Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

7. Skylar

The sound of someone knocking on the front door gradually penetrates my dream, first weaving its way into the storyline and then, as it continues, waking me.

Sitting up, I look at the clock across the room and ascertain that it's just past one. With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my bathrobe. The sound abates for a moment, and I say a little prayer that I can just go back to sleep. Then, just as I'm about to lie back down, the banging resumes.

My head feels fuzzy, very likely a result of the three cocktails that I'd consumed soon after racing out of the Odeon. I'd taken one look at the blonde drummer canoodling a stunning brunette and instinct kicked in, my legs carrying me away as quickly as possible. I didn't stop until my ass was seated in a barstool at the tavern across the street, a gin & tonic in front of me.

Part of the reason that I had fled was that I felt like an idiot. After weeks of trying to keep my distance from Roger, I'd genuinely been excited about seeing him. So much so that I convinced a colleague to switch overnight shifts with me. Then, just to double down on the stupidity, I stood outside of the theatre for an hour trying to convince concert-goers that they should sell me their ticket for an exorbitant price.

The other reason was that I was jealous. The moment I laid eyes on Roger with a girl on his lap, I felt sick to my stomach. Even though I had zero right to feel jealous, I did. And that meant that I'd grown too attached, so it was time to get the fuck out.

So I did. And now it's the middle of the night and someone--most likely one of Jenny's friends from art school--is causing a ruckus at our front door.

Switching on a lamp in the living room, I walk to the door and peer through the peephole. I squint and blink, certain that my eyes are deceiving me. Because, unless I've finally gone crazy, Roger fucking Taylor is outside my door tapping a hand nervously on his thigh.

I lean my forehead against the door and debate pretending that no one's home. It seems like a good plan, and, just as I'm about to creep back to bed, I hear his voice.

"I know you're there, Skylar. C'mon, I just want to talk."

Cursing softly, I fling open the door. The drummer stands in front of me,  a knowing grin on his face and a cautious look in his eyes. I expect some sort of cocky one-liner, so I'm surprised by his first words.

"You were there tonight," he says softly, his eyes brightening. I can't help but notice that his eyes rove up from my bare feet to my silk bathrobe to my eyes, which are shooting daggers at him.

"Yeah."

"I wish I'd known," he replies as he leans over to give me a hug. As tempting as it is to give in to his warmth--damn, he's a good hugger--I pull away.

"Why? It looked like you had quite a few, um, fans fawning over you. No need to add one more," I mutter, feeling ridiculous as soon as the the words leave my mouth. At best, I'm someone who happens to be around when he's in the mood to chat before shows. At worst, he thinks of me as a groupie who won't even put out.

"I'd have rather you been the one fawning all over me," he replies with a smirk. I roll my eyes and look down at the floor, the icy wind causing me to shiver.

"What do you want, Roger?" I ask. By now, he's figured out that I'm feeling rather stroppy, so he doesn't respond right away. Irritated, I start to close the door, but he quickly shoves his foot in the way.

"Are you always this annoying?"

"I've been told as much," he replies with a toothy grin.

"Are you always this persistent?"