Page 1 of With Stars in Her Eyes
Los Angeles
PROLOGUECourtney
Just as the worldly and sensual duchess slid nimble fingers into the beautiful widow’s corset laces, a waving hand forced my attention away from my book. It took several blinks to force my mind away from the misty Scottish moors and back to the dimly lit green room of the Troubadour in Los Angeles. Somewhat ironically, the hand belonged to a winner of a major Scottish radio station’s sexiest musicians holiday poll, who was leaning over the back of a sofa to laugh at me.
Demetrius Adeyemi was saying something I couldn’t hear.
With an exasperated sigh, I yanked off my noise-reducing headphones. “Yes?”
“Isaidyou might want to take a break soon.”
The same band had been opening for the Violet Trikes for the last two years, so I knew their sets. The song playing was from the first half. “Why? I’mnotlate.”
“You’re not lateyet. But you’ve got thatcharacters-are-about-to-fuckface on, so I thought I should break you out of your book trance sooner rather than later.”
“I donothave a ‘characters-are-about-to-fuck’ face, thank you very much.”
“Then why can I tell exactly what’s about to happen between those lovely ladies on the cover by how ludicrously scarlet you are?”
With a mild snarl, I snapped the book shut and stood with a few audible hip and spine cracks.Jesus,I’d been sitting in a semi-squat behind the couch, looking like Gollum staring at the one ring, for at least forty-five minutes. I stretched the tight spots onmy shoulders. The book had been a needed distraction from how badly my head had been hurting all day. The bass from the music onstage pulsed directly against my skull. My vision rippled at the edges. Nothing new. But the draining jet lag of transcontinental travel made it worse.
I headed across the room to a lit mirror. After applying the makeup that transformed me into my stage persona, I smoothed my waist-length blue hair with a wince. The fresh glosshadadded some shine. But on days like today the weight of every strand yanked my scalp. Maybe if tonight went perfectly, I would have enough clout to convince the record label execs to change their mind and let me chop it off. I pulled on the outer layer of my stage dress and zipped up the back, cringing at my pale reflection once before looking behind me to see why Demetrius had gone quiet.
During my seconds of strayed attention, that smirking jackass had dared to grab my book.
“Hey. Give that back.” I nearly tripped over my half-laced boots as I snatched it back, sliding in an old Violet Trikes flyer to mark my spot.
“I was just looking for the reason you’re all flushed. And I certainly was right.”
“Thereasonfor the blushing is residual purity culture. And you can be right and also be an asshole.”
“Perhaps. But this arsehole still wants to know how he can get himself on the lovely Samantha Powell’s bookstore’s curated smut mailing service.” He tapped the book cover in the spot between two women draped in tartan sharing an intimate embrace in front of stormy skies.
I gently bopped him on the nose with the book. “Sorry, dude. I think scheduling all those add-on shows between Thanksgiving and New Year’s so I couldn’t visit her over the holidays sank that ship for you.”
“Damn. I’ll just have to add sweet-talking Samantha to my tour break to-do list.”
“Don’t you dare.” I stuffed the novel in the outer pocket of my duffel bag and began rifling through the main pocket.
I pitied anyone on the other end of a Demetrius “sweet-talking.” His accent alone drove people wild. It came from his years attending the most expensive and elite prep schools in London, but on certain words it held an extra melody he attributed to his parents. His father was a Nigerian diplomat to the United Kingdom and his mother a Scottish pianist. The combination of the voice with his face, and the fact that he was the lead singer and songwriter for one of the biggest upcoming bands in the world right now could make even the most levelheaded person I knew melt into a puddle. That person being my aforementioned best friend, Samantha Powell.
My complete immunity to Demetrius when we met at Yale should have been the first sign I was gay. Unfortunately, it had taken a disastrous marriage to a covert narcissist and former front man for a Christian ska band, subsequent messy divorce, and several awkward years of post-religious deconstruction sexual experimentation with men to cement the idea that yes, I was definitely, undeniably, and absolutely a lesbian.
Compulsory heterosexuality could go fuck itself.
“Are you smiling because you’re already counting the hours until you can clack your heels together and run off back—?”
“It’samazinghow you haven’t run out ofWizard of Ozjokes after all this time of me visiting Sam in Kansas.”
Having figured out what I was looking for in my bag, Demetrius held out my new in-ear monitors. “My sense of humor is as fresh and charming as my face.”
“Didn’t you say yesterday you thought your Botox was wearing off?”
“Touché, darling.” He held up his watch and tapped the face. “Almost time for Kestrel’s full launch.”
My satisfied smile faltered when I remembered theotherreason I had needed the distraction from my book. The performance of my life was minutes away.
Demetrius didn’t miss the shift in my expression. “You’re going to be fantastic. They already love Kestrel’s music, and they’ve only gotten peeks at the crumbs so far.” He squeezed my shoulders as I touched up my makeup.
