We sit around the coffee table of our manager, Christian’s lavish apartment in West Hollywood. He finishes arranging about fifty headshots. Models. Women. All objectively good-looking.

Though, to be honest, they all look sort of the same to me.

Tall, busty, blonde, flawless. So flawless they’re almost plastic.

We’re casting the girl for our upcoming video, Her Name in Stars. Christian insists that she be both girl-next-door pretty and the sexiest knockout he’s ever seen.

Anywhere in between simply will not do.

As he scans the picture and tosses the rejects to the floor, I’m beginning to understand why women complain about being held to an impossible standard of beauty.

Personally, I don’t care who they choose. It’s the best song our band, Say Yes, has ever recorded and I know in my bones that it’s going to be a huge hit. Like the kind of hit that’s going to help us cross the line from opening act to headliners.

The video and the girl are just the icing on the cake.

Dylan, our singer and the one who wrote the song, considers the models scrupulously. No doubt, he’s trying to find a girl who resembles the now infamous Jane Doe who inspired the song. He sighs, disappointed.

Jack, our guitarist and his step-brother Shawn, our bassist, trade the headshots like playing cards, deciding which brother got to sleep with which model in some alternate universe where they guys get to assemble a harem of beautiful women to indulge their every fantasy. Not that either brother ever struggles for female attention. It’s just their twisted way of amusing themselves.

“Ian,” Christian says with his authoritative air, “You could take an interest in this. Or at least pretend to pay attention.”

He’s right. I mean, our first model bailed on us for a better paying gig. She kind of interrupted our entire shooting schedule. And in order to get the video done on time, the new model is going to have to go in with virtually no rehearsal.

And the shoot is in two days, so we have to choose someone fast.

I nod and force my gaze down at the photos. It isn’t a hardship, really, being forced to look at pictures of beautiful women. Judging them is weird though.

The door opens and my younger sister Nikki, Christian’s assistant, enters with coffee and food. She talks to Christian about the band’s schedule for the day. Nikki may be my family, but when she’s in work-mode, she pretends not to know me. She hates that she has this job because of nepotism, but she’s worth her weight in gold as far as the band’s concerned.

“Nikki, come here,” Jack beckons, holding up a picture of a raven-haired model. “What do you think of her?”

Nikki takes the photo and considers it. “Wouldn’t kick her out of bed,” she says with a flirty smile, handing him a coffee. He squeezes her on the shoulder.

I don’t mind my sister befriending my bandmates, not that I really get a choice in the matter. She is an adult. It is weird, however, that she's especially close with Jack. I mean, my sister has that eternal Disney-princess type innocence and Jack is a pretty proud manwhore.

Nikki straightens her conservative pencil skirt and smooths her less-than-conservative pastel rainbow hair and continues to stare at the model. “She looks familiar, but I can’t quite place her.”

“What’s her name?” I ask.

“Cora Dwyer.”

I blink. Twice. I can’t have heard that properly.

“Why does that sound so familiar?” Nikki asks.

Jack and Shawn look at me knowingly and I feel my face get hot.

Jack cracks an evil smile. Or at least as much of a smile as Jack is capable of. “Are you blushing?”

Fuck, I’m not that fifteen-year-old weirdo anymore. I’m Ian fucking Brooks. Drummer for Say Yes. My band has been on the cover of Rolling Stone for chrissakes. And not to sound like a complete prick, but I don’t have to work too hard for female attention anymore.

I grab the picture from Nikki at the very moment Jack lunges for it. We wrestle for the flimsy photo, wrinkling and tearing it in the process. Jack ultimately wins and considers his prize.

“She looks good,” he says, knowing he’s getting under my skin. “Her tits finally came in.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I snap.

“Damn, if I’d know that Little Miss Perfect would turn out that hot, I’d have taken a run at her when I had the chance,” Jack teases. His eyes gleam like’s picturing it.

I roll my eyes.

It’s been this way since high school. If I liked a girl, I’d brood and admire her from afar. But Jack would go right up to her, yank her ponytail and whisper something dirty in her ear. And, for some reason, his way always worked.

I make another grab for the photo, but fail to pry it from Jack’s grip.

“Enough,” Christian bellows. “If Ian needs a minute to jerk off to a pretty model, let him. Whatever gets this done before my next meeting.”

Jack cedes the photo to me and I stare at it, my eyes wide.

She looks exactly the same as she did when we were young. I mean, she looks older, obviously, more womanly, but she still has that spark. Her thick black hair, tousled and windswept, her deep, chocolate brown eyes as thoughtful and mysterious as I remember. But what intrigues me most is the expression on her face. A crooked smirk, amused and playful, like the moment before she was about to burst out laughing.

It makes me smile.

Christian creeps up behind me, startling me while I’m lost in thought. He takes the picture and considers it.

“She’s kind of perfect, don’t you think?” he asks.

“I think…”

“We know what you think, Ian,” he cuts me off. He shows the picture to Dylan, who narrows his eyes and glares at it, his wheat-blond hair falling in his face and scratching his reddish five-o’clock-shadow.

Dylan shrugs, not disappointed, but certainly still frustrated. “She’s the closest one.”

“Book her now,” Shawn says, “That’s as much of a reaction we’re going to get out of him.”

“Perfect,” Christian declares, clapping his hands together, “I’ll give her agent a call.”

He saunters off, phone in hand. Dylan turns towards me. “What’s the deal with that model? You fucked her or something?”

“In his dreams,” Jack taunts.

Dylan raises an eyebrow. Jack, Shawn and I have known each other since freshman year and occasionally Dylan gets left out of some inside jokes. Also, being a few years older than us, he doesn’t particularly care for antics.

“We went to high school together,” I answer, not wanting to offer up anything else.

“And…” Shawn goads.

“And… I had a little crush on her.”

“Understatement of the motherfucking year,” Jack, oh-so-helpfully, adds.

Dylan nods, not needing any more information. “Well, lucky you then,” he says slyly.

I look at him, confused.

“Not everyone gets a chance to see their high school crush after having their album go platinum and selling out fucking stadiums,” he explains, “Doesn’t matter how unattainable she was in high school, the second she sees you as a rock star, she’s gonna spread her legs just like all the others.”

I grunt. I don’t like thinking of Cora as ‘just like all the others.’ Plus, everyone knew that she was the only one of the really popular girls to hold onto her virginity until college. I like to think she’s not easily won-over.

“Time to add that notch to your bedpost,” Jack says.

“Maybe.”

Maybe it’d be a good idea to finally fuck her and get over this crush. Well, it’s not really a crush. Not anymore. That would be fucking crazy. More like I end up comparing every woman I meet to the girl I was so crazy about all those years ago. Ask myself if I feel as passionately about this woman as I did about Cora. Answer’s always no.

Of course it is. Cora’s something special. She’s probably married. Or engaged to some handsome billionaire. Or something. Whatever it is, she’s always going to be way-the-hell too good for the likes of me.

It all runs through my mind at lightning speed. If she says yes to the gig, Cora Dwyer is about to come back into my life. And I have no idea what the hell I want to do about it.

The meeting continues without me. I mean, I’m physically present, but the conversation just sort of happens around me and I absorb none of it.

I don’t even notice that the guys have left and the room is quiet.

It’s just me and this picture.

Until I feel a squeeze on my shoulder.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Nikki asks.

“Of course I’ll be there. Like I’m going to miss my baby sister’s twenty-first.”

“You’ll brave the club scene and everything?” she asks skeptically.

I take a deep breath. “If that’s what you want, I’ll be there for you,” I tell her.

She looks at me like I’m a hurt puppy.

“You’ve been living like a monk for the past year, Ian,” she reminds me, “You can’t go on punishing yourself forever.”

“Sure I can.”

Her expression gets suddenly serious. “I know you can, but I don’t want to watch that happen.”

Shit. I didn’t want to bring down the mood that much.

“I’ll be there, Nikki,” I say resolutely, forcing a smile.

“Good. Caspiar Club at 10,” she declares, straightening her skirt as she leaves.