There's a nervous excitement when a hurricane is about to blow through town. The energy builds up as people try to dispel it with preparations; gas for the generator, non-perishable food, extra water, and boarding up the windows. That's the thing about a storm; you can plan for it. But not all storms blow in from Mother Nature, and I hadn't prepared for this storm. If I had known he was coming, I would've at least dressed better. I slumped back against the wall of the employee hallway to gather myself as I tugged on my beat-up Bob Dylan t-shirt and jeans. There was nothing I could do, so I sucked in a heavy breath and walked out to the aisles of the record store.

His eyes landed on me from the front of the store, and, in the rarest of occurrences, a glimmer of a smile tipped the corners of his crimson lips. Immediately "oh shit," audibly fell from my lips, causing him to dip his face to hide his laugh.

I wasn't this uncool, and I never fawned over anyone. Just a few months earlier, I had been in this exact spot lamenting that I had to deal with one of the biggest movie stars in the world as he entertained the idea that he could be a musician. Now, a boy was making me puddle.

Those few months felt like a lifetime ago. The stubborn summer heat of early September lingered. The sticky humidity persisted even in Red Wall Records' dank basement. The sweat coated me as I stocked copy after copy of the new Jackson Small album. My typically low-key boss, Ruthie, had worked herself into quite a tizzy about Small. Jackson was the heartthrob of the moment in Hollywood. Even as I racked album after album with his annoyingly perfect face staring at me, I couldn't help but secretly admit his good looks to myself. By some stroke of good fortune or bad, depending on how you looked at it, Jackson Small had selected Red Wall Records as one of the three remote locations he'd visit as he kicked off a 2-month tour to support his new musical career. I hadn't bothered to listen to his album. The idea had crossed my mind, but then I saw the star's grainy black-and-white image on the cover, and I decided on Cake instead. Besides, I'd have to endure his trite emo crap that evening when he played in the store.

Four years earlier, when I started at Red Wall Records, the event would've been exciting. That day, however, it was just an annoyance. Luckily it was a Thursday, and the schools had newly reopened, which gave me the day to prepare for the on-slot of giggling girls dying to become Mrs. Small. I dreaded dealing with a group that thinks attractiveness and dance moves bear musical ability. But the mental image of Jimi Hendrix or Son House being instructed on the ins and outs of the bus stop by a choreographer made me laugh.

As the crowd trickled in for the show, my friends, Matt and Joey, sneaked in from the back hallway. Ruthie hated it when they entered the employee entrance, which didn't dissuade them from using it; it only discouraged them from getting caught. Once they were entirely on the floor, Matt lifted a hand in greeting before settling themselves in a back corner where Matt could easily view all the groupies.

"Come to check out the ladies?" I teased as I approached.

"I am." Matt glanced around as he spoke. "This one's still hung up on the mystery girl," he continued as he stuck a thumb towards Joey.

"This guy any good?" Joey asked as he picked up one of the CDs and gave it a look.

"Haven't listened to it yet. I figured he could wow me tonight." Sarcasm saturated my response.

"High hopes," Joey murmured.

"He's just another actor turned musician. How well does that ever turn out?"

"Maybe we'll be pleasantly surprised," Joey absently spoke, his mind pulled elsewhere as often occurred.

Twenty minutes before he was set to play, Jackson arrived, and Ruthie, annoyed at his late arrival, sent me off to deal with him in the back office.

"Hey, are you Jackson Small?" I said as I wandered into the office.

It was a small room that also doubled as storage. Sitting on a simple wooden chair, surrounded by boxes, sat the face I'd been staring at all day.

"That's the rumor." He didn't bother to look up from the guitar he was tuning. His British accent curled around his words.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Oh, you work here?" His eyes snapped up from his guitar when he realized I wasn't a fangirl.

"That's the rumor." I met his gaze with a smirk.

My response pulled a laugh from his lips. "I'm good, thanks." My confusion was transparent on my face, so he clarified, "you asked if I wanted anything."

"Oh, right, sorry, long day."

I slid behind Ruthie's desk and plopped into his office chair as Jackson began strumming and humming to himself. His guitar skills were impressive.

"You're not bad." A tone of surprise accidentally slipped into my words.

"Big fan?"

"Well, actor turned musician."

"Acting made me famous, but I've been playing music since I was twelve." His voice was quiet, with a hint of frustration.

"I guess I should check out your work."

"There's a stack right there." He pointed to the corner of the desk as he spoke.

"So, you excited to play?"

He just shrugged off my question.

"Wow, let's stifle the enthusiasm." I laughed.

"These people aren't here to hear me. They just want to see a movie star." Disdain poured from him as he met my gaze again. He was gorgeous, with strong features and soft eyes.

"I'm sorry," I offered, mostly because I seemed to have misjudged him, but he didn't know that.

Jackson shrugged. "You have yet to scream or faint, so we're good. The worst is the criers. I'm sure a few of them would be good-looking if they weren't covered in snot."

Despite my laugh, it wasn't all that funny. "Do you ever look forward to playing?"

"I'm looking forward to Rigby." He returned to tuning his guitar as he spoke.

"Rigby?" I was born and raised in Portland and had never heard of a place called Rigby.

"Yeah, Rigby. You work in a record store in Portland, and you haven't heard of Rigby?"

A mixture of embarrassment at my naiveness and annoyance at his belittling filled me. He glanced around the room and picked up a Sharpie and one of his CDs. He scribbled down an address in Ashland and handed it to me. "Show up here at about 10 pm; you won't regret it."

"Can I bring a couple of friends?"

"The more, the merrier, but it's a club, so if they're ugly, they'll have to pay."

"Cool." I was skeptical, as what he wrote was an upper-class residential area. It was an odd place to imagine a rock club. The distraction caused me to miss Ruthie joining us with Joey in tow. "What are you doing back here?" I tossed to Joey.

"It's his office; he's allowed here," Joey shot at me with a smile.

"He's going to help with security," Ruthie spoke; it was her only tone.

"He's my security," Jackson chuckled. "I think I'd be better protected by," he paused and looked at me. "I never caught your name."

"Nope, you didn't." I playfully smiled.

"I wasn't expecting you to arrive alone." Ruthie didn't hinder her annoyance.

"I find the fewer people around me, the less attention I draw." Jackson shrugged. "How bad is it?"

"There are a few people out there," Joey offered. "Why don't you head out with his guitar?" He then directed to me.

With a nod, I agreed, but when I reached the main floor, I was shocked. It was wall-to-wall girls. I bobbed and weaved my way to the stage and set the guitar on the stand beside his stool. Moments later, Jackson entered the room with Joey and Ruthie flanking his sides. The entire room erupted as though The Beatles had just arrived. The girls clawed at his clothes and grasped his limbs in an unhinged manner. As he struggled to cross the ten yards to the front of the stage. I felt terrible for the guy. Joey and Ruthie worked hard to clear a path, and finally, after quite a battle, Jackson was standing next to me.

"Well, that was lovely," he sarcastically murmured to me before settling on the stool. "Good evening," he said in a low, sensual voice that caused all the girls to scream again. "I'm Jackson Small; thank you for coming."

Even as I stepped from the stage, only feet from the speakers, his voice was barely audible over the crowd. He was playing, but scarcely a note could be heard over the volume from his fans.

"How would you say he's doing?" Joey spoke into my ear as I joined him and Matt in their corner.

"Who knows?"

"It's insane!" Matt yelled over the crowd.

"Shame, really; I was interested in hearing him." Joey sighed.

Jackson played for about twenty minutes in vain and then signed autographs until after nine. "I'm sorry," he repeatedly said as he left. "If you give the desk your addresses, I'll send a signed picture, but I have to get going." He slipped into the back office and paused long enough for me to meet him back there.

"So, I'll see you in a little while," Jackson confirmed as he packed up his guitar.

"Yeah, I think so. Are you okay leaving? I mean, do you want Joey to go with you?"

"I'll be fine. Out there, I'm just another guy catching a cab." A peaceful smile crossed his face at the thought of being anonymous as he lifted the hood of his navy-blue sweatshirt.

"Jackson," I called after him just as he was about to step outside. He paused and turned to catch my eye. "My name is Riley, Riley Sims."

"Riley." He smiled back at me with a nod. My name sounded odd, rolling off his British tongue. "I look forward to seeing you tonight. I'll make sure to leave your name at the door," he added before he ducked into the darkness.

"What the hell was that?" The annoyance filled Joey's tone.

"Did the movie star just pick you up?" Matt teased.

"No." I rolled my eyes, hoping it would hide the blush of them seeing me get picked up by a movie star. "He invited us to someplace called Rigby."

"No fucking way." Matt shook his head in shock.

"You've heard of it?"

It turned out that I was the only person in Southern Maine that hadn't heard of Rigby. Matt and Joey eagerly filled me in on the lore of the hidden club. Two heirs exiled from New York after some incident and ended up in the family's summer home. They had missed the city's music scene, so they made their own basement club and attracted huge names to do late-night sets.

"I heard The Pretty Reckless were there last month," Matt excitedly said.

"I heard one brother is fucking insane like never leaves his room crazy," Joey added.

"Really?" A small amount of fear churned my stomach.

"Yeah, I heard they came here because he killed his best friend in a drug-fueled car accident. Since then, they've kept him hidden away." Matt theatrically spoke like he was telling a horror story.

"That's awful," slipped from my lips in a whisper.

"So, are we going?" Matt prodded.

"Seems shady." Joey shrugged.

"What? Are you scared of the big bad Rigby brothers? Their parties are supposed to be legendary," Matt countered.

"Whatever, I'm in." Joey grumbled, "unless Riley is scared of the ghost story."

"No way!" I was lying a bit. "I doubt it's even true." I was more soothing myself. "We should get going. I want to take a shower before we head out. I sweat my ass off today."

"Oh, primping for the movie star," Matt teased.

"Shut up," I growled as I pushed out the back door of the store.

That night I met him, Jacob Rigby. The same Jacob Rigby glided through the store aisles in his effortless stride as my heart pounded in my chest.

"Hello," he said in his calm, smooth voice, and I was done.