“Actually, I’m just a doctor from the swamp. But thanks for the ego boost.”
For the next hour or so, Tara, Robin, and Sheri toted us around, introducing us to all the metal elite, until we ended up back downstairs at the bar.
“We’re going to go see what’s up with the guys. You want to come?” Tara asked.
I shook my head. The last time I’d caught a glimpse of Phil, he had been signing a very large boob, a shit-eating grin on his handsome bearded face.
He’s touching other women’s mega-titties and looking like he’s enjoying it. He should be ashamed. He can come find my ass when he’s finished with his groping.
“We’ll be back soon,” said Robin.
Sheri stood, deciding to join them. “You ladies enjoy the man-candy, yeah?”
“We most certainly will,” said Alys, laughing.
“I’m gonna find the head.” Lewis kissed Lili and walked off.
The four of us—Vivian had decided to hang—grabbed some more Jäger shots and beers and parked ourselves at the bar.
“I’m having a freakin’ blast!” cried Vivian. “Who fuckin’ knew we’d be meeting all these people?”
“Right?” crowed Lili.
I was sitting at one end of our friendship train, so the seat to the right of me was empty. To my left sat Alys, and she was looking at me, getting ready to say something, when her eyes shifted to just above my right shoulder and grew huge with shock.
“What?” I hissed, getting a nervous twinge in my chest.
“Oh my God, Kenna,” she whispered. “Turn around!”
So, I did. And my jaw dropped.
Devon GianFranco.
Standing right next to me was possibly the greatest guitar player of our age. Beyond talented, he was gifted and one of my absolute favorite musicians of all time. It didn’t hurt that he was beautiful—as in the way Brian was beautiful, like too good-looking for anyone’s own good really. In fact…he kind of resembled Brian, except Devon’s eyes were the greenish-blue of the Caribbean waters. His black hair was thick and straight, and it had the shaggy shoulder-length style of having grown out. He had high cheekbones along with thick, thick black lashes, a strong angular jaw, and a chin with a dimple in the center.
Oh my gods above.
He must have sensed the worship pouring out of Alys and me because he turned to us with a sardonic, if not condescending, scowl on his perfect features.
“Guess you want an autograph?” he asked, sounding resigned.
“Actually…” I could hardly get the words out of my mouth.
He was one of my greatest heroes, and he had made me so nervous with his obvious distaste of having to do something so tedious as to speak with me.
I cleared my throat and started over, “Actually, if you could just tell me what was going through your head when you performed that seven-and-a half-minute solo of ‘Water for Blood’ at Budokan in ’99, I think I’d be all set.”
Maybe it was just the low lighting, but I could swear I witnessed him crossing his eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“‘Water for Blood’ solo. In seven and a half minutes, you destroyed nearly every other guitar solo in the recent history of guitar solos. What was going through your head when you shredded that piece? Because I have never been so moved by a solo in my life as I was by that one.”
Devon’s whole demeanor changed, his facial features softened, and he indicated to the empty barstool. “Anyone sitting here?”
“No,” Alys and I chorused.
He smiled, and gods help us all, he had a big, fat dimple in his left cheek. It wasn’t as cute as Phil’s, of course, but it was up there.
“What magazine do you work for?” he asked.
That took me by surprise.
“She’s not a journalist. She’s a doctor,” Alys chipped in.
“A doctor?” Now, it was his turn to look surprised and maybe a little impressed.
I nodded. “Yep. Therapeutic medicine. And she’s an accountant.”
“Are you two together?”
We got that all the time really. Sometimes, people mistook our closeness for something more along the lines of a relationship.
“Nope. Just really close friends. Nothing romantic.”
“Or remotely sexual,” Alys supplied.
“Gotcha.” There was that dimple again. “So…Budokan. Shit, that was five years ago. I can hardly remember what I was doing yesterday.”
He had a very slight lilt to his voice, and most people might not catch it, but I could just tell he hadn’t been raised in America. His accent could very well be…Irish? That was strange, coming from a man with the last name GianFranco.
“Yeah, but come on!” I goaded. “That was one of the most