Chapter 1: The Manager's Dilemma
"Good Night Boston! You've been amazing!" Serena Skye shouted out to her fans, blowing kisses to the audience as she turned and left the stage. She had barely made it 5 feet when her manager was right beside her and started into his usual tirade about her flirting and dancing that was starting to give off the wrong vibes for her brand.
“The whole show was just... excessive.” Marco Rossi fell into step beside her, his polished loafers clicking a sharp rhythm against the concrete floor of the backstage tunnel. His voice was a low, urgent hiss beneath the distant roar of the crowd still chanting her name. “The family brand is ‘playful seductress,’ not ‘college spring break.’ We talked about this.”
Serena didn’t break stride as she headed for her changing room backstage. A sheen of sweat made her skin glow under the harsh fluorescent lights. She accepted a towel from a hovering assistant, dabbed at her neck, and tossed it back without looking.
“They loved it, Marco. The streams on that album jumped forty percent after the Tulsa show where I did the same thing. You get the data reports. Don’t you?”
“It’s not about the data, it’s about the narrative,” he insisted, following her to the sanctum of her tour bus, as fans lined the walkway on either side, all begging for selfies and autographs.
Serena kept stopping for her young fans, which just aggravated Marco even more. She signed a t-shirt for a teary-eyed girl, winked at a blushing boy holding a homemade sign, and let her fingertips brush against countless outstretched hands. Each touch was a tiny spark, and she collected them, trying to feel something beyond the hollow, ringing echo of the encore.
“You’re killing me, Serena. You need to tone down your sex appeal. Stop acting like a horny teenager!" Marco shouted as he grabbed her wrist and started pulling her away.
That was her last straw.
She ripped her arm away and quickly scanned over the crowd, her piercing blue eyes landing on a handsome young man wearing a T-shirt from her first ever concert.
"You might be my manager, Marco, but you do NOT own me." Serena said defiantly drifting closer to her fans, specifically that cute boy with messy brown hair.
As Marco reaches out for her again, she instead reaches past the barricade and grabs onto the fan she had been eyeing.
"You seriously are going to deny your young cash cow what she wants?" Serena asked Marco defiantly as she pulled the fan onto her side of the barricade.
The fan—Chase, his VIP laminate flapping against his chest—stumbled forward, his sneakers squeaking on the polished concrete. His eyes were wide, drink-damp, full of a stunned, delicious terror. He smelled like cheap beer and fabric softener.
“Serena, don’t be an idiot,” Marco snapped, stepping forward, a hand outstretched to intervene. He opened his mouth to continue, but Serena silenced him by kissing that fan that she held onto passionately.
The kiss was not soft, or tentative. It was a declaration, a full stop punctuated with the press of her glossed lips. Chase froze, his entire body rigid with shock. Then, instinct or adrenaline or sheer dumb luck made his mouth move against hers. The crowd’s roar erupted as they watched their favorite singer engaging in something so intimate with a fan, all of them secretly wishing it had been them instead.
Marco’s hand closed on Serena’s shoulder. “That’s enough.” His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet.
Serena broke the kiss, leaving Chase gasping. She didn’t look at him. Her eyes, bright and hungry, were locked on Chase. “My bus. Ten minutes,” she said, her tone inviting yet leaving no room for argument. Then she turned that dazzling, practiced smile on Marco. It didn’t reach her eyes. “You. I don't want to hear from you for the rest of the night."
"Serena," Marco tried to interject, but she didn't let him.
"If you do not listen to what I'm saying, I could always fire you, if you'd prefer." Serena dared him, her voice dripping with challenge. Marco opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it.
"That's what I thought..." Serena jabbed. "You have the rest of the night off Marco. And while you are at it, cancel my media obligations for tonight and tomorrow." Serena requested her face flat, though it was really more of a demand.
"Bye!" She said to Marco, her stoic expression returning to her joyful girly smile that made up so much of her image.
"Now where were we?" Serena smiled, returning her attention to the young man who was still shell shocked by his celebrity crush pulling him into a deep kiss.
Chase just stared, his mouth slightly open, his brain visibly short-circuiting. The noise of the departing crowd, Marco’s frustrated sigh as he turned away, the security guard’s radio crackling—it all seemed to hit him at once. He blinked.
“Uh,” he managed. It was less a word and more the sound of air escaping a punctured tire.
Serena’s smile widened at his awkwardness.
"Sorry, let me back track," Serena said, extending a hand towards him. "I'm Serena Skye, what's your name?"
“Chase,” he blurted, then winced, as if the single syllable was too loud. “Sorry. I’m Chase.” He took her hand. His palm was damp. Hers was cool, steady.
“Chase,” she repeated, letting the name roll off her tongue. She didn’t let go of his hand. “I liked your shirt. Electric Dreams Tour. That was a lifetime ago, you must be a real fan."
“You played the Madison Theater. I was fifteen. I made my parents drive from Boston to go see you." Chase explained, still utterly starstruck that his favorite singer was taking time to talk to him.
Serena’s smile softened, something real flickering in her eyes for a second. “You drove all that way? For me?” She gave his hand a little squeeze before finally releasing it. The noise of the load-out crew crashing through gear faded into the background. “Come on, that type of loyalty deserves to be rewarded." Serena smirks, taking his hand and leading him towards her bus.
The tour bus door sighed shut behind them, sealing out the last echoes of the stadium. Inside, it was a different world—a long, narrow cave lit by the faint blue glow of under-cabinet lighting. The air was close, warm, carrying the scent of stale perfume, cold coffee, and the faint, sweet decay of drained energy drinks. It smelled, Chase thought absurdly, like exhaustion.
He stood just inside the door, frozen, as Serena kicked off her sparkly heels. They skittered across the polished floor and thumped against a sofa. She padded barefoot to a small kitchenette, the sequins on her costume catching the low light like scattered stars.
“You can breathe, you know,” she said, not looking at him. She opened a small fridge and pulled out two bottles of water. “It’s just a bus. It’s not going to bite.”
“Right. Sorry.” The word was becoming his mantra. He forced his feet to move, stepping further into the space. It was surreal. A plush grey sofa lined one wall. A framed photo of a puppy was stuck with a magnet to the stainless-steel fridge door. A half-eaten bag of pretzels sat on the counter. It was so ordinary, so weirdly mundane, it was more disorienting than the backstage chaos.
Serena handed him a water. Her fingers brushed his. “Stop apologizing.” She unscrewed her own bottle and took a long drink, her throat working. Up close, he could see the fine cracks in her stage makeup near her hairline, the slight puffiness under her brilliant blue eyes. She looked young. Twenty-one, he remembered. Just a year older than him.
She leaned back against the counter, studying him. “So. Chase. Tell me, do you have any condoms with you?"
“Condoms?” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Um, no, sorry, I didn't really ever think I would need them tonight."
“That's fine," Serena said, getting close enough to whisper in his ear. "I prefer to do it raw anyways."