a funk over the last week seems so insignificant. I am alive again, and Wednesday can’t come soon enough. I mentally make plans to hit the gym hard over the next two days and realize a trip to the mall for a sassy new shirt is definitely in order.
“Thank you for asking me. I was wondering when I’d ever see you again. I was losing hope.” Sad face.
“Ha, don’t give up on me. I told you I’d keep you distracted this summer. This past week was a bit sucky, but it’s always like that on the East Coast. After NYC on Friday and Saturday, things will ease up.”
New York! Oh man, have I ever let myself fantasize about joining him there, too. I’d stay at some awesome hotel, meet Lucy for lunch on Friday, and swing by my publishing house with her to say hello to the very people who manage my writing career. I’d go to both concerts and after-parties, and maybe even crash at Niles’s apartment for part of Saturday, since that’s their home base and Niles keeps a place there. Then I realize there is no way, no how, that would ever happen so I push that idea out of my mind and focus on what I know: I’m going to Boston on Wednesday!
“I’ll never give up on you,” I type. “I seriously, seriously cannot wait to see you again. I really have missed you a lot.”
It takes him a minute to respond, but finally, he types, “Why, Kallie? Why do you miss me? Because I’m a rock star? Because I’m a hot mess that’s fun to fuck with? Because my life is a whirlwind and it gives you good inspiration for your characters? Tell me why you miss me so much. I seriously want to know.”
What?!
I shake my head, stunned. I don’t know what he’s getting at, but this is not a conversation that can be covered over text. Without thinking at all, I hit the “call” button and hear the ringing tone before his voice.
“Sorry,” he answers. “That was totally assholish of me. I’m just having a freak-out day. It happens. I’m sorry.”
“Niles. Don’t you dare think for one second that I like or miss you because you’re a rock star. I learned of you because of your talent, yes, but there are a lot of talented people out there. You are so much more than your talent.”
There’s nothing but silence on Niles’s end, so I race on. “You’re a complicated motherfucker,” I laugh, “but you are so amazing. In so many ways. I feel like when we’re together, you’re actually you, am I right? I mean, in addition to all the laughs we’ve shared and the fun we’ve had just hanging out, we’ve slept together twice. And by ‘slept,’ I mean we’ve actually
gone to sleep
. You haven’t even tried to bang me yet and you definitely could, any time, any place. I would not be the one to say no. So, what gives? Why haven’t you tried? What do you really want with
me
, Niles Russell?”
Not gonna lie, I’m a little shocked by what just came out of my mouth. I’m about as nonconfrontational as they come. But hey, this has been on my mind and if he’s demanding answers, I’m going to, too.
“I don’t fucking know, Kallie. I know that you wrote a book about me and I know that for whatever reason you find me interesting and I know that now that I’m getting to know you, I find you interesting, too. But beyond that, I don’t freaking know anything. I know I want to screw your brains out—trust me—but I don’t want to hurt you because, really, I’m a piece of shit and you deserve better. Yet, I can’t tear myself away from you, which is stupid because throughout my whole life I’ve perfected the art of tearing myself away from just about everything. No promises, no regrets. So yeah, I guess this is fucked up all around and I don’t know anything except that I’m going to be really damn happy when I look out into the crowd on Wednesday and see you there, front and center. Then, I’ll be even happier when I can glue myself to your side at the after-party, even though the guys are wondering what the fuck my problem is and why I’m not behaving like my normal self.”
“The guys are noticing?” There are so many points of this conversation to focus on, yet I choose this one. Why? I don’t know. It seems important.
“Yeah. They think I’ve lost my freaking mind. I kind of hate that they think that, so that should say something.” He pauses. “
Plu
s, I’m starting to get crap for how long it’s taking me to write this next album. So I’m a bit of a head case right now. You’ll have to excuse me.”
Ummmm . . .
“Did you just say you’re writing a new album while you’re
out on the road
?”
“Yeah. I mean, we’re on fire, right? Overnight success, or so they say. They have no idea how long we’ve been at this, but none of that matters. One great album demands another, and within quick succession. If we wait too long, we’re irrelevant, just like that. We signed up for this. There’s no turning back.”
This is absurd. I cannot imagine writing while out on the road. I tried eking out a few paragraphs of Book Two while on the plane to Philly and I couldn’t put two cohesive sentences together. How and why is he expecting to write an album while
touring
? How can his mind even go where it needs to when he’s on a bus or in a hotel room or on stage in front of thousands of people? Talk about an unreasonable expectation.
“Wow. I’m sorry you’re going through this, Niles. I had no idea.” What comes out of my mouth next kills me, but it seems like the right thing to do and say. “Maybe it’s best if I stay away. You have a job to do and I don’t want to be a distraction.”
“Fuck that. You just told me you wouldn’t give up on me!”
“I’m not giving up. I just don’t want to mess up your . . . whatever.”
“Exactly. I don’t even know what it is you’re messing up. So, let’s pretend this conversation never happened and just get your adorable little ass here on Wednesday and we’ll go from there. Yes?”
There it is again. Adorable. Sweet. Cute.
That’s
why he hasn’t jumped me. My gears turn. I hatch a plan. I can all but bet that after Wednesday night, Niles’s confusion will disappear and we will be napping partners no longer.
Nope, we’ll be so much more.
Night Skies and Fireworks
What the heck is this place? I’m standing in some hallway that is backstage, but not. It’s like some underground alley and it’s dark, and quite frankly, I’m a little freaked out. But Zeke the bouncer—whom I now consider a friend—insists that this is where Niles requested I wait for him. So I wait. And wait.
I hear all the usual commotion and relax a little because I must not be too far from the action. After a bit, Zeke shows up with a six-pack of chocolate-coffee craft beer and a bottle opener and tells me to crack one open while I wait.
“Thanks, I need this. Any idea how much longer?”
“Not long. Niles is whipping through the hellos. He seems pretty anxious to see you.” He looks me up and down. “And I can see why. You look extra hot tonight. But don’t tell Niles I said that.” He winks.
I’m thankful for that shot of confidence because I feel a little weird. I’ve always worn short shorts and shoulder-bearing/girls-enhancing shirts to each concert, but this time, I upped the ante a little. I have on a super short, tight gray skirt and a citrine-colored tank top that hugs the ladies oh so well. My hair is a little more rock star than I usually wear it and I have more makeup on than normal. I needed a punch of boldness today, so I figured dressing the part was in order. We’ll see if it helps.
As Zeke walks away, I drain my beer and think about how awesome it was to see Niles doing his thing tonight. It’s hard to imagine he’s going through any stress at all. When he’s up on stage, he is one thousand percent there. He owns it. There is not one glimmer of self-doubt, self-depreciation, or self-loathing (I still can’t believe he called himself a piece of shit. What was
that
about?). He works that stage and he works the crowd, bantering back and forth as though he’s having one giant conversation with ten thousand people at a time.
I’d run out of fingers if I tried to count how many times we made eye contact during the show tonight. We held hands for a few seconds when he reached straight for me, and his grasp was gentle at first, with a tight squeeze at the end. The girl next to me playfully nudged my shoulder with hers and mouthed, “Lucky!” before pouting and turning her attention back to the stage. Tonight, I was the only person in the crowd that he touched—the only one. That girl is right. I am lucky.
Just as I pop open another beer, which is heavy but super delicious and will probably have me drunk after just one more, I hear my favorite voice in the world.
“Have one to spare?”
It’s as if it were the first time I’d seen him all over again. My heart jumps to my throat, while my stomach plummets to the ground. I can’t take my eyes off that face, that smile, that slender body swimming in a vintage Van Halen concert T-shirt with a button-up haphazardly layered over top. I feel like I’m in one of those hokey commercials where the couple runs through a field of wildflowers and slams into each other in a dramatic hug, just as the music crescendos.
If I’m being honest, I’m saying that I had no idea how this would go. Ever since our little unexpected convo on Monday, I’ve been a bit, shall we say, on edge. On one hand, I’m kind of pissed over his outburst. How dare he accuse me of caring for him only because he’s a rock star? But on the other hand, I feel sorry for him, since he probably has people (girls) doing that to him all the time.
Still, I feel like our relationship (can I call it that?) is different. I’m never, ever fake around him. Sometimes reserved, sure, but never fake. And if he’s fake around me, he’s putting up a good front, because I can tell instantly when he’s switched from Normal Niles into Rock Star Niles. Maybe he has another layer under there I don’t know about, or maybe he’s a complete poseur, but I just don’t think so, and I’m generally a pretty good judge of character.
I’ve spent the last two days thinking this through, and even though he ended our conversation Monday with a request to pretend it never happened, something like that is a little hard to ignore. So, I wonder if he’s done that? Or is it still on his mind as much as it is mine? As he walks toward me, I try to read him . . . and all I see is a genuine smile and sparkly eyes that betray anything other than legit happiness.
In an instant, his body is pressing into mine and his arms are squeezing me tight. My face gets buried in his shirt and his familiar scent makes me completely weak. For a moment, I wonder how he does laundry on the road and how he gets everything to always smell the same. But when he whispers in my ear, any thoughts about anything at all completely disappear.
“You do not even know how happy I am to see you,” he says. “I’m so sorry I was such a prick. You didn’t deserve that.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I thought we were going to forget it even happened.”
“I couldn’t.” Hearing him say this makes me happy. Not that I’m interested in hashing everything out right here, right now, but I’m relieved to know he hasn’t just pushed it out of his head.
He pulls back from me a bit, keeping his hands on my bare shoulders. “I freaking hate that I hurt you. I said I didn’t ever want to hurt you, but then that’s exactly what I did. And I’ll probably say it again, then I’ll probably do it again. It’s not on purpose. I have good intentions. Usually. It’s just that I really, truly am a piece of shit.”
“You are not a piece of shit,” I say, looking up at him.
“You have no idea.”
He hangs his head for a moment, and in move so bold I totally shock myself, I tilt his chin up so he’s looking at me and I say, “Well, it just so happens I love shit.” I raise my lips toward his and finally—finally!—they connect and neither of us pulls away.
I feel our electricity in every single cell of my body. My vision is nothing but white light and gold fireworks. My torso is tight and prickling with energy. Out of respect for Niles’s germophobe ways, I’m careful not to use my tongue. But even without it, our kiss is the stuff dreams are made of. His hand plunges into my hair and my arms wrap tighter around his waist. This feels better than I could have ever imagined, and if it’s even possible, I press myself even closer to him.
After ages of being absolutely outside of my own body, he pulls away. “So, uh,
that
happened.” He shakes his head and a huge smile takes over his face.
“Yeah. It did.” My brain cells are like a heap of mashed potatoes right now, each one of them good for nothing. If someone asked me my name, I don’t think I’d even get it right. As cliché as it sounds, I’m completely weak. I lean into him for support.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, taking my hand. “I have a driver ready for us.”
Whoa, we’re leaving? Holy crap, is this it?
“No after-party?”
Gah! If this is it, I’m ready. I am
so
ready. But still.
“Not tonight. Just us.” He looks at me with big eyes. “Trust me.”
I nod my head and follow as he pulls me along by the hand. At this point, I’d follow him anywhere. If he wants to lead me into some catacombs of death, hey, I’ll go. Lead me to an airplane where we’ll parachute into the darkness? Sure, why not? I’d even get behind the wheel and drive down a damn highway right now, as long as I’m with him.
When we get to the car—a black Escalade—he nods to the driver and pulls me into the seat next to him. He holds my hand with one of his and runs the fingers of his other hand up and down my arm. My tummy butterflies rage so hard I can hardly breathe, but I feel relaxed at the same time. This is blissful.
“I love Boston,” he says. “You ever been here?”
“Nope.” I don’t want to move an inch because I don’t want to disrupt our comfy little people-heap, but I also want to turn around to look at him. If I do, I’ll be tempted to kiss him again, though. Is that bad? I’d feel kind of weird smooching in front of a stranger. Or would I? I try to turn just a bit, but decide I’m much more comfy as is, so I stay put.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Never better.”
He squeezes my hand and settles his head against mine.
I don’t dare ask where we’re going, because if it’s to a hotel, there will be no dancing around what’s coming next. I hear him breathing next to me and can’t help but think about how that breath just carried him through almost two hours of singing his brains out, running up and down the stage, jumping, bouncing, and belting out every perfect syllable. It’s staggering to me that the person who just entertained thousands of people is now sitting so close I can hear his breath. Talk about bizarre.
We pull into a drive that seems to lead toward a park. Though it’s beautiful, it’s not quite what I expected. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little of both.
“C’mon.” He pulls me across the seat and out the door. “Over here. I hope you like it.”
He brings my hand to his lips for a quick kiss, then guides me over to a blanket spread out on the bank, strewn with rose petals and lined with tea light candles. Holy swoon.
“Are you serious right now?” I breathe. On the corner of the blanket, I see a wine bucket with a bottle already chilled and opened. There are two glasses nearby, and a small cooler filled with beer. I look at him with tears in my eyes. “This seems a little familiar.”
“I one-upped Nash, though.” He nods toward the cooler. “Nash forgot the beer.” He winks, then pulls me into him. “You like?”
“I don’t like. I love.” I don’t mean for it to, but a tear slips out. Niles wipes it away, then kisses the spot he just wiped.
“That’s not a sad tear, right?”
“No way.”
“Good.” He smiles at me, then looks up at the sky. “Do you ever look at the stars and think of someone you dig?”
Like probably every other lovesick teen, of course I’ve done this before, but not in years and years. I shake my head. “No, I guess I don’t.”
“You don’t?” His voice is incredulous. “I figured that’s totally something you would do.”
“Do you do it?”
“I did. Robbyn and I used to do it all the time. Mostly during our last tour. She didn’t travel with us as much then because she had so much other stuff going on.” He looks out over the water. “I don’t do it anymore.”
He shrugs and I wonder why on God’s green earth he chose
this
moment to bring up Robbyn. Seems like a bit of a buzzkill, no? I also wonder why I haven’t seen her at any of the shows I’ve been at. It’s my understanding she goes everywhere with them. She’s like their traveling personal assistant or something. (Yippee.)
“Where’s Robbyn been?” I ask. “I haven’t seen her.”
“I don’t think you’d know her if you saw her. Any pics you’ve seen of her are probably old. She looks completely different. She’s gained some weight, dyed her hair, wears tons and tons of makeup. Not the same girl, for sure.”
“You do that to her?” I’m joking, of course, but the way he reacts makes me realize I hit the nail on the head.
“Told you I was a piece of shit.”
Do I really want to go there? I’m not sure if I do. Here, just inches in front of us, is the Charles River. Just inches behind us is a blanket strewn with rose petals. Talking to Niles about his ex-girlfriend does not seem to fit this scene. I’d much rather be canoodling. Yet, it’s starting to seem like he brought this up for a reason. Maybe there’s something he wants to get off his chest.
“So . . . where
has
she been?” I guess if this question is answered sufficiently—as in, she and I can’t stand to be within twenty miles of each other anymore, so she’s moved to Timbuktu—I’ll let it all go. The ball is in his court.
“She’s around. She was there tonight. And the last time you were there, in Philly.”
“She was?!” This is monumental to me. Tonight, he snuck me away, but in Philly, he was like a tumor on me the entire time. Did she see us? I think back and try to remember a cute girl that maybe was a little chubby and wore lots of makeup. No one in particular stands out. There was a girl that was with Jase a lot, but I swore she had light brown hair. Was that her?
“So, she’s . . . seen us together?” My breath catches as this question comes out. I don’t know why I feel so weird about this. If they’re broken up and we’re—I don’t even know what we are—what’s the big deal? There shouldn’t be one. But yet I feel so dirty.
“She has, yes. I thought you should know that. That’s kind of why I brought this up. I wanted to get it out of the way so we could, you know, move on.”
Well, this isn’t the most opportune time to bring it up, but okay. I guess I should be happy he’s willing to share this with me. Maybe this somehow validates our “togetherness?” Maybe?
“Is she taking it okay?”
“Most definitely not. Again, that’s why I brought it up. She’s not, how do I say this nicely, particularly stable right now.” He pauses and chews his lip for a moment. “She came up behind me when I was texting you the other day, Kallie. I didn’t know she was there . . . until I heard the camera on her phone. I think she snapped a pic of my screen when I had your number up.” He wrinkles his nose. “I’m super sorry, but if you get any nasty texts, consider this your fair warning. Just ignore her. Okay?” He looks at me hopefully.
I’m really not sure what to say. I obviously don’t know their situation nor do I fully understand the reason behind their breakup (a couple blogs reported they split amicably because they simply “no longer fit”). I really don’t love the idea of being a thirty-something woman caught in a high school jealousy-type situation, but I also would beat down any girl who stood in my way of being with Niles. And if Robbyn even tries to do that, how am I supposed to ignore her?