2
Idid the only thing a sane person would do.
I stalked the guy online.
Nathan Walker. Guitarist of Cherry Lips. I'd seen their music videos a couple times and their songs were great, but I wanted to know more about him specifically.
As I scrolled through the search results on my phone, I found accolade after accolade, music journalists gushing about his natural talent and passion, along with lists of awards, both industry and fan-based.
Speaking of fans, he apparently had hordes of them, and from what I'd read, he plowed through those girls like tissues. Unlike some of his band members who were in committed relationships, it seemed Nathan had never slept with the same girl twice.
I nearly snorted. Typical rock star.
He had been telling the truth when he said he'd done some modeling. My eyes grew wide when I found a series of ads for a brand of boxers. I couldn't see the point of those ads. With the way he held his guitar in a suggestive pose across his lower body, the boxers weren't even visible. And considering he wasn't wearing anything else…
I hastily shoved my phone into my pocket.
I'd never been to a concert before. I had looked up the venue, wondering what it might be like. Cherry Lips usually sold out stadiums, but this was a smaller one-off performance, invitation-only for diehard fans.
When I looked up, I found myself standing in front of a large Victorian mansion converted into a music hall. Hundreds of fans were already lined up at the door, snaking around the sidewalk, and continuing down the street for blocks. Most kept to themselves with quiet murmurs, but there were small pockets playing songs on their phones at max volume and singing along at the top of their lungs. The line was moving, albeit slowly, as the concert attendees filed into the venue one-by-one.
I couldn't help but wonder what to expect. Would there be mosh pits? The thought made me a bit panicky. I didn't know if I'd be able to handle that. But Nathan said to go to the side door. Maybe my ticket gave me access to a special section away from the pit. It did say VIP on it, after all.
I walked around the building until I found a dented metal door with a beefy guy standing in front of it, arms crossed. His expression remained stern as I approached.
"Hello." I gave him a small wave and immediately felt stupid.
"Line's that way," he grunted with a nod of his chin.
"Yes, I know."
His eyes narrowed. I powered on.
"I'm supposed to tell you Nathan invited me. He said something about a list…?"
The guy, who was either a bouncer or bodyguard, blatantly scanned me up and down. A doubtful look crossed his face. "You?"
The emphasis on the word was almost insulting. What was so wrong with me?
"Yes, me," I said stiffly. I brandished my ticket. "This thing here says VIP."
"Name?" he barked.
I felt the urge to straighten my back and salute. "Becca Miller."
Without a word, he pounded on the door and stepped aside. It swung open to reveal a frazzled looking woman wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.
"Got one for Nathan," the bouncer/bodyguard said.
The woman scrutinized me, eyes lingered on my feet, clad in well-worn sneakers, then trailed up the rest of me, a simple black top and jeans. I was graced with my second doubtful look in one night.
Maybe I'd dressed wrong and they didn't think I belonged here. Maybe I was supposed to be wearing fishnet tights or a band t-shirt or something.
"Do you have a ticket?" the woman asked. I showed it to her. Her eyes flicked to the bouncer. "She's on the list?"
"The only name on the list tonight," the beefy guy replied.
She handed me a green lanyard with a VIP label. As I put it around my neck, she gestured quickly for me to step through the door and shut it behind us.
