Page 13 of The Rockstar

Vivian hums, tapping her chin. “I can recite entire scenes fromSerendipity, make a really good pesto, and I once punched a guy for telling me romance novels were a waste of shelf space and that romance readers aren’t really readers.”

“Okay, that last part? Sexy. Love me a girl who can throw a punch. Remind me to never talk trash about romance novels.”

“Good plan.”

“And for the record, they both cheated inSerendipity.”

“I’m going to pretend you did not just say that.”

“But they did.”

“I can’t hear a word you said.”

She smiles at me again, and it hits me like a slow burn. It creeps in without warning, wrapping around my ribs until it’s all I can feel. It’s unfamiliar but not totally unwelcome.

I clear my throat. “And here I thought you were just some sarcastic drifter with a hot mouth.”

“I mean, I am that too.”

God help me. I’m unraveling, the feeling I’ve been trying to deny unspooling within me.

I’m falling for Vivian, and I don’t know if I can live a life without her. Not anymore. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours, but I feel like I’ve never felt as happy as I am with her. I haven’t felt this light, this genuinely happy.

A few hours later, the car rumbles into the outskirts of the festival grounds, tires crunching on gravel as the scent of grilled meat, grass, and sweat hits me like a nostalgic slap. Music thrums in the distance as my fingers twitch on the steering wheel.

I park near the vendors’ section and kill the engine.

“This is it?” I ask, peeking out the tinted window. People bustle around with crates of merch and folding chairs, and someone in a glittering unitard just roller-skated by, holding a ukulele and what looks like a dead ferret on his hair. My kind of place. I always thought I would have fit right in back in the 1969 Woodstock Festival.

Vivian’s already unbuckling her seatbelt. “Yep. Welcome to Mooncrest Music Fest.” She sounds proud.

I pull my hoodie up, tug my ball cap low, then slip on a mask. Not because I’m paranoid—okay, maybe a little—but because I don’t want to ruin this for her. Festivals like this were always a dream. My label never let me do them.

“You’re too big for that,” they said. “You don’t do tents, you do stadiums. Besides, festival isn’t where the money is.”

They never understood. I don’t want pyrotechnics. I want to see someone’s face change when I hit the first chorus. I want to see them jumping, headbanging, screaming at the top of their lungs. It’s the kind of high I’ve always wanted to get in every performance. But it’s hard to see one face when the lights are in my eyes, and I can’t see shit.

A young woman, who I assume is Valerie because she has the same hair color as Vivian, is at the tent, helping arrange vinyls on a makeshift table. She freezes when she sees me. “Who's that?”

Vivian smirks. “My assistant. Don’t worry, he doesn’t like to talk much, but he’s helpful.”

Valerie’s eyes narrow. “Weirdly broad for an assistant, even through that thick hoodie. I mean, I have astigmatism, and I can see the pecs and broad shoulders and biceps.”

Vivian shrugs. “Good for carrying boxes. Not much else.”

I swallow back the retort I know Vivian is expecting. I’ll wait until we’re alone and show her all the ways I mean to punish her by talking about me like this.

They bicker, and I get the sudden impression their poor parents must have had migraines since they were born. If you don’t look at them, you’d think five people were talking all at once. Even I can’t keep track of their topic. They just went from the headliners to the girl with the rainbow hair, then their mom bumping into her ex-boyfriend while their dad was away.

I carry the records silently, biting back a smile.

God, I missed this. The crowds, the laughter, the unfiltered reactions. The music that doesn’t need polish. When I wasstarting out, Knox and I used to come to these. I always imagined my name with the biggest font on the posters—the headliner.

It never happened.

The mask suddenly feels suffocating, and I tug it down but keep my head low, assuming people are too distracted to notice me. After all, Ryder Cross was reportedly somewhere in the Bahamas or frolicking with a model and her best friend in London or at The Ritz Paris, throwing a party. Even I can’t keep up with the places I’m supposed to be at.

I only take a second to breathe when someone stands in front of me.

---