IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You

by Anna Todd

  “What about the massive crotch grab?” You will yourself not to look down at the scene of the crime. Fortunately, he’s changed out of his tight Lycra pants and into a smart gray suit, so the bulge isn’t quite so obvious now.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “No biggie.”

  Well, actually, you want to tell him, it was pretty big.

  “I’ve heard you’re a fan,” Channing jumps in, before you go ahead and embarrass yourself by saying anything stupid.

  Distant memories of the year you spent sleeping with a life-size Channing Tatum doll pop into your head. “Yeah,” you mumble. “I guess you could say that.” Your cheeks quickly become bright red.

  “That’s really cool, you know?”

  “It is?” You’re surprised; everyone else in the world seems to find your obsession really . . . sad.

  “Hellz yeah!”

  You try to keep a straight face, but you can’t take your mind off Channing Tatum’s having actually just spoken those two words to you, in all seriousness, while standing in your dorm room. This definitely can’t be happening for real.

  “You know, I’m actually a fan of yours too.”

  You shoot him a look. “What?” How can he be a fan of you? You’re not even famous!

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been to every single one of your dance classes to watch you practice. I think you’re amazing.” He smiles. “I’ve got a bit of a crush on you, if I’m really honest.”

  You pinch the skin on the back of your hand. Nope, still awake. “That’s . . . insane.”

  Channing laughs. “Why?”

  You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. “No reason.” There is absolutely no way you’re going to admit to Channing Tatum that you’ve got a crush on him. Nope. No way. Nada.

  “When I kissed you on that stage, it was like an epiphany. I realized I’ve never enjoyed kissing anybody else as much as I enjoyed kissing you. Those two seconds weren’t enough—I wanted more.” His green eyes are bright with an energy that turns your pulse erratic. “I’ve never met anybody with such amazing upper-arm strength. . . .” He looks down at your arms in wonder. “Or such tender lips.”

  He brings his hand up to your face and runs the tip of his finger over your bottom lip. You shiver at the touch.

  “And you’ve got the firmest grip I’ve ever felt.” He puffs his cheeks out and shakes his head. “Man, thinking about all three of those things at once is making me hot.”

  You take a step forward, so that the tips of your toes touch. This is far better than any fantasy you’ve ever made up. Driven by an overwhelming passion, you lift your face up to his and sigh.

  “Kiss me again, Channing,” you say. “I’m all yours.”

  He doesn’t waste a moment. Letting the note drop to the floor, he lifts you up off your feet and presses you back against the wall. You drape your hands over his shoulders, locking your legs around his waist, and let him kiss you slowly until you run out of breath.

  “I’ve never felt this way for anyone else,” he breathes into your ear, as he begins kissing along your jaw. “I think I might love you.”

  “What about Jenna?” You panic, pulling back to look him in the face.

  “I don’t care about her.” His honest eyes pierce into your own. “She’s nothing to me anymore. I want you.”

  “Wow. That’s quite a statement, Channing!”

  You jump at the sound of the third voice, and both of you turn toward the open door in shock. Two reporters stand there, one snapping your photo with his camera, the other making notes on a notepad.

  Expecting Channing to freak out, you begin to remove your legs from around his waist—but to your surprise, he flips you around and pulls you up into his arms instead, kissing you on the tip of the nose.

  “Publish it in all the newspapers,” he shouts out, “and plaster it on the internet! I’m in love—finally!” He pushes past the reporters and starts to jog down the corridor, carrying you along effortlessly in his big, strong arms.

  “Where are we going?” You laugh, throwing your head back and catching him around the neck.

  “We’re going to tell the world! I want everyone to know. I love you!”

  Still laughing, you let him carry you through the corridors, past dozens of surprised onlookers, until you finally make it to the grand hall. Bursting through the doors, Channing shouts for everyone’s attention. “I have an announcement to make!” Finally, he places you down on two feet and pulls you into the middle of the dance floor, where a curious crowd quickly gathers. “This beautiful, talented dancer you watched perform onstage with me tonight,” he tells the crowd, “has stolen my heart.”

  An impressed murmur travels through the crowd. People beam at you from all angles.

  As you blush and giggle in your scruffy clothes, Channing falls to his knee in front of you. “Darling,” he says, clearing his throat. His green eyes glisten with the reflection of the disco ball hanging overhead. “Will you marry me?”

  Of course, there’s only one answer. You’ve waited your whole life for this moment. Even though you’re sure you’ll wake up tomorrow to find out it was all just one fabulous dream, you still squeal with joy and wrap your arms around Channing’s neck as you shout out, “Yes!”

  SATURDAY MORNING. You wake up in a huge bed to find a bleary-eyed Channing Tatum staring back at you. But this isn’t the life-size doll you took to bed with you that one year—no, this is the real thing.

  “Good morning,” he mumbles sleepily, pulling you close and kissing your forehead.

  You smile and push yourself up in the bed. Outside, the sun is shining, and you realize the butler has already been in and left a breakfast tray on the side table.

  “Oh, look! He’s left us a newspaper too.” You yawn and reach across to take it, wondering whether the dance show made the headlines. “Oh, no.”

  Channing looks up. “What’s the matter?”

  “I guess they couldn’t resist.”

  You pass the newspaper across and laugh with him at the front-page headline: “Channing Tatum Proposes to Crotch-Grabbing Mystery Dancer.”

  “Hey, I almost forgot to ask.” He turns to face you now. “Crotch-Grabber, what is your real name?”

  It’s a Supernatural Thing

  E. Latimer

  Imagine . . .

  The thought this entire thing is kind of crazy keeps popping up as you follow Stephanie into the convention center, past the glass doors that sigh open with hardly a whisper, into the lush interior of the hotel that’s about a million times too expensive. Luckily, sharing a room with two other people helps.

  I don’t belong here, you keep thinking. Not enough of a superfan. What if there’s a quiz?

  It’s a stupid thought. Of course there’s no quiz.

  “Oh my God, look!” Stephanie grabs your arm, yanking on your sleeve as you pass through the doors, staring back over her shoulder at the parking lot.

  The two of you stand in the doors long enough that they whoosh shut, then open again, confused. A low rumble comes from outside as a familiar shiny black car pulls into one of the parking spaces in front.

  Stephanie yanks your arm hard, nearly unbalancing you. “Oh my God, it’s Baby! I’m freaking out here. Look, she’s so shiny.”

  It’s cool. It’s definitely cool, but Stephanie’s acting like Jensen Ackles himself just cruised into the parking lot. “You know it’s not—”

  “I know it’s not the original car.” She narrows her blue eyes in exasperation and tugs you forward. “Let’s go see. Do you think the driver will let us touch it?”

  Once you’re in the parking lot, closer to the Impala, it sinks in. The car in front of you is Baby. It’s really her. The shiny black sides, the sleek silver grille. It’s the Impala. Exactly the same, down to the license plate. Something flutters in your chest, and “Carry On Wayward Son” is suddenly playing on a loop inside your head.

  “Okay. It does feel a little like meeti
ng a famous person.”

  “A famous car,” Stephanie breathes, and takes a step closer. She jumps back as the door opens, her face flushing crimson. The coffee cup in her hand wobbles a little, and you back up in case she spills.

  The woman getting out of the passenger seat is dressed like Death, complete with suit, tie, and slicked-back hair. The cane gives it away. Somehow she’s found or made a replica, complete with ornately carved ivory handle.

  Your mouth drops open, and Stephanie actually gasps. “Are you Amy? Oh my God, why didn’t you mention you own an Impala?”

  Death—or Amy, you suppose—smiles and twirls the cane with a flourish. “Surprise! I wanted to see the looks on your faces when you saw her. What do you think?”

  Stephanie is all over it, running her hands down the shiny surface of the car, peering inside. Now that she knows the owner, she’s not holding back. “I love her so much.”

  You force a smile for Amy as introductions are passed around. It’s not that Amy doesn’t seem nice, and her costume—not to mention the car—are totally badass. But if you know Stephanie (and you do), she’s going to attach herself to this girl like a barnacle and never let go. Which will leave you trailing behind the two of them for the entire conference.

  “Come on,” Amy says. “The photo ops start in a half hour, and I want to make sure I don’t have something in my teeth. I have Jared first. Who do you have?”

  Stephanie’s eyes go even wider, and she flaps one hand. “Oh my God, I have all of them. I splurged this year. I bought tickets for both the boys, and then just one each, and then all three . . . I mean with Misha of course. . . .” She keeps talking as the three of you make your way inside.

  In the hotel lobby Amy draws looks from the bellhops and the hotel guests, but they don’t look long. Probably because at least three other girls are in long tan trench coats, and one even has an elaborate set of white wings on her back. You keep nudging Stephanie as you make your way through the lobby and up the stairs. “Look, there’s a Cas. Oh, a Dean. Another Cas. Is that an evil Cas?”

  Stephanie waves you off, still talking about her photo ops, and you resist the urge to stick your lower lip out at her. Just because she’s been to three cons already doesn’t mean she should downplay your excitement. This is your first time here and it’s all new.

  “She doesn’t have photo ops set up yet.” Stephanie jabs a finger at you over her shoulder.

  Amy looks back in disbelief. “What? You didn’t book them in advance?”

  You shrug. “It said on the website you could buy at the door.”

  Her brows shoot up. “Yeah, but you never do. All the good ops are gone if you wait.”

  “Oh.” You falter, and then the three of you turn the corner and your stomach drops. There’s a huge line for the photo op table, one side for people collecting their tickets, and the other for people buying them. Of course, the side you need is a billion times longer.

  Crap. Amy was right.

  THE GIRLS ABANDON YOU for the other line, waving good-bye with eyebrows raised in one last Told you so. The girl in front of you in line has giant black wings, complete with detailed drawings of feathers, and while you can’t help but admire the craftsmanship, an edge of the cardboard juts out and pokes your arm whenever she moves.

  Finally you make it to the front, and a cheerful-looking blond woman stares at you expectantly.

  “I—are there any Jared and Jensen photo ops left?”

  Her smile slips, and she shakes her head. “Oh, honey, those were gone ages ago. Here’s a list of what’s left.”

  Disappointment makes you sag, shoulders slumping. If you can’t see Jared and Jensen, then what’s the point?

  But there’s a line behind you, so you run a finger down the paper, which is slightly crumpled and stained with coffee on one side. All the good ops have been filled. You’ve waited in line though, and you’re here now, so you jab one finger toward the end of the list, some guy who was in one episode during season ten.

  “Is he free?”

  “Just one spot left.” The blond woman smiles as you hand over the money, and she slides the ticket across the table. “There you are, dear. Have fun!”

  You give her a weak smile and turn away, ticket clutched to your chest.

  The photo op isn’t for another three hours, so you walk around the conference tables to kill time. There’s a huge amount of merchandise. T-shirts with Jared’s and Jensen’s faces on them, angel-wing necklaces, replicas of Baby’s license plate. People crowd around the tables, laughing and talking, admiring one another’s costumes. It seems like everyone is dressed up, some in elaborate angel and demon costumes, some in T-shirts with the show’s logo on them.

  It’s weird to feel out of place for not wearing a costume.

  You’re not used to being on your own, and it kind of makes you want to sit in the corner and stare at your phone. But that’s not why you came. You came to talk about the show. You came to fangirl, dammit!

  You could talk to these people. They’re all here for the same reason. They all love the same thing. That girl right there, the girl with long dark hair and glasses. She’s wearing a Castiel T-shirt. It would be easy to walk up and start a conversation, wouldn’t it? Make a new friend?

  Clutching the ticket hard, you take a breath, about to say something . . . to plunge recklessly into this making-friends thing.

  The girl in the Castiel T-shirt turns abruptly. “I already have the wing necklace. I want the amulet, but they’re out.”

  Her friend shrugs and they move to the next table.

  Your shoulders slump, and you turn back toward the stairs, shoving the ticket into the pocket of your jeans. You’d rather fight off a Wendigo than make small talk, anyway.

  Of course, you’ll be forced to socialize in a week when your new job starts. No doubt there’ll be “office politics,” gossip, and that one mean girl who decides she hates you.

  Humans suck.

  There’s got to be something else out there. Some alternate, better universe where monster hunting is a full-time occupation. Where kicking the bad guys in the ass can actually be your day job. If there is, you don’t know about it, so it’s off to the office in a week. For now, you might as well enjoy your freedom. Explore the hotel, maybe find a vending machine somewhere and grab a snack. A Coke would be good right about now.

  It’s a cheap excuse to get out of making an effort to socialize, but excuses come naturally, so you take the stairs down to the second level and start wandering. Past the lobby and the bar, down the wide, carpeted corridor.

  It’s quieter the deeper you go, the noise from the lobby slowly fading.

  Doors on either side of the hallway open into big, echoing conference rooms. Most of them have long tables down the center, and cushiony leather chairs. Maybe you’ll hang out in one of those once you find the Coke machine.

  At the end of the hallway you see a buzzing ice dispenser, and beside that, finally, a drink machine. You dig around in your purse for change, finding a few quarters, a handful of gum wrappers, and a broken pencil. Ugh. Not helpful.

  In front of the machine, you slide your purse off, letting it drop to the floor, about to go spelunking in search of spare change. There’s got to be $1.75 in there.

  Somewhere down the hall a dull thud, thud, thud reverberates.

  Someone kicking a wall?

  You pause, hovering over your purse, frowning. Now that you’re listening, you can hear muffled voices. Another fan event going on? Maybe a signing?

  You grab your bag and creep forward, pulse picking up. Maybe there’s a secret room for the actors over here. Of course, it would be rude to just barge in. But just a glimpse . . . just a peek at Jensen and Jared . . .

  The noise gets louder as you move forward. The hallway branches off. On one side is a set of stairs leading down, and on the other is a conference room. This time the door is open only a crack, just enough to let the voices slip out into the hallway.

&nb
sp; You creep closer, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

  Through the crack you can see it’s the biggest conference room yet, almost a ballroom. A stage is at the front, with velvety red curtains and rows of chairs set out. A long table sits center stage with three chairs behind it, and a podium stands off to one side. The room is organized for a panel, and your heart skips a beat as you peer in.

  Two men stand in front of the stage and a third sits on top, swinging his legs, letting his heels thump against the wall. The noise you heard earlier.

  The two beside the stage seem to be arguing, their heads bent over the blueprint they’re holding. They’re dressed in suits, finely pressed, with black silk ties.

  Not actors then. None of the other actors dressed in suits for panels. Maybe they’re here for a wedding or something.

  One of the men jabs a finger at the paper. “Ackles is staying in this room—here. If we go in as room service—”

  “Oh, please,” his companion interrupts, yanking the map away. “That’s the oldest trick in the book. Besides, we don’t look like room service, since you insisted we blend with the wedding guests.”

  “They’ll be expecting that anyway.” The one onstage rolls his head on his shoulders, and you can hear the crick his neck makes. “These guys are veterans, they’ve been doing this for years.”

  You grip the doorknob hard, heart beating in your throat. Whoever these men are, they don’t sound friendly. Why do they need to get into Jensen’s room? It doesn’t seem like they want his autograph.

  Maybe you should tell someone.

  The one onstage speaks again, and this time his voice is so low you lean forward, pushing the door open slightly. The strap of your purse slides down, and the bag thumps the door, making you jump back a step.

  Your purse lands on the floor with a smack and spills on its side. A lip gloss and a pack of gum fall out, and spare change litters the carpet.

  There’s that dollar. . . .