by Mae, Amelia
“We know what you think, Ian,” he cuts me off. He shows the picture to Dylan, who narrows his eyes and glares at it, his wheat-blond hair falling in his face and scratching his reddish five-o’clock-shadow.
Dylan shrugs, not disappointed, but certainly still frustrated. “She’s the closest one.”
“Book her now,” Shawn says, “That’s as much of a reaction we’re going to get out of him.”
“Perfect,” Christian declares, clapping his hands together, “I’ll give her agent a call.”
He saunters off, phone in hand. Dylan turns towards me. “What’s the deal with that model? You fucked her or something?”
“In his dreams,” Jack taunts.
Dylan raises an eyebrow. Jack, Shawn and I have known each other since freshman year and occasionally Dylan gets left out of some inside jokes. Also, being a few years older than us, he doesn’t particularly care for antics.
“We went to high school together,” I answer, not wanting to offer up anything else.
“And…” Shawn goads.
“And… I had a little crush on her.”
“Understatement of the motherfucking year,” Jack, oh-so-helpfully, adds.
Dylan nods, not needing any more information. “Well, lucky you then,” he says slyly.
I look at him, confused.
“Not everyone gets a chance to see their high school crush after having their album go platinum and selling out fucking stadiums,” he explains, “Doesn’t matter how unattainable she was in high school, the second she sees you as a rock star, she’s gonna spread her legs just like all the others.”
I grunt. I don’t like thinking of Cora as ‘just like all the others.’ Plus, everyone knew that she was the only one of the really popular girls to hold onto her virginity until college. I like to think she’s not easily won-over.
“Time to add that notch to your bedpost,” Jack says.
“Maybe.”
Maybe it’d be a good idea to finally fuck her and get over this crush. Well, it’s not really a crush. Not anymore. That would be fucking crazy. More like I end up comparing every woman I meet to the girl I was so crazy about all those years ago. Ask myself if I feel as passionately about this woman as I did about Cora. Answer’s always no.
Of course it is. Cora’s something special. She’s probably married. Or engaged to some handsome billionaire. Or something. Whatever it is, she’s always going to be way-the-hell too good for the likes of me.
It all runs through my mind at lightning speed. If she says yes to the gig, Cora Dwyer is about to come back into my life. And I have no idea what the hell I want to do about it.
The meeting continues without me. I mean, I’m physically present, but the conversation just sort of happens around me and I absorb none of it.
I don’t even notice that the guys have left and the room is quiet.
It’s just me and this picture.
Until I feel a squeeze on my shoulder.
“You’re coming tonight, right?” Nikki asks.
“Of course I’ll be there. Like I’m going to miss my baby sister’s twenty-first.”
“You’ll brave the club scene and everything?” she asks skeptically.
I take a deep breath. “If that’s what you want, I’ll be there for you,” I tell her.
She looks at me like I’m a hurt puppy.
“You’ve been living like a monk for the past year, Ian,” she reminds me, “You can’t go on punishing yourself forever.”
“Sure I can.”
Her expression gets suddenly serious. “I know you can, but I don’t want to watch that happen.”
Shit. I didn’t want to bring down the mood that much.
“I’ll be there, Nikki,” I say resolutely, forcing a smile.
“Good. Caspiar Club at 10,” she declares, straightening her skirt as she leaves.
Cora
I give myself a once-over in the back changing room of the club. My makeup is all smoky eyes and ruby red lipstick. And my hair is, well, as good as my wild black ponytail is going to get.
Deep breath.
I smooth down my dress. I guess I’m lucky I can pull off a dress like this; it’s black, strapless, tight, and hits way above the knee. The worst part are the fuck-me heels. They’re a killer.
But, alas, it is the uniform at the Caspiar Club.
Okay, here goes.
I greet my first table of the night, a group in their late 20s, pretty even guy-to-girl ratio. My favorite kind of customers. The guys are out with their girlfriends, so they don’t hit on me. And as long as I compliment the girls on their dresses or hairstyles or something right out of the gate, they don’t think I’m hitting on their guys.
They have a good night. I get a nice tip. Win-win.
Time to turn on the charm.
“Hey everybody,” I say, smiling enthusiastically. It’s a good looking group. Like ridiculously good looking. “What are we celebrating?
“Me!” a girl blurts out, then looks slightly embarrassed. “I mean, my birthday. I’m twenty-one. Want to see my ID?” she rambles adorably.
She has long white-blonde hair, the ends of which are dyed rainbow colors. She looks like she’s dipped her hair into a box of melted crayons. On her, I like it. In her tight hot-pink dress and heels, she looks like a pin-up Rainbow Brite.
Knowing that she was ID’d at the door, I shake my head. “I trust you,” I laugh. “Let me get you all started on some drinks.”
When I catch her eye again, she’s looking at me strangely.
Actually… they all are.
Is there something in my teeth?
“Everything okay?” I ask the group.
“Yeah,” the girl answers answers. “You just look familiar. Probably just a weird coincidence.” She points to a woman across the room holding a blue cocktail in a martini glass. “I’ll have one of those.”
She rummages through her tiny purse and fishes out her cell phone. “Excuse me, I have to make a call.” She scurries for the door.
Huh. That was weird.
“I’ll take a Jameson rocks, please and thank you,” says the man with the scruffy light brown hair. He’s tan like a surfer with soft green eyes, full lips and a relaxed air about him. He undeniably attractive, sitting there, knees spread. There’s something about him that strikes me as familiar.
“Make that two. Thank you,” says the guy next to him. This guy is intense, with deep brown eyes, so dark they’re almost black. His black hair is shaved at the sides and he’s rocking black jeans and a motorcycle jacket.
He’s oddly familiar too.
And apparently, like the girl, the guys recognize me too. They’re looking at me with that same weird expression.
“Okay, well, my name’s Cora,” I tell them, “Let me know if you need anything else.
“Told ya,” one guy says to the other.
Told him what?
I don’t stick around to find out. I head to the bar to place the order.
“Ugh. I hate everyone, all the time, always,” I hear someone next to me whine.
I turn to face Aya, my best friend and fellow cocktail waitress. She blows strands of her long, silvery-blue hair out of her almond shaped eyes.
“Rough night?” I ask.
“Bunch of suits,” she replies, pointing to a group of rowdy corporate types in their mid 20s taking shots. “They’re already on my last nerve. The little jackass on the end called me Crouching Tiger twice already. I’m ready to clock him.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, touching her shoulder. Aya and I bonded over being the only two Asian waitresses here. She was born in Korea, but she was adopted and raised by a single white woman, Carmela, who she loves dearly. I’m half-Japanese on my mother’s side. My father, wherever he is, is a good -ol’-boy from Kentucky. I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen.
Dan, the bartender, loads imported beers and shots of expensive whiskey onto a tray for Aya. She rolls her eyes, yet again, and heads bac
k to the unruly group.
“They give you any more shit, I’ll throw them out,” Dan tells her.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling slightly.
I start to turn away with my full drink tray when Aya smacks herself playfully on the forehead.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot to ask,” she says, “How was that callback?”
“I didn’t get it,” I reply glumly. “They went with someone else.”
“I’m sorry, girl. You’ll get the next one.”
I nod, hoping to avoid talking about it more. As much as I love acting, the reminder of how I left a promising, stable career as a pharmacist, much to the dismay of my mother, my family, and my now ex-fiance to pursue a pipe dream is still a sore spot.
“I mean,” she starts, “I know it sucks now, but it’ll get better…”
I cut her off, “I actually got a call about a gig this afternoon. A music video. I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”
I load the whiskey and cocktails onto my tray and head back toward my table before Aya can respond.
I’m halfway across the floor when I overhear the girl with the Rainbow Brite hair from earlier on the phone.
“It’s her, I swear,” she says in a loud whisper. “Get over here now.”
I stop, trying to hear more.
“It’s definitely her, Ian,” she says.
Ian. The only person I know named Ian is someone I haven’t seen since high school. He’s sort-of famous now, the drummer in a band that’s getting pretty big. But I’ll always know him as the sweet, dorky guy who couldn’t say two words to me without tripping over himself.
She couldn’t possibly have meant Ian Brooks.
I laugh at myself for being that ridiculous. Of course not.
Because why in hell would Ian Brooks want to talk to me?
The intense brown-eyed guy passes a whiskey to the surfer-tan guy and I hear him call the guy Shawn. He couldn’t mean Shawn Kinney. Shawn is the bassist in said pretty-famous band. Which would make Brown Eyes the one and only Jack Cordero, the guitarist with the reputation of being a… lover of many, many women.
Am I really waiting on the members of Say Yes? Who also happen to be my high school classmates?
Another guy with icy blue eyes and blonde hair joins the group and this confirms it. This guy I immediately recognize from, well, everywhere as their frontman Dylan Cotter. He’s on the cover of the tabloid magazines I pretend not to read as I wait for my turn at auditions. He’s the face of the band. And holy hell, what a gorgeous face it is.
Rainbow Brite drags someone behind her as she returns to the group. A tall, handsome, tattooed man with dark hair, brown eyes and a boyish smile I’d know anywhere.
Definitely.
Ian Brooks.
Ian Brooks, the junior high school marching band nerd that everybody picked on who, who sometime between junior and senior year, grew into his body, traded playing drums for the marching band to drumming for the best/only rock band in town, and became Ian Brooks, every girl’s James-Dean-Rebel-Without-A-Cause bad rocker boy fantasy.
He’s taller than I remember. Shoulders broader. A little scruffier. More ink on his arms. But that’s him alright. In the flesh.
I’ve seen the Rolling Stone cover and the spots on television. I’ve downloaded Her Name in Stars and play it as I fall asleep.
Is this really happening? Is Ian Brooks, the famous, wealthy, and painfully hot drummer walking into the Caspiar Club? And am I, Cora Dwyer, ten years ago voted Most Likely to Succeed and currently running for Biggest Disappointment, about to serve him drinks all night?
Yep.
Check out Say Yes: Ian today!
Say Yes: Ian
Also Available
Say Yes: Shawn
Say Yes Series Book Two
Aya
Six Months Ago
I’m here tonight for Cora.
I’m here to help my friend.
I will not, I repeat, NOT, get distracted by the crazy hot man walking towards me.
Okay… maybe I can take a little peek.
I’m only human after all.
* * *
When Cora invited me to the Say Yes show, it was to help her not freak out over the fact that she was going to see Ian Brooks for the first time since they were kids. He’s a big-shot musician now and she’s intimidated.
I’ve lent her my favorite red dress, which I only hope I’ll get back in one piece, and given her my famous, patented Cora, you are a boss bitch and you can get any fucking man you want pep-talk. And a firm smack on the ass.
My girl’s got this.
I’ve settled on tight black jeans, a halter top, my favorite leather jacket, and studded spike heels for the evening. I smooth back my silver-blue hair. I’ve left Cora at the bar to get us another round of drinks while I head to the bathroom to touch up my makeup. A little black eyeliner and cherry lip gloss and I’ll be ready to take on the world.
I finish drying my hands on a paper towel when someone barges in.
A man carrying several tee shirts.
A ridiculously hot man carrying several tee shirts.
Who the hell is this guy and what is he doing in the ladies’ room?
It’s then that I notice that the sign on the door reads Private, not Ladies. It had been open when I found it and I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m about to apologize profusely for barging into a private room when I realize he’s on the phone.
I should just excuse myself, but I don’t. I hide out in one of the stalls.
“It was just Nikki,” he explains to whomever he’s talking, “You remember Ian’s sister. She works for our manager. She’s always around.”
He listens to the response. I can hear that it’s a woman’s voice, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. However, it’s clear that he’s getting frustrated.
His back is to me, but I can see his reflection in the mirror when I peer through the gap in the door. I swear, his gorgeous green eyes meet mine, but I know that’s impossible. He’s caught up in his conversation and I’ve been quiet as a mouse. These doors go all the way to the floor, so it’s not like he can see my feet.
“When have I ever been a cheater, Torie?” the man asks. He sounds like he’s had this conversation with this woman before. He also sounds like he’s tired of it. “Never. I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me.”
He’s wearing a bright tee shirt with some writing on it. The Pixies, I read. He reaches behind his neck to pull it off, over his head. He stands in front of the mirror, shirtless, deciding which of his wardrobe options to put on.
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and bite down hard to keep quiet. I shouldn’t perv on him like this, but he’s too beautiful to turn away. Broad back. Tanned skin. Solid muscle. A tattoo of a black and grey rose on his shoulder. Easily the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen up close.
“Fine,” he says into the phone after listening to the woman on the other end for several minutes. “No, I’m not going to fight with you. If you say we’re over, then we’re over. There’s nothing I can do.”
He selects a plain white tee shirt from his limited options and pulls it on quickly.
I let out a long, silent breath. It’s easier to think when he’s clothed. But he looks at himself in the mirror, decides the shirt isn’t right and takes it off. He’s still talking to this woman, but I’ve stopped listening in favor of watching him change clothes.
Fuck, I could watch this all night.
Suddenly, he lets out a dejected sigh. “Goodbye, Torie.”
Whoa, did this guy just get dumped? He takes several deep breaths and smooths his hair back.
Yeah. I’m pretty sure I just watched a man break up with his girlfriend.
I wait.
I wait for him to explode. And he has every right to. The man just got broken up with. And apparently accused of cheating. I wait for him to yell and punch something and, I don’t know, rip the paper towel dispenser o
ff the wall and chuck it across the room.
But he doesn’t. He’s perfectly calm.
How is he so calm after all that?
Unless he’s plotting some more elaborate revenge.
Stop it, Aya. Not all guys are like that.
He ends the call and leans against the stall door. My stall door. I hold my breath, trying to remain unnoticed. I watch as his eyes close.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Shawn,” a woman calls, “You’re on stage in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Nikki,” the man, Shawn, tells her.
Shawn throws on a soft looking, light blue tee shirt and makes his way to the door.
“You can come out now,” he says in the direction of the stall door where I’m hiding.
Fuck.
I hear him chuckle as he leaves.
I rush back out to find Cora. She’s holding two beers, sipping one nervously.
“Finally,” she says, “What the hell happened?”
“Got a little… sidetracked. Sorry,” I tell her as she hands my my drink. I swallow about half of it very quickly, scanning the room for Shawn, hoping I can make it through the rest of the evening without running into him again.
Coast is clear. Now I can focus on helping Cora get in Ian Brooks’ pants.
Or at least I think I can until I see six feet of sun-kissed skin, light brown hair, muscle, and the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen walking towards us.
And then it hits me like a ton of bricks.
I’m flushed. Frantic. Fluttering like a hummingbird. Lightheaded. My knees are getting weak. It’s all I can do not to whimper.
I know this feeling.
Pure, unadulterated lust.
I haven’t felt it in forever.
Good thing too. It almost ruined me.
Shawn approaches Cora like he knows her and it takes me a moment to remember that they went to high school together. Cora says something awkward, but I don't hear it. I’m too busy staring like an idiot.
“Who’s your friend?” I hear Shawn ask her.