I give myself a once-over in the back changing room of the club. My makeup is all smoky eyes and ruby red lipstick. And my hair is, well, as good as my wild black ponytail is going to get.  

Deep breath.  

I smooth down my dress.  I guess I’m lucky I can pull off a dress like this; it’s black, strapless, tight, and hits way above the knee.  The worst part are the fuck-me heels. They’re a killer.

But, alas, it is the uniform at the Caspiar Club.

Okay, here goes.

I greet my first table of the night, a group in their late 20s, pretty even guy-to-girl ratio. My favorite kind of customers. The guys are out with their girlfriends, so they don’t hit on me. And as long as I compliment the girls on their dresses or hairstyles or something right out of the gate, they don’t think I’m hitting on their guys.

They have a good night. I get a nice tip. Win-win.

Time to turn on the charm.

“Hey everybody,” I say, smiling enthusiastically. It’s a good looking group. Like ridiculously good looking. “What are we celebrating?

“Me!” a girl blurts out, then looks slightly embarrassed. “I mean, my birthday. I’m twenty-one. Want to see my ID?” she rambles adorably.

She has long white-blonde hair, the ends of which are dyed rainbow colors. She looks like she’s dipped her hair into a box of melted crayons. On her, I like it. In her tight hot-pink dress and heels, she looks like a pin-up Rainbow Brite.

Knowing that she was ID’d at the door, I shake my head. “I trust you,” I laugh. “Let me get you all started on some drinks.”

When I catch her eye again, she’s looking at me strangely.

Actually… they all are.

Is there something in my teeth?

“Everything okay?” I ask the group.

“Yeah,” the girl answers answers. “You look familiar. Probably just a weird coincidence.” She points to a woman across the room holding a blue cocktail in a martini glass. “I’ll have one of those.”

She rummages through her tiny purse and fishes out her cell phone. “Excuse me, I have to make a call.” She scurries for the door.

Huh. That was weird.

“I’ll take a Jameson rocks, please and thank you,” says the man with the scruffy light brown hair. He’s tan like a surfer with soft green eyes, full lips and a relaxed air about him. He undeniably attractive, sitting there, knees spread. There’s something about him that strikes me as familiar.

“Make that two. Thank you,” says the guy next to him. This guy is intense, with deep brown eyes, so dark they’re almost black. His black hair is shaved at the sides and he’s rocking black jeans and a motorcycle jacket.

He’s oddly familiar also.

And apparently, like the girl, the guys recognize me too. They’re looking at me with that same weird expression.

“Okay, well, my name’s Cora,” I tell them, “Let me know if you need anything else.

“Told ya,” one guy says to the other.

Told him what?

I don’t stick around to find out. I head to the bar to place the order.

“Ugh. I hate everyone, all the time, always,” I hear someone next to me whine.

I turn to face Aya, my best friend and fellow cocktail waitress. She blows strands of her long, silvery-blue hair out of her almond shaped eyes.

“Rough night?” I ask.

“Bunch of suits,” she replies, pointing to a group of rowdy corporate types in their mid 20s taking shots. “They’re already on my last nerve. The little jackass on the end called me Crouching Tiger twice already. I’m ready to clock him.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, touching her shoulder. Aya and I bonded over being the only two Asian waitresses here. She was born in Korea, but she was adopted and raised by a single white woman, Carmela, who she loves dearly. I’m half-Japanese on my mother’s side. My father, wherever he is, is a good -ol’-boy from Kentucky. I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen.

Dan, the bartender, loads imported beers and shots of expensive whiskey onto a tray for Aya. She rolls her eyes, yet again, and heads back to the unruly group.

“They give you any more shit, I’ll throw them out,” Dan tells her.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling slightly.

I start to turn away with my full drink tray when Aya smacks herself playfully on the forehead.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot to ask,” she says, “How was that callback?”

“I didn’t get it,” I reply glumly. “They went with someone else.

“I’m sorry, girl. You’ll get the next one.”

I nod, hoping to avoid talking about it more. As much as I love acting, the reminder of how I left a promising, stable career as a pharmacist, much to the dismay of my mother, my family, and my now ex-fiance to pursue a pipe dream is still a sore spot.

“I mean,” she starts, “I know it sucks now, but it’ll get better…”

I cut her off, “I actually got a call about a gig this afternoon. A music video. I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”

I load the whiskey and cocktails onto my tray and head back toward my table before Aya can respond.

I’m halfway across the floor when I overhear the girl with the Rainbow Brite hair from earlier on the phone.

“It’s her, I swear,” she says in a loud whisper. “Get over here now.”

I stop, trying to hear more.

“It’s definitely her, Ian,” she says.

Ian. The only person I know named Ian is someone I haven’t seen since high school. He’s sort-of famous now, the drummer in a band that’s getting pretty big. But I’ll always know him as the sweet, dorky guy who couldn’t say two words to me without tripping over himself.

She couldn’t possibly have meant Ian Brooks.

I laugh at myself for being that ridiculous. Of course not.

Because why in hell would Ian Brooks want to talk to me?

The intense brown-eyed guy passes a whiskey to the surfer-tan guy and I hear him call the guy Shawn. He couldn’t mean Shawn Kinney. Shawn is the bassist in said pretty-famous band. Which would make Brown Eyes the one and only Jack Cordero, the guitarist with the reputation of being a… lover of many, many women.

Am I really waiting on the members of Say Yes? Who also happen to be my high school classmates?

Another guy with icy blue eyes and blonde hair joins the group and this confirms it. This guy I immediately recognize from, well, everywhere as their frontman Dylan Cotter. He’s on the cover of the tabloid magazines I pretend not to read as I wait for my turn at auditions. He’s the face of the band. And holy hell, what a gorgeous face it is.

Rainbow Brite drags someone behind her as she returns to the group. A tall, handsome, tattooed man with dark hair, brown eyes and a boyish smile I’d know anywhere.

Definitely.

Ian Brooks.

Ian Brooks, the junior high school marching band nerd that everybody picked on, who sometime between junior and senior year, grew into his body, traded playing drums for the marching band to drumming for the best/only rock band in town, and became Ian Brooks, every girl’s James-Dean-Rebel-Without-A-Cause bad rocker boy fantasy.

He’s taller than I remember. Shoulders broader. A little scruffier. More ink on his arms. But that’s him alright. In the flesh.

I’ve seen the Rolling Stone cover and the spots on television. I’ve downloaded Her Name in Stars and play it as I fall asleep.

Is this really happening? Is Ian Brooks, the famous, wealthy, and painfully hot drummer walking into the Caspiar Club? And am I, Cora Dwyer, ten years ago voted Most Likely to Succeed and currently running for Biggest Disappointment, about to serve him drinks all night?

Yep.