Pete and Ashlee meet three times before someone introduces them. The first time, Ashlee doesn't even remember where, she sees Pete from across the room and makes a crack about his hair to the crowd of people standing around her. They laugh politely, which is okay since Ashlee knows she really wasn't that funny. Later, at the bar, as she's getting her third gin and tonic, she bumps into him "accidentally" and says, with a laugh in her throat, "Nice hair."

He looks her up and down and totally dismisses her. She knows when she's being excused with an eye roll. He says, "Nice tits," and grabs his drink, and leaves her standing there.

How did he even dare?

The second time, she's in New York and Ashlee's still not quite over being dismissed so casually by a guy who wears tighter jeans than Jess. She's at his bar, on his turf, and she doesn't care. He's up on the DJ platform, headphones half on, spinning actual vinyl like he's not her age, or close enough to it.

"Play one of my songs," she requests—demands, really, and tries to look coy. She probably just looks drunk. He sneers down at her, and makes some kind of twisted Elvis face.

"I don't listen to your songs. You lip sync anyway," he says.

"Oooh, burn," says the asshole standing next to him. As though his hair doesn't totally defy the laws of physics? Not to mention his shirt.

"At least I've never tried to kill myself in a parking lot." She tosses her hair and smiles brightly. "Weigh it." Then she turns and walks away. An excellent fucking exit line—time to make an excellent fucking exit. She grabs her coat off the rack and grabs her girls. They don't want to leave, but she lures them away with promises of the speakeasy hidden a few streets over.

She drinks one of each of the champagne cocktails on the menu, and as the cab navigates the grey New York winter rain, Ashlee sings along to the Fall Out Boy song on the radio. She doesn't dream that night, but she wants to think that if she had, she would've dreamt of deep eyes and too-white teeth inside a plush snarl.

In California, a few weeks later, Ashlee would kill someone, cheerfully, for a cup of fucking coffee and a cigarette, except cigarettes slaughter her voice and coffee stains her teeth. She settles for a G&T and second-hand smoke from the guy standing next to her on the patio. The noise of the party is muted, and the guy isn't showing any signs of wanting to talk to her. She's cool with that. In fact, it's awesome.

Really, more than coffee and a cigarette, she wants to be home in bed, but pictures of this shit are gonna end up on Buzznet, and she wants to be in them.

When the cigarette has burned all the way down, he throws it, still lit, onto the beach. Ashlee watches the red tip sail through the air and when she turns away from it, the guy is gone and another is in his place.

"Why do you lip sync?" Pete Wentz is always a fashion nightmare and tonight is no exception. But she finds the purple-yellow-red combination he's wearing strangely endearing. She kind of wants to make out with him.

Instead of saying that, she says, "Why do you want to die?"

He shrugs.

"That's my answer too," she says, and to her shock he actually smiles.

Then he says: "Wanna make out?"

She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. "And if I did?"

"I'd figure you were using me for revenge against your dad."

"No, it's your stellar hair that drew me in." Then it's his hand on her wrist, pulling her toward him. Their bodies bump, and he leans in to kiss her. It's just like a movie, until she pulls away—whirls away. She tugs his wrist, pulling him into the shadows, and she kisses him, pushing their lips together, her tongue in his mouth right from the start.

"No photos on the internet," she says to him breathlessly.

"The best revenge is a secret." He nods solemnly, like he knows about revenge and secrets both, and then pulls her in again. He fucks her really carefully, like she's going to break. He's surprisingly strong, and holds her against the wall, her legs pushed apart, the whole time. She wishes that his tattoos had more texture, that she could trace them with her fingers while he moves inside her; she stares at the stars while he kisses her neck.

After, all he says is, "Were you looking for the second star to the right?"

She can't smile—she feels exposed and raw. She almost wishes that he'd been a fucking asshole, that he hadn't made her come—something. Anything she could hate him for, instead of blinking and suddenly liking him.

Ashlee pulls down her skirt instead of answering, and rearranges her hair, then tugs on her skirt again. They didn't use a condom, which was incredibly fucking stupid, but it doesn't even occur to her until she feels how wet she is; the inside of her skirt is going to be stained, and she needs a bathroom right now.

"I—" She stops when he shakes his head. He goes inside first. His hair is a mess, but that's normal for him. He didn't even take off his stupid, blinding hoodie.

The next day, at some stupid function her father insisted she attend since she wasn't in any of the Buzznet photos of the party the night before, a woman who looks vaguely familiar says, "And of course you have to meet Pete Wentz!" and Pete takes her hand, shakes it. She grabs both his hands with hers, and touches the tattoo on his finger.

"If I wasn't so ugly," Pete jokes to the woman, not even trying to pull away, "I could get her number and we could scandalize all of pop music."

"I'm at the second star to the right," Ashlee tells him, and then writes her cell number in between the loops of his tattoos.