Disclaimer: All hail Meg Cabot. I am a lowly fanfictioner, I own nothing.

A/N: An idea that I've been itching to write. Review or die. Haha, kidding. Kind of.
It is, despite your first impressions of Chapter One, a Jesse/Suze story. So hang tight, O.K? I've learned my lesson, and I'm sticking with modern-day-era, Jesse/Suze. Because nobody reads anything else!

"Susannah Simon, everyone!"

Eyes shut, I stepped forward and pressed my lips to the microphone. I shuddered at the cold metal, and my short, amplified breath vibrated back through me and down my spine. With clammy hands I clutched at the stand to steady myself, and the roar of the crowd whistled in my ears.

This is it.

But then I made the mistake of lifting my lids – just for a fraction of a second – and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Instead of the cheering crowd at Madison Square Garden that I had been picturing in my mind, I saw a handful of beer bums more interested in flagging down a waitress than hearing my songs. But at the back of the room, perched on a barstool far away from everyone else, was a guy dressed in a suit with the bluest eyes that I'd ever seen.

And he was staring right at me.

"I, er…" I spoke directly into the mic, cursing at the horrible screechy feedback. "I'm going start things with a song I wrote myself…" The guy at the back shifted his weight, balancing an empty beer glass on his knee. Still his gaze didn't waver. He held it, as if he was holding me to the spot, forcing me to wait out this humiliation.

I lifted my guitar over my head, knees buckling as my string twanged in the process. Pull yourself together, I told myself, keeping my eyes down as I fumbled for my lucky guitar pick. This is your shot.

O.K, so it wasn't a supporting slot for Green Day. Or even anything remotely close. It was the "Scraping the Barrel" open-mic night at the Hind Leg club just out of town that sold lukewarm beer on tap and not a lot else, and it had cost me thirty dollars worth of gas for my mom's car just to get me here, costing me even more in mortification. But it was all I had.

I cleared my throat one final time, deciding that it was now or never. I started strumming, nice and even, and found myself relaxing. I was suddenly grateful that the intro to "Fade Away" was nearly thirty seconds long. It was long enough for me to gather some confidence before I had to open my mouth and actually start singing.

But then my sanctuary time was up, and I prised apart my lips. Taking a deep breath, I began to sing, and was horrified to hear an awful wailing sound flood the room. Was that me? It definitely wasn't what I heard every time I sang in the shower. I closed my eyes, unable to look at my audience. And for a while – all the way to the second chorus – they remained quiet. But then I heard it.

"You suck!"

"Get off the stage!"

I froze, my last, lispy words fading away into nothing. My grip on the neck of my guitar tightened, until my middle string snapped, slashing at my fingers. My feet were rooted to the spot as the crowd got rowdier and rowdier with their complaints, jeering at me and guffawing at my incompetence. A red-faced drunk brandished his beer glass at me, sloshing liquid onto the stage.

"What you still doing standing there?"

Then I was released, the lead in my legs gone, and I ran off the stage as fast I could, my howl of disappointment picked up by the mic as I fled. As I disappeared into the wings, I heard cheers from the crowd. This made me cry harder.

A girl with a clipboard handed me a Kleenex without even looking at me. "We get that a lot with first-timers," she explained, and she ticked my name listlessly. She spoke into her mouthpiece. "Send the next one on."

I was a failure, a joke. I had stuck out a six-month-long waiting list for that? To be scoffed at and booed off the stage like some under-performing jester? My tears slowed now as I grew angry with myself. What was wrong with me? When it had come to the crunch, my voice had abandoned me, and left me with the singing talent of a six year-old.

I wiped away the damp on my cheeks and pressed an ice-cold water bottle to my flaming skin. The humiliation had made me hot, and I figured I needed a little recuperation time before I could face the drive home again.

I groaned at the thought of telling my mom I failed. Of telling Cee-Cee and Adam, of telling everyone who had faith in me, who thought I could do it. Had I thought that I could do it? I guess I'd thought that at least it would be me singing up there, not some shaken, sick-with-nerves shell of myself.

I took a sip of the water, and then spat it back out at my feet. Maybe I wouldn't go home straight away. Maybe I'd sweet talk my way into getting served a beer…

My reverie was interrupted as I heard the rustle of curtains. I turned, thinking it was Clipboard Girl getting ready to shoo me out of the dressing room that could only be mine for my fifteen minute slot, as bargained. I even held up my packed guitar case to show that I was making a move, only to be surprised when I saw the guy from the back of the bar lingering in my doorway instead.

"Hey," he said, and his velvet-smooth tones made my heart splutter. "Nice set." I scowled at him and turned away again, taking another sip of water.

"Go away," I grumbled, my cheeks burning with embarrassment again. "I'm humiliated enough without you adding to the blow." I set down my guitar case on my dressing table and picked at a peace sign sticker, glancing in the mirror to see whether or not he'd disappeared. But he hadn't – instead he remained stubbornly behind me, flashing a dazzling smile at me as we made eye contact.

"What are you waiting for?" I asked, glaring at his reflection. "An autograph?" The venom in my tone singed my tongue. He came closer, sharp footsteps tap-tap-tapping on the wooden floor. Irritatingly, he avoided all the creaking floorboards, as if he could sense them. I felt a pang of envy – suave and sophisticated, he was everything I wasn't. My antithesis.

"Actually," he replied, and his Listerine-scented breath caressed my neck. "I wanted to speak to you." I reached out to steady myself on my dressing table, but my trembling fingers missed the wood. I groaned inwardly, waiting for the collision with the wall and all the embarrassment that would ensue, but instead I felt warm fingers on my waist. He had held me in place. "Careful," he said.

In one fluid motion, he spun me around in his arms so that our noses were inches away from meeting. His minty scent was stronger now, but I could also smell something else. Tobacco, along with his aftershave. It smelt expensive.

"I'm Paul Slater," he introduced himself, and the fingers on my waist grazed my abs as he raised his hand. I didn't take it. "It's nice to meet you." I raised an eyebrow, as if I very much doubted this. "You played great tonight." I forced myself out of his cosy grip then, pulling a face in disgust.

"Look." I was thoroughly pissed. "You think you're being funny, and you know what? You probably are to all those guys out there who cat-called and jeered me off that stage. But I have had enough of your smarmy crap so if you could please just-"

"Here." In the middle of my tirade, he had reached inside his designer jacket and presented me with a business card. I stared at it, words failing me. I waited for him to explain. "I'm Paul Slater," he said again, but this time he elaborated. "I'm an A&R rep from Juice, Inc. and I really liked your stuff tonight."

I took the card slowly, turning it over with my fingers. It was blue and cream, with the kind of design that you know someone spent hours on Microsoft agonising over. In the centre, three lines of black print read:

Paul Slater

Artists and Repertoire

Juice, Incorporated.

There was a telephone number, followed by a fax number, followed by an email address at the bottom of the card in finer font. Paul watched me examine the card patiently, crossing his arms across his chest just slowly enough to seem nonchalant.

I finished reading, and glanced upwards again to see Paul's ice-blue eyes boring into my own, and the expression on his face was almost one of intrigue, as if this was all some kind of experiment. I pocketed the card and folded my own arms below my bust, to mirror him exactly.

"I don't believe you." A small grin stretched across his lips as he heard this, and he raised a single eyebrow. "An A&R rep couldn't possibly be interested in someone who played as crap as I did tonight." Paul shrugged.

"You were nervous," he said, simply, and I realised with a pang that my apprehension must have been visible even at the back of the club. God. How embarrassing. "But you have potential, Susannah Simon. I could see that from the minute you stepped onto that stage." He paused, before extending a single finger towards my face. I flinched as his skin collided with mine, and held my breath as he drew a short line with his fingertip between my eyebrows.

"That little crease you had there?" he asked, and I frowned, before I realised what he meant. "That wasn't because you were nervous, or because you were mad. It was because you were passionate." He lowered his voice on the final word, his whisper sending tingles down my neck. "And at Juice, Inc. we want passionate."

I released my breath, exhaling coolly as the prickles on my skin began to disappear. I met Paul's eyes again, and this time I saw something else. It could have been smugness, like he knew I was hooked. Like he could sense those quivers that he had sent down my spine.

I was hooked. I was intoxicated by his presence now – I breathed in his scent deeply, tasting the tobacco and mint and aftershave on my tongue. Even as I closed my eyes I could still picture the flecks of gold in his hair, and the even tan that made his skin seem to glow. I heard another sharp footstep and my eyes fell open to find he was closer than ever. If before our noses had been inches away from meeting, they were now centimetres, millimetres, even.

His lips parted, and for one, exhilarated second, I thought he was going to kiss me. But instead, he spoke, blowing his delicious breath into my face.

"I have a feeling we'll be meeting again soon," he said. And then he was gone.

I stayed there, nails biting into the wood of the dressing table as I recounted the past ten minutes, everything about Paul Slater seared into my mind so that I could save it for a time when his attention made sense. And then, when I had recollected myself, I turned around, and collected my guitar case, swinging it with a jaunty feeling of self-achievement as I made it out into the cool outside air, the business card Paul had handed me feeling red-hot in my back pocket.

We'll be meeting again soon, he had said. And as I watched the shiny BMW that no doubt belonged to him get smaller as it hit the horizon, and I knew that he was right.