Cover Me: A Rock Star Romance

by Carrie Elliott

  “Why the hell are you so mad at me?” I stormed past her down the hall and into my room to throw on a robe. She followed me.

  “Because I’m sick of you acting like a hard ass until you get what you want and it scares the shit out of you. When The Scene started getting huge you bailed and came home for two weeks. Now you get the guy you’ve wanted since you were like twelve and knew the difference between a penis and a vagina and you freak. Why do you do that?”

  I plopped down on my bed, put my glasses on and considered what she said. It was true. Every word. I ran. And ran and ran and never let happiness catch up to me. It was easier to always want than to get everything and lose it. “There’s a saying that goes, ‘When you jump for joy, beware that no one moves the ground from beneath your feet.’ That’s why I do it. I’m afraid to be happy. I won’t be able to handle it if it’s taken away.”

  Emmy eased down beside me and leaned her shoulder against mine. “Sometimes it’s worth the risk.”

  She was right, but old habits died hard. The thought of handing over my heart and soul to him—especially him, who could take and take until there was nothing left of me—was terrifying. And so, so desirous. If I gave him all of me, it could be like dying and going to heaven. It could also be a train wreck. There was no telling.

  But Derek was worth the risk.

  Emmy turned her head, glancing around my old bedroom. “Ha! You still have those Marti Gras beads! Do you know what I had to do to get those?”

  “Yes, I’m aware.” I pushed her shoulder off of me and stood up.

  She laid back on my bed and continued to cackle away. “That was a good time. You should go. Flash those big bobbies of yours. You’d be queen of Bourbon Street.”

  “Shut up!” I picked my towel up off the floor and snapped her leg with it.

  “Ow!” She bolted off the bed and grabbed the towel. “At least offer me a drink. I drove all the way over here to chew your ass out and make you open your eyes. I’m like your own personal Dr. Phil. You’re welcome.”

  “You know where the kitchen is,” I said, but walked that direction anyway. My stomach grumbled. I had no appetite, but needed to eat. I was light headed.

  “TMZ has photos of Mr. Bast punching that paparazzi. Mom’s going to love that.” She laughed. “He’s still giving her shit about those lawn clippings.”

  I poured her a glass of wine and bit into an apple. “The whole thing’s a mess.”

  “It’ll blow over.” She sipped her wine. “Are you going after him?”

  I tapped the cork to the wine bottle on the counter. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I can give him what he wants.”

  Emmy put her hand on top of mine, stilling my tapping. “Do you love him?”

  “Of course I do.” My eyes met hers and for once I found no sarcasm or scorn, only sincere concern.

  “Then why can’t you give him what he wants?”

  “Because I want him to know how to get it. There’s a trust issue, okay? It’s from a long time ago and he needs to realize what he did and apologize and then I’ll know I don’t have to worry about it happening again.”

  She blinked. Hard. And looked at me like I was insane and needed to be locked in a psyche ward. “You expect him to be a mind reader? You’re holding back because of an issue that you want him to solve like some Scooby Doo mystery?”

  “No! It’s not like—”

  “It sound just like that,” she said whacking her palm on the counter. “Take it from me—a married woman with three kids who knows how to get what she wants from her husband—tell him in no uncertain terms what it was that he did and how you’ll tie his dick in a knot if it happens again. Got it? The only way you have control in the relationship is if you take it. Explain the rules and expectations. Don’t leave any room for him to misinterpret or twist things around. You ask for what you want, exactly how you want it. It’s like training a puppy. Give him rewards when he’s a good boy and rub his nose in it when he’s bad.”

  She took a big swig of wine, draining her glass then dug her keys out of her pocket. “I have to go. Call me before you leave.” She kissed me on the cheek and headed out the front door.

  My sister was a crazy whirlwind of wine and bossiness, but she made some good points.

  Now all I had to do was find Derek and make him listen and pray he didn’t already wash his hands of me.

  Seventeen

  Derek

  Waking up in a hotel room alone sucked. All I wanted was my best friend and almost lover beside me. It was gut wrenching. What the fuck happened yesterday? Everything was on track—me and Bess were getting somewhere, I was making headway with the new song, my parents weren’t totally in my business. Then the paps show up and all hell broke loose.

  Jesus, my dad was in jail.

  I let the insecurity over Bess build into a storm cloud that burst open and I fucking left. I fucking left her. How could I prove to her that I could be trusted when I packed up and took off?

  But she wouldn’t open the fucking door and talk to me. She closed it in my face. Watched me leave and shut the fucking garage door without even a wave goodbye.

  How could she close herself off like that? Jesus, did she not feel anything?

  I rolled over and groaned into my pillow. I could feel her soft body all over mine. The cushion of her breasts pressing against my chest, her firm, round ass in my hands, the taste of her pussy on my tongue.

  And I never even made love to her.

  Fucking regrettable. Who knew if I ever would now.

  Last night, my phone rang all the way back from Santa Cruz until I finally turned it off. I didn’t need to answer to know I’d been filmed and photographed banging down Bess’s door. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was everywhere by now and I didn’t give a shit.

  That was the truth—what I told Bess—I didn’t give a shit anymore about any of the fake bullshit that came along with being a music artist. I didn’t care about public opinion of me or what the tabloids reported. I was going back to the basics and what made me happy—making music. Singing and arranging songs the way I wanted, not the way some manager or producer told me to sing for the demands of the market. Fuck the market. I didn’t think about the market when I made Cover Me. Bess and I wrote a song and I sang it and we loved it. That’s what I wanted again. That’s what I would have again. Hopefully with her.

  The clock read 8:07 AM even though the room was pitch black with the heavy curtains pulled shut. I pushed myself up and sat on the edge of the bed. Adrian was recording today. He’d be able to get me into Joe’s studio to hear the sample. We’d have to renegotiate the Unholy Union contract.

  I grabbed my phone, ignored the voicemails and texts and called Adrian.

  “Bast Berserker! What up, brah?” I’d never heard anyone so energetic at eight AM. He definitely wasn’t a robot when he was amped about a project.

  “I’m back in L.A. When do you want to meet?”

  “I’m in the studio now, man, mixing and auto-tuning. Can you rap?”

  I rubbed my forehead and closed my eyes. “No.”

  “Cool. I’ll get one of my boys in here to record a little something extra for the bridge.”

  “When and where, Adrian? You want me to sign off on the sample, right?”

  “I’m here, man! All day. Come when you can.”

  I stood and padded across the carpet to my suitcase. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

  The bathroom steamed up fast with the hot water blasting down in the shower. I stood under the stream and rubbed one out thinking about coming all over Bess’s beautiful tits. Someday… It was too good of a visual not to happen for real.

  I didn’t bother shaving, keeping the beard growth for Bess, tugged on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and was out the door. The morning commute was a pain in the ass as always. I stopped for coffee and made it to the studio by ten till ten. The first person I saw was Karen standing outside the studio door. Somehow, this didn’t surprise me.
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  She looked me up and down, her blond ponytail bobbing, and shook her head. “You’ve known her your entire life and you’re fucking clueless, aren’t you?”

  I tucked my hands in my pockets. “This is a bit different from giving her a popsicle when we were five to make things better.”

  Karen’s eyes drifted down to my crotch. “I don’t think she’d refuse that offer. Give it a shot. It might be just what she needs to calm down. Do you know not long after I started working for her when The Scene took off like a rocket she disappeared for two weeks? She does this. She freaks out when things get good. It’s some effed up defense mechanism.”

  I scratched the back of my head. “I’m sure I’m to blame for that too.”

  “Eh. Probably.” She laughed and punched me in the arm. “Adrian’s inside. Come on.”

  I followed her into the studio. “Are you working for him, then?”

  “Hell if I know. He’s too entertaining to not be around. I should probably figure out if he’s paying me though.”

  “That’d be a good idea.”

  Adrian sat at the sound board mixing and editing his vocals on a track I’d never heard. “Hey, man,” he said, standing up and clasping my hand. His eyes held a charge I’d never seen in any of our meetings about Unholy Union. This must be the man the world was in love with. I could how how his energy was magnetic. It shocked met to find that I was suddenly excited about working with him on this project.

  “Hey. I’m ready to hear what you’ve got.” I sat in a chair next to him.

  “Kay,” he said, addressing Karen, “can you print off those release forms for me?”

  “What the hell do I look like? Your personal servant? Print them yourself.” She shoved a laptop in his hands, turned and left the studio. Adrian’s eyes met mine and a sly smile curved at his lips.

  “Feisty, isn’t she? You should see her in the sac.” He pursed his lips and blew out a breath, nodding his eyebrows up and down. “Thought she might kill me last night. My calf muscle still feels like it’s seized up.” He reached down and squeezed his leg.

  “I don’t even…” I looked back at the door where Karen had disappeared. I didn’t want to know.

  Adrian settled in again behind the sound board and started queuing up the track. “Alright, I’ll play the pre-chorus and then the chorus where the Cover Me sample comes in.”

  I slid a headset on over my ears and he fired it up. We both nodded along to the beat. Adrian’s voice was silk and iron, strong and soft at the same time, he hit high notes and then brought it low and never faltered off-pitch. He was definitely solo material and made a good move leaving his boy band behind even with the money he was pulling in. This would be a killer song to break out with on his own.

  He pointed at me when the chorus hit and there it was, the perfect melding of his fast tempo, borderline R&B song with my ballad that balanced on the line between rock and pop. I would never have the imagination to come up with the combination and could only sit there and listen in amazement. Adrian was a genius.

  He turned it off and pulled his headset down around his neck. I did the same. “Is that stellar or what?” he said, grinning like the know-it-all punk ass that he was.

  “It’s fucking brilliant.” I whacked him on the shoulder. “I mean it. Incredible.”

  He flicked his bronze bangs back. “Rock on, brotha. Let’s get the release forms signed and out of the way. You’re the only writer listed on Cover Me, right?”

  His words hit me like a brick to the head. My vision narrowed, my joints jittered. It felt like there were bees stinging the bottom of my feet.

  Jesus Christ. This was what I’d done to her.

  “Bast. Hey, man, you okay?” Adrian leaned forward into my line of sight.

  “No. I have to go. And no, I’m not the only writer. Bess Halprin co-wrote.” I got to my feet, feeling like I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me. “I have to go.” I started for the door.

  “I’ll have Kay email the release to you both,” he said.

  I spun back around. “No. Have her send both to me. I need to talk to Bess first.”

  He leaned back in the chair at an angle, apprehension tightening his features. “She’s not going to screw us over with this, is she?”

  “No. I’m the one who did the screwing over. Now I have to make it right.”

  I drove and drove. There was nowhere I could go to think and I had a lot to plan. The longer my mind wandered back, the more transgressions it pulled up out of the past. Like how soon after Cover Me was released, I sang it as a duet, recording it with an unknown female singer making her way up the ranks.

  Bess and I sang it as a duet while we wrote it. We should’ve recorded it that way on You Tube to begin with. I should’ve thought to include her. How did it end up being only my song—me taking all the credit and the spotlight? Did I do that? Push her aside somehow? It wasn’t intentional. Why had she never said a word about it?

  It had to be what she held her grudge over—why she didn’t trust me.

  I overlooked her. Didn’t even give her a writing credit. Now I knew what she meant.

  I’d hate me if I were her.

  I did hate me right then.

  I had to make it up to her, but how? What could possibly make up for becoming an international star and leaving her on the sidelines? Hell, not even on the sidelines—leaving her at home and forgetting about her for nine years?

  My God, I was lucky she even spoke to me when I went to The Scene to bitch about her review. It was the first time she’d put my name in a review when she could’ve been tearing me apart since the first issue of The Scene. But she hadn’t. She’d purposely avoided reviewing my work. I screwed her over and she had the perfect opportunity for revenge and never took it. The one review—honest review—she wrote, I called her on and wanted her to retract it.

  If I loved her, I’d stay far away from her. She was right not to trust me after how I treated her. Now I knew what she meant when she wanted me to figure out what I’d done to make sure it never happened again. This was a smack in the face. A wake up call like no other. If she’d sat me down and explained it, it wouldn’t have had the same impact as me walking right into it, being blindsided by it.

  I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I’d never take advantage of her that way again. She was my partner—my Bess. My way home. My true north. My everything if she’d let me love her.

  Bess

  My time with Derek was a hurricane. He blew into my life, turned everything upside down and blew back out. It had been three days since he left Santa Cruz and two since I went back to L.A. and I still couldn’t figure out which way was upright and get my feet planted on solid ground.

  Karen put in her notice and spent most of her time with Adrian, which was fine. I didn’t need an assistant when all I did was sit in my office and stare out the window into the parking lot below. Fortunately, my senior editors had the latest issue under control. Since it involved me, I stayed out of the decision making when it came to reporting on Derek Bast and his latest media thunderstorm. When the issue released, any coverage on the subject would come as a surprise to me, too.

  I went to meetings and lunches, interviewed an actor’s publicist about his role in an upcoming movie that was touted as a summer blockbuster. I tried to keep my mind occupied. The problem was, my mind kept drifting back to Derek—how he touched me and held me, how his lips and tongue felt on every part of my body, how he said he was in love with me.

  Then I thought about Emmy’s advice and how I’d committed to taking a risk, how Derek was worth the risk. How he’d alluded to wanting a family in a few years. How he’d always been my family. All I had to do was steel my nerves and gather my courage to pick up the phone and call him. Karen said he’d been in the studio with Adrian, so he was around. I could ask him to meet me for a drink. We could talk and work things out. It didn’t have to be so hard. Why did I always make things so hard?

  I threw my head bac
k against my chair and swiveled around. No more staring idly out the window. I had to get my footing and my head out of my ass. My email inbox was jam packed. I skimmed through for items that might be urgent. My eye caught on one that read:

  From: Derek Loves Bess

  Re: Finding My Way Back To True North

  My breath caught. My fingers were at my throat. I clicked the email open.

  Bess,

  I’ve come to realize a lot over the last few days. The most important is that True North isn’t a song. It’s a person—you—and a place—home. I’m lost without you in my life. For the last nine years I’ve been too busy to wander aimlessly, but now I’m tortured by thoughts of True North—you and I. Home. I’ve had a taste and I want more. There are countless reasons and apologies to be made and they’ll be delivered to you soon. I hope they aren’t too late.

  I love you.

  Derek

  I read it fifteen times at least, trying to decipher what it meant. He wanted more. He and I. Home.

  My office phone bleeped and Karen’s voice came through on speaker. “Bess, I just got a press release on behalf of Bast. It says he has stepped off of the stage and out from behind the microphone to take on clients as a producer under the production company he’s founded. True North Productions based out of Santa Cruz.”

  I gripped the edge of my desk and dove forward toward the phone. “What?”

  “You heard me. He’s having a press conference tomorrow—on your street. In Santa Cruz.”

  “What?” My brain zoomed in circles like a haywire Ferris wheel. When had he come to this conclusion? Not like he didn’t act on every idea that sprung to life in his mind—firing his manager and breaking the contract with Unholy Union. Of course, his gut reactions were typically correct. But it was an enormous, life-altering decision and he’d done it without talking to me. If he was serious about wanting us—home—together, I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t have reached out to me to discuss this.