My Gibson, slung across my back in its ancient, homemade gig bag, kept slapping me on the ass every time I moved. The faster I walked, the harder it hit. Not that I cared much about my butt—but the guitar inside? That was another story. My precious, expensive "baby". Expensive in every sense of the word.
I took the guitar off my shoulders, took it in my right hand, slung my backpack over my other shoulder and continued to make my way through the crowd.
Pre-Christmas chaos at the airport is pretty much identical to those Black Friday stampedes at the mall—and it felt like everyone in the city had shown up at the same time.
Trying to keep out of the main stampede, I stopped by a curvy column, propped Gibson against it, yanked my earbuds out, and dug the boarding pass out of my jacket pocket.
Voices. Laughter. The constant hum. Announcements about flights. A squealing group of girls nearby bouncing in place, hyped about something… All the sounds of the airport rushed in at once, blasting the last chords of Three Days Grace right out of my head.
I checked my ticket for what had to be the thousandth time, as if the details might magically change in the past ten minutes.
Am I really doing this? Seriously?
I'm flying to California!
I must've lost my mind. That's exactly what Grace said when I told her, all hyped up, about the audition, about the rock band, about how I just had to make it in, and about how I definitely didn't have the cash for a plane ticket.
Grace is my roommate. We've been sharing a tiny apartment for over a year, splitting rent in equal measure. She's three years older—twenty-three—and, according to her, way wiser too. That's just Grace: hard-nosed skeptic, queen of eye rolls. But let's be real, if she didn't believe I had some actual talent, there's no way she would've handed me the money for this ticket. With Grace, it's always: "Less talk, more doing." Took me a while, but I've finally learned that's her golden rule.
I had to swear I'd pay Grace back with my very first paycheck—plus cover my share of the rent for the month I'll be gone. I'm still hoping I'll find some part-time work out there. Honestly, I have no idea how I'll manage it all if I blow this audition… or how I'll even get back to New York. But hey, that's a problem for later.
Am I really this confident? Apparently, yeah.
My flight to Los Angeles was already boarding. Time to fight my way through the suitcase stampede and get to the gate. No checked baggage, just my carry-on—makes life a little easier.
I was shaking all over, goosebumps racing up my arms like I'd swallowed a whole pint of ice cream and it refused to melt. First trip in almost ten years. Last time, I was hurrying to the gate holding my mom's hand. Now it's just me. And even though I don't usually get nervous, the excitement and butterflies have been tagging along ever since I bought that ticket. Damn. I just hope all this will be worth it—and that I won't regret the debt hanging over my head. Because right now my bank account is basically zero.
"Are you crazy? Girl, what audition? What if you fail? Where are you even going to live? What are you going to eat, huh?" Grace was still nagging, practically shoving me out the door. "You'll have to sell your guitar to get home! And you better call me the second you land, or I'll hunt you down, you hear me?"
Sell my Gibson? Absolutely not.
Have I mentioned before how much this guitar means to me?..
I would rather sell a kidney.
I grinned. No point stressing over disasters that haven't even happened yet. So what if I lack Grace's so-called "common sense"?..
To my right, a group of girls was suddenly multiplying. Like, multiplying fast. Now it was a whole army—all shrieking, bouncing, dolled up to the max, clutching handmade posters covered in hearts and confessions of undying love for someone named "Fallen Bliss." Every phone was out, ready to film.
Maniacs.
A Gibson on one shoulder, a backpack on the other—it's time to run to board the plane.
The next second, the screams of the glamorous girls' team hit me like a siren, and the crowd rushed past, spinning me like a clueless pinwheel.
I muttered a curse, giving them my best murderous look.
My phone rang in my back pocket. A message has arrived:
Check the inside pocket of your bag—one hundred bucks, this is my Christmas present for you. I hate you, brat! AND CALL ME! I need a drink. Love you. Grace.
A grateful smile appeared on my face just at the moment when another wave of "barbie dolls" almost knocked me down. To be honest, it would be better if they did, because once you're in the middle of a crush, you either go with the flow or you get trampled. I hugged my Gibson to me as hard as I could and waited.
Oh my god. Did they bathe in perfume or just marinate overnight? I'm practically dying—breathing in here feels like inhaling radioactive fairy dust. Posters flying, lashes so long they could swat flies, glitter and lip gloss everywhere. What is this, the world finals for Most Extra? Broadway tryouts? At this point, I'd believe it was an audition for America's Next Top Drama Queen.
No?
What is happening here?
Another explosion of shrieks. Now people are legit screaming loud enough to make my ears bleed. Suddenly, stuffed animals go flying. The crowd surges to the right—and me, helplessly, with it.
God, someone get me out of this hell of perfume clouds and stampeding "mom" heels!
But, of course, the Christmas spirit has never been on my side. Santa and I have been on bad terms since I ditched him at age four, so naturally, the herd suddenly turned right around—charging straight back through, dead set on trampling anything (or anyone) in their way.
"There they are—FB! That's them!"
"WHERE?!"
"Over there!!"
Suddenly it was pure chaos, everyone chanting:
"Fallen Bliss! Fallen Bliss! Fallen Bliss!"
Swear to God, my eardrums were about to burst. If it weren't for my guitar, I'd have started elbowing my way out ages ago. But if anything happened to her, I could kiss this audition—and this whole trip—goodbye.
I could practically see Grace's smug grin flashing in my mind.
The next thing I knew, the crowd swept me forward—smashed between two girls built like linebackers, both tall and seriously plus-sized. Honestly, they could probably plow through a brick wall if they felt like it. Grandma would call them "big-boned." Me? I just tried not to get steamrolled.
All I could do was dig my sneakers into the slick, polished floor and try not to go down.
A wall of tall, broad-shouldered men in dark suits met every eager fangirl, calmly blocking their way and motioning for them to stop. Let Fallen Bliss get to their gate in peace.
Camera flashes blinded me—an entire squad of reporters hovered just beyond the wildest fans, snapping shots like their lives depended on it.
"Fallen Bliss! Fallen Bliss!" The chanting only got louder.People were shoving me forward, closer and closer.
"FB! FB! FB!"
My head was spinning—from the smells, the noise, the flood of adrenaline.
I needed to get out of here before I got flattened against one of these linebacker-sized bodyguards.
"FB! FB! FB!"
My legs were giving out. My whole body was just about done fighting. Maybe I should just surrender…
Suddenly, I dropped to my knees, slinging Gibson onto my back as I went, and started crawling. That's right—crawling—one hand clutching my phone for dear life because there was no way I was letting it get trampled. Get me out of this madhouse. As far away from the crazies as possible!
A hand grabbed my shoulders and lifted my entire five-foot-five height off the floor. The next moment, I was shoved in the back by someone who looked like an Olympic shot put champion. Obviously, she thought she was helping me get through security. So, thanks for the presentation—I'll remember you forever.
What a shove. I went flying, praying my guitar would survive, with zero control over where I landed. I crashed full-body onto something—no, someone—soft and smelling almost too good to be real, flattening them into the floor.
Oh crap. Not a something, a someone: a guy, with the most shocked, annoyed, and downright murderous brown eyes I'd ever seen—seriously, his irises were so dark they looked almost black. Maybe contacts? Eyebrow piercing, ears full of metal. Pale skin, clean-shaven, lips pressed in a tight, furious line.
And this guy had just broken my fall.
I swear, I opened my mouth to apologize—to him, and to "grandma's pride" behind me. My mom always said decent people own their mistakes as long as they apologize fast enough. But nope, not today. The brown-eyed… well, brunette, I guess—hard to tell under the cap—shoved me aside like I was radioactive, and I hit the floor again, this time on my right side. His bandmates—or whoever those three were—immediately crowded around him, fussing and checking him for injuries. Fair, I probably did just drop-kick a national treasure.
Cue another round of blinding camera flashes—reporters never miss their moment. I think I just flattened one of the beloved darlings of the glitter squad.
Is that what those Barbie wannabes are screaming at me? Here's hoping security doesn't toss me back into the horde—I'm pretty sure they'd tear me to shreds for laying hands on their precious.
Alright. First order of business—get off the floor and find my phone. It's not like I have a backup, and I doubt I'll get another one anytime soon.
Someone offered me a hand. I squinted up suspiciously—was this a trap? The tall brunette looked determined, and before I knew it, my hand was in his and he pulled me to my feet.
I pulled away quickly.
"Are you okay?" - the guy asked, examining me for damage. His big gray eyes really looked... worried. He wasn't pierced, but the black swirls of the tattoo stretched from his neck to his chin.
A hint of a smile touched his lips, flashing teeth so white and perfect he could star in a toothpaste commercial. Crap. He is a star.
And these four guys, including the guy I fell on...
yeah, I'm the only one here who has no idea who these people are!
"Um… yeah, I'm fine," I mumbled, struggling to ignore the camera flashes and the angry sea of fangirls.
"We're good," the brunette called over to security, who were already hustling my way.
Forget security. Forget the brunette and the pierced "poor guy." I needed to find my phone!
But you know how it goes…
Nowhere in sight.
"Yours?" a low, totally uninterested voice cut in.
I looked down to see a pair of heavy black lace-up boots planted right in front of my beat-up sneakers.
The guy I fell on, with the eyebrow piercing, was standing too close, completely violating the concept of personal space.
Those eyes—so dark they looked almost black—narrowed as they stared at me, half hidden by the shadow from under the torn baseball cap. There was no hint of friendliness on his face, as if he had already decided that I deserved to be thrown out of the airport building. He towered over me, all in black clothes and an impudent pose.
Oh, come on. What is this—some kind of rockstar cosplay?
The guy shot me a smug grin, holding up a red phone in his fist.
"Yours, right?" he repeated.
"Yeah, that's mine. Give it here!" I reached out, but "rockstar" just lifted his arm higher, forcing me to jump like some kind of yappy little dog for the reporters' amusement.
I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him with all the disgust I could muster.
Whoever these guys were, drama clearly followed them everywhere. Guess the circus wasn't over yet—and I was still the head clown.
Do they even have a manager, or what?
"Give it back!" I growled, barely holding back a stream of world-class profanity.
"Hand it over, man," the brunette said seriously, slapping the brown-eyed guy on the back. "Crushing someone's mood isn't gonna make yours any better, Shane. Come on, we need to check in."
Shane didn't move, just kept staring me down like I was public enemy number one.
"This thing?" he sneered, tossing my phone from hand to hand, that annoying smirk glued to his face. "Is this even a phone? What, did you dig it up from an archaeological site?"
"Yeah, from an era before idiots like you existed!" I shot back.
Big mistake. Now the fangirls were shrieking for my blood—and looked like they'd gladly tear me apart limb by limb.
My gaze caught on a few posters: huge pink hearts next to "FB," with the name "Shane" in bold letters.
Great. So much for flying under the radar.
"Chill out, Shane, she didn't mean to fall on you," the brunette said, his tattoo flexing as he swallowed. "She got pushed. Just let it go."
He turned to me, and unlike Shane, there was nothing aggressive about him. His handsome face was open, genuinely friendly.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked, clearly trying to smooth things over. A little silver hoop in his ear flashed in the light, distracting me for a split second.
Okay, this guy seems to be really nice.…
A sharp clatter snapped me back to reality—Shane had deliberately dropped my battered phone. Not a second later, his heavy boot came down, grinding the screen into the floor with a sickening crunch.
"Oh! What a shame," Shane drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. As he passed by, he nudged me with his shoulder and headed for the exit.
For a split second, pure rage flashed through me. But I know my worth—I wasn't about to break down and start bawling over this.
Head held high, I picked up the mangled remains of my mom's phone from the floor.
Great start to the trip, really. Now, thanks to some narcissistic jerk, I'd have to figure out how to get a new phone—with no cash to spare. And I needed a solution now, not tomorrow.
"Hope you feel better!" I called after him, forcing myself to stand my ground, even though every nerve was screaming at me to chase him down and break his perfect nose.
"Not really," Shane shot back, his tone flat as ever. I turned to glare at him.
"You owe me a new phone!"
He stopped, posing for the cameras like it was a press conference, and slowly turned, head cocked to the side. His face was pure ice.
"That piece of junk wasn't worth five bucks," he said, "and you're not really my type, so don't expect any expensive gifts. Next time, just walk on by—I can't stand crazy fangirls."
A couple of his bandmates burst out laughing.
I squeezed the shattered phone tighter in my fist.
Two security guards placed their hands on my shoulders.
"We'll escort you somewhere safe, miss."
I drilled holes in Shane's stupid face with my glare. Who knew it was possible to hate someone you'd never even heard of, all in under two minutes?
"To be honest, I have no idea who you are or who you think you are! I shouted, rolling my eyes for emphasis.—For me, you're not a celebrity, but an ordinary guy with behavior problems. I smiled at him maliciously, watching the shock on his face as the guards escorted me out.