All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1)

by Liberty Kontranowski

  All Access

  By Liberty Kontranowski

  Copyright © 2016

  Marching Ink LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Laura Chapman/Marching Ink LLC

  Proofreading by EFC Services

  ALL ACCESS

  Copyright © 2016 Liberty Kontranowski/Marching Ink LLC

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9975327-0-8

  Print ISBN:978-0-9975327-1-5

  ALL ACCESS

  Every fangirl has a fantasy . . . what happens when that “if only” dream comes true?

  Though she’s a single mom wedged firmly into thirty-something territory, author Kallie Reagan’s devotion to rock star Niles Russell knows no bounds. To pay homage to her muse, Kallie writes a smokin’ hot novel featuring a hero who looks and acts an awful lot like Niles — and a heroine who may or may not have a smattering of herself thrown in for fun.

  When Niles learns about the book and surprise-texts Kallie, the two deliciously complicated creatives become fast friends . . . and so much more. But trying to define a relationship that’s laced with closeted skeletons, half-truths, and constant question marks proves harder than making it big. If they’re going to progress from Fangirl Infatuation to The Real Deal, these two need to give each other All Access to the most important place of all: their hearts.

  To the Big Dreamers: Go for it. No regrets.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  Text Me, Maybe

  Ever been on the receiving end of a text from your celebrity crush?

  Yeah, neither have I.

  At least, I don’t think I have.

  I stare at my phone, where all kinds of letters are lined up to make sentences that would normally be pretty benign. But when I see they’re from a number I don’t recognize (with a New York City area code) and they say, “So is it true? Did you write your book about me?” they go from benign to what the hell?! in a hurry.

  Because my book was written with someone very specific in mind—as in Niles Russell, the lead singer of my favorite band—and it’s highly unlikely he’s at the opposite end of this texting conversation.

  Isn’t it?

  God, Kallie, get a grip. Of course it’s not him. No question this is just a prank and I should definitely ignore it. But, not gonna lie, I kind of have the flutters here. And I’m a little intrigued. So, I take a deep breath and type, “?? Who is this?” and hit send.

  Oh, God. Did I just do that? Seriously, why am I engaging with someone who A) seems to know they’re talking to someone who wrote a book and B) also seems to know said book was inspired by someone real? I must be a special kind of crazy. I roll my eyes at myself and toss my phone back on the coffee table.

  An instant later, my mystery texter’s response comes in.

  “You’ve written books about other people?” it says, complete with a winky face.

  Uh, no. No, I have not.

  I shake my head and laugh because, duh, I get it now. This is obviously Sara, my “best friend,” clearly taking pleasure in messing with my head. She knows that even though I’m wedged firmly into thirty-something territory, I become a complete and utter fangirl whenever I talk, think, or speak about Niles. Sara’s a total goofball and she must be bored, so, hey, why not borrow someone’s phone and pretend to be Niles, just to blow my mind? Awesome.

  “Sure, I’ve written tons of them,” I respond.

  Let’s see how long she’ll play this out before coming clean. Hopefully not long. I have laundry to do.

  “Aw, then I’m sad. Thought I was the only one.” Another winky face. “Saw a lot of myself in the Nash character and was kinda flattered. Just wanted to let you know.”

  My eyebrows pop up and I look around to be sure there isn’t a hidden camera somewhere, capturing this terrible joke. She’s starting to be a little convincing, which is honestly kind of mean. You know what I would give to hear from the real Niles? I sigh and, against my better judgment, keep playing along.

  “Okay, you got me. Now send me a plane ticket so I can come manhandle you and we’ll call it a day.”

  Ha! If that doesn’t make her squirm, I don’t know what will.

  My phone stays silent for a minute, maybe two. Yep, I got her. She has no idea how to respond.

  Bloop. “So . . . about your book . . .”

  Oh, okay. This is how it’s going to be? She’s going to keep going? Blerg.

  “What about it?”

  Sara, more than anybody, knows all about my book—the book that started out as an outlet for the fangirl crush I have on Niles and totally took on a life of its own. When I finished the thing (Shocker #1, because writing a novel is hard and takes a long time!), I reached out to my dream literary agent, who loved my book as much as I did and signed me fairly quickly (Shocker #2). The next thing I knew, she was shopping my novel to some of the biggest publishers in New York City and ultimately secured me a deal that slightly squelched the monetary fears I was having as I navigated my way through the dissolution of my twelve-year marriage (the book deal was Shocker #3; the ending of my marriage was of my own doing).

  “It’s creepy,” the mystery texter says. “And awesome. Good job. But weird.”

  Okay, that line twists my stomach. Sara doesn’t speak like that. She would never, ever start a sentence with “and” or “but.” And she really wouldn’t do it two times in one text. For a minute, I let myself believe it really is my muse.

  Okay, minute over.

  “Hey, Sar. You’re super hilarious, but quit playing with me, k? Aren’t you supposed to be heading to dinner with Jack?” Sara is going through a divorce, too, but instead of swearing off men for the next six lifetimes like me, she’s diving right back in with a guy from high school. From high school! Ack!

  The next response is instantaneous. “Sara? Uh, nope.” A few seconds pass, then, “It really is me. –NR”

  Okay, if my stomach had t
he flutters after that very first text, it’s hosting an entire community of butterflies, hummingbirds, whatevers after this one. NR. NR. NR. No freaking way! It cannot be Niles Russell! I feel woozy. If this is a game, I am so done with it. My hands shake as my fingers slowly type, “Okay, if you really are NR, then where are you right now? I know . . . but do you?”

  This will definitely bust Sara—or whoever is yanking my chain. Niles and his band are on tour right now, not too far away from me. I know this because in five days I am going to see them live. Again. I know every single stop on their tour, and if I somehow can’t remember where they are on a particular day, I dash straight to their website to check. I am like a high schooler who knows every class her crush has, what halls he goes down, the drinking fountain he stops at before each period, everything. If Niles is doing it, I know about it. It’s become like a game.

  “Just sound-checked in Chicago. Barely made it in time. They’re starting to let people in. Oops.” Another smiley face.

  Whoa. Niles is in Chicago. I was thisclose to going there myself, but chickened out on driving alone. Nobody knows that. Not even Sara.

  “Hang on. Sending you a pic.”

  As I wait, my stomach flops, my heart races, and my lips hurt from clenching them so tightly together. If this really is Niles, what in the world does he want with me? How would he have gotten my number? Yeah, he was the inspiration behind my book, but it’s not like I actually called him out in there. How would he know? Why would he care?

  My phone blips and my shaky hands raise the screen to eye level. The air leaves my lungs as I focus on those funky blue/green/gray eyes that have lured me in during every music video, those lips with the perfect bow, and those super white teeth that are a bit too big for his slender face. This can’t be real.

  My eyes travel up to his hair—that telltale floppy brown hair that’s short on the sides and all crazy on top. It is the exact same hair I’ve seen in a million pictures and subsequently fantasized over. I want to reach through the phone to touch it.

  He’s not smiling, but he’s also not not smiling. He looks exactly as quirky as I expected him to. I’m smitten all over again.

  “See? Told you it was really me.”

  I can’t even feel my fingers as they type, “Holy shit,” and then press send.

  In an instant, my mind is plotting whom to tell first. No one will believe me. But, wait, they’ll have to. The picture is right here. The picture of Niles. Niles Russell. Right here on my phone.

  I’ll tell Sara first, of course. After all, she is the one who encouraged me to write the dang book, knowing full well it was stirring up some major dust in my head and my heart. Then maybe I’ll go to the library or Target or somewhere. Just whip out my phone and say, “Oh, hey look. A text from Niles Russell. Oh, and he sent me a pic, too. Huh, isn’t that something?”

  Half the people won’t know who he is, because even after winning three Grammys, he’s kind of nondescript. They’re the band that is all over the radio and TV, and everyone knows their songs, but hardly anyone knows their name. Which I love because they’re kind of like “all mine.”

  Of course, I’m not their only real fan, and their real fans are diehards. We know every word to every song, every funky inflection of Niles’s voice, every pause where he takes a breath in preparation for his trademark belting. We know that he shows up to concerts in whatever he has clean—usually black jeans, a way-too-big sleeveless shirt and some cool jacket. We know—and are okay with the fact—that he often takes his shoes off mid-concert and runs around barefoot. And we know that no matter how many shows they’ve done in the nights, weeks, and months before, every single performance is like it’s their first and last. There is so much heart in them, it makes my breath catch.

  “Sorry if I freaked you out,” he says. “Read your book. Thought it was trippy. If it’s really inspired by me, I’m super flattered. If not, then pretend this never happened.”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever had a harder time breathing. If Niles Russell truly read my book, then he truly knows exactly how I feel about him, and that is truly insane. Truly. Because, let’s be honest here, things definitely got pretty steamy in a few parts. Within those pages, Niles and I got naked together, bore our very beings to each other, and ran off into the sunset, living happily ever after. It was a magical, electric, beguiling, and mesmerizing journey. And now he knows all about it.

  My phone startles me when it dings again. “You still there?”

  My face is scorching hot. Not only does he know my deepest and darkest feelings, but five seconds ago I told him to send me a plane ticket so I could come manhandle him. Oh my God. This is the opportunity every fangirl dreams of, and here I am, totally blowing it. I’m paralyzed, deciding whether to pretend our connection got dropped, tell him the book wasn’t about him, or hell, just ignore him altogether. Sure, it’s one thing to fantasize about someone when they’re nothing but a few pages of Google images and some concert viewings from the first few rows, but it’s quite another when the real deal sends you unsolicited text messages and you suddenly have to own up to your obsession.

  I wonder what he’s thinking right now. Is he seriously flattered? Or is he totally freaked out? In my wildest dreams, I didn’t expect my book to find its way into Niles’s hands . . . or for him to figure out he was the inspiration behind it. This is so crazy.

  After the next ding—a picture of him with a big, genuine smile, raised eyebrows, and the heart-meltiest look in his eyes—I know what I have to do.

  “I’m here. And I wish you were, too.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Reality Rocks

  I stare at my screen in horror. Horror. What am I doing? Am I flirting with him? I tell myself, no, of course not. I’m just fangirling over him. What self-respecting fangirl wouldn’t fangirl over her biggest rock star crush with whom she just happens to be texting?

  Yes, I am definitely fangirling.

  But maybe also flirting.

  I think fast, trying to come up with a response that will make me seem a little less like a freaktastically-forward ho-bag. Too late. I hear a ding.

  “Is that right?” he asks, adding a surprised-mouth emoticon. “Well, maybe I wish I were there, too.” Wink.

  Have mercy. Niles Russell is totally toying with me.

  As every single winged creature in my stomach explodes into flight, I inhale a huge breath, thinking about how well I “know” him thanks to my book. I’ve tracked down every interview I could find, covering everything from his punk scene high school days to his random quote to a fan who saw him in a Tim Hortons just yesterday. I’ve watched more videos of him than I can comfortably admit. I know details about his family (including his sister, Kallie, who shares a name with yours truly!), his current and past relationships, and the fact that he hasn’t driven a car in over a year because, well, he doesn’t have to.

  Of course, I twisted some of these facts when I created the character of Nash, but he obviously sees right through that. Obviously.

  Ding. “You going to our concert on Friday? Maybe we can say hi after the show or something. I can sign your book, haha.” Pause. “Wait. Is that narcissistic? That’s probably a little narcissistic. Sorry.” Sad face.

  Is he even kidding me right now? Seeing him in person. Having his name hand-scribbled in a book I wrote based upon my hella-hot fantasies with him. If he wants to call it narcissistic, he can go right ahead. I call it pinch-me-I’m-dreaming!

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of my laptop screen. It’s hard not to notice my smile has just about taken over the entire circumference of my head. I’m nervous, but excited. Freaked out, but stoked. In five days, I’ll not only see Niles in concert again, I’ll actually meet him, too! Eek!

  “Of course I’ll be there,” I type, finding my composure. “Sixth row this time. All that was left. Somebody is getting pretty popular.” I almost erase my winking emoticon but, given how many he’s thrown out there so far, decid
e to keep it.

  “I’ll get you up front. Let’s see if I can pick you out of the crowd. If I reach for your hand, you’ll know I know it’s you.”

  My stomach flops again as I think of Niles on stage, looking out over his adoring crowd. Lights in his eyes, sweat pouring down his face, his earpiece dangerously close to falling out, as it seems to at every show. What a thrill that must be (except the earpiece part).

  I wonder how often he recognizes faces in the crowd. I’ve seen him make eye contact with people before—even me once when I was in the second row—but he never touches anybody. Ever. He’s a total germophobe and never executes “the reach.” A lot of fans don’t know that about him and get pissy because he doesn’t go crazy making friends with the crowd. But I secretly adore it. Especially now that I might be the lucky one who will get to touch him in just a few days.

  “I thought you hate touching fans during your shows,” I challenge.

  “Yeah, your right. But I feel like I could probably touch a girl who seems to know me so well.” Pause. “Wait. Make that *you’re. Better step it up a notch when I’m texting an author.”

  As if I weren’t already, I am now officially dying. I seriously can’t even feel my legs. I am floating—levitating—above my chair. I don’t know much about music, but I do know that Niles is one of the most incredible songwriters in the business. His lyrics are bold and touching and raw and real. He’s had some of the biggest-named recording artists recruit him to write with them. A few have even convinced him to record duets and/or features. In my little word-nerd world, having someone like him refer to me as a legit author is nearly as incredible as actually conversing with him.

  “Make sure you save my number,” he types. “My memory is shit these days. If you haven’t heard from me again by Thursday, give me a yell. And watch your email for tix. You bringing your husband?”