JACKS

I've hardly been able to think straight for the last five days since my night with Skye at the beach. We've texted off and on, but I'm doing my best not to come on too strong. It's official, I'm obsessed.

Oh who am I kidding? I've been obsessed since the moment I met her.

That's why I'm here, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper in the same place we first met; it's a desperate ploy to run into Skye. I peer out from my paper again to scan the room for any sign of her, but instead, I catch something unexpected—another familiar face that I can't quite place.

It's a man seated in the opposite corner with dark brown hair and a bit of 5-o'clock shadow. His gray shirt and generic features do nothing to help me identify him. His shoulders are slumped as he taps at his phone.

Then it clicks—it's Greg.

Well this is fucking awkward.

My curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself watching him. He looks fine, maybe a bit tired, but not exactly the depressed mess I would be if my fiancé just broke things off. I've spent so much time feeling guilty about trying to steal another guy's girlfriend; in my mind, he became more of an idea than a person—a villain even. But he's just a guy. One whose loss turned out to be my gain.

Skye and I never talk much about him or their relationship. Honestly, I didn't want to ask because I didn't want to hear her gush over him. Now that they're broken up, I can't help but wonder what happened between them.

Was it because of me? Did he do something to hurt her?

Greg is the kind of guy who wouldn't stand out in a lineup of IRS employees. He probably buys sweaters from The Gap and goes on weekend wine tasting trips and has strong opinions on how his coffee is roasted.

He's the buttoned-up, predictable, brings-a-briefcase-to-work type.

He's everything I'm not.

I look back to my paper, but I'm not really reading the words. My mind is stuck bouncing between a million thoughts. Seeing him just brings me back to the first time I met Skye—watching her playfully dance and lip-sync to the music. I can't deny the itch to pick up my phone and call her.

Fuck, I'm helpless.

I pull my phone from my pocket to text her.

Me: Are you free tonight?

*****

SKYE

A thin man in a nice suit stands behind a desk at the entrance, flanked by two burly men in black suits who I assume are bouncers. I give the man my name and, after a glance at his computer, he gives a woman a nod and she guides me into the next room.

What is this place?

She directs me to a desk with an iPad open to a contract, telling me to sign it.

This isn't some sort of bondage club or something, is it? Because I did not wear the right shoes for a sex dungeon.

The contract seems pretty normal, actually. Basically you agree not to gossip about other guests, take photos, or reveal any information about them. I sign and submit the form.

"Phone?" the hostess asks, holding out her palm.

"What?"

"I need to take your phone. There are no phones allowed inside."

I want to object, but it doesn't seem like there's any alternative, so I reluctantly hand it to her. She puts it into a fancy-looking wooden box with a gold number on it, then slides it into a rack with dozens of others. She hits a button that opens the doors to an elevator.

"Enjoy your evening, Miss Kennedy."

This is weird as hell.

After waiting for what felt like at least ten floors, the doors open to a gorgeous lounge. I step out of the elevator and am stunned by my surroundings. The walls are covered lush greenery and the high ceilings are decked with multiple glass chandeliers. Everything looks expensive, from the deep mahogany floors to the extra-large fireplace to the tufted velvet couches in burgundy and deep purple. The room is buzzing but not crowded, with small groups of attractive, well-dressed people gathered throughout. Most are having relaxed conversations, drinking fancy cocktails, and sharing laughs. I'm pretty sure I recognize an actor from Ollie's favorite action movie.

He's going to be so jealous.

As I wander in, I realize that this main room branches out in multiple directions, and the whole place is actually massive. I scan the room for Jacks but have no luck, so I head down a random corridor and find a speakeasy-style bar. The room is cozier with a more industrial aesthetic, but has the same deep colors, wood floor, and velvet furniture.

There are a few groups in private booths and a few people having drinks at the bar, but none of them are Jacks. I could be searching for him all night at this rate.

I walk up to the bar and the bartender walks over.

I guess rich people in fancy clubs don't wait for service like the rest of us.

"What can I get you?" he asks.

"Hi, I was just hoping you could tell me how many rooms are in this place. It seems pretty big and I'm already feeling lost."

"Um," he pauses for a moment. "I haven't counted, but the club takes up this floor and three others above us. Which room are you looking for?"

Oh boy. This is like finding a needle in a very fancy haystack.

What would the fancy equivalent of hay be, anyway? Wheatgrass?

"I uh... sorry, I don't actually know. I'll figure it out. Thank you."

He nods.

"Would you like anything to drink?" he asks.

After taking his time, I feel like I should order something, so I opt for a vodka cranberry.

"First time here?" a voice asks beside me as the bartender mixes my drink. I follow the sound to a very tall, broad-shouldered handsome man sitting at the bar. His muscly build seems awkward in his button-up shirt and tie, like someone had put The Hulk in formalwear.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm totally lost already and I just got here."

"I'm Clay," he says, reaching out for a handshake.

"Skye." I shake his hand.

"Are you someone's guest?"

Pretty sure that's a not-so-subtle way of saying 'you look too poor to be here', but I can't even be offended because it's clearly true. My 25-dollar cocktail dress is seriously outclassed here.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to meet a friend."

The bartender delivers my drink and I hand him my card, but he looks at me with confusion.

"We don't usually run cards here," he says, looking uncomfortable. "I can try to find someone."

"Don't worry about it," Clay says. "Put it on my account, please."

The bartender nods and walks away.

"You didn't have to do that," I say. "I have cash. I can pay you back."

"It's no problem. They usually charge to member accounts here, so they probably don't have a credit card machine in here. Besides, I'm not going to turn down the opportunity to buy a drink for a pretty girl."

I smile awkwardly in response and look down at my shoes. I can feel my cheeks flood with heat.

What am I supposed to say to that?

"Thanks."

"No problem. So you're meeting a friend?"

"Yep." I avoid eye contact with him, not sure what to do in this situation.

"Not a boyfriend, then?" he asks with a slight smile.

It feels weird being hit on while I'm waiting for my date.

Date? Is that what this is?

It's not like Jacks explicitly said this was a date, but we did kiss the other night and he said he likes me.

Uggh—stop it! Stop overthinking!

This is what adults do, right? They have friends with benefits and other undefined relationships without feeling the need to put labels on everything. I'm supposed to be mature, not drooling over a boyband singer expecting him to confess his undying love for me and pick me over the hundreds of willing fans throwing their panties at him every night. That is my stupid 13-year-old brain trying to ruin my mature adult fun.

I open my mouth to speak but I see Jacks enter the bar. He looks flawless in black suit pants, a black dress shirt, and a rust-colored velvet blazer. He spots me and walks up to us in a quick stride.

JACKS

Skye is leaning against the bar in a black dress with a leather-like bodice over lace tights. She's talking to a brawny guy who is seated in the stool beside her.

"Hey, Buttercup!" I say, smiling as I loop an arm around Skye's waist.

It's not that I'm jealous that some guy is giving her attention, I just wanted to make the situation clear: she's with me.

Okay, I'm jealous.

I give the guy flirting with Skye a quick nod hello and I immediately recognize him—it's Clay Carson, all-star catcher for the Dodgers.

She's only been here ten minutes and she's already got a baseball legend drooling over her.

Naturally.

"Hey!" she says. "I was looking for you, but I couldn't text you because they took my phone."

"Yeah, they take everyone's phones here. But a staff member let me know you were here. Come on, let me show you around."

"Okay." She turns to Clay. "Thank you for the drink, Clay."

"Anytime," he says with a smile that makes my insides burn.

He bought her a drink?

I give him a tight smile and grab her hand, guiding her through the bar and toward the main staircase.

"What is this place anyway?" she asks as we walk. "You didn't really explain much in your texts. Why don't they let people have phones and why did I have to sign a contract?"

"It's a private club and they take confidentiality very seriously. A lot of high-profile people come here and they have a policy of no photos, no social media. So to remove any temptation, they have everyone leave their phones at the door."

"That makes sense. I would imagine celebrities don't want their half-drunken antics ending up on Instagram."

I chuckle.

"Or on TMZ."

"Oh good point," she says as we reach the top of the stairs. "So where are we headed?"

"You'll see."

I open the door to the rooftop area. It's lit with dozens of hanging string lights and surrounded by a large garden, with the performance space lit in the center. The club has a lot of musician members, and you'll frequently find them doing impromptu shows in this area. Tonight it's Colin Hay, an underrated music legend, playing around with some new material. If Skye were anyone else, I wouldn't necessarily assume they would know who he is, but Skye knows her music.

He's in the middle of playing a song for a small gathered crowd. We walk closer, but she freezes.

"Is that..." she says in a hushed voice. "Is that Colin Hay?"

I smile wide and nod.

"It's a performance space for members. There's usually someone good here."

"Oh my god, this is amazing!"

She grins and practically skips to join the crowd. I walk up behind her and slip my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. She leans into me and sways to the music.

*****

After a few songs, Colin Hay was done for the evening and we found ourselves a secluded couch near a fire pit.

"That was amazing," Skye says with a sigh, cuddling into me as she looks up at the starry night sky.

"I'm glad you liked it. I like making you smile."

"Music just... I don't know. It's hard to explain."

"Try me."

"In a strange way, music is my home. Sometimes you just need that safe place—hallways and doors that you've committed to memory, the familiar creaks of the floorboards and the cracks in the walls. You need to hear the words you know by heart and sink into the comfort of the known."

"I feel the same way," I say.

Music has always been that refuge for me. Though lately, Skye is having the same effect.

"It's not too cheesy?" she asks, looking up at me through her lashes.

"Who cares what's cheesy or not? It's real—it's how you feel."

She smiles.

"What's your favorite song to dance to?" she asks.

"That's a really tough one." I pause for a moment to think. "I'll go with 'Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'."

"Ooh!" she says. "That's a good one."

"What's yours?"

"It changes. Right now it's 'RAIN' by Ben Platt."

"I haven't heard it, but I trust your taste."

"Because I like you?" She smiles and blushes slightly.

I didn't expect her flirty reply and it has my stomach doing backflips.

I sit up and reposition her on my lap so that I can see her face. My hand rests on her hip and my eyes fall to her legs covered in those black lace tights. Skye's proclivity for wearing sexy tights is doing unexpected things to me.

Am I developing a new fetish?

"Oh, so you like me?" I ask with a smile. "Well in that case, your taste is questionable at best."

I laugh and she playfully rolls her eyes.

"Says the guy who is universally beloved by everyone."

"That's not anywhere close to true. Trust me."

"What do you mean?"

"A lot of people love the guy I am on stage. But so few people actually know me. They love the idea, not the reality."

"What makes you say that?"

"When you get really popular, people start popping out from everywhere wanting to be your best friend. And it felt like love at first. It felt like everyone really cared about me. But I would find out that people who I thought were my friends were just out for my money. My first love was only with me as a career move. Even my own dad was using me. It's hard to know when people actually like me for me."

Sometimes it feels like no one is actually there for me. Not the opportunities you can get them. Not the money. Not the attention. Me.

"I'm sorry," she says, placing her hand on my cheek. "No offense, I like that Jackson Ford guy—he's cute and his music is pretty good. But personally, I rather hang out with you."

She leans forward and kisses me. It's soft and slow, but it knocks me off my feet.

I'm so in love with her.

▶▶

**PSSST! QUICK NOTE: I'm going to be changing the title of this book & its cover, so when you look for it in the future, it may be under the title "Meet Me Backstage" with this new cover:

It will still be the same story, I'm just giving it a bit of a makeover to better fit the vibe. Thank you for reading!! ❤️