All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) (20 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Take Flight

Lucy’s freaking out. I can tell by the tone of her email. There are new photos making the rounds, this time in CelebFeed. Eek! (That’s my eek, not hers.) If we want to be savvy, she says, and get some great mileage out of these photos (translation: Kallie, if you have any brain cells at all) we should get them posted to my fan page by the end of the day.

“Something simple,” she types, “like ‘Look who’s read (and approved of) my book.’ Fun and cheeky. People will adore that. We still have the
Page Six
pic to play with, too. Oh, and some shot a fan posted to Instagram. When was that? It’s totally cute. Anyway, what do you think? I know you’re traveling today, so call me when you can. I have a meeting with the marketing department at the publisher this morning. I wish you could’ve stayed in town to meet them.”

Me, too, Lucy. Me, too. I almost did stay in town. Forever.

As my heart twists, I close her email and scour CelebFeed. She didn’t include a link, so I’m on my own. It doesn’t take long to find them, and when I do, I just about lose my mind.

It’s hard to digest that it’s really us. But the girl in the photo is wearing exactly what I was wearing yesterday and same for the guy. There are my diamond earrings and there is Niles’s amazing hair. And there are our lips, caught in a kiss, right outside the apartment. I knew it happened. I heard the camera snap. That’s when Niles said if I lived there, they’d get used to us. At that time—just
yesterday
—that was the plan. Now, there are much different words needed to tell this story.

The other photo was taken during the same timeframe, but we’re simply talking, gazing at each other as though there was not one other person or issue in this world aside from us, right there and right that second. Just like the one from the after-party, both of these new pictures are gorgeous. They tell the story of a couple who obviously loves each other in a crazy way. Of two people who wouldn’t care if the entire universe fell apart around them, as long as they were together.

It’s suffocating.

My next instinct is to call Niles, but I know I shouldn’t. Surely his publicist has gotten to him by now, and maybe he’s told her we’re not together anymore and this just all needs to die down.

But it feels like this is a statement from the universe somehow. A there-is-no-way-you-two-are-done-yet statement. I mean, I’ve been stalking Niles for three years and I honestly don’t think I’ve seen him in CelebFeed more than once, and that was just a round-up post from Coachella last year. And Robbyn only showed up on fan blogs and pics that the band posted themselves. There has to be a reason people suddenly care about his love life . . . and the fact that I’m part of it. Could my book be the alluring factor in this equation? Holy cow, what if it is?

Once again, I let my better judgment fly out the window and text Niles. I figure that’s better and safer than calling, since he could be in the middle of something, or maybe he hasn’t even seen them yet. He’ll probably appreciate a little warning before I just dive right in.

As I wait for his response, I stare at the photos some more. I am so conflicted. On one hand, I feel like I’m texting my boyfriend, who just happens to be a rock star, about some photos that were snapped. On the other hand, I feel like I’m talking to a complete stranger with whom I just happened to be photographed kissing. It’s so weird.

I burst into a cold sweat as I wait seven lifetimes to hear back. What is taking so long? Is his phone turned off? Is he ignoring me? Is he looking up the pictures? Hell, maybe he’s totally blocked me!

Finally, he sends a quick, “Heard but have not seen. One sec.” I wait some more, my fingers a shaky mess as they absently trace the bridge of my nose. This is so unnerving. What will he say?

My hopeful little heart takes over and reminds me how he reacted to the pic in
Page Six
. He loved it. Asked me how I felt about it. Thought it said a lot. Used it as a device to get me to see that we belong together. For sure these new photos will affect him the same way. God knows they just about knocked me on
my
ass. Maybe this will be the prod he needs to get over his insecurities and see that we really are meant to be.

My phone’s bloop pulls me back into the present . . . where I’m prepared to see just about anything other than what I really do see.

“Great. We’re fucked. I gotta call Kelsey. She’ll prob say to ignore them, but if I can get them yanked down, I will.”

What? Yanked down? No! Leave them there. And no, we’re not fucked! This is great. This is a wake-up call, Niles. Don’t you see it?

“They’re beautiful,” I type, hoping I can reach him like he reached me the day
Page Six
came out. “Do you like them?”

There’s a too-long pause, which seems to be a center point in all our conversations of late, before he finally responds, “They’re incredible. But that doesn’t matter anymore.”

My heart plummets.

I could and should fight back. I should say that yes it does matter, and then ask why he’s being so blind to that. I should say that he’s making this way too cut and dry, that all that fighting he did to win me back just a day ago is what’s representative of us, not this horrible mindset he’s created about himself. I should tell him to snap out of it, give himself a break, realize that two have tangoed here and that none of this has to be this way.

But that’s not a conversation we can have over text. So instead, I break out the big guns and put it as plain and simply as I can.

“Niles,” I type, with tears streaming down my cheeks, “I love you.”

There’s no response.

***

I can’t get on the plane fast enough. Between my bombed conversation with Niles, yet another deluge of accusatory texts from Brad, and ducking the local news crew that tap-tap-tapped on my door, calling out that my story is so exciting and they’d love to hear how it all unfolded, I know that getting away from here is the only logical thing. I packed for all of five minutes, recycling my personal stuff from New York and adding a few outfits. At this point, if I sit around in my pajamas for the entire two weeks, that would be completely acceptable. Who’s going to see me anyway?

I’m thankful that not many people are headed to North Carolina right now, because I have a whole row of three to myself. I smash myself against the window and stare out over the tarmac. Some nights this view is so exciting. Today, it feels so very, very lonely.

I know I’m torturing myself, but I wedge in my earbuds anyway. I should watch a movie or listen to something (or someone) totally different, but I can’t. Because if I can’t hear Niles on the phone or whispering in my ear, I’ll have to hear him the way I always have: crooning in my ears with passion clawing through his voice.

I scroll to the playlist I made with all of his songs—from his own albums, from albums he was featured on, all of them—and go right to my fave. “The Sadder Side of Midnight” has no musical introduction—it’s just his voice a cappella, clear and strong and commanding, right off the bat. Then the music swells, but he never lets you go; he grabs you from that very first note and holds you for three and a half minutes without ever letting you slip away from him. It’s magical. I could listen to it for hours.

With my eyes shut and my mind zoned out, my body vaguely senses that the aisle seat in my row is now occupied and that there is a set of knees swinging their way toward me. I drag my gaze to my new seatmate, straightening up when I realize this person is clearly intent on speaking to me . . . and that she’s clenching a book in her hands.

My book.

“Miss Reagan?” Her eyes gleam, but her face is sheepish. “I am so sorry to bother you, but I just really had to say hello.” She holds her book out to me and flips to the back, where my author photo smiles back at us. (Surreal, much?) “I read this in one sitting. I loved it so much. What a fun story!”

Her voice has turned giddy, and I’m immediately roped in. “Thank you!” I wiggle my butt cheeks back in my seat so I’m straightened up even more. “It was so much fun to write. I’m really glad you enjoyed it.”

A pen materializes from out of nowhere, which she taps on the book. She holds them both out. “Would you sign this please?” She looks at me hopefully, the gentle-but-there creasing around her eyes tattling that’s she’s likely right around my age. “My name is Erin. You know, in case you want to write a message.”

“Of course!”

I settle the book into my lap while my tummy does that oh-my-God-this-is-so-awesome fluttery thing. I cannot believe this is happening. Someone is asking
me
for my autograph? In a random experience? How freaking cool! Yeah, I’ve signed lots of bookplates and plenty of ARCs for reader contests, but I’ve yet to have a fan stop me somewhere other than at a bookstore signing. I feel like a rock star.

Ugh. A rock star.

“So, uh, the Nash character?” she says. “He was based on Niles Russell, I take it?” She giggles and wrings her hands before setting them in her lap. I look at her quizzically. How would she know that?

“I saw the CelebFeed pics this morning,” she bubbles. “Very nice.” She raises her eyebrows in approval, which makes me want to both squee and cry with this poor, unsuspecting stranger. She, just like Lucy and Sara and Katherine and God knows who else, could see the love between Niles and me just by looking at those pictures. Dammit, Niles! Can’t you see what you’re throwing away?

“Were you already dating when you wrote it? Or is this something new?” She looks at me in horror as her cheeks instantly flush to crimson. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry if that’s too pushy. I’m just a huge fan of you both. You guys have got to be the cutest couple on Earth. Seriously. But forget I even asked that. I was way out of line. I’m sorry.”

I decide right then and there that I adore this human being, no matter how sad what she’s saying makes me. I’m thrilled that this is my very first random fan experience. She’s sweet, she’s sincere, and she seems to really understand how someone can be such a huge inspiration creatively. The only problem? I’m just going to have to tread lightly, so I don’t mistakenly confirm or deny anything about Niles and me.

“It’s okay,” I say with a smile. “Really. And to answer your question, I just recently met him. We became . . . very good friends.”

“I’d say so.” She leans forward and hushes her voice. “Are you meeting him down in Raleigh? Because I have tickets to that concert. It’d be totally hilarious if we crossed paths again there.”

Hm, yeah. Totally hilarious. Except I won’t be laughing. At all.

“Um, I don’t know.” And that’s true. Because I have no idea how it’s all going to go down yet. “I’m heading down for a writing retreat mostly. So I guess I’m not sure yet.”

If her smile is any indication, this is even more exciting to her than me meeting up with Niles. “I’d
love
to attend a retreat someday, too.” She fiddles with the seat tray in front of her for a moment, then pulls her eyes back to me and turns so she’s as sideways as she can get.

“You know,” she says, her face turning serious “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I really want you to know . . . I’ve started a book of my own. I’m less than half done, but I have to say you’ve inspired me to not only finish it, but to pour all of my passion into it as well. So, thank you for that. Really.”

She looks down at her hands, then noticing they’re empty, holds them out for the return of her book. “Maybe I’ll have a dream-come-true story of my own someday. But without the whole Niles Russell component. Unfortunately.” She laughs as I hand back her book. “Thanks so much. For this”—she holds up the book—“and for the inspiration. I’ll leave you alone now.”

“Thank you for reading, Erin.” I hold out my hand. “And for coming over to say hello. It was really great to meet you. Good luck with your writing.” I squeeze her hand, sending a grin charging across her face. I can tell I’ve made her day. Just like she’s made mine.

“Hurry up with book two,” she says, standing up. “Your fans are already getting impatient.” She gives me one last grin and disappears down the aisle.

Now that she’s gone, I can’t help but beam. Like really, really beam. I’ve inspired her. She just said so. She’s a writer, too, and she’s been inspired by me to both finish the book and do it with passion. What an amazing, amazing feeling.

I know someone else who had that exact same effect on me, and look what’s happened now. A completed book, an agent, a book deal, and now a possible movie deal. All because of passion. All because of inspiration. All because of him.

Whatever my writing future holds—and now the inspiration I spread to others—all started because of him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Out of the Woods

Getting myself around in the mountains wasn’t something I gave much thought to when I booked my cabin. But given the winding road stretching out in front of me, I most definitely should have.

I’ve been at this stop sign for ages, fully convinced my hands are shaking so badly there’s pretty much no way I won’t steer myself into a guardrail. When it’s clear I can’t put it off any longer and I’m sure there’s not another soul around, I inch up the road, staring straight ahead so I don’t freak myself out even more. I can see that once I get to my spot, I’m not leaving again until someone sends a pack mule up after me. No, really. I’m serious.