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“What would you like me to sign?” Sterling asked.
“This picture.” The woman shoved a framed photograph across the table, her fingers brushing against his. He pulled the frame away quickly to avoid any more contact.
Inside was a photo of Sterling from a few years ago. He could tell because his hair was shorter back then and featured the bleached highlights that Jeff insisted he try. Thankfully the fans hated that look as much as he did. Sterling was back to slightly messy hair that fell somewhere between brown and dark blond.
He wasn’t smiling in the photo but had a practiced brood on his face. He could still remember the photo shoot. “I want bedroom eyes!” the photographer had said. Sterling had a hard time even looking at the picture, where he had totally captured the look they wanted. These were the moments he questioned why he wanted this life.
The image looked like the dream female fans had of Sterling James, staring intently at them with I-want-you eyes. He felt gross just thinking about it. Even though the fans preferred his hair without the highlights, the posters and pictures with this image had outsold any other one they’d ever printed. A few fans told him they hung them on the ceiling above his bed. Double yuck.
“What’s your name?” Sterling asked, readying his marker above the glass.
“Reese.”
He started on her name, thankful it was one he could easily spell. The less he had to talk to her, the better. “What should I put?”
“Just put ‘You were right.’”
“You … were …right. Got it.” Sterling put the cap back on the marker, then stood up, wanting to get the photo done as quickly as possible. Reese already stood in front of the backdrop with the framed photo, grinning. “Right about what?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, but wrapped both arms around his waist, pulling close for the photo. So close that he could smell her shampoo. Or maybe it was perfume. She smelled like something sweet and spicy—good enough to eat.
But he shoved that thought aside when he smelled something else. Was that … alcohol?
Sterling resisted the fight-or-flight urge that kicked in. He would choose flight, all the way. Far, far away. But for now, he plastered on the best smile he could and tried not to breathe too deeply.
Her friend snapped a few pictures and Sterling did his best to look like he wasn’t angry. He was distracted by the woman’s hands on his shirt, underneath his jacket but still on top of his clothes, thankfully.
At least she wasn’t trying to touch his butt or anything else. It shouldn’t surprise him that women still tried to do that.
Nothing should surprise him anymore. Not after reading some of the weird fan letters he got, or the presents people left for him or the time that one woman broke into his tour bus and waited for him, naked. Thankfully she had been in the wrong bunk and someone else got surprised before calling the cops. Once a fan left a guinea pig in a cardboard box on the front steps of his record label. The box had his name on it and a note explaining that the guinea pig was their love child.
“Right about what?” Sterling asked again.
Why he cared, he wasn’t sure. But the question kept crawling around in his brain. Usually fans wanted something easy like lyrics or album titles, or even something related to him that they’d read in an interview. All pretty standard fare, though every person seemed to think they were the first and only one to ask.
He definitely didn’t want to know because Reese—aside from the hardcore fangirling and alcohol smell—was pretty. Nope.
She pulled back just slightly and tilted her chin to look up at him. This close, Sterling couldn’t ignore her full lips and the way her eyes sparkled. She looked like she was about to let him in on some cosmic joke. Sterling felt the increase in his heart beat and was suddenly aware of her hand on his waist. She fit perfectly underneath his arm, like she was made to be there.
Maybe she wasn’t obsessive. Maybe she was just one of those women with a lot of happy energy?
“Because one day when we get married, I’m going to tell you that I told you so. And you’re going to say, ‘you were right.’”
Nope. Definitely not just happy energy.
Sterling pulled away, practically shoving Reese at her friend, who was rolling her eyes. She shot him a look that seemed to say, I’m sorry, and then started to drag Reese away. Reese wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder. Her friend snorted with laughter. Sterling even heard the security guys behind him chuckling. Ugh.
“Good to meet you, Sterling! I’ll see you again soon,” she called. Then, to her friend, but still in a loud enough voice for Sterling to hear, she said, “I don’t care what people say. I like Night Sterling. Brooding is hot.”
Night Sterling.
The phrase sent hot anger burning into his throat. Sterling glared as the women left the room. He had half a mind to grab Reese by the arm, spin her around, and unleash his fury on her.
Jeff had a radar for drama and looked up from his phone. Or maybe he had heard Reese. The whole room had. And anyone who had worked with him for long knew how much he hated the nickname the press had given him: Day and Night Sterling.
He had been trying to get past this one, but it was hard to shake. Especially because, as much as he hated the nickname, it was true. Day Sterling was the charming rock star who took pictures with Vanessa, smiling and being charming. Night Sterling was the angry rocker who was easily frustrated and short-tempered. Or, as Reese mentioned, brooding.
The media loved to spot Night Sterling and was quick to caption photos and make headlines any time he so much as walked to his car without a smile on his face.
