Whoever he was, he had to have heard my half of the phone conversation, which was more than enough to mark me out as being one of the great idiots of our time. There was the clink and hiss of a beer being opened then he held it out to me. Light from inside reflected off the perspiration on the bottle, making it gleam.

“Thanks.” I stepped closer, close enough to make him out even with the low lighting, and reached for the beer.

Holy shit. It was him, Malcolm Ericson.

The pinnacle moment of my life was officially upon me. So I might have had one or two photos of Stage Dive on my bedroom wall when I was a teenager. Fine, maybe there were three. Or twelve. Whatever. The point is there was one poster of the whole band. At least, the photographer probably thought it was of the whole band. Jimmy was out in front, his face contorted as he screamed into the microphone. To his right, half shrouded in shadow and smoke, was David, smoldering over his guitar. And to the left, toward the front of the stage, stood the bulk that was Ben, playing his bass.

But they didn’t matter. Not really.

Because behind them all, there he was with the lights shining up through his drum kit. Naked from the waist up and dripping sweat, the picture had caught him mid-strike. His right arm cut across his body, his focus on his target, the cymbal he was about to strike. To smash.

He played with abandon and he looked like a god.

How many times after a day of looking after my mother and sister, working hard and doing the good, responsible thing, had I lay on my bed and looked at that photo. And now here he was.

Our fingers grazed in the way that’s pretty much inevitable during such a hand over. No way could he have failed to miss the trembling in mine. Thankfully, he didn’t comment. I scurried back to my place by the edge, leaning casually with a beer in hand. Cool people leaned. They looked relaxed.

He chuckled softly, letting me know I wasn’t fooling anybody. Then he sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His face came fully into the light and I was caught, captivated. My mind blanked.

No question about it. It really was most definitely without a doubt him.

The man had hooker lips, I shit you not. High cheekbones and one of those notches in his chin. I’d never understood the appeal of those things before. Now I got it. But it was him as a whole that blew my mind. The parts meant nothing without the amused gleam in his eye and the hint of a smirk. God, I hated people who smirked. Apparently, I also wanted to lick them all over because my mouth started watering.

“I’m Mal,” he said.

“I–I know,” I stuttered.

His smirk heightened. “I know you know.”

Huh. I kept my mouth shut.

“Sounds like someone had a bad day.”

Nope, I still had nothing. A brain-dead stare was the best I could do.

Why was he out here in the dark? From all reports, the man was the life of the party. Yet here he was, drinking alone, hiding like me. Slowly, he stretched, rising out of his seat. Thank you, Lord. He’d go back inside and I’d be off the hook. I wouldn’t have to try and make conversation. Fortunate, given my sudden bout of starstruck stupidity.

Only he didn’t leave.

Instead, he walked toward me, his lean, muscular frame moving with careless grace. He had maybe five, six inches on me height wise. Enough to intimidate if it was his purpose. Muscular arms put the sleeves of his shirt to the test. Drummer’s arms. They were certainly nice as body parts went, covered in ink and bulging in all the right ways. I bet they felt good, too.

And I was so obviously checking him out someone should slap me.

If I kept this up, I would slap me. Hard.

“What’s your name?” he asked, joining me at the railing. God, even his voice felt good. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end with delight.

“My name?”

He stood close enough that our elbows bumped. His bare elbow, since he wore only jeans, a pair of Chucks, and a fitted “Queens of the Stone Age” T-shirt. Mal Ericson had touched me. I’d never wash again.

“Yeeeah, your name,” he drawled. “The point of me telling you my name, even when you already knew it, was so you’d give me yours. That’s how these things go.”

“You knew I knew?”

“The crazy eyes kinda gave it away.”

“Oh.”

A moment later, he groaned. “Never mind, this is taking too long. I’ll just make one up for you.”

“Anne.”

“Anne, what?

“Anne Rollins.”

A brilliant grin lit his face. “Anne Rollins. See, that wasn’t so tough.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to smile. Most likely I resembled a lunatic. One that had spent way too much time imagining him naked. Good god, the shame.

Gently, he tapped his bottle of beer against mine. “Cheers, Anne. Nice to meet you.”

I took another sip, hoping it would calm the shaking. The booze wasn’t hitting me hard enough fast enough to deal with this. Maybe I should move on to something stronger. One’s first intimate conversation with a rock star should probably be conducted over hard liquor. Ev was definitely on to something with her tequila-fueled antics in Vegas. And look how well it had worked out for her.

“What brings you here tonight, Anne?”

“I came with Nate and Lauren. They brought me. They’re my neighbors. They live next door.”

He nodded. “You’re friends with Ev?”

“Yeah, I, well … I’ve always been friendly with her. I wouldn’t want to presume … I mean, I don’t know that I’d say we were close friends, exactly, but–”

“Yes or no, Anne?”

“Yes,” I answered, then snapped my mouth shut against another outbreak of verbal diarrhea.

“Yeah, Ev’s good people. Davie was lucky to find her.” He stared off at the city lights in silence. The amusement fell from his face and a frown creased his brow. He seemed sad, a little lost, maybe. For certain, his much-vaunted party-rocker personality was nowhere in evidence. I should know better. People had painted Ev to be the next Yoko Ono, riding on David’s coattails, sucking him dry of fame and fortune. I didn’t have to be her BFF to know it couldn’t be further from the truth. Chances were, whoever Mal was had little to do with the nonsense flowing freely on the Internet.

But more important, how badly had I embarrassed myself?

“I didn’t really get a crazy look in my eyes, did I?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Yeah, you did.”

Crap.

“So you’re a friend of Ev’s? I mean, you’re not in the music business or anything?” he asked, focusing on me once more. His face had cleared, his mood shifting. I couldn’t keep up. With the flats of his palms he beat out a swift rhythm on the balcony railing.

“No. I work in a bookshop a few blocks from here.”

“Okay.” He gazed down at me, apparently pleased with my answer. “So what was that phone call about?”

“Nothing.”

“No?” He stepped closer. “What happened to your nose?”

Immediately my hand flew up to block his view of my face. It was only a small bump, but still. “My sister broke it when we were little.”

“Don’t cover it. I think it’s cute.”

“Great.” I lowered my arm. He’d already seen the flaw, so what was the use?

“Why’d she break it?”

“She got mad one day and threw a toy truck at me.”

“Not how. Why?”

I smothered a sigh. “She wanted a kitten and I’m allergic to cats.”

“You couldn’t get a puppy instead?”

“I wanted to but Mom said no. My sister still blamed me.”

He scowled. “So you never had any pets growing up?”

I shook my head.

“That’s fucking terrible. Every kid should get to have a pet.” He appeared sincerely outraged on my behalf.

“Yeah, well, time’s past and I’m kind of over it now.” I frowned and swallowed some more beer. Everything told me I was going to need it. This conversation was just plain weird.