Nash breezes through the restaurant, not paying any attention to the people gawking at him. People are pulling out their phones, snapping photos of him with their jaw practically hanging to the floor. He doesn’t spare them a second glance, his gaze locked in on our table.
He looks oddly placed amid all the bright colors, his dark ripped jeans dull in comparison to the flags hanging from the ceiling and the red and blue walls of the restaurant.
My fajita stays in the air in front of me as he continues to make his way to our table.
What. The. Fuck.
“Oh, holy shit,” Riley mutters through a mouthful of food. The words come out jumbled due to the mass amount of food stuffed in her mouth.
But same, girl.
“Let’s go,” Nash says as soon as he steps up to the table.
Awkwardly looking over my shoulder, I try to see if there’s somebody behind me I’m not aware of.
His gray shirt bunches around his biceps when he crosses his arms over his chest. “Nora,” he drags out, an annoyed tone to his voice.
A lone piece of chicken falls from the back of my fajita. I narrowly avoid it landing in my lap. The fajita drops out of my hand in shock.
“Excuse me, what?” I ask, wondering if I’ve ended up in some parallel universe.
Why is Nash at this restaurant right now? And why is he looking at me as if I’m a child not listening to their parent?
He gestures behind him with a lazy lift of his arm. “If you can’t tell, we’re gathering quite the audience. Let’s go.”
Taking my napkin from my lap, I set it next to my plate. “Did we have plans?” I ask him.
I might die of embarrassment if I somehow missed the memo that I was supposed to be rehearsing with Nash and forgot.
He scratches his head awkwardly, his eyes bouncing around the room before landing back on me. “Uh no, but I’m here. I need to talk to you about something.”
“What?” I blurt, wondering what we could possibly need to talk about. I look toward Riley and Ziggy, hoping they’ll interject.
My friends are no help, however, because they both continue to chew haphazardly while watching me and Nash like we’re a freaking two-person movie.
The fans behind him are inching closer and closer to our table—to him. I notice one of his bodyguards stepping out between the growing crowd and Nash.
The bodyguard, Sebastian if I remember correctly, aims a firm look at the people trying to close in on Nash. He folds his arms across his chest, becoming a large barrier between our table and the bustle of people trying to inch their way closer to Nash.
Riley kicks me from underneath the table. “Nora. You have to go.” She looks at Nash from the corner of her eyes, doing an awful job at being sneaky. She aims a beaming smile his way, her foot knocking me in the shin for the second time.
I look down at my plate of half-eaten food. “But I haven’t paid.”
Nash reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a sleek black wallet. Thumbing through the bills in the wallet, he pulls out three hundred-dollar bills and places them on the table. “This should cover it.”
Staring at the cash on the table, I think through my options. Monica would probably be chomping at the bit for me to go somewhere with Nash. It just feels incredibly random, and it’s weird to see him out somewhere in my everyday life.
I stare down at my fajitas longingly. “But, I’m not done eating.”
“Jesus Christ, Nora,” Nash says through clenched teeth. He turns so his back is facing the growing crowd. “I’ll get you whatever food you want when we leave.”
“Go,” Ziggy says loudly, looking up at Nash and giving him a big, forced smile.
Once I grab my purse from the floor, I slide my chair back. I look up nervously at Nash, unsure of where he plans to go now. The exit is blocked by a mob of people, all staring at us wide-eyed. Thankfully, one of the managerial staff walks up to us.
“Would you like to leave through the back?” he asks, pointing toward a small hallway.
“That would be great, thank you,” Nash responds. For a moment, his hand hovers over the small of my back, but he thinks better of it and lets his hand fall to his side.
What on earth is happening?
His bodyguard walks close behind us, making sure no one follows us out of the building. As soon as the small door opens, a wave of cheers can be heard. When I look up, I see another group of people, all screaming Nash’s name. Cameras flash, girls cry, and grown men rattle off questions in succession. It’s absolute madness.
Nash steps in front of me, shielding me from the flashing cameras. I’m too confused to stop and ask questions.
Before I know it, I’m being pushed into the back of an SUV. I slide across the smooth leather seat, looking over to see Nash climbing in next to me. As soon as the door slams, the roaring crowd dulls.
I take a deep breath, buckling my seatbelt as the SUV pulls away from the building. Looking over at Nash, I find his eyes already on me. “Care to explain why you just kidnapped me from my going away dinner?”
A corner of his lip twitches. “That’s your going away party? Two people? One of which is leaving with you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were going to steal me from my friends and also proceed to be an asshole.” I lean forward as much as my seatbelt will allow, grabbing the headrest of the driver in front of me. “Excuse me, sir?”
The security guard looks at me through the rearview mirror.
“Could you possibly take me back to the restaurant? My friends are waiting, and I didn’t leave them hanging to spend my time with a brooding popstar.”
The same bodyguard that helped us out of the restaurant hides a laugh by coughing into his fist.
Nash reaches forward, thumping the laughing one on the back of the head. “Stop laughing, Sebastian.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” He clears his throat, looking away. “It’s just, she kind of has a point.”
“Oh yeah?” Nash stops looking at the back of Sebastian’s head and looks at me. “And what point is that?”
“The point is,” I begin, cutting Sebastian off before he can answer for me, “you swooped in out of nowhere and tore me from my friends the night before we leave for months on end. The least you could do is explain your reasoning and not be a prickly prick.”
It’s the driver’s turn now to let out his own laugh. The ruckus from the two big men in the front have Nash sitting back in his seat with a scowl on his face.
“Any way we can turn around?” I repeat, trying to catch the eyes of the driver again.
“Keep driving, Matt,” Nash says, smirking at me.
My arms cross over my chest. “Then where are we going?”
Nash smirks some more from where he sits beside me. “Would you let me make it a surprise?”
I laugh, leaning back in the seat. “Not a chance.”
Shaking his head, he runs a hand over his mouth. The hair at the top of his head shifts around with the movement, the slight waves running in different directions. “Didn’t think so. We’re going to the Staples Center.”
I can’t hide the shock on my face, my jaw dropping enough to catch a fly or two. “The Staples Center? Why?”
“The next couple of weeks are going to be insanity. The start of a tour always is, in the best kind of way. I wanted to show you what an empty arena looks like. To give you an idea of what we’ll be performing in front of. Except, we’re doing only stadiums. So we’ll be performing in front of almost double the amount of people.”
I nod slowly, my mind attempting to play catch up. “And you want to show me, why?”
The look on his face is one I haven’t seen yet. It almost looks like he’s…anxious.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I just wanted to see your face the first time you saw an empty arena I guess.”
I’m definitely in a parallel universe. Is this Nash being nice?
“Did you not have plans the night before goin
g on tour? I feel like you would have plans.”
Over the last month, I’ve become more aware of Nash and his whereabouts, thanks to the media. I’ve told myself not to dive into what he’s up to in his free time, but once the apps were downloaded on my phone, I couldn’t not look.
In my deep dive of searching his name, I found out he loves to go out. With every passing night, he’s been seen leaving some kind of event with a gorgeous woman on his arm. I got lost in watching videos of him. In some of the videos, he’d be stumbling and slurring his words while answering various paparazzi questions.
He looks out the window, his voice lowering slightly when he says, “I could always have plans. Tonight I wanted these plans.”
I want to give him shit, tell him he’ll have way more fun somewhere else than with me, but I selfishly want to take this opportunity with him. Not because Nash’s team wants me to get close to him, but because I want to get to know him better. I want to get to know the man behind the persona.
I sit back, listening to Nash chat with the two men in the front seat, and he occasionally brings me into the conversation with them. It’s odd seeing him so free with the people who work for him. The three of them joke around so easily. Nash definitely hasn’t been a dick to the dancers and crew while we’ve been fine tuning the tour, but he wasn’t joking with them in this manner either.
I didn’t imagine I would spend the last night at home with Nash before we leave for tour, but despite the shock of it all, I’m looking forward to whatever tonight will bring.
Nash is an enigma, someone I never thought I’d get to know. Now that I have the chance, I want to learn everything I can about him.
I’m pulling a hesitant Nora through a side entrance when she stops in her tracks. She tucks a brunette piece of hair behind her ear as she takes in our surroundings.
“Nash, why is no one else here?”
The hallway we stand in is desolate. All the concession stands are closed, their menus dark and hard to read. During a basketball game or concert, this area would be completely packed. Not that I ever visit up here anyway. I’m always locked away in my dressing room until the last minute when performing anywhere. But I can imagine this place as bustling when the arena is hosting an event.
It just so happens that tonight, there’s no event.
“No one else is here because I rented it.”
Her Adidas stay planted on the floor as she looks at me with a skeptical look on her face. “You rented it?” The words come out slowly, her eyes still roaming over the empty booths and abandoned area.
I grab her by the wrist once again, continuing my walk to the court and pulling her with me. “Yep,” I say matter-of-factly. “It doesn’t hurt to have connections. Arenas, stadiums, theaters, they’re all fucking epic when full of fans screaming your name, but there’s something about them when they’re empty that’s special too.”
We walk through one of the entrances, coming close to the empty court. I let go of her wrist, walking until I reach the center. From my vantage point, I can see every movement she makes as she looks at the arena, her mouth hanging open.
Bending at the waist, her hands come up to cup her mouth. “Oh my god, Nash. This is incredible.”
The look on her face is intoxicating. It’s pure joy—astonishment. I want to write a song about it.
It’s thrilling to see the world through her eyes. To me, an arena is just another place I’ve sold out. But the look on her face? She still feels the magic from it, even when it’s empty. She waltzes over to the sideline, running her hand over the folding chair.
I don’t move, too busy watching her take in every detail while I take in everything about her. It’s allowing me the chance to remember every single thing about this moment. I’ve always had a photographic memory; it’s helped me immensely as a musician. And the next time I take my fame for granted, the next time I can’t hear myself think because there’s fifty-thousand people screaming my name and I get frustrated because I’m off-key, I’ll remember this moment.
Nora’s wearing a simple pair of jeans. I don’t know if they’re designer or thrift store or what the hell the brand is, but they fit every curve of her perfectly. She’s lean and petite, but the muscles in her calves are noticeable even through the dark fabric. Her tank top hugs her figure just as much as the jeans do. It’s a light color; I guess you would call it pink. It reminds me of the color of the ballet shoes I saw sticking out of her bag the first day I met her.
It’s weird, this intense feeling of wanting to get to know her. I want to know how she got into dancing to begin with. I want to know her favorite color. I want to know her first impression of me.
On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know that.
I have this odd need to know what she thinks about the music I write. Does she think I’m a sellout? Does she hear my lyrics and find them as lackluster as I do? I want to know all these things about her when I barely know her at all.
I guess what I want is a friend. A friend that isn’t obsessed with the spotlight. A friend that will dish it to me straight. A friend that looks at the world I live in with awe.
I need to surround myself with someone who doesn’t see the music industry as their own personal hell. I need to fall in love with music again. I need to look at this world through her eyes.
I just really need her. And I’m hoping she won’t just brush me away when the allure of hanging out with someone famous wears off.
The truth is, my sanity is hanging on by a very small, thin thread. I hate myself most days. I hate the music I’ve put out recently even more. I just don’t know who I am. I know who my team wants me to be, who the public thinks I am, but I don’t really know myself anymore. The only things I know are the things I despise about myself.
I need someone like Nora to come into my life and show me the good side of this career—the good side of me.
“What are you thinking about?” She stops directly in front of me. When her eyes meet mine, she has the sweetest smile on her face. It’s so genuine that it makes my pulse spike.
I’m so used to the fake smiles in this industry, but hers is anything but. I believe if I get enough of those aimed my way, my soul might slowly start to stitch itself back together. “I was thinking that it’s refreshing to see your reaction to things.”
She stuffs her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Why is that?”
I pick up the basketball resting close to our feet. As I begin to dribble it, I think about how I want to answer her question. The thumping noise of the basketball echoes around us.
It’s still going thump, thump, thump when I answer. “I’ve been in this business for years. It’s actually hard for me to remember what being a normal guy is like.”
I take a step, dribbling the ball closer to her. She quickly reaches out, trying to take the ball from me, but I was expecting her reaction.
She doesn’t get the ball, and I continue to walk and dribble a circle around her while continuing to answer her question. “The people that I’m always surrounded with, they’re in this business just as much as I am. Their faces might not be planted on billboards and magazines like mine is, but they’re in it all the same.”
I dribble the ball behind her, watching as her long hair falls down her back with her movement. “Because I’m always around people that are famous, I don’t really feel the excitement of the industry anymore. It feels like a job, a job some days I don’t like. And the people around me feel the same. But with you…”
Stepping back, I jog and dribble until I’m close enough to toss the ball into the net. The ball swishes through it easily. It bounces on the floor, each bounce getting smaller and smaller.
“But with me?” Nora asks, still standing at center-court, a thoughtful look on her face.
I stand under the basket, looking right at her, far away from her but still feeling incredibly close to her. “But with you, you’re excited about everything that has to do with this.”
My finger reaches up and turns in the air, referring to the ability to rent out arenas—to the fame.
She takes small steps forward until she reaches the now resting basketball. Lifting it up, she begins to dribble it herself. “I’m from a small town. All of this,” she gestures to the empty arena we stand in, “is exciting to me.”
She dribbles closer to me, repeating my movements from earlier, circling me with a smile on her face.
“I need someone to show me the excitement for all this again. Because honestly? I don’t see it anymore.” It’s the most honest and raw thing I’ve said in a while, and because of that, my heart is pounding in my chest. I’m usually only vulnerable in the words I write, not in the words I speak in conversation.
Nora pauses, swiftly stepping back and clutching it against her stomach. Her cheeks have gotten pinker since we first showed up, but whether they’re flushing from the dribbling or excitement, I’m unsure.
“Have you ever thought that maybe it’s not something you need to see again? Maybe it’s something you need to feel,” she says.
Sighing, I thread my fingers behind my head. “It’s hard to even feel any kind of excitement like I used to. I sound like a dick saying it because I want to be my best for my fans. I want to feel it for them. But it’s hard when everything feels the same. Same routine. Same pop songs. It’s all the same and it’s hard to feel anything for any of it anymore.”
“I’m going to make you feel again, Nash Pierce. I’m going to make you feel it all.” The words coming out of her mouth sound so sure. I’m happy she feels confident about it, because I’m a bit more hesitant.
I want to believe her. I need to believe her to keep my shit together. Because without this hope, I’m going to be headlining the tabloids for something awful, and I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to hit rock bottom.
Deep down, I can’t help but think: what if I’ve already jumped and it’s bound to happen no matter what or who comes into my life?
“That’s a pretty lofty goal,” I respond, stepping closer to her. We stand close enough that both of our bodies press against the basketball.
Founded on Goodbye: A Rockstar Romance Page 8