Page 28 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

The day after Dorian meets my family, I drive to Inglewood, where he has a rehearsal for the VMAs.

The freaking VMAs. He has to perform for the opening ceremony next Wednesday, and I’ll get to be backstage.

I only ever watched the awards on TV, and now I’m dating—sort of—the major star.

Whenever I remember how famous Dorian is, it blows my mind.

The giant indoor arena looms ahead as I pull up in the parking lot and kill the engine. I check my watch. I’m earlier than I need to be. Should I wait in the car? Nah. Dorian is performing in there, and I don’t want to miss a single note.

The hot concrete radiates through my sandals as I approach the massive building.

Getting inside is disorienting, the blazing sunlight snuffed out in dim light, the air instantly cooler.

And the backstage corridors are a confusing tangle of dead ends and identical doors.

It’s a maze. After a few wrong turns, I finally stop to ask a staffer for directions.

The young woman, wearing a headset and holding a clipboard, gives me a once-over, and I suddenly feel conscious of my outfit—jeans and a T-shirt with Dorian’s first album cover on it. She could assume I’m some crazed fan, but instead of calling security, she eyes my pass and smiles.

“Follow me.”

She leads me through the labyrinthine hallways, and I take mental notes of the turns so I don’t get lost again. We pass various backstage areas, until finally, the staffer opens a door and gestures for me to enter.

I step through and my breath catches. The auditorium is massive, with endless rows of empty seats that circle the stage. The arena floor is a good hundred yards away, but as I hop down the steps in the center aisle, I can pick out Dorian on the platform, joking with the band.

I take him in from a distance as I keep walking.

It’s impossible to reconcile the easygoing man who had dinner with my family last night with the legend standing on stage now.

He’s wearing an intricately embroidered black velvet vest, left open over his muscular chest and abs, paired with fitted, leather pants detailed with side lacing that crisscrosses along his thighs.

The outfit is edgy, rebellious, and so far removed from the Dorian I’m getting used to, it leaves me momentarily stunned.

He looks different up on set. Taller, more imposing.

The spotlights give his dark hair a glossy sheen, and his trademark smirk is in full effect.

This is the Rian Phoenix the world knows—the rock god.

It’s a little surreal because to me he’s just…

Dorian. The guy who keeps a stack of worn paperbacks by his bed and gives great hugs.

Dorian turns mid-laugh, as if sensing my arrival, just as I hop off the last step.

When his gaze lands on me, the warmth in his grin shifts into something more intimate, only mine.

My heart was spinning like a wheel while I watched him unnoticed.

But his sudden focus is a crowbar in the spokes that brings the poor organ to a jarring halt and sends it slamming into my ribs.

Dorian waves me over, gives a nod to the band to take five, and steps to the edge of the platform, squatting down.

“Hi,” I breathe, hesitantly stepping forward until I’m looking up into those icy-blue eyes from under the stage.

Dorian leans down, resting his forearms on his knees. “Hey, beautiful, did you come to steal the show? Should I warn the band to pack up?”

A grin breaks across my face, wide and unrestrained, making my cheeks ache in the best way. Gosh, he’s so cheesy sometimes—and I love it.

“Only if stealing the show involves tripping over a mic cord. The band can stay.”

Dorian tilts his head. “Does the idea of tripping on cords always make you smile like that, or am I having an exceptionally good hair day?”

His hair is intentionally disheveled like always to give him that just-rolled-out-of-bed sexy vibe he “rocks” so well.

But today, my gaze drifts lower to the tantalizing strip of skin visible between the lapels of his vest and the waistband of his low-slung pants.

Then back up, taking in his broad shoulders and muscular, bare arms. “It’s more the display of muscles and bad-boy leathers than the hair… ”

When I meet his gaze again, I notice his eyes are rimmed in black, the eyeliner accentuating their unnatural brightness, making the crystalline blue of his irises seem otherworldly.

I swallow my initial reaction, determined not to look completely smitten.

And fight to keep a straight face as I tease him about it.

“Uh, and I finally get to see the guyliner.”

Dorian hops off the stage, landing in front of me with a soft thud. “Glad you approve.” He widens his arms, letting the vest fall open a little more as he flexes his abs. “Though, let’s be honest, it’s hard not to.”

I shake my head, still beaming. “I don’t know what’s worse, that you said that or that you can get away with it.”

His smirk deepens as he takes a slow step closer. I feel like prey being stalked. “Something else I can get away with today?”

I lift my eyebrows in mock-suspicion. “Like what?”

Dorian shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I’d take anything… how about a good-luck kiss before the show?”

I shift my stance at the fluttering in my stomach as if I could physically sidestep his suggestion. “That’s against the rules, and this is a rehearsal.”

“Always so strict.” His voice is velvet—pure temptation. It lands somewhere deep in my core where someone must’ve started melting honey, a warm gooeyness spreading everywhere. “Weren’t you supposed to get here after the sound check? You’re early. Couldn’t wait to see me?”

I narrow my eyes, determined not to let him fluster me further. “Actually, I was hoping Harry Styles would show up.”

Dorian’s bark of laughter echoes through the empty auditorium. “Aww, below the belt, Josie.”

Before I can reply with another witty comeback, his drummer hollers, “Rian! We’re ready when you are!”

Dorian turns his head, nodding at the band, before glancing back at me. “Duty calls. They never let me have any fun.”

With a gallant gesture, he motions toward the front row. “VIP seating for my number-one critic. Try not to be too harsh, yeah?”

I point at my T-shirt. “I’m more your number-one fan.”

Dorian covertly blows me a kiss and hops back on stage.

And I sink into the seat he gestured to.

The music starts with a jarring crash of drums and a bold guitar riff that immediately demands attention.

Dorian grabs the mic and his eyes land on me.

He’s making me his sole focus in a stadium meant for thousands.

When his voice cuts through the music, it’s a shock to my system.

His timbre is rough but controlled, deep, a visceral blend of gravel and heat.

No softness here, only intensity and grit, and yet it feels vulnerable in its boldness, as if he’s laying himself bare through his art.

The sound vibrates in my chest, rattling something loose inside me, and I’m left clinging to every word, entranced as he keeps singing just for me.

Without the added confusion of an audience, his raw talent is too much for me to take. The stripped-down performance leaves me even more awestruck. More in love, if that’s possible. The way he pours his heart into every lyric, how his body moves with the rhythm—it’s mesmerizing.

The fact that he keeps singing every soul-baring note while looking straight at me doesn’t help.

But it’s not just about how beautiful he is or the way his voice curls around my spine to wring me tighter and tighter.

I’m captivated by the discipline of his team and the way the band works together as they cycle through multiple repetitions of the medley until every note is perfect.

What may appear as an effortless performance is a carefully honed craft built on repetition, mutual trust, and a grind so impeccable it becomes invisible.

As the last notes of the song fade, Dorian’s eyes remain locked on mine. I can’t take any more, but I also can’t look away.

My heart races as he jogs off the stage and strides toward me. “So, what’s the verdict? Did I pass the audition?”

I play it cool, despite the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach. “Hmm, I don’t know. I might need to hear a few more songs before I make my decision.”

Dorian smirks. “Love a challenge, Monroe.” He glances back at the platform, where technicians are switching over the staging. “We’re rehearsing the last part of the number soon. In the meantime, want to check out the snacks table? It’s pretty lavish.”

I nod, getting up on legs that are still shaky from watching his performance. We approach the sawhorse table covered with a paper towel, and I snag a couple of mini-donuts. Dorian, meanwhile, pours himself a cup of coffee, basically inhaling it.

“Thirsty much?” I joke.

“Caffeine is the only thing that keeps me standing during these long days.”

I chuckle, taking a bite of my donut. “I thought rockstars thrived on chaos and sleep deprivation.”

“Not really.”

His eyes are wary. I’m not sure if it’s because of what happened with Billie and her choice of lifestyle. But I hope his love of music will never be soured because when he performs, he’s a gift to the world.

“Dorian, you’re amazing at what you do. Your voice, your songs, the way you take control of the stage. I couldn’t tear my eyes from you.”

“You might be a teensy bit biased.” I’m about to protest when he shrugs, adding, “And it didn’t always come this easy. Practice makes perfect.”

But I insist, “No, seriously. You were incredible.”

“You should’ve seen me when I started out.”

It pains me that I didn’t know him back then.

Dorian pops a mini pretzel in his mouth and speaks between chews. “The first time I opened for another band in a stadium filled with thousands of people, I almost peed my pants.”

I can’t help but grin. “So, is bladder control the secret to stage presence?”

He laughs, a rich sound that ricochets down my spine, sparking little bursts of happiness. “Don’t tell anyone, or I’ll have to kidnap you and take you on tour with me.”

The idea of being whisked away by Dorian, of spending long days and nights on the road with him, has all kinds of sensations zigzagging through my stomach. I act bolder than I feel. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

His eyes darken, and he leans in closer. “How about both?”

I study the spread of assorted provisions. “If the snacks are always this impressive, count me in.”

He grabs another mini pretzel. “Should’ve known food was my best way to here.

” Dorian pokes a finger over my heart. The touch is brief, gentle, barely there…

but it prompts shortness of breath and palpitations.

Either I’m having a cardiac arrest, or he doesn’t need any food to get into my heart.

He’s already lodged in like a stubborn fragment of glass.

Every glance, every touch cutting deeper, hurting sweeter.

“Food is the way to anyone’s heart.” I attempt to sound like his hand on me didn’t almost make me collapse.

“Is that so? I always thought the way to a woman’s heart was something more complicated. Like poetry or, I don’t know, writing a love song ?” He arches a seductive eyebrow at me.

“Are you only listing things you excel at?”

He drags his teeth over his lower lip, sucking it in while shooting me a playful, heated side look. “I thought muscles and tattoos were my best flex.”

And as much as I want to tease him back, this time, I don’t. “Except they’re not.”

“No?”

“I love the smudges of ink on your fingers after you write lyrics more than I love your abs.” I drop my gaze to his waistband.

“Which is saying something because that is a pretty perfect six-pack. And I love the absorbed look in your eyes when you’re creating.

The best parts of you are the ones you don’t let everyone see.

How you notice the little things, like when I need a hug but I can’t talk about what’s making me cry. ”

The playful spark in his eyes dims, replaced by something more contemplative. I carry on.

“And how you remember the stupid details I tell you, like my secret dream of being an extra in a movie that you made come true. Those are the parts that matter.”

Dorian’s eyes darken at my words and his throat bobs, but he doesn’t acknowledge what I said. Instead, he says, “Have dinner with me tonight. I’d like you all to myself for one evening.”

“Meeting the family was too much last night?”

Dorian shakes his head. “Not at all. I just want more silly things to remember. Learn more of your dreams to make come true. I want in here.” He pats my chest again, unaware that his hand is the flint and my heart the steel that strikes against it.

“I’m greedy,” he confesses, “for every piece of you, the shy smiles and the cutting comebacks. You were the only person able to pull a laugh out of me when I thought I had none left. I want to be with you always . I want to be at your family dinners, and I want your solo nights. I want everything, Josie.”

Another word and I’ll give it to him. Even what I don’t have.

“You know there are less intense ways to ask a gal to dinner.”

Dorian throws his head back and laughs. “Right, I shouldn’t take myself too seriously.”

But as he looks at me it’s clear he’s still waiting for an answer.

I hesitate, my expression apologetic as I explain, “I can’t tonight. I’m watching Penny while Lily works a night shift at the hospital.”

“Can I have tomorrow night, then?”

I agree, relieved that he’s not put off by my responsibilities. “Tomorrow is perfect.”

Just then, Dorian is called back to rehearsal. He walks on stage while I return to the empty first row.

And as Dorian takes his place behind the microphone once more, I brace for my soul to get a little more scorched.