SAMANTHA
Sam didn’t havea normal apartment, and not because she used her apartment to hide. That was only one perk of living in-residence at the Purple Peony. Nobody ever looked for anyone other than the residents there.
Another perk? She could work 24/7 and no one questioned it. She loved her work. It fulfilled her and kept her mind occupied.
The apartment wasn’t anything super special, but it was hers. A one-room studio with a kitchenette and a bathroom. It shared walls with the residents, but they were thick, and the residents mostly let her have her space when she was off duty. Which wasn’t often.
There was room for her double bed and a small dark blue loveseat facing the television. But she made the place cute with fun decor—a chess set mounted to the wall with magnetic pieces. A bust of a cat blowing a bubble-gum bubble she’d found at a thrift shop two summers ago. And her guitar she couldn’t give up. She may not make music outside this room these days, but she couldn’t stop. That was the kind of thing that was in her blood. In her soul.
She needed nothing else.
“This is your mystery guy?” Sam’s best friend—Ashley—asked in disbelief, letting out a low whistle. “Hello, Hottie Pants.”
Hottie Pants, for sure. Tanner played in a band.
Samantha’s palms got sweaty.
A quick online search and he came right up. An excessively popular music group with hits a girl couldn’t help but hear everywhere she went.
Her head went fuzzy.
Ashley lounged on the loveseat, her legs dangling over one arm as she flipped through her phone. Ashley had moved to Denver, which—along with Great Aunt Etta—was why Sam settled here for a bit.
“I can’t date him,” Sam said, hating that this was the truth of the matter. Despite the fact that he was a legitimate rock star, he wasn’t the person who would make a good fling. He was the sticky kind that could challenge and change everything.
Not worth the risk.
“I think it’s time,” Ashley said, kicking her feet up and sitting. “Time to take the risk. Time to give him a shot.”
“One of us would hurt the other,” Sam said, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her guitar hugged to her chest. With her history, it’d likely be her that got stung. She didn’t enjoy getting hurt. Sue her.
“You can’t know that,” Ashley assured her. “No one knows that. You think Babushka and this crew here would fix you up with someone they think would hurt you? They adore you here. They want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.” Sam didn’t need to defend her happiness level. From one to ten, she stayed at an easy five all the time. Unfortunately, Ashley knew and understood this. Which was probably the reason for the push toward Tanner.
“You are content, sure,” Ashley said. Then she held up her phone so Sam could see the image of Tanner at a concert. “But are you this?”
He didn’t wear a shirt, and his abs were c-u-u-t. Most of the background was inky black, but there was some kind of goo on the drums and it glowed as he hit the head with his drumstick. The electric blue goo shot into the air, like some kind of performance art mixed with music. His expression was one of pure bliss.
He was the antithesis of her. Everyone loved Tanner.
No one loved her—well, aside from Ashley and her family.
But there had been no coming back from the MyTube video seen by millions all over the world. Not an exaggeration, either. When she was ten, she’d written a three-minute song. An ode to mozzarella sticks. That was ages ago, since today she barely kissed the edge of twenty-four. Naïve, she’d posted the song online when viral videos were more of a rarity than an everyday occurrence.
“You are the only person in the world who would panic because a rock god asked you to go to coffee,” Ashley said with a sigh.
“I like my privacy,” Sam countered, knowing deep down that was only the tip of the reasoning.
“I’d say you can’t spend your life running away, but you’ve proven me wrong on that so far, so I’m not gonna say it.” Ashley flipped through her phone. “But it’s been two months since anyone even posted a Sami Jo sighting.”
Uh-huh. There was a website for those mega creeps who tried to track her down. Thankfully, she’d evaded them for nearly a decade.
Some might say that changing her name—Sami Jo was now only Sam—and running away from her one-hit wonder might be overkill. They’d probably be correct.
She’d still do it again. Because the lesson that being a nobody was hands down better than being somebody was hard learned.
Being a nobody had extra perks of anonymity. Being a somebody meant everybody saw everything—the good, sure. But it was the bad that got the masses excited.
