Fangirl by Ken Baker Read Free Book Online Page B

high school.
    As usual, Bobby was buzzing on a syrupy concoction he called a “red eye”—a monster cup of coffee with two shots of espresso, plus a spoonful of sugar dumped in, like some sort of bitter booster shot. Peter believed no man over forty should ever be that chipper that early, certainly not this far into a concert tour. As for Peter, he had a long night that even a heart-attack-in-a-cup couldn’t fix. After the Bakersfield concert, he was up late arguing with Sandy at the hotel.
    â€œI saw the way you looked at that girl,” Sandy accused Peter the second he stepped foot inside the hotel after the pair fought through a mob of fans amassed outside the Bakersfield Marriott.
    â€œWhat girl?” Peter asked, though he knew exactly what girl his girlfriend was talking about. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œUm, the hooker in that tiny patch of denim she probably thinks is a skirt.”
    â€œOh, okay. Got it. So now I can’t even look at someone who’s shouting my name in my face? Someone who, mind you, probably paid five hundred bucks for a meet-and-greet?”
    Sandy grabbed Peter by the arm. “What I’m saying is that looking is one thing and perving is another.” Sandy’s cheeks glowed red. “You know what, though? I don’t really care. She’s just another loser groupie.”
    Peter didn’t even try to pretend that he didn’t check out Denim Skirt Girl. She was gorgeous and screaming at the top of her lungs, and, well, he assumed any guy would have at least peeked. But, if there is one thing Peter would take issue with, was what Sandy had just called his most loyal fans.
    â€œWell,” he snapped, “those supposed loser groupies are the reason we are even here, why we have jobs.”
    â€œYeah, a job you complain about all the time,” Sandy snapped, texting on her iPhone to avoid eye contact. “For someone who supposably loves his job soooo much, you sure do complain about it a lot.”
    â€œSupposedly,” Peter corrected her.
    Sandy looked up from her phone. “Supposedly what?”
    â€œYou said supposably. That’s not a word. Supposedly is.”
    â€œThanks, professor. Sorry, not everyone is Peter Perfect.”
    Peter stared down at the guitar pick he squeezed between his thumb and forefinger. The skin around his thumbnail was red and flaky, the detritus from a bad habit of biting his nailsand fingers whenever he got too stressed. He had been trying to break the habit ever since last year. But it was proving a hard habit to break.
    â€œLet’s break up,” Peter suddenly blurted. Peter looked as shocked when the words came out of his mouth as Sandy was. Like an unexpected burp, it gave him a sense of relief.
    The next morning, Peter was thinking about what had gone down the night before. And he was not happy. Not happy that his girlfriend didn’t embrace his fame, his fans, and just enjoy who he was. He was mad at himself for never solving his own problems because he was too busy trying to make everyone else in his life happy, so much so that he couldn’t even tell the man sitting next to him the pain he felt.
    Just then, his dad interrupted Peter’s self-pity party.
    â€œSo here’s the deal, Son.” Bobby excitedly finger-scrolled his iPad. “Abby says no one knows we are showing up at the school today.” Bobby knocked his son in the arm with his elbow. “I love it, I love it, I love it. This is gonna be a hoot!”
    Bobby chuckled so hard that his long hair, graying at the temples, fell in front of his face. Brushing his bangs back, he added, “Dang it, you’re gonna make this girl’s year, Son.” Bobby stomped his cowboy boot on the SUV’s floor. “Plus, Hot Hollywood is gonna dedicate twenty-four hours of programming to you the day we release the new album. They’re good media partners.”
    â€œWhere are we