FanGirl Squeal (RockStars of Romance Book 1)

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Acknowledgements

About the Authors

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Table of Contents

Published by Pink

We dedicate this book to our friends and
family who constantly encourage us to be greater than we ever thought we could
be.

“IDs! Everybody have your ID ready!” boomed the surprising
loud voice of a petite blonde girl wearing a bright yellow tee and khaki
shorts.

I fumbled around in the small satchel purse that was
strapped across my body. Even though the sun was beginning to fall behind the
clouds, it was still blazing hot. I felt my lower back beginning to sweat as I
searched through receipts, lip gloss, ink pens, and whatever miscellaneous junk
that could fit until I found my small cardholder. Flipping it open, I pulled
the Georgia ID card that said I was twenty-two from behind my actual New York
driver’s license that had my real age – nineteen – on it.

“I thought you said this was an eighteen and over event,” I
hissed at my best friend, Troy, as we shuffled forward in the line that was
wrapped around the side of the grayish concrete wall of the JukeBox.

“I lied.” Troy shrugged his skinny shoulders nonchalantly. “Listen,
you’ve been sitting in front of that computer for three days. You need to get
out of the house. I don’t know why you’re trying to be the next Perez Hilton
anyway.”

Troy raised his non-prescription glasses and gave me a judgmental
once-over. My baggy cargo shorts and UCLA t-shirt had not received Troy’s stamp
of approval when I wore them last week and nothing had changed. I folded my
arms across my chest, refusing to let my best friend make me feel self-conscious.

“You don’t have the fierceness that Queen Perez has.”

“Amen!” cackled our other friend. I rolled my eyes.

Troy and Brandon have only been at UCLA for one and a half
semesters and people are already calling them my entourage. They are openly
gay, flamboyant as hell as if RuPaul birthed them…one more than the other, and
quick to read me. We’ve been friends since the last time people thought they
were straight…kindergarten maybe. Both of them have worked every nerve that I
have at least ten times during our friendship. But I love them to death. I even
asked my parents to adopt them so they’d really be my brothers. Turns out,
adoption is more complicated than my third grade mind thought, especially since
Brandon and Troy both came from stable, two-parent homes.

“I’m not trying to be Perez Hilton. I’m Savannah Ford. I don’t
have to be fierce to run an entertainment blog.”

“You gotta be something,” Troy countered. “And honey, no one
is going to take you seriously with limp hair and throwback clothes.”

“Shut up.”

Brandon patted my shoulder in a condescending show of
support. “Honey, you just don’t have the Mean Girl mentality to be a gossip
blogger. You’re too sweet.”

I shook his hand off my shoulder. “I am not going to be a
gossip blogger. I have an entertainment blog, jackass. I already have five
hundred hits after posting that Ciara and Bow-Wow breakup story. Why are we
here anyway? I can’t believe I let you drag me to another unsigned artist
showcase.”

“You should be into this kind of thing. It’ll be good for
your
entertainment
blog,” Brandon said as he pulled a folded square of
paper out his pocket. “Besides, you love these soulful artists. One man, one
guitar...that’s your thing, right? Besides, this guy, Cash Myers, is fine!”

He handed me the folded flyer. Cash Myers’ face stared back
at me and I swear, my heart fluttered a bit. I’ve never seen a man look so good
in a grainy, black and white photocopy before.

I didn’t confirm or deny Brandon’s statement. Instead, I
focused my attention on not being incredibly nervous at using my fake ID. Sometimes,
I’m able to get into the bars around campus without using it which is why I
prefer to stay there, but this isn’t campus. I barely even look like the girl
on the fake ID. Sometimes, with the right make-up and hair, I resemble her. But
my hair isn’t straight and the only make-up in my bag is a dried up tube of
mascara. There’s no way I’m getting into the JukeBox tonight and this whole
excursion was a waste of time.

When we moved to the front of the line, Troy smiled at the
blonde girl while she briefly glanced at his ID. He leaned over, whispered something
in her ear, and nodded towards me and his other two underage friends.

“They’re with me.”

I couldn’t believe the girl stepped to the side and let us
pass after handing Troy three wristbands. What kind of pull does he have?

“What did you say to her?” Brandon asked as we scanned the
room for a table.

“She’s in my Economics class. I told her I’d do her hair for
free for a month if she let us in,” Troy stated.

I should have known. Troy has been getting freebies by
promising free haircuts for years. He uses strangers to practice his “innovative”
techniques and styles on because I do not let him practice on me.

There were only a few tables and lots of standing room only
space. We made the beeline for the first available table we spotted as close to
the stage as possible and posted there for the rest of the night. We took turns
getting drinks from the bar. If we abandoned our table as a group just to ogle
the handsome bartenders, we’d never get it back. Even though I was sporting
classic, black and white Chuck Taylors, I was in no mood for standing room
only.

Instead, I manned the table through the first act, nursed a
Sam Adams, and scanned the room for anyone that I might recognize from school.
Since we were at an artist showcase, I was also on the lookout for record label
scouts. My antennas were definitely out. If I’m going to have any chance at a
successful career as an entertainment journalist, I have to start making
lasting connections.

The lights dimmed and the boy from the flyer walked onto the
stage. Cash Myers carried a Martin acoustic guitar that I recognized
immediately. I have the same one tucked away in my closet back home. My parents
bought it during one of my phases. I’ve played it once.

Cash sat down on the edge of a wooden stool with a red SOLO
cup at his feet. I wondered what he had in the cup. I’m 100% positive that it
wasn’t hot tea for his throat. He took a sip of whatever was in the cup and
flashed a quick grin at the crowd. Or was it at me? He was looking in my
direction and our table
was
about three feet from the stage.

His eyes drew my attention and held it. They were the color
I imagined the sky would be if it wasn’t blocked by a layer of Los Angeles
smog. I have a slight obsession with blue eyes. And gray eyes. And green eyes,
basically any color that isn’t a shade of brown.

“Good evening! My name is Cash Myers.” He paused while a few
guys in the crowd chuckled. “Go ahead and laugh. It was my mom’s idea of a joke
anyway. No matter what happens, she’ll never be broke because she’d always have
a little cash, or something to that effect,” he laughed. “I deal. So anyway,
thank you for coming out to see me. It’s always nice when people give up an
exciting Tuesday night to spend it in a bar listening to me whine about my
problems. In the form of song, of course.”

I liked his banter. It was charming. I found myself
loosening up and anticipating hearing him play. Cash strummed a few notes on
his guitar then looked up at the crowd again before breaking into the opening
notes of John Mayer’s
Your Body is a Wonderland
. He stopped about thirty
seconds into it and burst out laughing along with the rest of crowd.

“I don’t know how he plays that song with a serious face,”
Cash joked. “You, the pretty girl up front with the bodyguards, do you like
that song?”

I grinned sheepishly. Actually, there isn’t a John Mayer
song that I do not like.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s catchy.”

“Aww man,” Cash laughed. “Let me play you something that you’ll
really like. It’s called
Possibilities
.”

The melody was slow and practically sensual. At first, I
didn’t think it was the right song to open the set with, but I looked around at
the glassy-eyed expressions on the faces of the predominantly female crowd and
realized that Cash knew exactly what he was doing.

Could it be that soul mates really do exist?

Could it be that neither of us is aware of this?

Could it be that because we’ve been hurt before?

That we’re missing out because we can’t love anymore?

“You like him,” Troy whispered in my ear. I jumped three
inches in my chair and knocked over my beer.

“Good thing I brought you a fresh one.” Troy slid the beer
across the table while Brandon mopped up my mess with napkins. I turned my
attention back to the stage without a word. I’m so used to them fussing over me
like two hyper mother hens.

Cash began an acoustic cover of Van Morrison’s
Brown Eyed
Girl
. Although I’d never want to work in the music industry, I’d make a
damn good A&R person. I have a great ear. My parents taught me early in
life to recognize good music and talent. Music, from Howlin’ Wolf to Frank
Sinatra was a constant staple in our Harlem home. We didn’t even have a
television. According to my parents, books and music are the only forms of
entertainment worth spending money on.

And Cash Myers is good. Not pop-star good, but Eric Clapton-The
Rolling Stones-Prince
good
. His voice was comforting and reassuring,
strong and a little soulful like Elton John. It’s cliché, but the first thing
that came to mind was a cool breeze on a hot summer day.

I leaned on my elbows and closed my eyes, absorbing every
lyric that came out of Cash’s mouth as his fingers teased the guitar strings. The
song was about feeling lost in the crowd, alone in a room with fifty other
people. My eyes widened.

What was happening? I’d written the exact same words in my
journal just days ago. Well...maybe not the exact same words, but the same
sentiment.

There are so many days that I want to pack my bags and get
back to Harlem the quickest way I can. Everything is so different in Los
Angeles. It’s the land of the rich, the bold, and the beautiful, and I’m none
of those things. It is the most uncomfortable feeling in the world.

Too soon, I was shaken out of my revelry by thunderous
applause and shouts from the tipsy college-aged crowd. Cash was slightly bowing
and grinning from ear to ear. I stood up and clapped slowly, mostly because I
was in awe. Cash stood up to stretch his long legs and say goodbye to the
crowd. As soon as he left the stage, Troy announced that it was time to go.

He grabbed my hand and practically dragged me through the
bar. Troy and Brandon formed a tipsy overprotective barrier between me and the
touchy/feely/grabby sea of drunk guys.

“So Savannah Banana,” Troy said when we got outside of the
stuffy club, “what did you think of Mr. Hot & Sexy? He was good, right?”

“Stop calling me Banana. Ashley is the only one who still
calls me that. And I liked him. He was very good,” I uttered. I was still
trying to wrap my brain around the feelings I was experiencing towards Cash and
his music.

Troy looked around the parking lot. “I wonder if he’s from
L.A. I’ve never seen him around.”

“I thought no one was actually from L.A.”

“True!” shouted Brandon. I could tell he had one too many
tequila sunrises during the two-hour show.

“I wonder where he is,” Troy said. “I want to talk to him.”

I stood with my hands on my hips and looked at my friends.
We’ve been to enough of these shows to know what happens after the actual
performance. I marched away from my entourage, easing through the crowd until I
was back inside the JukeBox. Just like I knew there’d be, I spotted Cash
sitting at a table surrounded by CDs. I went that way.