FALLING FOR THE ROCKSTAR (#1 ROCKSTAR SERIES)

♪ one ♪

A dream come true—meeting a favorite celebrity. How many times had I wished for something like this to happen? For the opportunity to land in my lap, for an unexpected meet-cute to take place with someone I'd admired for so long?

Tonight, it was happening. In a back room in a large concert hall I'd been to a few times as a child, but never as an adult, like now. In my hometown of New York City, while other screaming fans waited out in the auditorium.

Experience a meeting with the man behind the voice—Leo Lee, from SMASH, is waiting for you!

I remembered the advertisement so clearly, because I'd clicked so fast on it that I'd likely sprained my finger.

And now, hundreds of dollars later, I was there.

I'd never seen so many wild and colorful posters of the same band in the same place. So many plastered on walls—to the point of not being able to see the wall—juxtaposed in a way that showed the band's progress over the years. That time when Jimmy, the drummer, made headlines for the fastest beats ever recorded. Or when Sammy, the lead guitarist, had jumped off stage and almost fallen flat on his face, but some chick had saved him—that chick was now his wife.

Or, my favorite moment of all—when Leo Lee, the hot, delicious, deliriously talented lead singer had formed the band after a brief solo stint. He was a playful crooner, but he missed being a rockstar. That picture was right in front of my face; all six band members gathered around Leo, who was signing paperwork. They looked at him with pride, excitement, possibly some nerves.

I had those nerves now. Because of all the twists of fate, another favorite moment was about to happen. My moment. I was about to meet Leo Lee. The Leo Lee. A poet, a dazzling man whose image haunted my dreams, whose music flowed in my veins. I knew every song, every lyric, and I'd watched every documentary and interview he'd ever done. I'd been following his journey since day one, since the moment he set foot on a stage and was recorded and his romantic, lovely voice became part of history. I was fifteen, he was twenty.

I was now twenty-five, and he was thirty. All grown up. I couldn't even begin to imagine the possibilities—

No, that was a lie. All I'd been doing, since I'd been escorted into this backstage room was imagining possibilities. Leo Lee walking in, wearing that signature leather jacket with nothing underneath, his hot, hot torso gleaming with the beginnings of sweat, the waistband of his tight, tight jeans leaving so much to desire, those muscles molded like a white chocolate bar I'd feel melting in my mouth. He'd see me, smile, beam, even, and take my hand, and say, "screw this, let's go back to my dressing room."

Or he'd come in, fanning his beautiful face, blushing from having had to run through a horde of fans. Those eyes flecked with blue and green and amber—they were hazel, according to the close-ups in magazines—would find me, stop, stare, and he'd relax. "Oh, it's you," he'd say, realizing I wasn't one of those screaming, squealing girls who wanted to touch his chest (I did) and press a finger to his soft lips or kneel at his feet and listen to him sing for me.

I wasn't a groupie. Not like I'd bought all his concert tickets (too expensive) and followed him around the world or knew where he lived (I didn't). Nor had I bought his used clothing on online auctions or stalked him or even thought of doing that. It was a regular, good old celebrity crush; and I so happened to own all his records, some t-shirts with his face on them, and a few posters very much like the ones surrounding me now.

To even be here, in this room, waiting for him, was a privilege, and I knew it. I never thought I'd get that privilege, having been scraping for scraps these past few years, stuck in a job that wouldn't recognize my talent. A job that wouldn't even let me demonstrate it to them. A job that wouldn't pay me well enough for the shit work I did. Not that I was poor; but I had to live across town from where I worked, sit in subways for an hour in the morning, another hour at night, and deal with rowdy neighbors banging on walls and playing obnoxious music all the time. If they'd been playing SMASH, then I'd have been fine; but it was country music, for crying out loud.