All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) (5 page)

“Here you go.” I put the keys in his palm. “I trust you.”

He breaks into a huge smile and unlocks the doors. We get situated and he shifts into gear, navigates through town, and merges onto the highway like a pro. He’s doing way better than I would have been.

“Like riding a bike,” he says with a wink.

An hour later, our conversation is lively (yay!) and things are going great (double yay!). Until a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and my stomach turns . . . and not in a good way.

“Oh, man,” I groan. “I’m starting to feel like crap.” Memories of last night’s beers and shots come flooding back. I bite my tongue to keep from throwing up. “Aren’t you hung over?”

“Ha, no. I’m a ‘rock star,’ Kallie, remember?” he says with air quotes. “I don’t get hangovers anymore.” He gives me a sideways glance, then squeezes my knee. “Whoa. You’re white as an Irish ghost. Want me to pull over?”

I shake my head, even though I want to say yes. All closed up like this, I can really smell his awesome scent, but the air is stifling. I crack a window, which of course breaks the sound barrier as the wind whips in.

“Have some water,” he instructs, pointing to the mini-cooler he brought. I want to reach back and grab a bottle, I really do, but I’m afraid doing so will jar my cookies loose. Instead, I lean against the headrest and close my eyes.

“Just relax,” he says gently, his fingers brushing against my cheek. “We probably have another fifteen miles on this stretch, then I’ll need you to watch for our exit. Can you do that?” I nod. “Okay, good. You’re going to be fine.”

And I am. I focus on the fact that I am sitting next to Niles Russell. He is driving my car. We took a nap together in a hotel bed. I partied with him last night. He grasped my hand during his incredible, amazing live performance. He’s coming to my house, for chrissake. Thinking of those things diverts my attention, and before I know it, he’s wheeling into my assigned parking space, looking up at my Melrose Place-wannabe apartment building.

“My ex got the house.”

He nods and shuts off the car.

“Uh, do you have, like, a lot of people who walk around here?” he asks.

This is an excellent question because the logistics of smuggling a Grammy-winning front man into my house isn’t exactly something I’ve had to give a lot of thought to. Sure, he’s no Paul McCartney, but it’s likely
someone
will recognize him, and showing up at a random fan’s house could do a number on his reputation. I’m guessing there are no paparazzi hiding in the bushes, but still. I check the clock and see that it’s not quite noon. It’s a hot Saturday and we have to walk by the community pool to get to my unit. There are bound to be a lot of people there.

“I’d grab your hat and sunglasses, for sure.” I know he has them because I saw them poking out of his running bag before he zipped it up. “Also, maybe take off a couple of your shirts. People around here don’t wear so many clothes. Your mad layering skills scream, ‘rock star!’” He laughs and awkwardly peels off two of his shirts, bumping the steering wheel and narrowly avoiding cuffing me in the jaw. When I look over at the finished product, he looks like a normal guy—albeit a very cute normal guy.

Satisfied, we hop out of the car and make our way to my apartment. He hangs back behind me a bit, his head down and his fingers flying across the screen of his phone. He’s probably missed a thousand calls on the way here. I wonder how often he has to communicate with his “people” and about what. I get my answer when we burst through my apartment door and he plops down on the couch without so much as looking around.

“Never a day off,” he says. He shows me stats of missed texts, an email inbox with seventeen new messages (he says he just cleaned them out this morning during his insomniac moments) and four voicemails. All within two hours. One of the texts, I see, is from Robbyn Forderly. Yes,
the
Robbyn Forderly. Jase’s sister . . . and Niles’s ex.

Oh, man. This opportunity is too prime. I cannot let this go.

“Soooo, Robbyn,” I say, nodding toward his phone. I know I shouldn’t go there. I really shouldn’t go there. But I really,
really
can’t help myself.

“Jase’s sister? Yeah?” He makes it sound like she’s just some girl.

“You guys dated for quite a while, right?”

Niles looks at me a moment, then straightens his lips and casts his eyes up to my ceiling. He stares up there for ages, as though magical instructions for answering a crazed fan’s question about your ex-girlfriend might be hiding amongst the terrible popcorn patterns. After an eternity, he drags his eyes back to me and says, “My and Robbyn’s relationship—or should I say
dynamic
—is pretty complex.”

Complex, huh? What does that mean? Since his eyes immediately settle back onto his phone, it doesn’t seem like he’s going to offer much more information than that. All righty then. Strike a nerve, much?

I walk to the kitchen to pour a glass of iced tea and, for the millionth time this morning, think about my desperate need for a shower. But will I actually hop in while he’s sitting in my living room? I would die if he saw me
sans
makeup. I already look like a wreck enough as it is.

I gotta get him out of here and onto the trails so I can pull myself together. When I ask him if he plans to go running soon, he perks right up, asking if I’m sure I don’t want to go with him. Of course I do, but I don’t want to keel over in his presence, so I remind him of my hangover status and he nods in understanding. We agree to grab a quick bagel on the way to the trails, and I’ll drop him off and come back for him in an hour and a half. It’s impossible to get lost on the trails, and I pledge to take him to a more remote spot that will better ensure his anonymity. Good. This is all good.

He heads to my bathroom to change (OMG, Niles Russell is taking his clothes off in my bathroom!) and saunters out wearing gym shorts that look like they’ll fall off and a tank top you could fit three more people into.

“Dude.” I yank at the hem of his shirt. “You’re making the big bucks now. You should probably spring for some sleeker running clothes.”

“Meh, clothes just get all sweaty. Who cares? These shoes, though?
These
sons of bitches cost me a mint.” He kicks his right foot out for my inspection, and it’s true. His shoes are terribly kickass.

We walk past the girls’ bedroom on the way to the kitchen and even though the door is partially closed, he stops to peek in. I cringe, knowing what’s coming next.

“Girls, huh? How old?”

And there it is. The “kid” conversation. I knew it was bound to come up, even though I was totally hoping to avoid it. It seems weird admitting I have young kids with someone else when the book I wrote was so clearly not written from the Kallie the Mom side of my personality. But something about the wistful look on his face and the genuinely interested tone in his voice makes me feel like it’s okay. He’s not judging me. He’s legitimately curious. About me. About my life.

“Um, Jillian’s seven and Alana is nine.” Before the words are even fully out of my mouth, my mind goes to them, picturing their little bodies bouncing on their beds, singing goofy songs and giggling loudly. I see Jilly’s blond hair wave past her shoulders, while Alana’s brown ringlets stop at her chin. They look nothing alike, yet they each favor their parents (Jillian, me; Alana, Brad.) I wonder how they’re doing. What they’re up to. If everyone is getting along.

“Ah, you’re missing them hard,” Niles says. My eyes fill up as I nod my agreement. “Yeah, you just got that ‘mom’ look. My mom
still
gets that look whenever I leave after a visit home, and I’m thirty-freaking-one.” He pulls their door closed. “Where are they? At your ex’s for the week?”

“Try the whole summer. Brad took them to his parents’ in North Carolina. They usually go for a few weeks at a time—Brad is a teacher—but this summer, they’re staying longer.”

“Whoa. That’s gotta be rough. I can’t imagine.” He rubs my back for a second, then takes my shoulders and turns me toward him. “Hey, I have an idea. I’m not sure if you’d even be down for this but how about . . .” he inches closer, “how about I do what I can to keep you distracted this summer?” His funky eyes search mine, turning my knees into mush.

Well, this is unexpected. I don’t know what he means by that, but it sure does sound intriguing. And if it means I’ll see and talk to him again, I am all in. Like,
all
in.

“How about,” I breathe, “that sounds amazing!”

CHAPTER NINE

Friendly Fire

It takes longer than I remember to get to and from the trails, so by the time I drop Niles off, I have only forty-five minutes to shower and apply makeup. A nearly impossible feat. So, I’m thrilled when he texts to tell me he needs another hour. Apparently, his run has gotten his juices flowing and he wants to spend a little time thinking through some lyrics. I hate thinking about him sitting alone in the woods, but I’m thankful for the extra time to spruce up. And maybe call Sara!

Upon phone inspection, it appears Sara has called me six times since midnight. She’s probably pissed I haven’t called her back yet, but what I have to say is well worth the wait. I also see there is a quick text from the girls, saying simply, “Love you and miss you, Mom. Talk to you soon.”

I close my messages and scroll through my photos from last night. There are tons, though I don’t see the now nearly famous (between Niles and me) Tongue photo. I’m sad. I really, really wish I had that one on my phone. If nothing else, for proof that we came
thisclose
to intimacy. Okay, that’s a total lie, but still. I flip through them one by one, remembering each moment and the way it felt to be so close to him. Last night was wild and fun. Today feels different, though it’s still very exciting and actually rather comfortable.

My stomach squeezes when I think again about his promise to “distract” me this summer. We didn’t get into details (I was rendered positively speechless after I eked out my “sounds amazing,” and he didn’t say anything more either). But “summer,” to me, means more than one day, right? As in, we’ll see each other again after he leaves today? Where? When? How? My mind goes crazy, considering all the options.

I finally call Sara while my hair dries and I start the laborious process of putting on my face. (I am so not a natural beauty. To look even “natural” takes a lot of work. Sigh.) She answers after a millisecond of a ring, her voice a raspy, scolding whisper.

“Did you have sex with him?!”

“What? No!” Sara was never one for extreme tact.

“Then what the fuck took you so long to call me back?” I envision her hand cupped around her mouth and phone, shielding her kids from the by-products of her sailor mouth.

“You won’t even believe me when I tell you.” I seriously don’t know where to start. I rehearsed a bit while in the shower, but now not one word I planned to say actually comes out.

“Swear you didn’t have sex with him?”

“Yes, I swear. I wish, but no, we didn’t. Promise.”

“Did he try?”

“No.” I suddenly feel weirdly bummed about this. Why
didn’t
he try? “He’s been a perfect gentleman.” That’s why.

“Did he kiss you?”

“No. Well, yes.”

“Yes?? Kallie, I told you not to kiss him! But holy shit, that’s kind of amazing!”

“Relax. It was just on the cheek. Insert sad face here.”

“No sad faces needed. Cheeks are enough right now. Did you flirt? Did you get along? What’s he like? Is he an ass in real life?”

I suck in a breath. He is the opposite of an ass. I tell Sara that. I tell her all sorts of stuff, but keep some of the good stuff to myself. Namely, the tongue touch and our hotel nap. I figure those details will come out eventually, but for now, I hold them close.

“Where is he now? Back on the bus?”

“Uh, not even.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Let’s just say that if you went for one of your beloved runs on the Greensbury Trail right now, you’d see someone interesting.”

There’s a long silence on her end. I can pretty much hear the hamster wheels turning in her head.

“Kallie, what the hell? Are you even saying Niles Russell is here? In town? Running on our freaking trails? While I’m here listening to my kids fight and damn near kill each other?”

“That is what I’m saying.”

“My God! How did he get here?”

“He drove. My car.”

“Jesus. You are such a liar.”

Before she can accuse me further, I tell her the whole story of how and why he’s here. I tell her how he changed in my bathroom and how he dresses like a bum, aside from some pretty spectacular running shoes. (This impresses Sara. She has more running shoes than anyone should.) I tell her how I almost barfed during the car ride home and how we walked through my courtyard without a single raised eyebrow from onlookers. She begs me to take her with me when I go to pick him up, but I tell her no way. I want to squeeze every second I can out of our time together before he takes off for their next stop. Besides, that’d be kinda creepy.

After listening to her pout profusely, I shut Sara up by telling her about Niles’s promise to distract me this summer. I can tell she’s hovering on the diving board of the Squee Pool, but she won’t quite jump in.

“Dear, sweet Kallie,” she tsks. “From what you say, Niles does sound like a pretty cool guy. But, again, I think it’s worth reminding you who he is and where he’s been. He could probably have any girl he wants. He maybe
does
have any girl he wants. Not that you’re not gorgeous and wonderful, honey, but I’d keep your guard up. With a guy like that, you have to wonder what he really wants with little old you. You know?”

I know it’s in the Best Friend Doctrine to keep watch over your favorite girl, but I’m still a little miffed by this statement.
Of course
I’ve wondered the same thing. But then I remind myself that I
wrote a book
about him. That’s kind of a big deal. Who wouldn’t want to meet the person who wrote a book about you? That’s why he called, and we’ve connected on a hundred levels since. Less than eighteen hours after actually meeting, we’re easy friends. And there is no denying there’s some super-hot sexual tension there. She can be as skeptical as she wants, but I’m taking it as it comes.

And as of right now, everything’s coming along pretty darn well.