All my life, I've striven for order. At fifteen, I helped my dads develop their accounting system. That experience taught me that numbers aren't for me, but I adored organizing events at the store. And now I'm on the verge of landing my dream job and this asshole rocker is going to blow it for me.

I shake the hair tucked behind my ear back in my face, curls bouncing in the most annoying way. I keep threatening to chop it all off but Papi has a conniption any time I mention it. "Ay, no! No my rizos, my curls!"

I did concede to him on my wardrobe for today though. Normally, I'm quite happy living in my boring, every day outfit of black stretch pants and a neutral oversized button-down that covers my big ol' butt. But Papi wasn't having it.

"You need to cho off dat booty, Lola-mami," he told me this morning.

Did I mention I still live at home above the record store?

Yeah.

Besides, this was my first real promotion gig and I wanted to look as nice as possible, so I let him dress me however he liked. His gorgeous black eyes lit up for a moment before I told him I still retained ultimate veto power. Then he just looked confused.

"Say wha?"

"If I don't like what you pick out, I don't have to wear it."

He pouted at this but then got to work. And I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised. When I looked in the mirror before coming downstairs to get ready for the signing, I barely recognized myself. I still looked like me, but a better version.

Instead of stretch pants and my comfy Clarks shoes, he put me in nude thigh-high stockings, a pair of black riding boots, and a blue form-fitting dress with a gorgeous black baroque-style design all over it. Instead of making me look even bigger than I already am, it hugged all the right curves and minimized the other ones. I swear, this dress is magical.

He added a touch more makeup than I normally wear -- which consists of concealer, if I have a zit, and powder -- and used some kind of torture device on my hair to make my curls turn into soft wavelets.

"Tan hermosa." So beautiful. Of course he's my father so he has to say that, but this time, looking in the wall of mirrors in their bedroom, I agreed.

No matter what Dad says about me looking like my egg donor, I take after him. Stocky, dense, big-boned -- whatever descriptor you want to use, I'm no runway model. But somehow Papi turned me into one.

Needless to say, I'm going to let him dress me up a lot more from now on.

But as pretty as I felt this morning, fear and anxiety are making me feel gross right now. I have this bad habit of chewing my fingernails when I'm nervous, and apparently I'm doing it right now because Papi slaps at my hand lightly.

"Papi, please. I'm sorta freaking out here. This was my big break and now Harry's going to fire me."

"Lola-mami, stop being so dramatic."

That's rich. Papi, the draggiest of drag queens, is telling me, the straight-A student who's never so much as gotten drunk, to stop being dramatic. I'm either going to laugh or cry. Probably both.

You know what? Screw this. Drax can kiss my big ol' fat ass if he thinks I'm going just going to stand around outside my fathers's record store waiting for him like a chump.

I'm about to trudge inside when I hear the rumbling of a motorcycle coming up the street. All the fandorks crane their necks, trying to see if it's Drax. I know from last night's cram session on the Internet that he loads a chopper in his tour bus so he can ride around whatever town he's in. I pray this is him. If it's not, we might have a riot on our hands. And a murdered rocker when he finally shows up.

By the way the fans are grunting and smirking -- not really smiling, you understand, because they're way too cool for that -- I'm guessing it's him. When a big black Harley rolls up on the sidewalk, heedless of pedestrians, and parks right in front of the store, I know it. The nerve! I stomp over to leather-clad figure before he gets his skull cap helmet off.

"First of all, you're late. Second of all, there's a parking spot right there," I seethe, waving a finger at the spot we coned off for him.

He pulls the helmet free, shaking black hair out of his face. I'm so angry I could spit, but when he turns his ice blue eyes on me, I freeze. Chills race across my skin and all the hairs on my body stand on end. All of them.

I've never looked into eyes like his before. They're so pale, almost translucent. If I could think properly, I would wonder if they're contacts, but any coherent thought I might have had has run screaming down Market Street. My breath has apparently followed it.

I'm keenly aware that those eyes are now skimming my body and a smirk has settled on his perfectly pursed lips. His gaze returns to mine as he dismounts. He's tall. Towering, even. And big. Burly, like a lumberjack. Like a lumberjack whose log a girl could ride for hours.

I have to crane my neck back just to maintain eye contact, which I'm powerless to break. I'm completely and totally immobilized by the strange effect he has on me. Is this what it's like to be hypnotized? I don't even care, I just want him to keep looking at me like he's doing now. Like I'm a scrumptious little cream puff he can't wait to sink his teeth into.

The sharp scent of hot leather wafts up from his body as he moves in close. Too close, yet not even remotely close enough. The hot touch of his hand on the swell of my ample hip registers somewhere deep in my consciousness but it's slow to reach my brain, like when you're Skyping with someone and there's a lag. My lips move but no sound comes out.

He dips his head low, his three-day old scruff scratching my cheek as he leans in to whisper in my ear. Is he going to tell me I'm the most beautiful woman he's ever seen? That he's fallen in love with me? Is he going ask me to marry him and have his beautiful blue-eyed babies? I'm quite literally breathless with anticipation and lean my body into his, helpless to do otherwise.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Drax walks away, leaving me swaying in the aftermath of his arrival. His words are like a sharp slap to the face, or like that time my bestie Pepper talked me into doing the Ice Bucket Challenge. Wherever my brain went, it pours back into my body in a rush and leaves me blinking in rage and humiliation.

Sounds finally begin to filter through my daze, and I can hear Drax's fans screaming and cursing at him. Of course, that's all out of admiration. I want to curse him for entirely different reasons.

It's Raining Men penetrates the fog and I know my dads are dragging him inside, away from his adoring -- probably violently so -- fans. And here I am, still standing on the sidewalk. Fury bubbles up inside me, and I have no one to take it out on.

I level a cold glare at Fanboy #1 and snap, "Anything happens to that bike, it's on you."

He blinks like I smacked his hand with a ruler and just nods. I feel a teensy bit guilty, but then I remember him calling me 'bitch' and I get over it.

By the time I get inside, Papi is gushing all over Drax like a groupie. Dad's behind the counter, fumbling around in the mini-fridge and laughing at Papi's antics.

"Ay, chulo," Papi coos, stroking Drax's big, leather-clad arms appreciatively. "You so strong. You work out?"

Drax shrugs out of his riding jacket to reveal a skin-tight black T-shirt that leaves little to the imagination. Spotting me walking up behind them, he tosses the jacket at me. I imagine wrapping it around that big head of his and smothering him with it, but I'm distracted by him flexing a tattooed bicep in Papi's delighted face. I have to admit, it's pretty impressive.