Present Day

I sat across from the Rolling Stone editor in his office overlooking midtown Manhattan.

I’d arrived 15 minutes early for my meeting. I thought I was there to interview for some lowly staff position. Layout grunt… gofer… toilet scrubber.

Actually, I hoped and dreamed it was a staff position. As desperate as I was, I would have taken an unpaid internship.

I mean, come on. It was Rolling Stone.

Glen the editor sat across the desk from me, hands folded, serene. He was bald on top with curly hair around the sides, and he wore black, plastic-frame hipster glasses. His personal sense of style was somewhere between 70’s Rocker and College Professor.

“Kaitlyn Reynolds. Finally we meet. Good to put a face with the voice over the phone.”

“Same here. Nice to meet you, too.”

“Journalism degree from Syracuse, right?”

“Yes.”

“When did you graduate?”

“A year ago.” I put on a polite smile. “Almost to the day.”

“I read the pieces you emailed me. Not bad. Not great… but not bad.”

Not great… but not bad.

My temper spiked a little bit. I’m a bit of a hothead sometimes.

But I calmed myself down by thinking, When an editor at Rolling Stone says your stuff isn’t bad, ignore the ‘not great’ part.

“Well, I’m still working on building up my portfolio – ”

Glen interrupted me, ignoring what I was saying. “There was something I especially liked, a short story you wrote for the Syracuse literary magazine.”

I frowned. “I… didn’t include that in the email.”

“I know. I went and tracked it down on the internet. I liked it. Had a distinctive voice I don’t really see in your articles.”

My jaw set a little. “Um… thank you?”

Glen smiled. “I’m just saying I think you’ve got it in you to be a very good writer. It hasn’t come out yet, but you have a lot of potential. But you’re going to need to bring it out quick if this is going to work.”

My heart raced.

This sounded like it might be something better than a toilet-scrubbing position.

I swallowed. “Are you… are you offering me a job?”

“Not a ‘job,’ per se. But we want to give you a shot at a feature article. Shanna didn’t tell you?”

Shanna was my college roommate from freshman year at the University of Georgia. We lost touch when I went to Syracuse, but we stayed F******k friends – which basically means I just read what she posted on her wall. She moved to New York City a couple of years before I did. When I announced on F******k I was moving, too, she told me to look her up. That’s how we rekindled the friendship. We occasionally had dinner when I had the extra money (which wasn’t often) and when she wasn’t seeing three different guys at once (which was practically all the time).

I was starting to get dizzy. A shot at a feature article. “No, she was pretty vague about the whole thing.”

Glen grimaced. “Yeah… she said you might not be that happy with the assignment.”

Two minutes ago, I would have scrubbed toilets for free.

Now he was talking ‘feature article.’

‘Might not be happy with the assignment’?

HA.

I was fighting to get pieces published in crappy independent newspapers. You know, the kind mostly devoted to club ads listing what bands were playing, with dubious ‘massage’ ads in the back.

As for my online endeavors, the Huffington Post had turned me down three times in the last month.

I couldn’t even give my writing away.

And now I was talking with an editor at Rolling Stone about a feature article.

There was nothing I wouldn’t do for a break like this. Undercover hooker? ‘Day in the life of a sewage worker’? Pro bono proctology exams? I was there.

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” I laughed, a little too giddily. “I mean – what exactly do you want me to do?”

He settled back in his seat.

“Shanna told me you once dated Derek Kane.”

My face froze. I could feel every individual muscle straining to keep my smile in place.

Shit.

Please God, not this.

Anything but this.

Derek Kane was currently the hottest thing going in rock. And not just because his band had three singles currently in the top 20, with ‘If There’s A Next Time’ poised to hit number one in the next week or two.

No. He was also the most gorgeous guy to front a rock band since Jim Morrison.

Six feet tall… black hair… chiseled face… cheekbones to die for.

Most rockers outside of Death Metal are scrawny little dudes with pasty bird chests and no muscles. Not Derek. He looked more like an underwear model, with a muscled chest, incredibly strong arms, and abs you could scrub laundry on. Broad shoulders, muscular legs, and an ass that made you want to tear off his pants. Some women at his concerts occasionally did.

He also had the most intense, gorgeous green eyes you’ve ever seen. Like emerald ocean water warmed by the sun.

Of course, not many people knew that, because he never let himself be photographed without sunglasses on. Never performed without them. Every candid shot in every gossip rag always had him with his trademark Maui Jims wrapped around his face, his beautiful eyes hidden from the world.

I only knew what they looked like because I had met him four years ago. Back before he was a Rock God.

I had known him for exactly two weeks.

The last time I saw him, we’d spent the night together. I’d told him I loved him… and then I got in my car and drove away, tears streaming down my face.

I never saw or heard from him again.

But it’s not what you think.

However, walking away from him that day was probably the single worst mistake of my life.

Now I was afraid I was going to make an even bigger one.