JC has said that he likes dark hair. You don't think he's ever mentioned eyes, but you know from a Rolling Stone interview that his old girlfriend's eyes were green. The new girlfriend, the actress, has brown eyes, you think, but it really doesn't matter because you're prettier than she is. You were voted prettiest girl all four years of high school, and that's for two schools, because you moved in 11th grade. You're the prettiest girl you know, and you've got dark brown hair and blue eyes, like JC. He's what you want, what you need. He's what you deserve.

You paid deep dollars for this ticket. You wanted to get in one of the first few rows, close enough so that the bodyguards could see you. You're showing the goods tonight: little t-shirt, not too teeny, but with a V-neck to show some cleavage. The hem of your skirt rises mid-thigh, the waist cut low to show an enticing slice of your flat belly, and just the barest bit of the upper curve of your hip. You look good and you know it.

The bodyguards come out, and you can tell by the quick, impersonal way they scan the rows of girls that they've done this many times before. You know how this goes because you go to Popdirt and Groupie Central. You've read the stories and analyzed the gossip, and you know you'll be chosen. You're not surprised when you catch the eye of one of the guards and he does a double take. Quick and smooth his eyes lock on yours, and he motions to you. You stand and you're the center of attention for a few sweet seconds as you gather your purse and cell phone. You swing your hair over your shoulder, edging by the envious girls still in your row. Some of them start crying.

You're escorted backstage with a few other girls, who you glance at, then give no notice to. You're given a backstage pass that you loop over your neck, and one of the crew comes around with bottles of water in a tub of ice. You're standing a few feet from a black-curtained area, and you hear voices and laughter, and you know that's where they are, where he is. The bodyguards have instructed you that you're not to scream at the guys, talk to the guys, or try to touch the guys. You were selected to watch the show from backstage, but they won't hesitate to escort you back to your seat, or out to your car. A couple of the girls smile, as if they think it's a joke, but the bodyguards are all business. You don't doubt that they mean what they say.

The show is amazing, and you watch JC almost exclusively. Eyeing the easy glide of his hips, you're vibrating with excitement, knowing what's going to happen later. Roadies appear occasionally to bring fresh bottles of water and ask if you're enjoying yourself. You are.

It's over before you know it; suddenly, the crew is rushing around, beginning the load out. The audience is screaming, and in the few minutes they have after the encores, the guys come out to meet you. Now you're nervous because he's there in front of you, so beautiful that you can't breathe.

The other girls are fake-looking blondes, plastic girls wearing too much makeup and too little clothing. You're prettier than they are, and you're the only one with any class. You're the only brunette, so you know you've been selected especially for JC. The girls out front are going crazy; the ones closest to the stage are crying because they know that soon the tour buses will fill up and their heroes will be gone. You won't be saying goodbye that soon.

They're getting close. The guards are watching you with hooded eyes, completely impersonal and detached. They remind you not to touch unless you're touched first.

It's like a receiving line, slow enough to seem personal, but quick enough to get them on their way. Lance is first. He smiles, and thanks you for coming to the show, but those famous green eyes are blank. He's not there and it shows; he's probably already thinking about what shirt he'll wear to a club two cities away. You're not really offended, because you're not after him.

Chris is next, and those funky beard things are even weirder in person than they look in pictures. He gets away with it, though, because he's a celebrity; everyone knows that being famous makes guys more attractive than they'd be in real life. Chris totally does nothing for you physically, but you smile and hold his hand for a moment. He gives you a quick, loose hug, and yeah, you feel his celebrity then, because your heart speeds up and you're thinking, "oh my God."

Joey's next, but he's chatting up the blondes. Venue security keeps shouting into walkie-talkies, and you can hear people around you saying, "come on Chris, let's move it," and "where'd Lance go?" and "let's hit it Joey; on the bus and we're outta here," and they will be out of there soon, but not before the golden one comes your way.

His movements are graceful and slinky. If you weren't after JC you'd want Justin, tall, gorgeous and so much a star he makes your heart hurt. He's the kind of boy you dated in high school, cute and effortlessly popular. He dips to give you a dry, chaste kiss on the cheek, not even slightly suggestive, but he whispers, "You're a pretty girl," before he straightens and winks at you. He's still smiling when he looks back at JC as he approaches.

His eyes are a startling grey-blue, deep, long-lashed and turned toward you. "Hello, sweetheart," he says softly, and smiles so his eyes crinkle at the corners. He says 'sweetheart' like he wants to know you better, and you melt. You've never seen anyone as beautiful as this. You want him so, so badly. You want this life.

He looks at your hair, long and dark like he prefers. "Did you enjoy the show?" You nod and then there's no one else in the room, there's no sound when he leans close to kiss your cheek. He smells like mint, and the clean sweat of his performance, and cologne that's too expensive for you to be familiar with. "Thanks for coming tonight, you're very beautiful," and his lips are moist against your skin, his breath warm.

When he pulls back and smiles, the world is with you again.

Beside you, Joey is touching a girl who looks like she'd go down on an usher if he claimed to know the band. Then they're frenching, and she palms his crotch. He leans back, out of reach, and grins at the security guard, who motions for her to stand with the other girls who are clearly excited but trying not to show it. You realize that all of this has only taken a few minutes.

JC glances at the security guard, then at Justin who leans close to whisper in JC's ear. Their bodyguards look up and around as one, and they move close to sheperd the guys to the doors. Joey winks as he passes you. "Hey baby, thanks for coming to the show." The dark-haired actress appears and she smiles at JC, but she falls into step beside Lance. When JC and Justin move away, Justin's hand is low against JC's back, his thumb moving in a tiny circle. It's an intimate, possessive gesture, and you blink. When you take another look, you're not sure what you really saw.

People are moving around in earnest now, and you're shuffled to another area. When you stand in the door and watch them walk to the buses, you realize that you're not going where they are. They move through their world with an odd, hurried ease, and you're from Columbus, Ohio.

As they get on the bus, Justin's hand slides down JC's hip, and you think, yes, JC says that he prefers dark-haired girls. No one's ever asked him what he looks for in a boy.