Page 3 of The Only Thing That's Real
I lived my childhood in a constant state of anxiety. When I left home, I swore I’d never let anyone make me feel less than again. Using that anger to squash my nerves to bits, I roll my shoulders back, stand straighter, and check my reflection in the mirrored wall behind me. My auburn curls have been tamed to subtle waves, my light make-up is just right. I’m wearing a white tank under an oversized cream sweater that I won’t need once we’re out of the air-conditioned hotel, boyfriend jeans, and my favorite taupe heels. Happy with the me I see, I take a deep breath, rubbing the worry stone in my pocket to ease my anxiety.
Growing up in my father’s house, I was rarely happy with what I saw in the mirror. When you face sneers and disparaging words on a daily basis, your self-esteem takes a backseat or, in my case, vanishes from existence. It took me leaving for college at eighteen to find myself.
To find the real me.
To find my voice.
It was the first time I had been around people who weren’t from my small town. And even though Brown University was in the somewhat small town of Providence, Rhode Island, it seemed like an entirely different world. Because it was.
I applied to Brown on a whim, knowing they only have a five percent acceptance rate. When I got in, my father was beyond pissed. He was outraged. Disgusted. He couldn’t fathom that I could be worthy of a school with that sort of prestige. He swore he would never give me a dime, which suited me just fine, since I didn’t want his money. I was on my own, and that was exactly how I wanted it. When I was thirteen, I started slinging the best soft-serve ice cream on the planet every summer and hot chocolate every winter. It wasn’t much, but I’d saved every penny. My savings, along with my hard-earned scholarships and student loans, were enough to get me through my first year of college. I left home and never looked back.
I met my people. We spent weekends in Boston and New York City. We explored every corner of the Northeast. I had a life with people who loved me for me and didn’t care how I came into this world. I was happy. Proud. Strong.
It’s because of the strength I’ve found over the last fifteen years that celebrities don’t phase me anymore. If you’ve met one, you’ve met most. That old adage, never meet your heroes, is sadly more accurate than I could have ever imagined. Luckily, the band members of the Hollow Knocks are down to earth, and I couldn’t feel more comfortable around them. I’m not sure what I’ve done to their lead singer, because he’s been avoiding me. If I hadn’t seen him on stage last night, I would think he didn’t exist.
Typical lead singer bullshit.
It sounds crazy, but I think they’re the most insecure members of a band. In my experience, singers typically get more attention and praise than the rest of the band. The moment the attention is on someone else, they don’t know how to handle it and act up. Here’s hoping Knox is different. That his small-town roots mean he’s as grounded as his bandmates.
Checking my phone, I’m relieved to see I’m five minutes early. Rock stars are never on time. I’ll have a chance to get set up before he arrives.
Using the key card Trevor gave me to get into the suite we’re meeting in, I push my way inside.
Well, shit.
I guess rock stars aren’t always late.
Standing across the room, looking out the window at the view of the city, dressed head to toe in black, is a very tall, formidable figure.
Then the record scratches and everything moves in slow motion.
His height is the last thing on my mind when he turns around and the perfection of his face hits me like a sledgehammer. The man is something to behold. Olive skin, chiseled jawline, and two barely there dimples that make anappearance when he gives me a practiced smile. Not to mention the superman dimple in the middle of his chin. I’m not a girl who gets distracted by beautiful faces or dark shoulder-length hair shinier than mine, but there’s a reason he’s the front man of the band. His undeniable charisma commands attention.
Sauntering in my direction, hands shoved in his pockets, dimples on full display, he ever so sweetly says, “Sorry, but this room is reserved.”
Strange.
Extending my hand to him, I assure him I’m in the right place. “Yes, that’s right.” He stares at my hand like he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with it. “Ryan Staley. Thank you for meeting with me.”
His dimples vanish. His brow furrows. He looks like I just kicked him in the balls.
Whoa.
“You’reRyan Staley?” He gives his head a shake as though trying to clear his mental etch-a-sketch, speaking to himself under his breath. “Serves me right.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, dropping my hand.
“Nothing. Nice to meet you.”
Sure doesn’t seem like it’s nice to meet me.
“Likewise. So, this doesn’t need to be anything too formal. I’ll be?—”
“Listen, this…” he interrupts, wagging a finger between us. “I’ll be honest, I’m not really into it. I understand you have a job to do, but this isn’t gonna work for me.” He heads for the door. “I’ll speak to my manager, but in the meantime, if you could stay out of the way, that would be great. Write your articles, but there won’t be any one-on-one interviews with me. I don’t have the mental capacity for your kind of distraction right now.”
What an asshole!
When he’s two steps from the door, I reply to his audacity. “Sorry, but that won’t work formeor my bosses. Your band came up with this idea, not me. Like you said, I’m here to do a job. Right now, my job is to interview you, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”
