“I promise, mom, I’m okay.” I roll my eyes and take a sip of my long island ice tea. “Yes, I’m eating and drinking just fine. Stop worrying.”

The rally call of, Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink! , blares out behind me like a war cry.

Pressing the receiver tighter to my ear, I cup my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and turn my shoulder away from the erupting party. “No, it’s nothing. I’m in a busy diner.” Lie—I’m in a cocktail bar. “Mom, you’re breaking up. No, don’t call my cellphone. I left the charger on the tour bus. Mom . . . the line’s really fuzzy, I love you. Yes, I’ll call soon. Bye.” Slamming the phone down before mom hears the shouting and screams of the bar, I take my change from the slot and brush a lose tendril of hair away from my eyes.

As I start toward a massive table in the middle of bar Reflex—a trendy yet random roadside cocktail joint just off highway 101—Monica pushes to her feet and hands me a shot.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking it from her outstretched hand and placing my cocktail down on the table.

“Just a little something to help you sleep. We’re on the bus again tonight.”

Normally the band and select members of crew check into a decent hotel but occasionally, in between cities, they rest up in one of the four tour buses. They’re reasonably luxurious inside, but the bed spaces themselves are tiny and cramped. Last night was my first experience of real ‘roadie life’ and my neck isn’t thanking me today.

“Go on,” she presses, jerking her chin to the tiny glass in my hand. “Down in one.”

I screw my face up and gulp it down as fast as I can. As soon as the heat of the unidentifiable liquor hits the back of my palette, I grimace. “Eww . . . what was that?”

“Rum, Red Bull, with just a dash of tequila.” She smiles. “Yummy, right?”

“Tastes like cough medicine.” I reach for my long island to sooth the burn in my throat.

She pulls out a chair for me. On the table is an array of cocktails, beers, and spirits. The only thing to eat is a half empty plate of cheese nachos with guacamole—food of choice for life on the road. She sinks down on a chair and pats the one next to her. “Come on, we’ve a long night ahead of us.”

I shake my head. “Need to pee first . . . save my place though.”

I’m a little disappointed. The whole band is here but Jay is still AWOL. Probably on the tour bus working on something new, I reason.

As I round the corner toward the restrooms, I bump into someone walking in the opposite direction. “Sorry, I—” My words cut off. Looming tall over me, in dark skinny jeans and a pristine white t-shirt, is Jay.

“Look where you’re going,” he barks.

My cheeks heat. “I’m sorry.”

“Just be more careful next time.”

“Of course.”

As he purposefully strides to our table, my gaze follows him. His ass looks so perfect and firm in those dark jeans.

Although I’m happy he’s come along, I’m left mortified by my reaction. Did I just allow him to talk to me like that? Any other guy would be met with a few choice words. I mean, he bumped into me too. He doesn’t need to be so rude about it. I did apologize.

Shaking out of it, I push inside the restroom.

After using the toilet I wash my hands, barely glancing at my reflection. I feel like a hot mess, no doubt helped along by the booze, so I must look like one. I don’t want to see what must’ve greeted Jay just a moment ago.

I dry my hands and head back to the impromptu after show party.

The smile on my face soon disappears. Jay walks away from the table with Mike, the band’s drummer, by his side. They move to the far end of the bar where they look lost in some deep conversation.

“Smooth, Krissy, real smooth,” Monica says. Her words are like a faint buzz as I watch Jay talk with Mike. I can’t put my finger on it but something looks wrong.

“Krissy!”

My gaze snaps to Monica. “What?”

“I saw you, walking straight into Mr. sex-on-legs.”

I blush.

“Oldest trick in the book,” she continues, sporting a wry smile.

I smooth my hair past my ears and take a seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your clash with Tyler . . . you did that on purpose.”

“How could I?” I protest. “I never even knew he was here.”

She smirks. “Suuure.”

“Can we please drop the subject?”

Her shoulders and brows rise. “Okay . . . chill.”

I’m agitated now. Sure, I’m desperate for Jay’s attention, but I don’t want the whole world to know it, and I don’t want my best friend to bust my balls over it either. I’m not a school kid anymore, I’m twenty-three god damn it.

“Pass me another,” I tell her, staring at the tray of shots.

“I thought you didn’t like them.”

“I don’t, but I need something to numb myself from the embarrassment of what just happened.”

She smirks and hands me over another—some kind of reddish blue sludge. I don’t dare ask what’s in it, I just shrug and knock it back. It’s worse than the first one.

My face feels hot. As everyone laughs and jokes around, I turn my attention to Jay. Mike pats him on the shoulder and starts back over.

Jay stays rooted where he is. He looks sullen. Lost.

Suddenly, his gaze fixes on me. I want to look away, but I can’t. Hoping he smiles or something, I’m left crushed when he frowns and storms out the bar.

Jay Tyler: most gorgeous man alive.

Krissy Swinton: clumsy, crazy, desperate fan.