My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend by Eleanor Wood Read Free Book Online

is the real Jackson Griffith. I’m really pleased that you seem to like my crazy ramblings,
whoever you are – so obviously I don’t mind you *not* being THE Jackson Griffith. But as you seem to be hanging around in my virtual living room quite a bit, it might be nice if we
could do proper introductions. Excuse me if this is incorrect blogger etiquette – it’s totally up to you where you spend your online surfing time, so don’t feel under any
obligation or anything – but I wouldn’t know because I’ve never really had a real-life anonymous reader before! I’d just like to keep things cosy and polite.
Thanks.
    Tuesday-yes-that-is-my-real-name-Cooper
    hey, weird I know but it is me. I mean, I am me. guilty as charged. I goggled myself, ok?? Goggled, Googled, whatever – I’m an egomaniac! i
hope you don’t think me too forward but i saw there’s an email address listed here on your site – emailing you now with proof of the pudding! This mystery will soon be solved. The
MYTH! The MYSTERY – woooo!
    jackson_e_griffith
    Chew, seriously – stop feeding the trolls. Just ignore this guy and he’ll go away.
    seymour_brown
    relax, dude . . . I know my reputation precedes me but it ain’t all true! I’m just hangin out. I don’t mean any harm. Peace –
JEG.
    jackson_e_griffith

I can’t believe it. I literally cannot believe it. I am sitting on the sofa with my laptop, drinking Nesquik and eating a peanut-butter sandwich with the TV on –
the usual afternoon routine before my mum gets in from work – and suddenly the world has gone completely mental. This has got to be a joke.
    I have just received an email from ‘Jackson Evan Griffith’, sent from his personal email address, no less. The guy who has been leaving comments on my blog and, according to the
stats, looking at it most days. It’s Jackson Griffith. It’s really him.
    It even begins ‘Dear Tuesday’. It dawns on me that I now have Jackson Griffith’s personal email address.
    I know how unlikely this sounds – and that I sound like a totally gullible fangirl – but, against all odds, I’m pretty sure it must be him. Not only because his style of
writing does actually sound like a Sour Apple song – and I should know because I’ve listened to them all enough times. Not only because he explains to me that he has just moved from New
York to LA, via hospitalization for ‘exhaustion’ – I know this is true, but then so does pretty much everyone who reads the tabloids and/or music websites. Not only because he has
sent me a list of random, personal facts about himself, like that his favourite fruits are bananas and avocados (‘they’re a fruit, you know!’ he tells me helpfully), he prefers
dogs to cats, drives an ancient blue Jeep, hates anchovies on pizzas and is currently reading
Infinite Jest
by Dave Foster Wallace.
    No, I can be fairly certain that it’s him because of the slightly out-of-focus selfie attached. It is a bit grainy and obviously taken in a hurry, but it is most definitely Jackson
Griffith of Sour Apple. It’s a slightly different Jackson Griffith to the one I’m used to seeing in the papers, but this somehow makes it more authentic – he’s got a bit of
a beard and is wearing a burgundy beanie hat and a ratty old sweatshirt. He looks tired and a little bit baggy around the eyes – but he is half-smiling and still looks young for his age, even
though I know he is now twenty-three, no longer the teenage golden boy of pop music. In the background I can see an empty-looking room; an open laptop is resting on the wooden floorboards and
it’s displaying my blog.
    In case I still didn’t believe him, he is holding an American driver’s licence, which even in the blurry photo I can make out is in the name ‘Jackson Evan Griffith’ and
bears a picture of him. A picture within a picture, as if he stretches into infinity.
    Despite this exciting piece of evidence, my gaze is drawn first not to this