PART II: STRANGE EFFECT

Weston turns to me after Cassandra walks off, and smiles warmly. I find myself smiling shyly as I walk over, complete with the half lowering of my eyes and all, and he extends his hand. I shake it, then go in for a hug. Not sure if it's voluntary or involuntary, but hell, I've been waiting several years to do that. I smile to myself when he hugs me back. Seeing him face to face is a dream, and I care not his 20 years of age over me, and just bask, enjoying looking into his Atlantic blue eyes, and the stress of meeting him eases away. I want to run my fingers through his thick, wavy brown hair, but I don't know him like that so I don't, and instead, listen intently as he speaks to me.

"Hello," he says in his rich baritone voice. "Thanks for coming out."

He starts to tell me about how he was nervous of "fucking this whole thing up" because he broke his finger, and he holds out the left index finger for emphasis. It's slightly swollen and kinda yellow from the others—a disruption of perfection, it is. Excluding the wounded finger, his hands, like the rest of him (I'm sure), are beautiful. They were large, with long fingers and short and neat nails. I can't stop myself from imagining having the weight of those hands, slowly trailing the backs of my legs and up my back, gently caressing my shoulders before slowly trailing down my arms, clasping my smaller hands within them.

Yes, I...have a thing about hands.

If a man has small hands or stubby fingers or just generally unattractive, meaty paws that want to reach out and grope, or even merely reach out and touch for that matter, I can't help but find myself repulsed and turned off. But with Weston's hands? I'm all too easily turned on. I'm sure he knows what to do with those gorgeous instruments, but it'd be nice to find out for sure...

Ahem.

Anyway, I want to kiss the boo boo on his finger better, but instead, remaining sane, I make some sort of sad face and say, "Sorry. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"I can still play power chords, so at least there's that."

I frown in confusion. "Power chords? Sorry—I'm not sure what that means."

"Oh, just...simple chords. Still, I won't be able to do all of the songs I want to do."

I say "okay" or "fine" or something equally boring, and kick off my shoes because I feel too tall. He looks amused by the gesture, but doesn't comment on it. In my stocking feet, I'm about the same height as him, so I guess with his shoes that he's five foot eleven, so without them, he's probably more like five ten. A lot shorter than I thought he'd be (albeit, not short), but then, this is Hollywood. It's nearly a sea of midgets. Even so, he's still just as sexy as I thought he'd be. Oh gosh, and his smile...

We talk some more, well, he talks, because I've apparently lost my grasp of speaking the English language, which is the only language I know fluently.

"I have to admit, I'm a bit nervous," he started. "I've played in a couple of bands before, but this will be my first time on my own. Couple that with the fact that I can't even play properly tonight..." He shook his head, giving a self deprecating smile. "Well, at least Murphy's Law cut me a break, and the LA traffic didn't keep me from being late."

Suddenly, I manage to say something that wasn't the word "okay."

"The LA traffic is a bit of a doozy, what with everyone driving twenty miles an hour."

Ugh. I am so lame...

"It's actually my first time in LA. I'm from Chicago."

He lights up at this.

"Wow, that's fabulous! I love that city. Visited a friend there last year and had a wonderful time."

You were in my town last year?! Where the fuck was I?

Then he adds something that totally blows my mind.

"You know..." his voice is low, almost a bit bashful. "You belong in LA. You look LA." He says this in the most appreciative manner. I have yet to encounter flattery by any other man that has ever affected me in such a way. And by "affect" I mean damn near instantaneous PW action (i.e. "panty wetting").

And then it's posing time.

The camera man motions for us to get in a pose, and Weston reaches for me, and for a second, everything blurs; I feel as if I'm in a fog.

Reality rights itself, and I face him as he faces me, and he pulls me flush against him, his hands low on my waist. My arms wrap around him, hands resting on his shoulders. I so wished he wasn't wearing a leather coat so that more contact could be made. I realize that he doesn't really have a smell—just the smell of the leather—but since he doesn't have a particularly great sense of smell (or so I've heard), I suppose cologne would do no good for him.

After the bright flash of camera light, I say "thank you" with one of those dorky, shy smiles again, and he says, "No, thank you. And thanks for wearing that dress. Really lovely dress."

I blush, feeling blood rush and burn my ears, and thank god he can't see it.


I see a ton of people going back in line to buy more pictures with him, and I know that at this point I'm already broke as hell...But I can't help myself. I go to the ATM and then to the merchandise table to the buy another chance to get in line for pictures (which is essentially code for "more face time with the man"). I then feel ridiculous and saddened that if I do so, I won't be able to pay the $25 for the concert. So I go back to the table, ask the nice lady for a refund, and buy a $10 photo print of Weston instead. If this had been a few days from now, I could have gotten it thanks to direct deposit from work, but alas...

I see all of the women having so much fun taking pics, and I find myself involuntarily pouting because I know I can't have both.

But good grief do I want both...

"You're not going to get another photo op hun?" a woman asked from behind me. I turn and see that she's older—early forties maybe, with a cute pixie haircut. I shake my head no, smiling sadly.

"I can't afford to do the photo and see the concert later. I'd like both, but I'd rather see him perform than take another photo, so..."

She put her hands on her hips, frowning at me thoughtfully.

"You know, if you're going to do this thing, you have to do it right. Looks like I'll be buying that concert ticket for ya."

I blinked, pausing in thought for a second.

Under normal circumstances, I usually would have said something like "Are you sure?" a couple of times before accepting, wanting to have an ounce of decorum and being polite and stuff. But here?

I cried out, and hugged her right then and there, offering numerous thank-yous, and how I was thankful, and thank you, and how she was absolutely the BEST woman on the planet.

Thank you, Katie.

After that embarrassing display (not that anyone noticed, probably, still watching Weston Moore as they should), I go back to the nice lady at the merchandise table and say, "I'd like to take the picture instead." I hand her back the photo I purchased and bought the photo op.

And my god, was it gonna be worth it.

I found myself to be more confident the second time around. I took off my shoes beforehand, and walk up to him with a little smile. He gave me a dazzling one in return, and a bit of a once over. Before he can say anything, I stand in front of him, my back to him. I hear him murmur, "Yeah," causing blood to rush to my ears and prickles on the back of my neck, and then he wrapped his arms around me, hands at my abdomen, flush against my body, his warmth at my back... It was just pure bliss. I don't think I ever felt so comfortable or relaxed.

It was the absolute best thing EVER.

The camera flashes, and the moment is over. Force of habit and manners kicking in, I only say "thank you" to him, because there isn't much time, and he can't converse with me like before. But do you know what he says, low and quietly into my ear?

"Pleasure's all mine, baby."

His voice was all low, deep and rumbly, and the epitome of delicious in regards to a man's voice. Oh, what a joy that was to hear. I felt tremors. I gave him a 1,000 watt smile at that, and walk off to retrieve my purse and shoes (once again).


It's time for signatures.

Sadly, there was no time for the Q&A or for him to mingle. The late start, and the repeats upon repeats for photos sadly prevented that. Katie, who was going to buy my ticket later, had nothing for him to sign, so I offer to give her one of my photos—one of Weston when he first started playing Michael—the immortal on a path to redemption—crouched against a white back drop, and another of a close-up on his face half hidden in shadows, an abundance of curls on his head. Though both were my faves, hence why I bought them at a con in Rosemont a few years ago, I knew it was good karma to give up one to the lady who made it possible for me to take another pick with him, and go to his concert.

I will miss my close up/curly haired Michael photo.

Signature time, right? Weston is sitting in this upper level of the room at this little round table against the wall, and I'm like number ten in line. I look around me and notice that most of the women in line suddenly have gifts and gift bags materialize on their person for Weston. It's a bit of a strange phenomenon—it never even crossed my mind to get him gift. I mean, it wasn't even a gift giving holiday or his birthday...Anyway, I start talking to Katie and the lady with the boobs—Lola (who was quite nice, for the record. A lot of people were giving her dirty looks, though I do get why), and we joke about giving Weston our numbers as a gift. Lola and I decide to do it for real.

Before I know it, it's my turn.

We start chatting, and the first thing he brings up is something about science, and something about either his friend or Uncle...but I guess there's a look on my face (i.e confusion and/or boredom) on discussing that particular topic, or maybe he's just way perceptive, and pauses, smirks and asks me, "Do you like science?"

I laugh a little and tell him no. He smiles at me and softly asks, "What do you like?"

Total opening to say something dirty, but strangely, I am cured from Gutter-brain Syndrome after the picture taking, and tell him about my writing, how that was my major, Yadda, yadda, yadda. Then he tells me that if it wasn't for writing and writers, he'd have nothing.

"It's all about the writers man. I mean yeah, acting's important, but without great writing, you have nothing. That's what made the show so good—the writing.There were a few talented actors—me, Anthony, and some others, but the writing made that show. You know, hopefully...one day I could work for you and your brilliant writing."

Total flirt and flatter machine he is.

I do that stupid smile and blush thing again, roll my eyes at myself and then I say, "With you...you don't need words. Some of your best work was nonverbal, actually."

He ducks his head, blushes, half smiles and half scoffs at that. It's beyond adorable.

"No, seriously," I say. I bite my tongue a little (strictly metaphorical here), because I didn't want to be all lame and mention how I discussed this in great detail on some forum, and instead say, "...when I see you act, wordlessly especially, I believe you."

"Thank you. Really," he says quietly and sincerely.

And then he's done signing, and I have to mosey on along. I tell him that I feel bad that I didn't get him a present like all of the other attendees (all women). He cuts me off, smiling, saying, "It wasn't necessary. All you had to do was bring yourself. You're more than enough."

I smile again, adding "Well at any rate, here's my card, so..."

Totally not what I wanted to say, but I should be relieved it wasn't some mumbled drivel. He smiles again (though there seems to be a glint in his eyes), says "Thank you," and pockets it. I'm stunned, yet happy.

Though I'm sure he'll never use it.


We have to wait outside for reentry into the club for the concert.

The wait ended up being just about an hour for the tickets, and then we were able to go back in. First though were picture pick ups in the hallway.

All of the photos from the day were spread out on two tables against the wall in the hallway. I notice that one woman took at least fifteen shots—maybe more.

That's dedication for ya.

It isn't hard to spot mine—there were only so many brown faces in the bunch. I gently pull it out from the other photos, and gasp a little to myself. I realize that I love that picture and that moment more than anything—even my prom. I mean, I thought I loved prom, with my custom made dress and whatnot. No, I realize I didn't love it as much as I thought, because so far, in my twenty-one years, nothing has ever been that fantastic and fun. It truly was a dream come true.

Anyway.

I put my two pics in my bag with my signed Weston photo and his CD, and hurried my way back into the club.

There are a couple of acts before Weston. One was a guy on his guitar, with a country vibe—plaid shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. Country isn't really my thing, but I will say that he was terribly cute. Reasonably sized side burns, puppy dog eyes, and long, flowing brown hair that he'd rake off of his eyes every once in awhile. The other was a band of what looked to be guys in their late teens, with a young woman as the lead singer and front woman. I liked her style—fishnets and feather earrings, combat boots, a plaid skirt and a leather vest. The sound was cool too—like some sort of ska and hard rock hybrid. No Doubt meets Taproot or something.

In between the sets, an abundance of 80s music was played. I was the youngest person there, and was made fun for not knowing most of it. In my defense, I told the women around me that I loved George Michael, and knew all the words to "Paradise City."

I, Cassandra (the woman who was in the photo line with me), Katie (the woman who bought my ticket), and Lola (boob lady, who has changed her top to this...sparkly, string bikini with no support whatsoever. Not that it mattered cause her boobs had their own magical support) staked out spots in the front, right at the stage.

The lights dim, the announcement for his arrival comes, and he's on stage, directly in front of me. I hold in a squee at being so close, even though it's bad for taking pictures because the mic is also directly in front of his face. He shows off his guitar, telling the audience it had a rough time of it in transport, evident bruises on the bottom.

"Those pesky handlers at the airport. Can't cut a guy a break, can they?"

He explains the incident behind his broken finger. Apparently, on his way to the loo in the middle of the night before filming a shot for a film, he was half awake, and tripped on his shoes and pants on the floor, and tripped head first towards a mirror.

"Just like a man, leaving shit all over the floor," Cassandra whispered into my ear.

"I thought 'oh no—my face! I'm filming tomorrow!' and threw my hand in front of myself. I saved my face, but sadly not this finger."

I think he made the right call. Well played, Weston. Well played.

Then, he tells the audience how some of the songs will have to be played by CD while he sings, and Lola shouts out "Milli Vanilli!" He makes this annoyed, and yet humored face at her antics.

"Great, now that's gonna be with me for the rest of the week..." he responded, shaking his head.

He starts his first song.

In spite of Lola's constant jumping up and down, presumably to make her string of a top fall off "accidentally" to flash Weston, he keeps his eyes on me, for the most part. He'd smirk; he'd smile; he'd wink. During his last song, he reached out for my hand.

I stretched out my hand toward him, slowly, in some kind of trance. He held it, stroking my palm with his thumb for a moment.

Insert an insane amount of blushing and a flood of warmth and wetness here.

Before I know it, it's over.

He waves to the audience, saying goodnight, and then he's gone for several minutes. He comes back out to the floor, however, needing to finish photo ops. One woman bought twenty. Yes, that's right—twenty. I guess the woman with fifteen or so from earlier has to hang her head in shame now for being out done.

Anyway, two was enough for me. I'd love more face time with the man, but that really isn't how I'd want to do it. I'm just saying.

I wait patiently with Katie and Cassandra, because I want to tell Weston "thanks for the memories," or something. Unless he brings his ass to Chicago, I won't get to see him again cause I can't afford this kind of stuff. Apparently, most of the people there were regulars, and go to all of his events.

I was a newbie.

He comes out with his entourage, consisting of his manager, the woman who was at the merchandise table, and another man. I find myself calling out "Weston!"—blurting it out 'cause I was in this stupor of thinking what I was going to say and try not to screw it up.

And he stops.

Problem is, his little entourage stops too, looking at me, waiting. I feel uncomfortable with their eyes on me, so I shake my head and look down, ashamed, and of course he walks off during this.

I feel like an utter dumbass. No—really. That moment almost ruined my good feeling and natural high from the whole day.

Sigh.

Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.

"Wow, that wasn't awkward at all," Cassandra joked. "Maybe you'll do better this weekend."

I look at her, confusion written on my face, not knowing what the crap she's talking about.

"You know—the con here in Burbank? He's gonna be there. And it's cheap as hell to get into."

I think about how my flight isn't leaving until Sunday night. I also think about how I'll be getting more money deposited come Wednesday morning.

Moneyz.

And just like that, a decision is made.