Page 1 of #Moonstruck

CHAPTER ONE

If you’d asked me two hours ago what I thought about pop star Ryan De Luna, I would have told you that he was an overproduced, talentless, washed-out has-been.

But as I stood here in the crowd of screaming, giddy, exuberant (mostly female) fans, I could admit that I might have been just a little bit wrong.

Especially since the last time I’d seen him in concert had been seven years ago, when I was fourteen. He’d been seventeen at the time, with shaggy bangs, wearing an oversize basketball jersey, and he had lip-synched the entire thing.

The boy I’d swooned over couldn’t begin to compare to the well-groomed man I watched now. He sang live. No more mouthing the words, no Auto-Tune. He wore modified suits and stylish clothes he could move in. He danced less than he had before, mostly because dancing full-out and singing at the same time was pretty much impossible.

And I should know, being the lead singer of my band. I do not dance while I sing.

Even though I had been to approximately a million live concerts, thanks to my love of music, I could honestly say I’d never seen any performer who was so magnetic or so charismatic. Ryan De Luna had the entire crowd mesmerized. Totally in his thrall. He could have ordered them to go out and invade a small country, and I was pretty sure the sobbing, screaming, fainting women around me would have done it.

Heck, at this point I probably would have even joined in.

I was not exaggerating the fainting part, either. It seemed to be worse the closer they stood to the stage. One smile, one hip shake, one high note from Ryan De Luna and they dropped like flies. So far they’d taken thirteen women over to the ambulances to be checked out.

It probably didn’t help matters that he was ridiculously gorgeous. I knew his mom had been Latina, and I’d read something about his dad being Irish. Ryan melded both heritages together perfectly—he had lightly bronzed skin, dark-brown hair, and bright-hazel eyes.

Hazel eyes that appeared to have winked at me. Even though logically I knew that wasn’t possible, my traitorous heart still fluttered and raced in response.

I tried to put that image of him at seventeen back in my head to erase what I was currently witnessing, but my brain refused. I even had to admit that my musical tastes changing from pop to rock music had tainted and altered my memories of him and his songs.

Because there was still one song of his that I really loved. The one I had listened to on repeat over and over again: “One More Night.” I liked it so much that recently I had done an acoustic cover of it on my band’s YouTube channel.

Not that I would ever admit how much I still loved that song. My second-oldest brother, Parker, would probably die laughing if I told him. Or he would after he got rabidly outraged about the general lack of music and soul in today’s Top 40.

The backup dancers kicked it into high gear behind Ryan as his band and the DJ coordinated to play a live club mix of the song. Every woman in the audience broke into absolute hysterics as the first strains filled the arena. Strobe lights flashed around him and the dancers as they moved together. I knew so many guys who had the rhythm of a sea slug. But Ryan De Luna could dance, and it was hypnotically sexy.

Have I mentioned yet that he was super good-looking, too?

Controlled fire burst from the corners of the stage as the massive screen behind him showed the original video for the song. I couldn’t imagine my band, consisting of me and my brothers, Fitz, Parker, and Cole, ever having a show like this. We could barely manage to book gigs at local clubs. Ryan De Luna was one of the few artists in the world who could sell out entire stadiums.

“Maisy! Maisy! Let’s head backstage now!” My best friend, Angie, had to yell this in my right ear, and even then I could barely make it out.

Embarrassingly enough, part of me wanted to stay and watch him sing this song. Another part of me wanted to tell Angie no, to suggest that we head for her car and get out of there before the parking lot and roads got too congested. But I knew I couldn’t. It meant too much to her to meet Ryan De Luna, and I really owed her.

I was probably the only woman in the whole stadium who didn’t care about the All-Access pass Angie had given me. In fact, I was pretty sure I could have staged my own Hunger Games by tossing it into the group closest to the stage.

But not wanting to be personally responsible for starting a riot, I refrained.

Instead, I nodded, and we shuffled through the sweaty, tearful mass of hormones that screamed out all the things they wanted to do to Ryan. Which involved marriage proposals and various other unspeakable acts.

When we cleared the crowd, Angie yelled, “This way!” and then pointed at the same time in case I didn’t hear her.

I snuck one final glance at a grinning, disgustingly hot Ryan. So freaking pretty. I allowed myself that look because it would be the last time I’d see him in person, no matter what Angie hoped.

A burly, scowling security guard with a headset stared us down as we approached him, but one flash of our badges and we were in. Girls without passes would probably have to flash other things to get past. “Down the hall. Take the first left,” he directed us, and we proceeded inside.

I’d been backstage at concerts multiple times. Once even at a Rolling Stones concert, thanks to the A&R rep my oldest brother, Fitz, was dating at the time. I had tried to prepare Angie for the reality of what was about to happen. Ryan De Luna wasn’t doing any meet and greets, which essentially involved fans paying a small fortune, waiting in line for hours to stand next to him and have their pictures taken, and then being ushered out the door to make way for the next person. Pathetic as it was, at least then Angie would have stood a chance of saying hi.

Instead, given past experience, I knew we would be shoved into a room with crappy food and radio-contest winners and various music-industry professionals—like label execs with their tween daughters, bloggers, and journalists. Maybe the opening act would show up, maybe a PR person or his manager, but there was zero chance of Ryan De Luna stopping by.

No matter how I tried to warn her, Angie wouldn’t listen. She just kept telling me to trust her.

Before the concert I’d wondered aloud if her goal was to hook up with Ryan or something. After a twinge of sadness in her eyes that made me feel extremely guilty for joking that way, she said, “I’m old enough that I don’t think Ryan De Luna wants to get with me and my mom body. And even if he did because he was either drunk or off his medication, my answer would be no.”

We definitely had that in common. If propositioned by any musician, my answer would also be an emphatic no, but for very different reasons. Although Angie’s definition of “mom body” was probably off, given that she looked amazing and was only twenty-six years old.

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