Chapter 1 — Allison

Rude. I’m looking at my bank account on my phone, and the number of dollars staring back at me is just plain rude. If I have to subsist on one more packet of ramen this week, I might actually turn into a noodle. But as I step up to the counter at Java Jive, I plaster on a smile.

“Three large coffees, please. And don’t forget the dash of cinnamon in mine.”

“Of course,” the barista says, because she’s seen me here often enough to know my peculiar preferences.

My eyes dart between the barista’s swift hands and the damning total inching up on the register. I hand over my debit card, praying to every deity known to humanity (and a few unknown ones, too). The machine beeps, and I exhale as the transaction approves. Small mercies, I guess.

“Here we go, ladies,” I announce, returning to the table where Elizabeth and Cora are deep in conversation. They stop talking as I slide into my seat, making sure not to spill a single drop of our precious perky bean juice.

“Thanks, Allison.” Cora wraps her hands around the warm cup.

“Anytime,” I say, though my insides are screaming, ‘Please, not anytime soon.’ I pause to take in the sweet scent of my cinnamon-spiked coffee, silently counting out a few seconds before I take a gulp, the spice tingling my tongue.

In my head, I’m rehearsing every possible deflection for when the conversation inevitably swings toward work. Ever since I quit my podcast, funds have been tighter than my skinny jeans in high school. If my friends knew how my career is hanging by a thread, if they started prodding about why I really left the podcast… Well, I’d rather not go there and ruin their perfectly good moods.

“Everything okay with you?” Elizabeth asks, her blue eyes perceptive as ever. Damn her intuition.

“Couldn’t be better,” I lie smoothly. I brush my hands through my blonde waves, trying to appear as relaxed as a person can be when their financial life resembles a dumpster fire.

“Did your phone just vibrate?” I ask Cora, nodding toward her purse where her cell screen is flickering.

“Uh, yeah.” Cora hesitates, her fingers fumbling as they reach for the device. “It’s just Mike.”

“Mike?” My eyebrows do a quick tango up my forehead. “Hold the press—who’s Mike?”

She sips her coffee, her cheeks blooming with color. “Oh, uh, Mike’s just this guy I’ve been seeing.” Her words tiptoe out like she’s afraid they’d be critiqued for grammar. And to Cora, there’s nothing more terrifying than someone who’s even more of a grammar stickler than she is catching her in an error.

“Wait, wait, rewind and play again.” I lean in. My Cora-radar must be on the fritz. How did I miss this? “You’re dating? And I’m only hearing about this now?”

Cora bites her lip, glancing at Lizzy for support. “We’re sort of keeping it on the down-low.”

“From you, anyway,” Elizabeth murmurs through her teeth as she raises her cup to her mouth.

“Oh, come on!” I throw my hands up, sending a faint mist of cinnamon from my drink scattering across the table. “Am I that bad?”

“Well…” Cora starts.

“Eh…” Elizabeth stammers.

What the hell? Has everyone forgotten how to form real words?

“It’s not personal, Ally,” Elizabeth says. She hates her voice, thinks it sounds like a ‘baby voice,’ but she really has a soothing tone that could sweet-talk a hummingbird. “It’s just, well, you have this habit…”

“Of being overly protective,” Cora finishes, dark eyes darting away. “Like when you told me to dump what’s-his-name because he used too many winky faces in his texts.”

“Or when you almost had me convinced my date was a serial killer because he wore his watch on the inside of his wrist,” Elizabeth adds.

I scoff, folding my arms over my chest. “Okay, first of all, excessive winkies are a gateway to Creepville. And everyone knows inside-wrist-watch-wearers are hiding something.”

“Like their tan line?” Elizabeth suggests with a playful tilt of her head.

“Exactly—wait, no.” I shake my head, a smile betraying my faux annoyance. “Can’t blame a girl for being cautious. Especially after digging through the nightmare fuel of toxic relationships for years on ‘Toxic Love Diaries.’”

On my podcast, listeners would call or write in with their relationship problems. Most of the time, I responded with my signature tagline: “Tox-ICK!”

“Made you quite a few enemies too,” Elizabeth says, her voice softening with concern. “MediaStrike wasn’t exactly throwing you parades.”

“Those bastards couldn’t stop me,” I scoff, though something bitter twists in my gut at the mention of my old rivals. “But seriously, guys, I’m on your side. I’ve seen what happens when you ignore the warning signs.”

A ghost of a certain past relationship flickers in my mind. If only they knew. They’d get why I’m cautious.

“Love what you’re doing with the music column, by the way,” Elizabeth says. “It’s… quieter than your podcast, but cool.”

“Thanks,” I say, the word a little sticky. Quieter is one way to put it. Not nearly enough might be another, but hey, who’s counting? “Anyway, Cora, tell me everything about Mike. Does he wear socks with sandals? I need to know if I should start worrying now or later.”

“Definitely later.” Cora laughs. “Let me get to know the guy a little more first.”

“I do miss your podcast, though, Ally,” Elizabeth says. “Always made my commutes more interesting. And you know I could use an interesting commute these days, after dealing with the bosshole all day.”

“Thanks, Liz.” I swallow the lump of nostalgia lodged in my throat. “But you know, change is good. Keeps things fresh.” Fresh and terrifyingly unstable, but they don’t need to know that part.

“Speaking of fresh, how’s the dating scene for you?” Elizabeth has a playful glint in her eye. “Anyone caught your interest?”

“Ha! Nope, nada. Zilch.” I give a hearty laugh that’s a little too loud to be genuine.

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Why aren’t you dating? You were the one who came up with the ‘He Falls First’ pledge, after all.”

“Me?” I feign surprise with a dramatic hand to my chest. “I’d rather chase a tornado than another man. The pledge is just formalizing what I already practice—self-preservation.”

Inside, though, my heart beats a cynical rhythm. I came up with the pledge idea for Elizabeth, not for me. Lizzy’s gone through way too many relationships that were duds. Guys who were lucky as hell to be with her—and who valued her about as much as a tube of chapstick that they kept misplacing. She’d fall head over heels for them anyway, because she’s just nice enough to see something good in every garbage human being, and she’d end up getting her heart broken.

I was tired of seeing it happen, so I gently prodded her—as in, I kind of set a little fire to burn her ex-relationship souvenirs—to make that vow: Don’t fall unless he’s already face-planted. Only she wouldn’t do it unless all of us did.

So we did. Elizabeth, Cora, and I have all pledged not to fall for a guy unless he falls for us first.

Elizabeth’s been oddly quiet about the pledge since we all took it last week. But she’s also assistant to a demanding new boss, and she always did put work before her personal life. So she probably hasn’t had any time for dating.

As for me? After Scott, the mere thought of romance sends a shiver down my spine. A shiver of unadulterated dread, that is.

Elizabeth and Cora have seen the shadows under my eyes post-breakup, and the hesitance in my step when passing by Scott’s favorite bar. But they’re blissfully unaware of how deep the pain he left behind goes. They don’t know how close I am to swearing off men entirely, not because I’m playing hard to get, but because I’m playing keep-away—with my sanity as the prize.

Elizabeth gives a big exhale as she looks around, saying, “Speaking of the pledge…”

But then she stops talking. The chatter around us dips into a stunned silence, punctuated by the hiss of the espresso machine like it’s letting out a collective breath. Cora’s jaw drops, I swivel in my chair to follow her gaping stare—and there he is.

Bax Davis. Rock god in the flesh, in all his leather-jacketed glory.

“Whoa,” slips from my lips before I can reel it back in. It’s not just the fact that he’s here, in Sacramento, in our little haven of caffeine and free Wi-Fi. It’s the way he carries himself—like he owns the very air we’re all currently borrowing. Those dark tousled locks beg for a run-through with fingers, preferably mine, and his eyes are a shade of blue you’d expect to find in the heart of an iceberg. He’s clad in a leather jacket that screams ‘I’m cooler than you,’ and the jeans—good lord, the jeans—are doing their job exceptionally well.

“Is… is that really him?” Cora whispers.

“Yep. Unless Sacramento’s become a hotspot for celebrity doppelgängers, I’d say we hit the jackpot. That’s Bax Davis.” I keep my tone light, like this isn’t a guy whose songs were the soundtrack to too many of my showers. Yeah, I’ve belted out more than a few Bax Davis lyrics while shampooing my hair.

“Okay, Ally, you know people in the biz. How do I talk to him?” Cora’s eyes are wide, and she’s practically vibrating with excitement.

“Uhh,” I can only stammer, because let’s face it—I’m a small-time music journalist, not a magician. “Hate to burst your bubble, but I’ve never rubbed elbows with anyone that high on the fame food chain. Just… be cool?”

“Right. Okay.” Cora’s nod is more of a whole-body tremor as she stands up, smoothing down her dress. She’s got guts—I’ll give her that.

Bax’s path carves easily through the throng of stunned onlookers, and he’s close enough now that I can see the intricate detail of the ink crawling up his neck. He’s about to pass us when Cora steps into his path, all bright-eyed enthusiasm.

“Hi, Bax, I’m—”

The snarl that slices from his lips stops her mid-sentence.

What the hell? Is Bax Davis really glaring down at my friend from up in his tower of too-tallness?

Cora’s cheeks are flushed and my protective instincts kick into overdrive, the warning bells from our red-flag conversation still ringing in my ears. Except this isn’t about toxic love. It’s about defending my friend from an A-list ego trip.

“Was that really necessary?” I snap at Bax before I can stop myself, jumping up to block Cora’s retreat.

The look he shoots me could freeze coffee mid-pour, but I don’t care. I don’t know what his problem is, but I imagine he’s used to stick-thin supermodels fawning over him. There are some people who might think Cora’s not as pretty because she’s curvy, but those people are idiots. The girl is gorgeous. Bax clearly wouldn’t know genuine beauty if it hit him over the head with his own guitar.

He gives me the up-down with a squint in his eyes, and for a moment, I feel like a piece of art in a gallery he’s not too fond of.

“Look, I’m just not in the mood for fanfare, okay?” Bax grumbles, voice rough like sandpaper on old wood.

“Then maybe don’t waltz into a coffee joint looking like you stepped off an album cover,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “Ever heard of a disguise? Baseball cap? Sunglasses?”

“Where I come from, people have the decency to pretend they don’t recognize you,” he retorts with a scoff that could curdle milk.

“News flash, rock star: This is Northern California, not L.A. We don’t have celebrities running around like you guys down south.”

“Down south? Where do you think I live, Los Georgia-les?”

Is that a hint of a smile on the egomaniac’s lips? Figures, he’d only be amused by his own dumb humor.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore—or L.A., for that matter.” I wave a hand around the café. “This is Sacramento. We get excited about farmer’s markets and decent parking spots. But celebs who think they’re better than us? Not so much.”

He deepens his glower, a storm cloud in leather and denim, then spins and exits stage left, leaving behind a trail of citrusy cologne that will forever be burned into my brain as the smell of ego. Despite myself, I admire the taut, muscled lines of his retreating figure. Ugh, star power. The infuriating power of celebrity pheromones, making me check him out even as he’s pissing me off.

“Wow, Allison. You just told off Bax Davis!” Cora’s eyes are saucers.

“Did not see that coming,” Elizabeth adds, shaking her head. “Podcast Ally is back.”

Everyone else in the coffee shop seems similarly bewildered. They keep staring in our direction, and it takes a second for the sounds of grinding beans and pouring drinks to slowly rise again. Okay, so it’s not a normal Tuesday occurrence, seeing some plain Jane rando tell off a superstar twice her size. But everyone’s got to be thinking the superstar’s the weirdo in this scenario… right?

“He had it coming,” I say with a toss of my hair, though my heart’s still doing somersaults.

Elizabeth glances at her phone. “Boo. Duty calls. Bosshole wants me back on the clock.”

“I should head back, too,” Cora says. “I’m going to tell everyone at work I just met Bax Davis! Well, sort of.”

Once they’re gone, I start to wonder what the hell just got into me. Bax Davis is the kind of guy who could get me blacklisted from doing interviews, if he wanted to. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know who I am.

Maybe my overprotective tendencies are a bit much, if seeing my friend getting glared at can send me snapping at a king of my industry. I know I can be a lot at times. It’s just that, after everything I’ve been through, I’ve got to look out for my friends. I’d hate to see Liz or Cora get hurt as badly as I was.

Before I can spiral further, my phone vibrates on the table. I snatch it up and there, shimmering back at me from my cat meme phone case, is a new email from Cecilia Jennings, my editor-in-chief at Sonic Pulse.

A new assignment? Please be a new assignment. As I open the email, I mentally calculate the dignity-to-dollar ratio I’d accept for something, anything, to pay the bills at this point.

My stomach nosedives as I read.

“Bax Davis is in town this week. I want you to land a meeting with him,” Cecilia writes, unaware of the cosmic joke she’s initiated.

Of all the rotten, ludicrous, completely bonkers luck.

The last line of the email taunts me: “This could lead to writing his biography—a very lucrative opportunity.”

“Lucrative.” The word is a siren song for the financially floundering. Oh, the sweet relief of a well-paying job.

But as I stare at Bax’s name, recalling the snarl and the storm-out, I can’t deny it: this has disaster written all over it.

A whole book on Bax freaking Davis—the wild child of rock whose idea of a good time probably involves trashing hotel rooms and serenading groupies. And who, of course, hates me. Can’t forget that fun new update.

“Great,” I sigh, dropping my head onto the table. The universe must be having a laugh. I just chewed out the very man who could get me my next paycheck—a big one, with multiple actual zeroes. “Just great.”

I take a long sip of my lukewarm coffee. The cinnamon I sprinkled on top has formed a bitter sludge at the bottom.

And for some reason, that reminds me a little of my current predicament.