Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

1. Skylar

October 1973

"Let's go, Skylar!" my flatmate calls from the living room as I'm in the middle of pulling on tight leather pants. I tug on the black material a bit too sharply, losing my balance and landing in a heap on the floor.

"You okay?" Jenny looks at me from the doorway, appearing more than a little amused.

"You sure I have to go?" I whine, asking the same question for the seventh time today.

Listening to my voice, I marvel at the fact that it's slowly become an American-English hybrid as if I were born somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I guess that's what you get when your very English parents raise you in the very American city of San Diego for 15 years, then drag you back to the Motherland for university.

"Yes, you have to go," Jenny responds with an eye roll. "All you do is study. Time to have some fun like a normal 24-year old."

I begrudgingly sit up and manage to squeeze myself in the pants before buttoning up a black silk shirt and tucking it in.

"What's the name of the band again? Bean? Aberdeen?"

"Queen," my roommate says, lightly swatting my shoulder. "Don't pretend you can't remember such an outrageous name. Besides, Brian has only mentioned it about a million times."

"Oh, right, Queen," I reply with a knowing smile. Jenny has gone on a few dates with their guitar player, who seems like a good guy even if I'm tired of overhearing their hot-and-heavy makeout sessions through the obnoxiously thin walls of our flat. Apparently his band is headed out on tour soon, which has caused some sulking on her part.

We throw on coats and make our way to the bus stop, eventually alighting at Imperial College. As we walk over to the concert hall, I spot a small group of students milling around underneath a huge sign announcing that tonight's performance is sold out. Jenny excitedly brandishes two tickets at the booth, gaining our entrance into the melee.

The auditorium is packed, the excitement palpable. I'll be honest, when Brian had mentioned his band, I'd imagined one that played in pubs to a crowd of six drunken fools. Clearly, this is a bigger deal.

We make our way to the second row as the lights start to flicker on and off. Jenny lets out a little squeal and grabs my arm. The overhead lights dim, and, soon, we're standing in near darkness.

"You're going to love them," she whispers in my ear.

A few feet away, I see the silhouettes of three people walking across the stage to take their positions. After a brief pause, the spotlight shines on Jenny's beau, who strums the first few chords of an instrumental piece. Brian plays a guitar solo for a few minutes before he's joined by the long-haired bassist and the shirtless drummer, whose dark blonde head is angled away from me as he plays furiously. Something about him seems familiar, but I can't place it.

Before I can reflect further, the raven-haired singer bounds onto the stage, wearing the most a low-cut bedazzled black shirt that's tucked into snug black satin pants. The audience roars as he begins to sing, giving us an appreciative smile. The man prances across the stage, singing and gyrating, his movements a confusing mixture of effeminate and masculine.

"Isn't Freddie amazing?" Jenny says loudly next to my ear, competing with the loud guitar riffs.

"Which one is Freddie?" I shout back, struggling to be heard. She points towards the singer who, at that moment, leans back and thrusts his microphone high in the air.

Behind him, the drummer begins to play the next song, his arms a blur and his head bopping to the beat. He leans over and sings into the microphone, harmonizing with the lead vocals. I stand on my tiptoes to get a better look at him; I swear that I've seen him before.

"And the bloke you're checking out is Roger Taylor," Jenny whispers conspiratorially in my ear.

Instantly, I realize why he looks so familiar. Oh. My. God. It's the guy from Sarah's wedding a few years back. I'd forgotten entirely about that asshole, and here he is, sweaty and shirtless.

At that very moment, he turns towards the snare drum and looks my way. Our gazes meet, and I watch as his brow furrows. He squints, as if trying to get a better look. His drum sticks hit the hi-hat a beat too late, earning a dirty look from Brian, who says something to him off-mic. Roger glances away for a moment before returning his perplexed gaze to mine.

I finally break eye contact to watch my friend dancing next to me, wondering if she'll kill me if I leave right now.

But I don't. 

I stay and try to enjoy the 45-minute set while studiously ignoring the blonde behind the drum kit. Which, I'll admit, is difficult to do because he looks really good up there, all abs and hair and blue eyes. Someone should really put a shirt on him.

"Thank you! Thank you very much!" the singer shouts exuberantly at the end of the set, taking a little bow.

I grab Jenny's hand and pull her towards the side aisle, ignoring the complaints of the people we're brushing against. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the four band members standing at the front of the stage. Roger waves his hand to the audience, his eyes roving the area from which we just left. A slightly confused look on his face, he offers the audience a cocky smile and throws his drum sticks into the crowd, earning a cacophony of catcalls from the women in the room. As the boys walk off-stage, he turns back to once again scan the sea of people.

"Uh, is there a fire?" Jenny asks as I start to pull her quickly towards the exit. A horde of overeager fans burst into the aisle, cutting me off from my friend, and it takes us forever to finally make it outside. The fresh air is a welcome distraction from the burning sensation in my stomach.

"God, that was chaotic," Jenny says, pulling me to the side as I finally exited the auditorium. "Do you want to go backstage and say hi, or should we just go to the afterparty?"

"Afterparty?" I repeat, my mind going a million miles a minute. Jenny pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps the bottom.

"Yeah, Brian said that Freddie has organized a big do at Kensington Pub--"

"Roger is the guy from the wedding," I blurt out, interrupting her.

"What guy from what wedding?" She runs a hand through her blonde hair and looks bewildered. Her eyes widen as she takes a step closer. "You mean the bloke who tried to snog you while his girlfriend was there?"

"The very same."

"You almost snogged Roger Taylor?" She gives me an appraising look and then nods in appreciation. "You're full of surprises, Sky."

"It's not like I shagged him--"

"—And you're probably the only woman in London who can say that--"

"--we just shared a moment, okay? Well, until his girlfriend showed up. God, I'm such an idiot."

I groan in frustration, grabbing Jenny's hand to lightly tug her in the direction of the bus stop. She digs her heels in and refuses to let me move her any further.

"We don't have to go backstage, but we're going to the party." One look at her face tells that she means business: if I don't do what she says, I'll never hear the end of it. I rub my temple angrily, annoyed that I'm spending my one free night this week interacting with that cocky asshole.

"Fine," I say in a low voice. Jenny squeals and throws her arms around me. "But I'm only staying five minutes," I warn.