Once the world sees a flaw in celebrities, they treat them the way Cinderella was treated by her evil step-sisters—with cruelty and abuse. People can’t handle their gods having human traits.

I love, love, love their music. Angry and sad. Dark and cold.

This guy is walking lubricant. His eyes are the color of mud and deep, deep, deep, as a bottomless pit, but they’re hard, lethal, dangerous. And his cheekbones are sharp. So sharp that you can hone a blade on it. His skin is smooth as stone and the color of golden sand. A few strands of his copper hair float in front of his forehead, and two nose rings glint in his nostrils. Tattoos written in Hebrew snake up to his right chest. He’s built like a Viking, thick muscles and tall as a skyscraper. Six foot five or six. Who knows? Either way, my five-foot-four frame wants to climb him like a tree. Every time I’m around him my stomach turns into goo. Felix is gorgeous as a thunderstorm. Beautiful from far away, but up close, he’s deadly, dangerous, and chaotic, sweeping women off their feet with his charm.

He yanks his stained white shirt over his head, and my gaze zeroes in on his chiseled abs. A delicious a line of hair rails down to his jeans that hang so low on his narrow hips, that fine strands of pubic hair peek above his jeans.

My breath is unsteady as ocean waves and my throat is drier than a desert.

Damn. You think I would have gotten used to seeing his body while I was on tour with him, but every time I lay my hungry eyes on him, his body looks more delicious.

“Have you seen my diary?” My words come out shakier than an earthquake, and I cross my right Greek sandal across my other.

He swaggers to his black backpack that’s next to the dresser, swaps his stained shirt for a clean white t-shirt, and pulls it over his head. “It has Ariel, The Little Mermaid on it.”

If he read it then my life is over with.

I’ve written sex poems about him.

I’ve written sex fantasies of him taking my virginity.