All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) Read Free Page A

as-professional-as-I-can-manage hello.
    “ You did ?” She knows exactly who I mean. It’s written all over her voice.
    “Any idea who?”
    “Oh my gosh, Kallie! He really texted you?” It’s hard not to notice that her voice registers even higher on the squee-meter than Sara’s did. I love it! (Lucy’s a huge fan of Niles now, too, thanks to my excellent sales skills—as in, every conversation we have, I sneak something in about Niles or the band). When pressed, she assures me that if this is a PR ploy, she’s not aware of it. And she can usually smell stuff like that from a mile away.
    “I promise. I have never talked to his people before. This came out of nowhere. I thought it was a joke, but then they put him on the line and his voice is, well, pretty recognizable. Under most—well, pretty much all—circumstances, I’d never give out a client’s info. But in this case, I kind of thought you wouldn’t mind.”
    What would ever give her that idea?
    Now, please excuse me while I go pass out.
    ***
    For being so busy and having a “shit” memory, Niles seems to have figured out the art of keeping in touch. He’s currently blowing up my phone, telling me that they always have food after the concert. Mostly junk food, since he likes to binge after burning off somewhere close to a bazillion calories during his shows.
    I’ve always marveled at his energy level. He’s not a stand-there-and-belt-it-out kind of guy. He’s everywhere. He bounces and jumps and runs and sometimes even slides. One thing he doesn’t do is dance. I hate to say it, but I don’t think he has a lick of rhythm in that super-fly body of his. But, for sure, they (whoever “they” is) should do a study on his pipes. Even after all that gallivanting on stage—and the fact that he just quit smoking after a fifteen-year habit—he somehow has the lung capacity to carry a note for ages. It’s pretty incredible.
    He asks me if I want something special after the show. Any type of drink or salad or smoothie or whatever. He tells me he likes to down some Scotch on the rocks before his concerts (I already know this), but usually sticks to beer after. I say beer is just fine, and no food is necessary. He tells me there will be jalapeño poppers, since those are his favorite, and I promise to eat a few with him. This must make him happy because he responds with a series of seven smiley emoticons.
    Who knew rock stars had such a penchant for emoticons?
    But let’s get serious for a minute here: the idea of sipping beers and eating poppers with my rock star obsession? Yeah, I’m kind of tingling all over. And the fact that he keeps texting me? Even more tingling. True, the texts usually start out as business-type inquiries (tickets, backstage food, etc.) but in no time they develop into borderline we’ve-been-friends-for-ages chats that go on longer than they need to. Over the course of Wednesday and Thursday, we chat five more times, in between me visiting the hair salon for a highlight refresh and lounging outside to catch a tan.
    I am grateful now more than ever for my flexible writer’s schedule, though the mom in me feels sad that I’m not with my girls. For years, I coveted a schedule like this so I could be home with them during the summer and on snow days, baking cupcakes and making Etsy-worthy crafts. Now that I’m finally around, they’re staying with Brad at his parents’ in North Carolina. For the whole freaking summer.
    My stomach turns over as I walk past their bedroom. It’s nothing special, especially since Brad kept the house and they have to share a room here. But it’s cute, anyway. It’s a mix of princesses and ocean life, true to each girl’s personality. It’s tidy and colorful and looks like a nine- and seven-year-old girls’ room should.
    Seeing it makes me miss them. A lot.
    I think about our lives now, and yes, it’s different and hard sometimes, but I know I didn’t make a mistake. Since Brad and I split,