"I'm not going to tell you to eat. I'm not going to ask you to smile. I remember when my dad died... that was the worst part."
I nod.
"But I'm not going to sit around while you disappear either." She takes the last sip from her can of tea and sets it in the recycling bin. "Come on. We're going out today. You don't have to enjoy it, but you do have to go."
My gaze goes to the window. The sun is already high in the bright blue sky. "Out there?"
She laughs. "Yes, out there."
"What's out there?"
"Sushi, boba, karaoke, cute stuffed alpacas."
"I'm listening."
"The Best Buy is within spitting distance. And I do want to..." She bites her lip. "No, I'll do that later."
"Huh?" Grief has made me a pretty shitty friend. But I can still pick up on the way her voice is wavering. Her eyes are getting dreamy. "Why would you ever want to go to Best Buy?"
"It's nothing."
I take my last clean, crisp sip and set my can next to hers. "It's something."
Her eyes light up with a realization. Her red lips curl into a smile. "I'll tell you if you go outside."
"To Best Buy?"
"That's nearly four blocks away. It would be asking a lot," she teases.
I nod.
"Let's start with boba."
"I can do that."
***
It's a nice day. Bright. Warm. Alive. The strip mall-style plaza down the street is packed. It takes forever to cross Sawtelle then it's a quick walk to my favorite boba place.
I haven't been to this particular shop in ages. The colors on the walls seem brighter. The cute signs are more grating. The citrus scene in the air is somehow sweeter and more sour at once.
Dammit, I'm a mess here. I'm desperate for school to finally start, but I'm not sure how I'm going to survive it.
I can barely leave the house for sugar and caffeine.
How am I going to make it through fall semester of my senior year?
How am I going to make it through med school applications?
Then, if I get in somewhere...
There's no way I'm going to make it through even a week of med school in this state. Forget about four years plus residency and specializing.
"No one would fault you for taking a semester off." Kara shifts her weight between her heels. She brushes a dark strand behind her ear. "Have you thought about that?"
"I can't lose momentum."
She nods and adjusts her cream and navy dress. Kara always looks put together, no matter the circumstances. Even first thing in the morning, her makeup, hair, and attire are always on point. Every day, without exception.
I feel like a frizzy, under-dressed mess next to her.
Last year, I was so busy studying for the MCAT that I never had time to pull myself together. But that was different. I was filled with purpose. I felt fine with my hair unwashed and my face unadorned.
Right now...
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. My flip flops squeak as I take a step forwards. We're up.
I order a large grapefruit green bubble tea. Kara orders the lemon black tea, light on the sugar. She whips out her credit card before I can say a single word about paying.
"You're a generous date," I say.
She motions to the white booth in the corner. "And I won't even expect you to put out."
Damn, I'm blushing.
And she's smiling knowingly.
It's not exactly normal being a virgin at twenty-one. It's not that I'm avoiding sex. It's more that I'm busy and I don't have the time for a boyfriend.
Kara occasionally teases about my lack of experience, but it's nothing major. She teases me about my obsession with Star Wars ten times as often. I tease her back. Her taste in films tends toward pretentious indie flicks.
Usually, the gentle ribbing doesn't bother me.
But right now...
My thoughts go back to that dream. It felt real, like his fingertips and lips really were touching my skin. Even now, my breath is hitching. My heart is racing. My body is buzzing with desire.
This is the only thing I've wanted since Rosie died.
It's equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
I'm so lost in my dirty rock star fantasies that I barely notice Kara take the seat next to mine.
She slides my tea across the table.
I unwrap my straw, stab the plastic film covering my enormous cup, and take a long sip. Ah, citrus and sugar and caffeine. I can actually taste this.
And it tastes good.
It feels good on my tongue.
She takes a small sip. "I miss you."
"I miss me."
"I won't push you, sweetie, but... I am going to keep forcing you to leave the house."
"School starts Thursday."
"Besides school."
I take another long sip. "I'm here."
"Progress." Her smile is half-teasing, half-serious. "My friend... Drew. You remember me talking about him?"
I do remember Drew. He's Kara's childhood best friend. They grew apart back in high school. Then six months ago, give or take, he got back in touch. He's a sci-fi geek wrapped in a hotter-than-sin musician's body.
Not that I know any of this firsthand. Everything I know about Drew is what Kara has told me. I don't know his last name, or what he looks like, or if he's successful.
Through her eyes, he's the hottest, most talented musician in the entire world.
As for me...
Well, I'm not into bad boys.
Especially not tortured vocalists who somehow see into my soul.
Ahem. "Yeah, I remember him. He's the one you definitely don't have a crush on," I tease.
"I don't."
"No, you just like talking about how handsome he is, and how much you miss him coming to your room, lying in your bed and strumming his guitar."
She swallows hard. "I'm not about to deny facts. Drew is handsome. That's science."
I cock a brow.
She laughs. "And he's a talented guitarist. I can't help my love of music."
"Your thoughts of his skilled fingers." I wipe my hands on my jeans. Rosie would know exactly what to do here. She was good at this kind of thing. "What is it you want to do at Best Buy?"
"Well, you know Drew's in that band. They moved here because they got a record deal. And the record is out now. I know it's silly to buy a CD, but I..." Her cheeks flush. "I want one. For posterity. But I can grab it online."
"Are they good?"
"I like them. But I'm biased."
"Cause you don't like him?"
She takes another sip. "We're only ever going to be friends and I'm okay with that."
She's obviously not okay with that, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to do or say here.
Kara clears her throat. "Stop giving me that look."
"What look?"
"He's hot and I want him, but that's all it's going to be. I didn't even realize how much I missed Drew until he got in touch. And now... it's been almost all texting. When we've meet up, it's been... it's different." She bites her lip. "His friend is throwing a party Sunday and I'm invited. We’re invited."
"We're invited?"
She presses her hands together. "You don't have to come, but it could be good to get out. Meet some people. Have some fun."
"You mean drink a lot?"
"If you want."
"Hook up with a stranger?"
"No, honey... I don't expect you to turn into Rosie. No offense. I loved your sister, but she was-"
"She was the life of the party."
She smiles. "I miss her too."
"You hated her."
She shrugs maybe. "We had our differences of opinion, but we both... we both wanted the best for you."
I nod. "Where is this party?"
"Hollywood."
"The nice part or the shady part?"
"In the Hills."
The Hills are expensive. Is Kara's friend
that successful? She never acts like it. "It's his party?"
She shakes her head. "His friend." She takes a long sip of her drink. "There will be lots of hot guys there. Musicians, actors, models..."
Damn, I never want to think about a musician again.
Rosie would have killed me for turning down this kind of invitation.
"It's up to you," Kara says.
"I'll go." And I'll find a new object for my lust.
I'm not saying I'll go home with someone.
But I am going to erase Miles from my mind.
Period.
End of story.
CHAPTER FOUR
Miles
The music journalist has a straight face.
If anything, he's overly earnest.
He holds his pen to his notebook as if he's about to record every word that flows from my lips.
As if we're not on camera at the moment.
As if he works for the New York Times and not for some MTV knockoff video blog.
Fuck, I don't care where the man works.
But I can't take another bullshit question.
I barely manage a smile. "Lyrics come to me."
He tilts his head to one side, not at all catching the double meaning.
It's not my finest work, but I've had an ass full of this bullshit.
The guy clears his throat. "There are no love songs on the album. How do you think your fans feel about that?"
"Love isn't my thing."
"But you must have your fans' interests in mind..."
I look to the camera with a smile and run my hand through my wavy hair. "I put what I feel on paper, then Drew, Pete, and Tom help me turn those words into sound. That's what our fans want."
"Would you write a love song?"
Damn, he's green. It's difficult keeping a straight face here. "I don't plan out what I'm going to write."
"But on the first Sinful Serenade E.P.—"
"Those songs weren't about love."
Confusion spreads over his face. Okay, I'm a bad interview at the moment. I can feel Tom's glare.
Alright, Tom, message received.
Attention offstage is the price I pay for attention onstage. It didn't used to bother me. Not when I...
Well, I don't have time to get into that.
I shoot the camera a panty-melting look. "I write a song when there's something stuck in my head that won't get out."
The guy finally gets it. He leans back with a smile. "How does it feel, your video hitting number one?"
"Feels like a lot of women are dying to see me naked."
"And your song sticking in the top 40 for weeks?"
"Feels like a lot of women want to hear me moaning."
The guy nods. "This album has been getting great reviews. How do you feel, everyone claiming that Sinful Serenade is the next big thing?"
More bullshit. But I have a job to do here. At least this is true. "We want to make music, period. We're always going to be there, playing, whether the crowd is ten people or ten thousand."
The guy nods, happy with the footage. "Thank you so much for coming in Miles. It's been great talking to you."
He's not selling that story. I shake his hand anyway.
The director calls cut. I shift off my stool, and move away from the bright lights pointed at my eyes.
There isn't much room in this tiny studio. The director and the journalist are on one side of the room, checking the footage on their digital video camera.
Tom is standing in the other, shooting me the evil eye. His dirty blond hair falls over his green eyes as he shakes his head. "Fuck, Miles. I thought you made my life difficult."
"I showed up, didn't I?"
He looks toward the director, then his gaze comes back to me. "Women hear you groaning about all that pain in your soul, and they fall in love with the idea of fixing the broken bad boy."
"And?"
"Give them more to use. They'll fucking enjoy it."
"I'm not talking about that."
He shoots me an obviously not that look.
"I'm not bullshitting our fans."
"Yeah, it's bullshit? You don't write those miserable songs because there's too much pain in your soul?" He mimes tearing his heart out of his chest. "You don't stay up at night, staring out the tourbus window, wondering if some girl will ever see into your soul?"
"Not when I have you, Sticks." I press my first two fingers together. "You and I are like this. You see every bit of pain in my soul."
He rolls his eyes. "Fuck off, asshole."
"You started it."
"And I'm the immature one."
"You want to be successful or not?"
"What do you call this?"
Tom huffs. "A start." He runs a hand through his sandy hair. "You've got money. Good for you. Unless you're gonna spread it around, lay off the sanctimonious bullshit. Me, Pete, and Drew have to eat."
Tom hasn't wanted for anything but fame, fans, and adoration in a long, long time.
He's the one being an asshole.
Not that I expect anything else.
I shoot him my sweetest smile. "I'll play up the broken bad boy thing if you skip sex for a month."
He laughs. "You go first."
He doesn't stand a chance. He's already thinking about inviting the makeup girl over. Hard to blame him. She's hot. Red hair. Nice tits. A tight dress that shows off her cute ass.
But the way she's looking at us—Ooooh, another rock star to fill my quota. It's more bullshit.
Sudden fame is supposed to be fun.
Women throwing themselves at my feet is supposed to be fun.
But I didn't get into writing songs for more bullshit.
The hair stylist, a short brunette in an equally tight dress, waves hello. Her pink lips curl into a smile.
Her eyes fix on mine.
They plead fuck me.
Okay. If she doesn't ask about songs, I'll fuck her.
I nod to Tom. "I'll see you later."
He nods back and goes to talk to the makeup girl.
I smile back at the hair girl.
She comes up to me and motions to the journalist. "He's a little... naive."
That's enough of an invitation. "You want to go back to your place?"
She presses her lips together. "Okay."
I slide my arm around her waist and lead her back to my motorcycle. Then she's getting on behind me and I'm already done with thinking.
***
I get back to our place in the Hollywood Hills a few hours later. Tom isn't back. No doubt he's still with the makeup girl. The man enjoys his one night stands.
He enjoys everything he does. He's especially giddy about his newfound fame. It's all he's ever wanted: to feel important and adored. And the money—we are cleaning up. But then, I already have more than I'll ever need.
I shower then plant in my room. There's something nagging at my gut. Usually, that means I'm about to figure out the start of a song. But when I sit down at my desk and pull out my pen and paper nothing comes.
This is a recipe for picture perfect inspiration. Windows wide open to blue skies. Clean, empty room. And somebody is playing guitar down the hall. That must be Drew. If he's playing, he's in a good mood.
I close my eyes and push my thoughts out of my head. As much as Tom annoys me, the drummer is right. Women want to fall in love with the broken bad boy. My past speaks for itself. I hit every box on the damaged rock star checklist.
If I came forward with all that shit, I'd have women eating out of the palm of my hand.
We'd get tons of press.
Be twice as popular.
But there's no fucking way.
It's funny. I don't want anyone to know about my past. But it's there on the album. And on the one before that. Every single one of our songs, save the one Pete wrote, is about some ugly feeling I pulled from my gut.
My past is there for anyone who wants to look.
But no one does.
That's my job.
But just once, I wish somebody would really get it.
I wish I could drop the bullshit cheeky answers.
I wish someone would understand me.
My shoulders shrug of their own accord. I have everything I want. I'm not getting hung up on the little details.
I close my eyes and channel that feeling in my gut.
Slowly, I coax the song into my pen.
Onto the paper.
I've got three lines down when my door opens.
Drew takes a quick look on my bed, deems it worthy of his ass, and takes a seat. He's got his guitar in his lap.
His dark eyes meet mine. He says nothing. Just nods.
His fingers move over the fretboard as he plays a riff. Then he's moving into a chord progression, the start of one. It's not quite there, but it's got potential.
"It's good," I say.
He half-smiles. "I know."
"We don't need to write another song for six months, easy," I say.
He motions to the pad of paper sitting on my desk.
Fair point. I take another look at the lyrics. They might work with this. "Play it again."
He does.
It sounds just as good the second time.
The third time, I hum along to work out the melody of the verse.
Drew doesn't offer commentary on the lyrics or the melody. He's all guitar, all the time. As long as he gets total control of the guitar track, and gets solos in a handful of songs, he's happy.
Well, happy is relative. Drew isn't exactly a happy-go-lucky guy.
"What about a major-to-minor there?" I offer.
He shoots me an are you really giving me advice look, but he does try it. Then he tries something else.
Then something else.
That’s it.
We both know it.
I nod.
He starts from the top.
This time, I make notes of the cadence as I hum through the song. Usually, I'm strictly lyrics then music. But that doesn't exactly endear me to the other guys in the band.
We go through it again. Again. Again.
Until there's a knock on the door.
"You two are going to hurt my feelings." Pete is standing on the door frame. His black hair is the same shade as the makeup lining his eyes. And as his shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
The guy has a look.
"Get your emo ass in here if you want to play," I say.
Sing for Me: A Rock Star Romance Page 2