I spent way too much time deciding what to wear that night. I didn’t want to seem like I was trying, but I also I wanted to look good. Because who didn’t want to look good when seeing the guy that crushed their naïve little freshman heart into dust? Not that Austin had crushed my heart, because that would have been totally ridiculous. More like a minor dent, but I was determined not to show anything other than total professionalism. This article could have been my big break, and I wasn’t about to risk it over a little crush.

In the end, after hours of deliberating, I decided on my best pair of skinny black jeans—the ones that made my butt look like Kim K’s—and my favorite top, an actual vintage Bowie shirt. I topped the whole thing off with a pair of studded black booties and my favorite faux leather jacket, the one I had spent a whole week’s paycheck on.

I left the apartment feeling good.

That feeling lasted about ten seconds once I arrived at the showcase and took a look around. I was way underdressed. At least, I was underdressed in the sense that my entire outfit probably cost about a fraction of what a belt probably cost to most of the attendees. Everyone was cool and chic and glamorous. I was a nobody and, worse still, I looked it.

Part of me wanted to turn on my heels and flee. All the women were wearing slouchy, short black dresses that just happened to show off their boobs and their butt. Their make-up was gorgeous, lots of kohl-rimmed eyes and dramatic red lips. They all seemed to shimmer, with shampoo ad hair, while the guys looked equally badass, with boots and leather—real leather—jackets.

Buck up, Mia, I told myself. You’re here to do a job, not win “most glamorous.”

I scanned the room, looking for Austin. He was at the bar. Alone.

He looked just as cool as everyone else, but it wasn’t because of what he was wearing, which was a plain black shirt and jeans, and the same dusty old boots that I had seen the other night. No, he looked cool because he was cool. Effortlessly so. He had a glass of amber colored liquid in his hand and he seemed utterly uninterested in the party that was happening around him.

Instead, all he seemed focused on was the stage. It was currently empty, but from what Zoey had told me, it sounded like tonight’s line-up was pretty damn promising. Lots of new talent, musicians that had a lot of buzz happening around them.

I took a deep breath, feeling butterflies in my stomach. He hadn’t seen me yet, so I still had time to turn around and go home.

But I had never been a quitter, and I wasn’t going to start now.

I squared my shoulders and headed towards the bar. Austin didn’t notice me approach, as he had turned back to the bartender. The two of them were talking about something. It wasn’t until I got closer and the music quieted a little that I could hear that they were discussing whiskey.

“If you like a smoky whiskey, you’ve got to try Laphroaig,” the bartender was telling him, pouring him a new glass. “That’s a sipping whiskey if I ever tasted one.”

I watched Austin take a long drink. He nodded. “That’s a damn good whiskey,” he said.

The bartender grinned, clearly happy to have pleased the great Austin James.

“Want some?” Austin asked, turning to me.

Whoops. So much for him not noticing me.

“Sure,” I said, hoping that I was giving off as much effortless cool as he was.

The bartender poured me a glass and I took the seat next to Austin before taking a sip.

The sting of the alcohol hit the back of my throat, and I coughed.

“It’s really smoky,” I said, trying to control my spluttering.

The bartender gave me a sympathetic look and poured me a glass of water which I downed immediately. Great start, Mia.

“It’s not for everyone,” Austin said, reaching for my glass.

I swatted his hand away, and took another sip. This one went down a little easier but I still coughed a few times.

“So,” I said, pulling out my phone and turning on my recording app. “How does it feel to be back in the music scene after being away for so long?”

Austin looked at me, and then looked at my phone. Without asking, he paused the recording app. “No small talk?” he asked with a teasing look. “Hey Austin, how you been? The weather’s great, huh?”

“I figured you wouldn’t want to waste both our time.”

“Why don’t we enjoy ourselves a little?” he countered. “Drink some good whiskey, listen to some good music. We can get to the questions later.”

“How much later?” I asked, but Austin was already gesturing for a refill on his whisky.

“Come on,” he said, pulling me off my seat. “Let’s get closer to the stage.”

Great. I wouldn’t be able to hear a damn thing, let alone speak to him. I grabbed his arm and tried to stop him.

“Wait, what about the interview?” I asked. “Isn’t there somewhere quieter we can talk?”

He paused, turning to face me, his gaze focused on my hand on his arm. Suddenly, I felt very warm. I immediately let go of him.

“You want to go somewhere?” he asked, his voice low. Sexy.

Totally inappropriate. As was the heat that rush through my veins. I tried to shake it off. Tried to keep my feelings, my thoughts, completely professional.

It wasn’t easy, as he was about one thousand times hotter than he had ever been in college. And he had been hot as Hades then.

He’s a player, I reminded myself. A player and a jerk, and I was here to do a job, not fantasize about the time he had me up against the side of a building, kissing me until I couldn’t remember where I was.

But once those dirty, sexy thoughts got into my head, it was damn hard to get them out.

“No.” I glared. “I’m fine just here.” I took a seat back at the bar, and gave Austin a look. It was a risk, trying to act tough in this situation, as he could just as easily blow me off and bounce, but thankfully he returned to his seat as well.

Once again, I put my phone on the bar and turned the recording app on.

“Nice shirt,” Austin said before I could ask him anything. He reached out and tugged at the hem.

“It’s vintage,” I told him. As if I had something to prove.

He nodded. “I know you were a fan,” he said, nodding towards Bowie’s face, stretched across my chest. “Bet his death must have hit you hard.”

It had, but this wasn’t about me. If I wasn’t so annoyed at him, I would have admired the slick way he had turned himself into the interviewer and me into the interviewee.

“What about you?” I asked, pushing my phone towards him. “How did his death affect you?”

Austin looked at my phone as if it was a dead rat I was trying to give him.

I tried again. “Who are you most excited to see tonight?” I asked, but he was staring at my press badge.

“Why are you writing for them?” he asked, reaching out to grab the lanyard. “We both know that you’re too good for a site like ChatBuzz.”

I snatch my pass back.

“I’m pretty sure that’s none of your business.”

“No?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “I thought this was an interview. I’m just asking questions.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.”

“Oh, is that how this works?” Austin teased, taking a drink.

I wanted to punch him, but before I could, before I could do anything, we were interrupted by a sleazy looking guy with two gorgeous young women by his side.

“Austin James!” he said with a big smile on his face. “I heard you were going to be here.”

“And here I am,” Austin said, shaking the guy’s hand. “Good to see you, Peter.”

Both of the young women were openly ogling Austin.

“Rumor is that you’ve got some new music coming out,” Peter said, elbowing past his dates to get closer to Austin.

I scooted my phone closer to them. Peter was oblivious, but Austin noticed, casting a wary look at it and me. I knew it was doubtful I’d be able to use any of the following conversation for quotes but it would be a good way to refresh my memory if I needed to.

“Is it a solo project?” Peter was asking. “Or have you formed a new band?”

“What if I told you that my new band is called Solo Project?” Austin asked.

It took a while for Peter to get the joke, but when he did, he roared with laughter and slapped Austin’s back. I swore I saw Austin wince at the contact, which made me smile.

The two of them chatted about nothing for the next couple of minutes before Peter excused himself and his attractive lady friends and disappeared back into the crowd. Austin and I were alone again at the bar.

“I’ve heard your newest project is all your own work,” I said, pushing my phone further towards him. “Can you tell me about it?”

“Do you want some more whiskey?” Austin asked, flagging down the bartender.

“I want you to answer my questions,” I muttered.

But before I could try again, we were once more interrupted. This time it was an older woman, clearly someone who had been around the music scene for a while. She was covered in tattoos and had half of her head shaved. Even though she was at least my mother’s age—maybe older—she was wearing a pair of leather pants and a tank top that wasn’t doing much to support her enormous chest.

As a greeting, she wrapped her arms around Austin and practically forced his head into her bosom.

“Darling!” she said, her English accent all the more punk by how raspy it was. “It’s been ages. Where in bloody hell have you been?”

“In a cabin in the middle of nowhere,” Austin quipped.

“Is that code for something?” the woman asked.

“Maybe,” Austin responded.

“It better be,” she said, pinching his cheek. “Because the thought of you wasting the best years of your sexual life alone in the woods just makes me want to cry.”

“I would never want to make you cry, Monique,” Austin said.

“Good boy.” She gave him a gentle slap across the same cheek that she had just pinched, completely brazen.

I kind of loved her.

She didn’t stay long, though, and even though Austin clearly enjoyed her and her company, he wasn’t any more forthcoming about his work than he had been with Peter. The same was the case for the next dozen people that stopped by to greet Austin and ask about his music.

He gave everyone a different non-answer.

“I took up the banjo—really thought it was the one thing missing in modern rock music.”

“I bought a farm and started serenading my goats. They really seem to dig the music.”

“I’m solely focused on doing covers of lesser known ABBA songs. But with yodeling.”

He joked with everyone, playing the part of rock star effortlessly. I watched the whole performance and said nothing. Because that’s what it was. A performance. Every time someone approached Austin, his entire posture would change. He’d put on this cocky, devil-may-care attitude, joking around, taking nothing seriously. And the minute the person left, he’d settle back into the quiet, introspective person I had first spotted at the bar. The person I remembered from all those years ago.

So which one was the real Austin? The cocky rock star? Or the thoughtful musician?

I started writing the article in my head—knowing that I was going to have to get more information to fill it all in. But Austin was just as distant with me—joking around, tugging at my press badge, pushing glass after glass of whiskey at me.

Frustrated, I excused myself and found a bathroom.

I needed to get answers out of Austin, but he seemed hell-bent on distracting me. On distracting everyone. Clearly there had to be a reason he didn’t want to talk about his music. Especially since it was exactly that music he was supposed to be promoting. Was there something wrong with it if he didn’t want to talk about it? Or was he nervous to share it?

Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Austin nervous. About anything.

But there had to be something going on. And I was going to find out what.

I finally headed back to the bar, ready to get answers . . . only to find that Austin was nowhere to be seen. Did he just leave without me?

“Where did he go?” I asked the bartender and he pointed towards the door.

I hurried out of the club, and found Austin on the corner, getting into a town car. Was he kidding me? Before it could pull away from the curb, I flung open the passenger door and jumped inside. Unfortunately, I didn’t put much thought into it, and landed pretty much right on Austin’s lap. He looked as surprised as I did, and the car came to an immediate stop.

I was flung forward, off of his lap and practically onto the floor between the seats.

“What the hell?” Austin stared at me.

“Sir?” the driver asked, straining to see what was going on in his back seat. “Do I need to get rid of her?”

“No!” I said at the same time Austin shook his head.

“She’s with me,” he said with a heavy sigh, as I inelegantly scrambled into the seat next to him. “So,” Austin crossed his arms over his chest, watching as I buckled my seatbelt. “Come here often?”

I glared at him. “You left me there?”

He shrugged.

I wanted to punch him. Hard.

“If I’m not mistaken you requested me,” I reminded him. “Why go to all that trouble when you’re just going to ditch me at the bar?”

He didn’t have an answer for that.

“Your manager promised me that you were on board with this,” I said, gritting my teeth. “So like it or not, buddy, I’m gonna be all over you until I get my story. And not like that girl in the bathroom,” I added, before he could smirk at me with that infuriatingly sexy grin. “This is just professional. Because if it wasn’t, I would have kicked you somewhere you really won’t want to be kicked.”

---

We didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride. I was too mad to even try to make small talk or attempt to start up the interview again. In fact, I was pretty sure that the moment we got to wherever we were going, I was going to stay in the cab and have them take me home. Jumping into the car was more of an act of defiance and panic than anything else. The truth was, I was already exhausted dealing with Austin and his complete reluctance to talk about anything serious or real. I didn’t have time for this shit.

We pulled up in front of a very nice apartment building.

“Where are we?” I asked, unable to help myself.

“My home,” Austin said, with a half-smile. “At least, one of them.”

What a cocky bastard, I thought.

I should have stayed in the car, I should have gone home, but instead, I followed Austin out and into the building. It was mostly curiosity, I told myself, and research for the article. I just wanted to see how a rock star lived.

Apparently, rock stars lived in extremely nice loft apartments in Soho. The place was immaculate—not at all what I would have expected. I had imagined it would have been a bit of a mess, with empty beer bottles and pizza boxes strewn everywhere. At least, that’s how Luke’s apartment had always been, and the guys I’d had the misfortune to hook up with since moving to the city.

But this place was spotless. The furniture, the design, everything, was extremely minimal. There weren’t a lot of things around—a few guitars, all carefully displayed, and some expensive but comfortable-looking furniture, but besides that, the place was pretty sparse.

“Did you just move in?” I asked.

“Nope,” Austin threw his keys onto the counter.

Served me right for asking a yes or no question. Without asking, Austin pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses. He pushed one towards me. Feeling stubborn and ornery, I drank the whole thing in one gulp. It was a bad idea.

My coughing fit returned, and Austin just smirked at me until it was done.

“It’s really for sipping,” he said.

I glared at him. He poured me another. I grabbed the glass, but this time I did sip it. Not because he had told me to, of course, but because I wanted to.

“So,” he said slowly. “ChatBuzz, huh? I didn’t picture you working somewhere like that.”

The judgmental, holier-than-thou tone in his voice made my anger rise. How dare he judge me? “Says Mr. Rock Star,” I retort. “What do you know about struggling to make ends meet and taking a job—any job—just to pay the bills? At least I’m getting paid to write.”

He crossed his arms and just looked at me.

“You could do better,” he said.

“Than this assignment? I agree,” I shot back.

“I’m just saying that you’re a good writer,” he told me. “And you should be writing about things that matter, not some dumb listicles that anyone with a pen could do.”

“First of all, those listicles are harder than you might think,” I lied. “And second of all”—I pointed my finger at him—“I am writing about things that matter. At least I would be if the person I’m supposed to be interviewing would agree to talk about something substantial instead of just jerking me around.”

Austin looked torn. “What’s there to say?” he asked after a moment of silence.

I wanted to throw something at him.

“Do you even care?” I asked. “Does all this—your career, your supposed comeback—does it mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does,” he said. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“You used to talk about it,” I reminded him. “Before the band broke up, you were great in interviews—charming and self-deprecating, talking non-stop about what you loved about music.”

“You think I was charming?”

“That’s not the point.” I flushed. “But I don’t understand you. If you want to get the word out about your new material, there have to be, you know, words!”

“I just want to let the music speak for itself,” Austin finally said.

I perked up.

“Great.” I pulled out my phone, and Austin gave it a wary look. “Then play something for me.”

He looked a little startled and I liked it. There was something immensely satisfying about throwing him off guard. He stared at me for a moment, and I didn’t know what he was going to do. Was he going to refuse? Or did he want me to hear what he was working on? He opened his mouth to respond and—

The doorbell rang.

A relieved smile crossed his face.

“Saved by the bell,” he said, and headed towards the front door.

I drummed my fingers on the counter, unbearably frustrated with the situation. There was absolutely nothing I could use for my article yet. The whole evening was a wash.

A chorus of voices and laughter came from the hallway. I looked up to see Austin leading a large group into his apartment. A group of cooler-than-thou music types and off-duty supermodels. At least it looked that way to me.

“Ladies,” Austin said with a grin, his arms around two of the guests. “Meet Mia. Mia, meet the ladies.”

I got a chorus of hellos and some finger waves. Austin had a fake smile on again, like he was back to his big rock-star performance. I sighed. So much for getting his guard down.

“Are you going to play?” one of the girls asked me, pulling out a package of cards.

She quickly and efficiently shuffled them.

“Play what?” I asked.

“Strip poker, of course,” another girl giggled.

I looked over at Austin, and he just smirked.

“I think I’m going to leave,” I said, grabbing my jacket.

“Are you sure?” Austin was toeing off his shoes. “I’ll even take my socks off to even the field a bit.”

I gave him my best death stare.

“I think I’ll pass,” I told him.

“Suit yourself,” he grinned, settling in at the counter with his bevy of babes, like a music video come to life.

I let myself out.