The Has-Been and the Hot Mess - Isabel Jordan Page 0,7

of him singing his heart out with his band, Maelstrom, on the last leg of their last ever European tour in Prague. His eyes were closed and he was cradling the microphone the way Kendall imagined he’d tenderly and passionately cradle her face if he was about to kiss her.

Because, hey, in her teenage mind, it seemed totally plausible that if she loved him enough from afar, she would someday meet him, and he would kiss her. Disney movies and Sweet Valley High books had taught her as much.

The photo used on the poster must have been taken late in the show, because his shoulder-length black hair had been matted and wet with sweat. He’d been shirtless—of course, because what rock god deigned to wear a shirt onstage?—and his skin had glistened under the glare of the stadium lights, proving just how hard the man worked while he was performing.

And his muscles…

Back in his Maelstrom days, Jackson Hale obviously hadn’t been a gym rat. He wasn’t at all bulky or muscle-bound. What he had been was long and lean and taut in a way that made young Kendall’s mouth water. His body had been absolute perfection.

She’d gotten herself off for the very first time while imagining that long, lean, taut body of his pressing her down into her mattress. Right there on top of the old Star Wars bedsheets her frugal mother bought at a thrift store for a song and refused to ever replace. (“Sheets are expensive, Kenny,” her mother had said. “We’re keeping them until they’re so faded you can’t tell Princess Leia from Jabba the Hut anymore!”)

And now, today, here she sat, next to Jackson Hale at his kitchen table, barely able to make eye contact with him because she’d molested him in her fantasies. If he knew some of the things she’d done to him in her dreams, he’d probably file a restraining order against her. Or at least have her brought up on sexual harassment charges.

Kendall started to panic a little. How was she supposed to sit here and talk professionally to a man she’d violated in her mind? Over and over and over again.

Jackson sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I can tell by your horrified expression that you remember at least some of the not-so-flattering parts of my career.”

Kendall swallowed down a fantasy she’d once had about licking the tattoo that circled his belly button and dipped down into the low-riding jeans he always wore onstage—the ones that seemed to cling to his hips only by some kind of gravity-defying dark magic.

“Um…no,” she began, then paused to clear her throat. “It’s not that. I …” Was completely obsessed with you for my entire high school career? Wallpapered my teenage bedroom with your image? Wrote bad poetry and even worse fan fiction about you? “…was a fan of Maelstrom. I guess I’m just a little…shell-shocked.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe her. “I don’t run into too many of those these days,” he said ruefully.

She would imagine not. His career had started with a bang (sold out stadiums, world tours, Grammy nominations every year) and ended with a pained whimper (drug addiction, lawsuits for missed tour dates, rumors of brutal in-fighting between members of the band). It wasn’t an entirely unique rock star origin story, but it certainly wasn’t pretty, either.

That’s when her teenage brain started to shut down and her professional brain took over. Maelstrom’s music still got some radio play, but not enough to have remained super relevant over the past fifteen years since they’d disappeared.

If Jackson Hale wanted to stage a comeback and she was able to help him, her reputation in LA would be completely restored. It’d be the coup of the century.

Getting him back on the charts would be like resurrecting the dead! She’d be a PR legend.

Oh, if Ray was here right now, she’d kiss him on the mouth, maybe even with tongue, in thanks for this glorious opportunity.

Jackson leaned back in his chair and side-eyed her warily. “What are you thinking? Because you just got an absolutely terrifying gleam in your eye.”

Kendall gave him a critical once over. He was every bit as attractive as he had been over a decade ago when Maelstrom was at the top of the charts. At thirty-eight, he was a little more muscle-y than he’d been back then, a little tanner, and his hair was now close-cropped, as opposed to rock star long. He looked like he’d recently shaved,