#Moonstruck_A #Lovestruck Novel

by Sariah Wilson

  Me: Unwashed, naturally long brown hair with scarlet streaks that I’d recently added.

  Them: Enough makeup to properly audition for clown college.

  Me: Okay, I liked to look quasi-nice and wore some makeup, especially when I performed, as the lights tended to wash me out. But I was not giving the scary thing from Stephen King’s It a run for his money.

  Basically, we were total opposites in every way possible.

  But then my brain stopped working entirely.

  Ryan De Luna had entered the room.

  He’d been in the middle of putting on a new shirt while walking around the curtain farthest from us to join everybody. He pulled the white jersey material down over some lightly tanned abs. Despite my telling Angie not two days ago that they must have been airbrushed on for photos, I could now see that those hard bumps and ridges were very real.

  No airbrushes of any kind were harmed in the forming of that deliciousness.

  Then Ryan De Luna winked at me with a little smile, letting me know he understood exactly what I’d just been looking at. I forced myself to turn away from him. I would not worship him with excessive adulation.

  I wouldn’t.

  Even if every part of me wanted to. Which was kind of a problem, given that I planned on staying abstinent until marriage. I couldn’t let myself think these kinds of things.

  The air-conditioning must have been on high, as the room was extremely cold. At least that’s what I told myself to explain my shivers.

  “I’m going to say hi,” Angie announced, apparently unaware of my inability to form coherent thoughts. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  “So sure,” I finally managed. Even if my bad opinion of Ryan had slightly bettered after seeing him perform, he still represented everything I hated about the industry. Mass-produced, soulless, tuneless, synthesized dreck.

  Ab ogling aside, I really wasn’t interested.

  Really.

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged and went over to introduce herself to Ryan. He’d better be nice to her, or else.

  When she left, I wasn’t sure what to do. The surgically enhanced women wearing Band-Aid–size “clothes” flocked around him, cooing at him like presenting peacocks. They literally draped themselves all over him like overgrown leeches. Plastic peacock leeches. Pleeches.

  Ryan grabbed what looked suspiciously like the Martin custom acoustic guitar made of Honduran rosewood that I’d been lusting over last month online. I could never afford it, and he had one just lying around. He took the beautiful instrument to a couch and sat down. He held it . . . weirdly. Something felt off.

  Through some kind of mental code, his flock of pleeches established a pecking order about who got to sit where. They gathered around him—one on each side, a few sitting on the back of the couch behind him, and the others around his feet. Like he was the Lord Master of Music and would dispense all his worldly knowledge to them.

  Poor Angie circled around the group, unable to find a way in.

  If she didn’t find one soon, I was going to help by shooing them away. Or pulling some hair. Whatever worked.

  I rolled my eyes so hard over his groupies that I saw the inside of my skull. I sat down next to a guy who strummed what looked like another custom Martin guitar. Were they breeding them or something?

  “Not a fan?” he asked, surprising me. Because normally I hung out with my brothers, and they wanted to cut off the air supply of any male who looked twice at me.

  “What? Oh. Not really.”

  “Of me?”

  “I don’t know who you are.” I’d probably just seriously insulted the guy. While I could tell you the name and preferred instrument of almost every rock guitarist on the planet, I was not up on the pop scene.

  I’d abandoned that when I was fifteen.

  Right after my father left us.

  “I don’t know who you are, either,” the guitar player shot back.

  Fair enough. “Maisy Harrison,” I said, offering him my hand. It wasn’t really a shaking-hands kind of place (it had more of an air kisses/fist bumps vibe), but my mother had been deeply committed to proper manners. He gave me an amused smile and shook it. His fingers were calloused on the pads, letting me know he really played.

  “Diego.” He paused as if he didn’t want to continue, and I realized why. “De Luna.”

  They were family? Brothers? Cousins? I couldn’t help it. I compared the two men. Diego had a darker skin tone, black hair, and the darkest-brown eyes I’d ever seen. He had the same cut jawline as Ryan, maybe the same nose. Diego was cute but not in the ground-beneath-me-has-turned-soggy-due-to-inadvertent-drooling Ryan kind of way.

  “Basically you’re living proof that nepotism works.”

  That made Diego grin at me, and the similarity to Ryan was even more apparent now. “So if you don’t know who I am, you’re saying you’re not a fan of my cousin?”

  “Obviously.”

  Now he laughed, throwing his head back as if I’d said the most hilarious thing ever. His reaction was loud enough that he drew the attention of everyone in the room, including Ryan. And as Ryan watched me, I couldn’t help but watch him back. Like his gaze held me captive and I was too weak to turn away. I forced my eyes down, and it was then that I realized what seemed strange about Ryan and his guitar. He wasn’t holding it like he loved it. Like it was a natural extension of his hands. The way I would have held it. The way Diego currently held his guitar.

  Instead, Ryan wielded that guitar like a shield against the women surrounding him, invading his space. Like a kid hiding under his covers, hoping his blanket would keep him safe from the monsters.

  I almost felt bad for him.

  Diego startled me out of my Ryan-centric thoughts, causing my heart rate to increase. “I have to admit, that’s a first. Usually that’s all the women back here care about. Meeting him.”

  Was it obvious I had been staring at Ryan? “Not me.”

  He stopped strumming and laid his hand on top of the guitar. “You’re not a typical groupie.”

  “I’m not any kind of groupie. I have an IQ with triple digits, thanks.”

  Diego laughed again, and I couldn’t help but smile back. After spending a lifetime with brothers who adored me almost as much as they adored teasing me, it was nice to have a man appreciate my humor and not call me a bed-wetting string monkey.

  “Then why are you here?”

  I leaned forward and told him conspiratorially, “I was coerced by my best friend, who didn’t want to come alone. I’m here under duress.”

  He moved his head toward mine. “Is this like a hostage situation?” he teased. “Blink twice if you need me to call the police.”

  Okay, he was cute and charming, but I had two life rules:

  Never date a musician.

  Never have sex with a musician.

  My second rule was easily kept by following the first one.

  “No need to call out the SWAT team,” I assured him.

  “So if you’re not here to hook up with my cousin, does that mean you’re here to hook up with me?” He said it playfully, but I knew that if I said yes, we’d be gone in under a minute.

  Because that’s how guys in his line of work operated.

  “I don’t date musicians. Kind of a rule I have.”

  Speaking of musicians I would not be dating and/or sleeping with, Ryan De Luna appeared in front of me, making my mouth go completely dry. His arms were folded, and he glared down at us. The intense fire in his eyes turned my stomach hollow.

  Ryan De Luna had really sexy forearms. I’d never noticed them on a guy before.

  And then he spoke. In a husky, deep, thrilling way that made the room so cold that I couldn’t help but shiver.

  “You know, usually when a girl goes to the effort to sneak in, they at least come over and say hi.”

  Sneak in? Shivers gone.

  Like I was just another one of those girls across the room. So desperate t
o meet him I’d do anything.

  Jerk. I wanted to smack him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hi,” I snapped at him while waving. I hoped he could see the sarcasm in my moving hand. “I didn’t sneak in. I was let in.” Big difference.

  “Who let you in?”

  I was about to tell him when I caught Angie’s panicked expression. I couldn’t get Fox in trouble for doing this. Especially not if I planned on informing Angie that she should love him and get married and make more adorable babies. But Ryan’s mesmerizing nearness was messing with my head in a totally bad way, and I had no lies to offer.

  Diego rescued me. “I put them on the list. Maisy here and . . .”

  “Angie,” I added.

  “Right, Angie. You know how bad I am with names.”

  So there.

  I expected him to leave, but Ryan stayed put, staring at both of us as if he didn’t like what he saw. And every moment that passed made me more and more uncomfortable. Like he could see into my black, orphaned soul or something.

  That and the physical awareness of him made me feel panicky. As did how good he smelled. He hadn’t showered yet, and I should have been turned off by that. I learned once in a biology class that when women are ovulating, they are more attracted to sweaty men. Like their ovaries have magnificent-male-specimen radar.

  I had to be ovulating because I kind of wanted to do nothing else but smell him for the rest of my life.

  It freaked me out. “Why are you just standing there? Do you want me to thank you for the partial deafness? Which is kind of a big deal considering I need my hearing for my job. Consider yourself thanked.”

  “They’re called earplugs,” he retorted. “You should look into them.”

  Okay, this celebri-douche was working my last nerve. I gestured to the Martin guitar in his right hand. “So do you actually play that thing, or is it like everything else in your life, just for show?” Because of my brothers, I’d learned quickly that the key to dealing with cocky men was to strike hard if you didn’t strike first. (Other things I had learned included eating fast at meals if you wanted to have seconds and, in the middle of the night, always checking the position of the toilet seat so you don’t fall in.)

  “I play. Do you?”

  I couldn’t back down from the challenge in his voice. “Of course I play.”

  He raised one eyebrow as if he didn’t believe me. “Are you any good?”

  Was I any good? Seriously? “Better than you.”

  “That’s a pretty low bar,” Diego added in a joking tone, sending up a chorus of oohs from the other band members.

  I had felt good about my attack strategy right up to the moment where I saw the fleeting pain in the internationally famous bajillionaire pop star’s eyes. Then it disappeared. “So play something,” Ryan instructed, handing me the precious, snowflake-sparkly unicorn guitar that I wanted to grab and run away with.

  I let my fingers drift along the grain of the smooth wood and tested a few chords. It was surprisingly in tune already. I considered being a brat and spending an inordinate amount of time adjusting it to my exact specifications but gave that up when I saw Angie’s face. I had promised her I would be on my best behavior, and here I was provoking Ryan instead.

  I played the first verse and chorus of my band’s most popular (187 downloads to date!) song, “Lost.” I hummed along, caught up in the melody, not able to help myself. My sort of twin brother, Cole, and I had written it on a night where we were both really missing our mom. Thinking of her made my throat feel hot. I had to stop playing before I started bawling.

  Letting my fingers go still, I realized the room had fallen silent and I had played with my eyes closed.

  When I opened them, they instinctively sought out Ryan.

  And he looked at me like . . . I couldn’t have explained it. There was this connection there, this invisible string stretching taut between us that made my breath catch.

  His anger had faded. Music had soothed the savage pop star.

  Ryan’s expression shifted, and he looked confused. Like I was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

  “I think the lady wins. Definitely better than you,” Diego said. Reluctantly, I handed the guitar back to Ryan.

  And still we just stared at each other. I think Diego asked me if I’d written it, and I might have said yes, possibly adding that I was part of a band my brothers had started five years ago, but every cell in my body was focused on the man standing in front of me.

  I didn’t understand why.

  “Usually when girls play, it’s some indie-folk thing.” Diego nudged me. Like he was trying to get me to stop looking at Ryan.

  It didn’t work. “I like rock. I was raised well.”

  “What about Angie?” Diego asked, nodding his chin in her direction. “Is she part of your superhot all-girl group?”

  “It’s not a ‘girl’ group, it’s a band.” I hated when guys said stuff like that. As if a woman being in a band automatically turned it into something else besides just a band. And hadn’t I just said my brothers started it? Listening obviously wasn’t one of his social skills.

  In the middle of my indignation, I realized I had totally forgotten about Angie and why we were here. I jumped to my feet, miscalculating Ryan’s proximity. We lined up perfectly, nearly touching, and my pulse throbbed so hard and fast that I worried somebody would be carting my never-fainted-before self off to the ambulances.

  “Have you met Angie Villanueva?” I asked, my throat dry and my voice scratchy. “She’s a widow. Her husband died last year in combat. And she’s also a big fan.”

  He heard my unspoken implication. “And you’re not?”

  Like that wasn’t allowed or something. I so wanted to say, “No, your music blows,” but I would be good for Angie’s sake.

  When I didn’t respond, Ryan shot me a perplexed look and turned away, stepping back so I could finally breathe again. I sucked air into my lungs, trying to calm down. Ryan shook Angie’s hand and thanked her for her husband’s service and her sacrifice. I could tell from the twist of her mouth that she didn’t like that I’d played the widow card, but it had been worth it since Ryan was being an absolute angel to her, despite being a despicable devil with me.

  A red-hot, breath-stealing, fiery, despicable devil.

  “Would you like to get a picture with me?” I heard him ask after they’d made some small talk that consisted mostly of Angie telling him how much she loved his so-called music.

  “I would love that.” She beamed at him and pulled out her cell phone. “Oh no. I filmed the concert, and my phone died. Can we use yours, Maisy?”

  “Yep.” My hands shook as I slid my phone out of my back pocket. Ryan put his arm around Angie’s shoulder, and they both faced me, smiling. I willed myself to relax or else the picture would be blurry and then Angie would kill me, and I totally wouldn’t blame her.

  “Say ‘cheesy music,’” I instructed.

  They both ignored me and just said “cheese.” I snapped about ten shots of them. There would have to be some out of that bunch that would work. “All done.”

  Ryan didn’t move. “Do you want to join us? How about a group shot?”

  Something about his tone and word choice bugged me. “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “Diego can take the picture.” Ryan kept talking like I hadn’t said anything. I glanced at his cousin and saw a mutinous expression on Diego’s face that quickly dissolved. This was one of the reasons why my Rule #1 existed. Sensitive artiste types were seriously moody. Like they had unending PMS.

  “Come on, Maisy, I want to memorialize this night!” Angie waved me to her. I could say no to Ryan De Luna all night. Angie? Not so much.

  As if everyone knew I would cave, Diego came over and grabbed my phone.

  “This one’s going on the website. Ryan’s number-one fan,” Diego murmured teasingly, and I shot him a dirty look.

  I lined up next to Angie, but she wasn’t having it.
“No, on the other side of Ryan.”

  Why did it matter? I sighed softly but moved over to Ryan’s left side and stood as far away from him as I could.

  “Scoot in, Maisy.” Diego made a motion to punctuate his request. “Closer. Closer. A little bit closer. I promise Ryan’s had all his shots.”

  Now it was Ryan’s turn to sigh. He put his arm around my waist, pulling me to his side. The entire right half of my body went up in flames, my skin igniting like a million Roman candles all exploding at once.

  “Say ‘cheese’!” Diego directed. “Stay there. Let me make sure the lighting is good on this one. We can’t have a bad picture of Ryan floating around out there.”

  Now he was just torturing me. He probably thought it was because I didn’t like Ryan. I was sure Diego had no idea how my entire being feverishly reacted to touching his cousin.

  Then Ryan made it a million times worse. He turned his head toward me, his breath hot against my earlobe, and I almost collapsed.

  Until I heard what he was saying.

  “Flirting with and using my cousin is not the way to get my attention. I don’t appreciate your antics.”

  I pulled back to look him in the eye. I had really tried. Well, I had sort of tried. But Ryan De Luna had just reached the end of my very short tolerance rope, and I was done. “You are seriously the most arrogant, self-centered, douche-iest jackhole I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. And I live in Los Angeles and work in the music industry, so that’s saying a lot.”

  I jerked away, freeing myself from his grip. “Just so you know, I’m not even a little bit interested in you. Like, at all. I was just hanging out with Diego while Angie got her chance to meet you. I know you’re a celebrity, and you haven’t been friends with reality in years, so here’s your long-overdue check—I’d much rather date Diego than you. And I don’t date musicians!”

  Then Ryan did the most shocking thing yet.

  He laughed.

  He laughed and laughed like I was some toddler having a tantrum and he thought I was just adorable.

  My chest was heaving, my face flushed. I wondered whether Fox would get fired if I smacked Ryan. Angie stepped in front of me like she knew what I was contemplating. She somehow managed to look both horrified and proud of me. “Let’s go. Nice to meet you, Ryan. Thanks for the picture.”