And how could they not? Robbie had three things going for him: one, his charm—he was a gregarious man, full of snappy one-liners and quick wit. He was never rude to the press or to fans, even when they got too nosy or extreme. Two, his looks. Robbie was twenty-eight like most of the band and had that wonderful boy meets man appeal. His hair was a shiny and thick chestnut, the kind you’d see in shampoo commercials. It fell blunt across his forehead and longer in the back and nicely framed his sparkling blue eyes and dimples. He was somehow cute and sexy at the same time, and the sexiness came from three—the fact that he could sing the panties off of anyone. Any woman, anyway, and I was sure any man. Robbie Oliver was the man Mel waxed on about when we were going through the rock stars we’d like to shag list (I should not have to point out that the list was her idea and my only contribution was to nod and listen to her). She didn’t like Hybrid’s downtuned guitars, but she did love Robbie’s soaring voice.
And here he was, shirtless except for an open sky blue vest that matched his eyes. And he was looking at me. Smiling.
It took all my energy to look away, and when I did, my eyes rested on Graham Freed. He was sitting at the front of a long couch, closest to me. Graham was an amazing drummer and one of the key aspects to Hybrid’s success (in my opinion, anyway) but he certainly wasn’t the most charismatic. Oh, he wasn’t bad looking by a long shot—none of the guys in the band were anyone you’d find fault with. He had shoulder-length black hair and a thin beard and was covered in tattoos and strange piercings that made him look like a tribesman. He loved to admit his fascination with the occult, never really refuted the fact that he had ties to a Satanic church, and was just a general oddball. Of course, everyone knew the whole thing was bunk and it was just for show, but his opinions made him annoying. To me, Graham was always the disgruntled drummer of the band constantly vying for attention.
Except in this case, Graham looked like he didn’t want any attention from me. In fact, I could have sworn he shuddered at my presence and his brows were knit in confusion.
I kept my eyes moving and settled on the last person on the bus. The person sitting at the end of the long couch.
Sage Knightly.
He was leaning against the wall with a book in hand, his long, black-jean clad legs sprawled in front of him. On his feet were his trademark flip-flops, his wide upper body in a wide-collared black shirt that was unbuttoned halfway, a peek of his scruffy firm chest popping through. Tattoos drifted out of the sleeves and onto his forearms. He was looking at me with all the intensity in the world, and in my numb state I couldn’t read any expression on his face. His gray-green eyes were clear and piercing, framed dramatically by his low, strong brows. Black curly hair fell softly on his forehead and onto the sides. His dimpled chin was strong, his bottom lip was full with an upper lip that curved sweetly. His skin was bronzed and looked more exotic in person, alluding to his rumored Hispanic ancestry.
He was the man on my wall.
My musical hero.
My musical crush.
And he was on the bus, sitting there, right in front of me.
No, wait…he was leaving.
With a slight narrowing of the eyes, he finally stopped staring, and after giving everyone what seemed to be a disgusted look, got up and marched down the aisle toward me. He was so tall he almost had to duck down as went by. I leaned against Chip to get out of his way—Sage was built like a brick house and probably would have clipped my shoulder.
“We have your beer!” Chip yelled after him as Sage pushed past me and stomped off the bus. He didn’t even throw us a backward glance.
I looked back at Chip, my heart racing, the urge to vomit teasing me. What the hell just happened there? Did I piss him off somehow? Already?
Also: Holy smokes, Sage Knightly just touched me.
Chip grinned. “Welcome to the band, Rusty!”
“You’re not the guy from Rolling Stone,” Graham said to me, sounding accusatory.
I looked at him, surprised. “Rolling Stone? No, Creem.”
“I thought I asked for someone from Rolling Stone,” he mumbled angrily. Wait, the drummer arranged for this?
“Who cares, she’s hot,” Chip said, putting his arm around me. “Come on, put down the beers, let’s get the introductions over with.”
I put the beers on the table, right in front of Robbie. Our eyes met and I immediately tore mine away, too many weird emotions going through me at once. I was bewildered, shook up, confused, and in disbelief.
“Nice to meet you, Rusty,” Robbie said in his smooth voice. “I’m Robbie.”
He smiled. I was turning into a puddle of swoon.
“Dawn,” I corrected him and immediately felt silly for doing so. Robbie Oliver could call me Pooey-Poo-Poo Smelly Face if he wanted to.
“Rusty it is,” he said, still smiling, still working out those dimples. He scooched over and patted the faded seat next to him. “Come, sit, regale us with your tales of Creem Magazine.”
I made some sort of noise. Chip pushed me lightly into the seat and tossed everyone a Carlsberg, making sure Mickey got his first.
After I had gotten over the fact that Sage had just snubbed me, I was overcome by the girly, juvenile, dimwitted sensation of “Oh my god, I’m squished up next to Robbie Oliver. Oh my god, Mickey Brown and Noelle Clark are sitting across from me, drinking beer. Oh my god, Noelle won’t stop glaring at me. Oh my god, how did this become my life?”
Thankfully I wasn’t able to dwell on it for very long. Chip was shoving a beer in my hand while Robbie started rattling off the questions: How long had I worked for Creem Magazine, where was I from, what was my favorite band, what was my favorite Hybrid album, what was my favorite Hybrid song, and who was the best singer in the world?
Naturally I answered “you” to that last one.
He grinned and patted my hand. “That a girl! Great answers.” He looked at Noelle, who continued to look unimpressed. “See, she’s not a groupie.”
Then he leaned into my hair and whispered into my ear, “Not that I’d mind either way.”
I let out an awkward laugh. Was Robbie hitting on me?
“She’s a groupie with a badge,” Noelle shot in.
I responded with a look that could kill.
“Can I quote you on that?” I asked sweetly, finding my nerve. “Would look real good in the article.”