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Speaking of wanting to puke, I sure hope I don’t lose my lunch—which was delicious, by the way—when Reed Rivers finally appears at this pre-party. I glimpsed him earlier today, from afar in his expansive living room, while Georgina was giving me a tour of his mansion—the place she’s been staying for the past week—and I legit almost had a freaking heart attack at the mere sight of the dude. At my school in Boston, every music student would give their right arm, leg, kidney, soul to get signed by River Records. Me included. In fact, I once joked to Georgina I’d give Reed my V-card to get signed to River Records. It’s a bit of a disgusting thought now that I’m actually here in real life. Not to mention the fact that my beloved stepsister is actually sleeping with the guy. So, yeah, I guess joking about giving Reed my V-card is no longer an option for a whole lot of reasons now.
I’m actually relieved Georgie didn’t introduce me to Reed earlier when we glimpsed him. In that moment, Reed was in the midst of chewing out a worker who’d made some error while setting up a huge stage for tonight’s big bash. As Reed fumed, Georgina grabbed my arm and said, “How about I introduce you to Reed later? I’ll show you his car collection now.” It was a great suggestion, as far as I was concerned. I’m terrible at making small talk with normal people under the best of circumstances, so trying to do it with a freaking music mogul, in his mansion, after watching him rip some poor dude a new butthole wasn’t my idea of a good time.
“Let’s get this party started!” a male voice yells playfully, eliciting a cheer from the small group. And when I turn my head, the proverbial puke attack I’ve been staving off for the past few hours rises sharply in my throat. It’s 22 Goats. All three members, walking onto the patio, along with a beautiful young woman.
Based on his body language, it appears it was Matthew Fishberger—Fish—the bass player in the band, who shouted that boisterous greeting. Or maybe I’m assuming that because in every interview I’ve seen of 22 Goats, and in every one of their music videos, Fish is the one who makes me smile and laugh the most.
I know this is a minority opinion, but I think Fish, not Dax, is the heart and soul of that band. Simply because I get the feeling Dax is only free to let loose the way he does, because he’s got his trusted best friend holding down the fort next to him—singing those incredible backing harmonies and playing his bass so brilliantly. Or maybe I’m just projecting that dynamic onto the band, since, my whole life, Georgina’s been the Dax of our sisterhood, while I’ve been the Fish.
As the three rock stars waltz onto the patio, the crowd enthusiastically greets them. Violet, the sophisticated brunette who was sitting on a lounger earlier, beelines to Dax and throws herself at him, and he kisses her like a drowning man gasps for oxygen. So, I guess that answers that question. Reed’s little sister, Violet, is definitely Dax’s wife, Violet. The woman who inspired 22 Goats’ masterpiece of a second album.
As I continue staring at the happy crowd greeting the Goats, the young woman who arrived with the band slides her arms around the drummer’s waist in a way that suggests she’s his date. Hmm. Does that mean Fish doesn’t have a date today? Or will she, or he, be coming later?
Gah.
Fish is so cute.
Obviously, I’m excited to see all three members of the band in person. Even if they weren’t famous, they’re three young, incredibly attractive dudes, so I’d surely be peeping at them, regardless. But . . . Fish.
There’s just something extra special about him. I love that he’s got boy-next-door charm mixed with a touch of rock star swagger. I think it’s that juxtaposition—his innate humility and normalcy mixed with the unmistakable glow of his stratospheric success—that makes him so damned mesmerizing to me. He seems attainable and relatable, and yet, also like a rock star, all at once.
In person, Fish is a bit taller than I’d expected. More fit, too, although his muscles are lean, and not bulky. Which means he’s exactly my type. I mean, if a girl who’s never had a boyfriend can be said to have a type.
Fish is dressed in a T-shirt and swim trunks. His light brown hair is tousled and a little shaggy, while his facial hair is well trimmed. As he hugs a pregnant blonde—a woman named Kat whom Georgie and I met earlier—I catch a glimpse of Fish’s iconic fish tattoo going down his left forearm. And for some reason, seeing that well-known tattoo in person gives me goose bumps.
