Page 3 of The Pucking Grump

I settle on getting out of here first. I’m back in the empty hallway, and the first thing I spot is the elevator.

Do I even dare?

Oh yes, I damn well do.

My pulse accelerates, my heart pounding against my chest with such force that my ribs start to hurt from within. I’ve been a superstar for almost a decade. In that time, I have not been caught once in the slightest hint of a scandal. I’m the picture-perfect, all-star American girl with a guitar.

The headlines flash in my head with dizzying clarity:

International rock star disappears from the wedding with the “love of her life.”

Trouble in paradise?

Faye Strummer backs out of the wedding with Benjamin Fletcher.

And if the news about the cheating leaks:

Faye’s Strummer’s lifelong lover cheats on her on their wedding day.

I can imagine the huge fallout on the internet when my fans learn that my love life isn’t the bed of roses I had led them to believe, being branded a liar who made people develop unrealistic expectations, the decline of the sale of my albums, the eventual ruin of my career.

And yet, the thought of walking down the aisle to a man I feel nothing for, while being cheered on by my fans, feels even worse.

My heart bangs in my chest as I press the button on the elevator. The doors open, and I slip inside. It feels like a whole hour, but it has to be mere moments until I’m spilling out of it, heavy gown trailing behind me. The foyer is empty, save for a receptionist, who’s sitting at the polished surface of her desk.

I run toward the front of the lobby, flying past the startled woman. The hotel grounds are in front of me, perfectly manicured lawns hedged by rosebushes. No one is in sight. I continue to run, not even pausing to think of where I’m going or what I’m doing. My heart is somersaulting in my chest, and I feel hot tears running down my cheeks.

But I don’t stop.

Not until I collide against a solid wall.

I scream, the sound lurching from my throat at the same moment I’m fighting to regain balance. But it’s too late.

I’m already falling.

Suddenly, there’s a pair of strong sinewy arms crushing me to a too-broad chest, holding me tighter and more carefully than my dad has ever done, cushioning the fall with his body as we both dive toward the ground. I catch a glimpse of blond hair and the shock in a pair of azure eyes before I feel the dull throb as we hit the ground below us.

2

CATCHING A FALLING STAR

Alright, let me lay it out.

First, attending a wedding ranks pretty low on my list of desirable activities, somewhere between experiencing an earthquake, standing at the mouth of an erupting volcano, and enduring the gloom of the locker room post-defeat.

To put it mildly, weddings aren’t my scene. But this wedding? The one that’s been the buzz of the entire internet, mentioned by my teammates ad nauseam? The event where Faye Strummer, the era’s reigning pop icon, is poised to tie the knot with her so-called soulmate, a guy with a chin that leaves much to be desired, whom I’ve unfortunately encountered online more than once?

No, I dislike this wedding more than all the others combined. And not just because I don’t believe in the idea of love.

It’s because I can’t stand the idea of her—Faye Strummer, the doe-eyed, dewy-faced girl who does nothing other than release sappy love songs every other month, songs that cause me a headache anytime they blast out around me. She is the opposite of everything I imagine a girl should be, obsessed with romance and love, and suffering from a severe lack of a personality.

The second thing?

Having this perception of Faye Strummer and then running into her at her wedding feels like the universe’s idea of a cruel joke. Like someone up there is intent on punishing me for my past sins.

We don’t exactly run into each other, though. She runs into me. Collides against my chest with such force that all I can do is brace myself for the fall before we hit the ground. I don’t even see her. All I spot is the hugest, whitest gown I’ve ever seen and catch a whiff of a flowery, expensive perfume.

The next thing I know, I’m on the floor, my arms wrapped around the biggest popstar of our decade.

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