I’m going to guard this towel with my life and never, ever put it through a wash.

“What the heck are you doing?” Monica asks.

“I can smell him.” I take a longer sniff, closing my eyes. “It’s like his standing right here with me.”

“That’s his sweat, babe.”

“I like the smell of his sweat.”

Her face pinches. “Gross.”

Greg, Monica’s boyfriend and sound engineer for my absolute fav band in the universe, walks over to us. “Enjoyed the show, girls?” His eyes are trained on me as he talks, the question more for my benefit that Mon’s.

I gush. “It was amazeballs. Thank you.” I glance at Monica. “Thank you both so much for inviting me.”

Monica rolls her eyes and pulls me in for a hug. “Aww, you big softie. I couldn’t follow Greg on the road without inviting the one person who would die to tag along.”

My face heats from the warmth of the stage lights, and from my appreciation and gratitude. Although Monica’s a little flippant about it, this is a big deal for me.

I’ve known Monica since first grade. She’s my best friend. We both come from Clinton, the same small town in New Jersey, and went to high school together. She moved to the West Coast as soon as we graduated from business school, a little over a year ago, and shares a small condo in Bakersfield with Greg. When he’s not out on the road, they live an idyllic life together—they have their own place with a porch, a rose bush . . . the works. It’s nice. She met him at one of Sweet Agony’s East Coast gigs. He’s older than her by five years and has been a permeant fixture for the band since their early days.

Greg checks the time on his sports watch. “Why don’t you both head back to the dressing rooms and help yourselves to some drinks. I’ll finish up here and join you after.”

Monica pouts, rubbing at her left temple. “I need food first. I’m still hungover from last night.”

I smile inwardly as I remember the boozy adventures we had last night in some of the finest dive bars San Diego had to offer. The band was all there, to celebrate the start of the new tour—all that is apart from their lead singer, Jay Tyler. Maybe he’s more of a slow starter and had to prep himself for his first gig by hiding away? His absence only made him more mysterious.

Jay is twenty-eight, a Virgo, six foot plus, with dark wavy hair, a tightly muscled body—more like a swimmer than a meat head—and a gorgeous Californian Sunkist tan that is natural. His beautiful body is adorned with funky tattoos and his dress style is arty, yet smart and cool. He’s as fit as they come but he’s made extra special by virtue of how damn right talented he is. He plays the guitar like Hendrix and sings like Jim Morrison. The man’s got it all.

Inside the dressing room, the forth on the end of a narrow corridor away from the band’s, Monica pops open the caps on two ice-cold bottles of Bud and hands me one. A collection of assorted beers rests inside a large silver bucket of ice, fanning out like an alcohol version of a flower bouquet. The backstage area is kind of grim—old chewing gum and graffiti on the walls, sticky floors—but the whole crew’s needs for beer and liquor are more than met.

I press the cool bottle to my forehead to stop from overheating. The condensation on the surface trickles down my brow. As soon as I take my first swig, I gag.

Monica snorts. “God, even in high school you were never much of a drinker.”

I shrug. “I don’t like beer, that’s all.”

“Well, as soon as Greg’s ready we can head out for cocktails . . . get something sweeter.”

I nod my approval as I purse my lips to the neck of the bottle and take another swig. It tastes like shit but I need to drink so I can gain the courage to hang around the Sweet Agony guys, especially their hunky front man.

God, I really hope Jay comes out tonight.

As Monica starts toward a small bathroom at the back of the dressing room divide, I bring Jay’s towel up to my face. I wait a moment, to make sure Monica doesn’t catch me again, before I hold it to my nose and take another sniff. His man sweat, mixed with vague traces of expensive cologne, makes my core heat.

I feel close to him . . .

I also feel pathetic. Like some needy, crazed fan. I’m sure I’m just one of a million girls who feel this way about Jay Tyler. I know all my friends back home would be insanely jealous if they knew I was holding Kay’s towel to my face, and just thinking that makes me smile from ear to ear.

I’m on tour with Sweet Agony . . . with Jay . . . with Jay’s smell pressed snug against my nose.

This is going to be one summer break I will never forget. And if he talks to me at some point during this three week trek, I can die a happy camper.