Page 37 of #Moonstruck

Then, very last, he dragged his mouth away, and I nearly cried out in disappointment and frustration that he’d been so close and hadn’t actually kissed me. If I’d been capable of moving my legs, I might have chased after him and demanded he finish what he’d started.

“See you later, Maisy.”

He walked down the hallway like he was totally unaffected by what had just happened. After several minutes, I finally had the strength to peel myself off the door, stick the card into the lock, and let myself into my room.

I saw my reflection in the mirrored closet door. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright.

Did you forget about Rule #1? my brain asked.

I hadn’t forgotten. I’d just found a loophole. We weren’t really dating, so it didn’t count. Technically, I wasn’t breaking my rule.

It was fake. Not real.

But everything that had happened in that hallway was very, very real.

And I wanted more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On the drive over to the arena, my brothers had talked solely about the set list. Fitz suggested that we do a couple of cover songs. “We want the crowd to be singing along and excited about us. I think that’s the best way.” Everyone agreed, and we picked two pop songs that we’d performed before. They’d been in the Billboard Top 100 for weeks, and thanks to nonstop radio play, everyone would know the words. We just made them more rock. We also decided to sing our two most popular original songs, “Lost” and “How You Lie.” Along with “One More Night” and “Yesterday,” that would be our entire set. We had only about half an hour, which was a generous amount of time for how well known our band was (we were not well known at all).

When we arrived at the arena entrance, a horde of screaming teenage girls lined the walkway, holding up signs and pictures. Fitz opened the door and climbed out, and all the screams died. The girls started texting on their phones and resumed their conversations.

I thought it was hilarious. My brothers were not quite as amused. “I think I feel insulted.” Fitz frowned.

A crew member met us and led us out to the stage. “Wow” was all I could manage.

We were set up in the center of the massive arena, meaning we’d need to play to more than one direction.

“Can you imagine if we were the headliners and this many people wanted to see us perform?” I asked, not really able to take it all in.

“Someday it will be,” Parker assured me with a grin, twirling his drumstick and then sitting down behind his kit.

Fitz and I had brought our guitars, but Parker’s drums and Cole’s keyboard had been set up by the production crew. It was so nice not to have to worry about amplifier and speaker locations and not to unravel yards and yards of black cords.

Someone wearing a headset and carrying a tablet approached. “Hey, guys. I’m Kenny. I work with Santiago, your sound engineer. You are in excellent hands. He’s one of the best.”

“I’mthebest, thank you.” A loud voice boomed over the speakers, making us jump.

“We put your microphones where you indicated you wanted them on your sound plot, and if you’ll get your instruments set up, we can start.”

I took my Dreadnought out of the case and moved my Epi-Pen aside to get the check from Ryan. I turned to face my brothers. “Before we start, I got the money for Mom’s overdue fees.”

Given their expressions, it was like I had just announced that I had discovered the cure for cancer while doing the tango with a shark.

“Where?” was all Parker asked, taking the check from me.

“I got it from Ryan because—”

Before I could explain, Cole interrupted me. “What exactly are you doing for that kind of money?”

I would not smash my guitar over my brother’s head. I would not. “Oh no, you’ve found me out. I’ve decided to become a high-class escort and enter into an indecent proposal with Ryan De Luna.”

Did they get my sarcasm? Of course not.

“If that’s true, you should have held out for a lot more zeros.”

Seeing as how fratricide was still illegal, I told them about Ryan’s situation. I swore them all to secrecy and then explained how he needed a fake girlfriend to impress his label and improve his image and that it had to be someone who wouldn’t sell him out or write a song about him. “I’m a nice, normal, trustworthy girl-next-door type, not a diva or a psycho.”

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