Kitty Valentine Dates a Rock Star

by Dodd, Jillian

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  This isn’t really happening.

  It can’t possibly be happening.

  Clearly, I’m at home, dreaming. It’s a wildly vivid dream, I’ll grant you, but a dream nonetheless. Yes, I’m making this all up in my head. Because I can’t truly be standing in the narrow hallway outside Dustin Grant’s dressing room.

  I have to remind myself to rub my hands on my jacket to get rid of the sweat because he’ll inevitably want to shake my hand. Right? Isn’t that how normal people usually greet each other? Oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening. My teenage self would … honestly, I don’t know what she’d do. Scream a lot, most likely, before passing out.

  Now, I truly understand why all those girls used to pass out during Crazy 4 You concerts. And I’m not even a teenager anymore. I’m a grown woman, college-educated, four times at the top of the New York Times Best Sellers list. There is absolutely no excuse for me to fall to pieces over this man.

  This man with those absolutely ridiculous eyes of his.

  Focus, Valentine. You’ve got this.

  But do I? I’ll soon find out.

  He answers almost as soon as I knock on the door. I wasn’t sure he would even hear me—I’m so timid, and my knock was so quiet. Was he waiting? No, that couldn’t be.

  The second we’re face-to-face—like, really face-to-face—I completely blank out. Seriously. It’s like I have amnesia about everything in my whole entire life. Who am I? Why am I here?

  And then he smiles, and things get worse. I’m almost positive I’m going to faint.

  “So, you’re my watchdog. I knew I had to meet you and thank you for standing up for me out there.” He holds out his hand, still smiling, still showing off those dimples of his. “Dustin Grant.”

  “No kidding.” I giggle and immediately wish I could take it back. Not exactly the ideal way to start things off. I hold out my hand to him, hoping I wiped the sweat away. “Kitty Valentine.”

  He blinks hard, eyes narrowing. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Why? Have you heard of me?” I can barely get it out; I’m giggling so hard.

  Good God, he’s going to think I’m a complete space case. This will be the last time he ever invites a fan back to his dressing room, I imagine.

  So, what do I do? Easy. I keep talking because that always makes things better. “I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to ever have heard of me or anything. I’m not anybody that important. Just a writer. No big deal.” Shut up, Kitty. Shut up. Stop talking. You’re only making it worse.

  I’m sure Dustin has probably seen worse though. He’s actually sweet, smiling a little as I continue digging myself deeper with every word.

  “I find your name interesting. You say you’re a writer?”

  Is it possible for a human face to spontaneously burst into flames? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what my face is trying to do. “Yeah, no big deal. Nothing like what you do.”

  He chuckles a little at this. “Or what I used to do. Like you witnessed a little while ago, a lot of my fans live in the past.” He then steps back, waving an arm. “I’m so rude. Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable. I want to know all about this writing you do.”

  That, I cannot believe. Why would he want to know about me? I’m not that special. I’ve never made anybody faint just by appearing in front of them. But I step into the dressing room anyway because who wouldn’t? Besides, I’m here on a mission.

  Calling this a dressing room is a real stretch. Sure, it’s a room, and I guess Dustin got dressed in here, but I’m thinking it normally serves as a closet. If it doesn’t, it should. There’s barely enough room for both of us to stand. Dustin pulls up a chair, gesturing for me to take a seat while he perches on the edge of a little shelf holding various hair products, concealer—those sorts of things.

  “You know my secret now.”

  “Your secret?”

  He gestures to the products on the table. “I wear makeup onstage.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell all my friends.”

  “So, you said you’re a writer?”

  Darn it. I smack my forehead. “Oh, don’t worry! I’m not here to write, like, an exposé on you or anything like that. I hope you didn’t get that idea.”

  The funniest thing happens. He literally looks disappointed. At least, that’s the impression I get when his face falls a little.

  “Oh. I see.”

  “I’m a novelist. I write romance novels.”

  He gets another funny look, and again, I get the feeling I’ve said too much. Yes, this is obviously where he’s going to decide I’m not worth his time. That’s usually the way it happens once somebody finds out what I do and thinks it’s a joke.

  I’m so sure this is about to happen. In fact, I’m halfway to my feet and prepared to console myself with the fact that he has no room to talk. Who does he think he is? God’s gift?

  “A romance novelist.” A slow smile spreads over his face, lighting it up. “That’s probably the coolest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

  Oh. That’s not what I expected at all. “You think so?” I can’t help but still feel a little skeptical.

  “Hell yes! Seriously, that’s awesome. And you said something about me hearing about you before, right? Does that mean you’re a big deal?”

  Here I go again, wanting to giggle like an insane person. I’m discussing my career with none other than my adolescent fantasy. “You could say that,” I offer with a shrug.

  “What does that mean?” He’s teasing me, trying to draw it out of me.

  Is this even happening? What is my life?

  “It means you could say that.” Oh my God. Am I teasing him right back? Who am I?

  The funny thing is, it feels so natural, like we’re old friends already. Granted, I’m way more familiar with him than he is with me, having spent years fantasizing about what it would be like to be his wife. Back when I was so young, it never occurred to me I’d want to be anything else. Happily ever after meant a trip down the aisle, followed by a bunch of babies.

  Actually, that’s still what happily ever after looks like for me. But there’s also happy in between and happy for now, which is definitely something I would not refuse if the man in front of me suggested it. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. The chance to get to know this man, his life, his world.

  Though for now, there’s still hesitation on his part. I’m just a fan, and he’s holding himself back from me. That’s okay. This is more than enough for the time being, much more than I ever would have imagined as a kid. There’s nothing worse than knowing for sure that you’ll never get to be with the object of your affection because he might as well live on another planet and has no idea you’re alive.

  Oh, how much do I wish some of the girls from middle school were here right now? I would love to rub it in their faces.

  To my horror, I realize he must’ve said something when I wasn’t paying attention, too busy fantasizing about rubbing this in the faces of girls who haven’t thought about me in years.

  He’s waiting with a sweet, expectant expression, those eyes of his still boring holes into me.

  I have to fess up. “I’m sorry. I’m spacing out. My fifteen-year-old self is screaming in the back of my mind, and I can’t seem to quiet her down.”

  He laughs, which is a relief. I guess he’s used to it by now. “I asked if you had any plans tonight, someplace to go after this.”

  Hot diggity dog. I’m in. This is it. Oh my God, I’m sort of going on a date with this absolutely gorgeous, talented, charming person.

  I practically have to sit on my hands to stop them from shaking. “No, I don’t have any other plans.”

  His eyes sparkle. They literally sparkle. “Good. Because I want you to come out with me. Would you do that?” And then the dimples show up, and they’re for me because he’s smiling at me.

  Again, I’m hit with the almost-certain feeling that I’m imagining all this and that it
can’t possibly be happening. But that doesn’t stop me from answering, “Yes?”

  For the first time since I came into the room, it looks like I’ve knocked him off his game a little. “Is that a question? Or are you agreeing?”

  “I’m agreeing!” Great, and now, I sound like I’m screaming. I really wish I could go back and start this all over again, but I can’t. “Yes. I would very much like to come out with you.” I manage to sound like a mature, sane person this time.

  “Great.” He stands up, and I do the same. “Just give me a minute, would you?”

  I nod. He can have all the time he needs.

  He lifts his brows. “I mean, could I have a minute to get myself ready? Alone?”

  Yep. I knew I would do something else to embarrass myself. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m usually much better at acting like a normal person than this.” That’s pretty much a lie, of course, but he doesn’t need to know.

  He chuckles softly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck with his eyes downcast. “No worries. Not to sound too full of myself, but I get it a lot. I mean, I can’t understand why anybody would care all that much about me, but you’re not the first person, so it’s okay. You don’t have to feel weird.”

  He has no idea what a good job he’s doing of convincing me that I wasn’t wrong for being so madly in love with him all those years. My instincts are good, even back then. I know quality when I see it.

  I duck out of the room before I have the chance to say anything that could embarrass me any more and use the opportunity to text Hayley. It feels kind of mean, reaching out to her about this when she can’t be here, but I have to tell somebody, and something tells me she would never forgive me if I didn’t give her the play-by-play.

  Oh my God. We’re going out now. I don’t know where, but does it matter? He’s a dream. Even better-looking in person.

  She must’ve been waiting to hear from me because barely five seconds pass before she’s typing a reply. Oh my God, I hate you so much. See if you can grab something of his for me.

  I have to work hard to keep from laughing out loud, especially because I know it would come out as one of those high-pitched laughs, totally unhinged. I’m sure he’d be able to hear me in the dressing room, and I’ve already embarrassed myself enough.

  What did you have in mind? I ask her.

  I don’t care! A napkin, whatever. Anything that has his DNA on it.

  Okay, now, she’s starting to make me nervous.

  What do you plan on doing? Making a clone?

  No, I just want a little piece of him for myself. Don’t make it weird.

  I’m the one making it weird?

  I’ll see what I can do, I reply since that’s the best I can say. It would be one thing if I even thought she was joking, but I get the feeling that she’s not.

  Who am I kidding? I would probably do the same thing if our places were reversed.

  It’s not long before the door opens, and Dustin beams his beautiful smile on me. “Ready?”

  I’m not entirely sure I am ready, but there’s nothing to do but say, “Yes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Okay, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’s strangely fitting, considering the way the night started out.

  Dustin takes a deep breath when we step into the little dive bar he’s brought me to. “This is it,” he murmurs, looking over the room.

  I’m lost already. “This is what?” Do I sound cool enough? I hope I do. I probably don’t.

  He smiles anyway. “The real deal. This is life. Not some prefabricated band, not some orchestrated version of life created for cameras and reality television. This is it. This is what I missed for a long time.”

  I get what he means, though I do sort of wish we could’ve gone someplace where my shoes don’t stick to the floor if I stand in one place for too long. It’s dark in here, cramped, and even though smoking in public places has been against the law for years, there’s still a lingering odor of it. It clings to every surface, and I guess it could be called atmospheric.

  But come on. I’m out with Dustin, which is a freaking dream come true. It doesn’t matter where we are or if it smells like decades of old smoke in here.

  “So, you feel more comfortable here than you do in that other world you just described?”

  It’s not until we sit at a corner table, a high top, secluded from a lot of the room, that he answers my question, “So much more comfortable. I’m a real person here. I missed that for a long time. You have no idea how it messes with a person’s head, being told they’re the best when they’re barely out of puberty.”

  I could eat every word with a spoon. This is the kind of stuff I want to know, not just for a book I’ve barely scratched the surface of writing yet, but for the fact that I want to know him. This is the sort of real-life, intimate information I would’ve killed for back in the day. Even hearing it now gives me a little thrill—which is weird because he’s talking about something that once made him very unhappy. Maybe I shouldn’t be so thrilled, come to think of it.

  “That must’ve been really hard for you.”

  He turns his head as if giving me a skeptical look I can feel, even with the presence of those dark sunglasses he insists on wearing. I mean, let’s be reasonable. Anybody who sees somebody walking around in sunglasses in the middle of the night, in a dive bar that’s already dark enough, is going to know straight up that he’s a celebrity. Part of me wonders if it’s a little performative, designed to attract attention instead of repelling it.

  Then again, what do I know? I don’t know his life. I don’t know what he’s been through. But I most definitely have heard him being heckled for no longer fitting into the little box a record company once put him in years ago.

  He must decide I’m for real because all he does is sigh deeply while nodding his head. “On the outside, things were incredible. Amazing, a dream come true. The money I earned back then bought my family a new house. It put my younger sister through school, and I was happy to do it. It would’ve put me through school, too, if I hadn’t thought I was hot shit and decided not to go past high school. And even then, it was just tutoring. There was no way I could have gone to a regular school back then.”

  “You would’ve been torn to pieces on the first day.”

  He snickers, lifting a hand to signal the nearest server. “Something like that. But the real problem, according to the principal and all the faculty at my local high school, was the distraction I would pose to the other kids. In other words, it was their education that would get screwed up if I were around. And don’t get me wrong; I totally get it. I’m sure they had a point. But at the time, it felt like a slap in the face.”

  “I can totally understand that.”

  Of course, I can also understand their point of view too. Who was more important? One student or every other student who would inevitably forget all about schoolwork in favor of the superstar in their school?

  A server who looks to be around my age approaches. There’s a question in her eyes when she looks from Dustin to me, and I’m about ready to burst with the knowledge that, Yes, your assumption is correct. It’s really him. He orders a whiskey, neat, and I decide it’s better to stick with wine since that’s where I started out. I’m having a drink with him. I’m actually having a drink with him! The server takes her time turning around, and by the time she goes to the bar and mutters something to the bartender, I get the feeling she’s onto us—or rather, onto him since I might as well be halfway across town for all she cares.

  There’s a pretty decent band playing, and Dustin is getting into the music, his head bobbing up and down. “This is the kind of thing I want to be able to do,” he confesses as he nods toward the stage at the far end of the bar.

  “Really? I mean, that’s great,” I’m quick to add when he looks at me. “But is that satisfying for you after everything you’ve already done? I know it sounds hopelessly naive.”

  That earns me a smile
. “A little naive. Not hopelessly, but a little. And yeah, I really mean it. I’ve had the fame and fortune. I don’t want that anymore. I just want to play my music and be respected as an artist, not seen as a has-been or a failure—or worse yet, a warning to other musicians. That’s the worst—when you’re held up as some sort of example of what not to do if you ever make it big.”

  I’m about to ask him what that means, what he did exactly—is that rude? Maybe—when we’re joined by our server and one of her friends.

  “I’m so sorry,” the girl whispers, leaning in much closer than she needs to, “but are you Dustin Grant? Because you look just like him.”

  When he smiles, a little sheepish, the other girl points. “The dimples! I told you. As soon as I saw the dimples, I knew it was him!”

  He admits that, yes, he is the one and only Dustin Grant and even submits to having selfies taken with both of them. Naturally, I’m not included in any of this. One of them even bumps into me as she’s scrambling around, trying to get as close to him as possible. She doesn’t even acknowledge coming into contact with me, too busy flipping out over him.

  At least he looks genuinely pleased to be recognized. He’s not a jerk about it the way I’ve heard some celebrities can be. I’ve seen it before with my own eyes too—you don’t live in Manhattan without bumping into the occasional famous person. I mostly try to play it cool because I’m afraid somebody will get angry with me for invading their personal space while they’re only trying to pick up a loaf of bread or something quick for dinner.

  Clearly, neither of these girls cares very much about Dustin’s personal space, putting their arms around him and generally draping over on him like clothes on a hanger. It’s hard not to laugh a little, but I stop myself by remembering how I giggled so hard that I almost passed out when we met less than an hour ago. I have yet to earn the right to be smug over being the girl sitting next to him.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m not a little smug, just the same.