Kiss the Stars (Falling Stars 1)

You couldn’t turn a corner without running face-first into an A-list celebrity.

The most loved musicians and the most sought-out actors.

Directors and managers and producers.

There were the up and coming and others that couldn’t step out on the street without being recognized.

Of course, there were some no-names like me, wide-eyed and unsure and hovering on the fringes in hopes they’d remain unnoticed, while others were clearly waiting for an opportunity to reach out and sink in their claws, salivating for a taste of the fame and fortune you could feel oozing from the bodies that overflowed the space.

“Fuck ‘em.”

So Lyrik.

I rolled my eyes. “Um . . . your wife put a lot of work into this whole thing, and you’re raising money for a good cause.”

“You’re my good cause.”

“Lyrik.” It was nothing but exasperation.

“What?” he deadpanned.

A heavy sigh pilfered free. “I love you. Adore you. I’m pretty sure you’re the most wonderful man on the planet.”

Men like him were rare.

Hell, I was beginning to think they had become obsolete.

Loneliness swelled.

With everything, it shouldn’t even be a consideration or thought.

But it didn’t matter that I knew better. There were just times . . . times when I wished I had someone to turn to the same way as they could turn to me. Someone who wrapped me up in their arms at night and whispered that everything would be okay.

“Go. Be with your wife. Your friends. Enjoy tonight. Just . . . let me try to do the same. Please.”

Not possible.

But at least I could give him an out.

And I was trying.

Trying to act normal. To put on a good show. If the rest of his guests who were parading around in all their diamonds and exaggerated smiles could do it, no cares in sight, then I could do it, too, right?

“I mean, seriously . . . this is ridiculous, Lyrik. You have Dreams Don’t Die playing on your freaking patio.” I lowered my voice like it was some kind of secret.

Believe me, it was a big freaking deal. I’d had to stifle a squeal when I’d gone into the kitchen earlier and found Sean Layne digging around in the refrigerator.

Fangirl (almost) down.

It wouldn’t have been pretty.

And let’s be clear, I was so not into musicians. I’d sworn off that kind of heartbreak a long time ago.

I’d witnessed enough through Lyrik and his friends.

They were too passionate.

Too volatile.

Too much trouble.

I did not have the time nor the heart for that kind of stress in my life.

But still . . . Sean Layne.

Lyrik hiked a casual shrug. “We own them.”

Right.

Of course, they did.

My big brother was the lead guitarist of Sunder, one of the most popular bands in the world, a band that now owned their own record label, spearheaded by their original lead singer, Sebastian Stone.

Lyrik? He was a rockstar, and I wasn’t talking the someday I’ll be famous kind..

He was a guy who stopped traffic when he walked down the street. Someone who couldn’t walk into a store without being accosted for his picture and his signature and half the time his freaking shirt.

But he was so much more than that.

He was a man who’d made horrible mistakes and paid for them dearly. A man I’d watched struggle with addiction and suffer with the regrets of it.

A man who’d stumbled time and time again.

He was also a man who’d clawed his way out of the self-destruction to become something great. A man who’d found the girl of his dreams and made the family he’d believed he’d never have.

But the thing about him becoming great was that he’d always been great to me.

It didn’t matter the sins he’d amassed or the wrongs he’d committed.

He’d always been my hero, and the last thing I wanted was to drag him down tonight.

“So go show them they were a worthy acquisition.” My brows lifted with the prod.

He hesitated. “You sure you’re fine? Saw your face, Mia. Didn’t like it. Will call this whole damn thing off if it makes you more comfortable. Just say the word, night’s over.”

“No. That’s the last thing I want.”

I looked back out to the great room. It was open to the lofts that circled above from the second floor. A massive wall of windows at the far end that overlooked Los Angeles had been drawn open, letting the warm California air invade the space.

Just beyond the doors and next to the negative-edge pool that overlooked Los Angeles, Dreams Don’t Die played on a makeshift stage. The sultry indie song they played vibrated the house and rumbled along the polished wooden floors.

Strains of music flooded the rooms, the walls throbbing with depth and sensuality.

The crush of bodies and the volume of voices and laughter trying to rise above it gave the atmosphere a vibe of barely-controlled chaos.

As if we were climbing toward the peak of something magnificent.