Page 2 of #Moonstruck

“You, on the other hand,” she continued, “are free to say, ‘Ooh yes, baby, one ... more ... night!’”

I shot her a side-eye to let her know what I thought as she laughed at her own quip. Did she seriously not remember my rules?

We walked down a massive concrete hallway lit with buzzing, fluorescent bulbs, and I felt the temperature drop. We were underneath the stadium bleachers, but despite all the potential interference (including my currently partial deafness from all the loudness), I could hear Ryan winding down his show. He thanked his band, the dancers, and the crew and then told the women of Los Angeles how much he loved them.

Considering he’d dated roughly half of them, it was probably an accurate statement.

Manwhore, thy name is Ryan De Luna.

The audience chanted Ryan’s name repeatedly, trying to get him to do an encore while we took a left at the end of the hallway. Just as I’d predicted, there was a roped-off area marked “VIP.” It had a catering table set up and a bunch of people milling around, including a hysterically sobbing teenage girl whose face had gone purple. Like she’d cried and screamed so hard she’d burst blood vessels.

“I told you!” Such a waste of time.

“And I told you. That’s not where we’re going.”

Just then I heard yelling and turned to see a bunch of security guards wearing the same black polo that the guard out front had worn, telling everybody to get out of the way. Angie and I pressed up against the wall. Behind the guards, a bunch of guys were carrying guitars and then ... Ryan De Luna.

A very sweaty Ryan De Luna. Which I should have been grossed out by but instead had some strange, lurid thoughts about.

If I’d thought he was attractive onstage, it was about a thousand times more potent up close.

Kind of like the difference between running your fingers though a candle’s open flame versus hopping on a rocket ship, going into outer space, and then being shoved onto the sun’s surface.

No wonder the media had nicknamed him El Caliente.

He used a white towel to mop up the (still not gross) sweat from his forehead and then flung his hair back. And I swear, it happened in slow motion.

A drop of his sweat landed on my hand.

I was overcome with the desire to never wash my right hand ever, ever again.

I looked up, and the impossible happened. Ryan locked eyes with me. He smiled. “Hey.”

How was I supposed to respond to a smile and “Hey”? Was there a response? It seemed like there should be a response. An easy one, even.

Before I could figure it out, he was gone, caught up in the current of the security guards pushing him along.

What had just happened to me? I was nobody’s fangirl.

Unlike the purple-faced teen in the VIP area who was currently being revived by a concerned-looking adult.

Disgusted with myself, I rubbed off what was left of his sweat.

“Tell me again about how Ryan De Luna doesn’t affect you at all?” Angie said in a singsong voice.

“The only part of me he affects is my gag reflex.”

Her dancing eyes let me know she did not believe me.

I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t believe me, either.

She grabbed my wrist. “That’s where we’re going.” It took me a second to realize she was following Ryan. She trailed behind the group like a determined little caboose. Some detached part of my brain wondered how this would end up. Which brother would be the least angry when I called and asked them to bail me out of jail? Because obviously we would be prison-bound for trespassing and physical assault after Angie, despite her protests to the contrary, cornered Ryan and flung herself at him. I didn’t know what her plan was. Would some sort of favors have to be performed to even get us close to him in the first place? If that were the case, Angie was on her own. That was not me.

Not that it was Angie, either, but she’d been a little “moonstruck” lately. Since I had been a fan for about five minutes before I got over it, I knew that Ryan’s last name meantmoonin Spanish, and his fans would talk online about their obsessive love and how Ryan made them “moonstruck.” As a group they called themselves his “Luna-chicks.” One particularly stalkery branch of fans called themselves the “Luna-tics,” and they failed to see the irony of the name at all. And now I was worried my friend had gone full-on Luna-tic.

As Angie tugged at me, I kept trying to make her stop so I could look at stuff—there were some gorgeous, expensive Mesa Boogie amps sitting in the hallway—but she refused to slow down.

We rounded a corner, and I saw yet another black polo-ed security guard. He stood in front of a door markedLOCKERROOM. This guard had shaved his hair down to a buzz cut and had wicked burn scars on the right side of his face near what was left of his earlobe. His biceps bulged so much that he had a hard time keeping his arms crossed.

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