by Arell Rivers
“If I didn’t have fans like you dragging all your friends to see me, I’d be rocking nothing but a suit.” I share a smile with Nicole.
“I can’t imagine you doing anything else but singing.”
“Thanks, darlin,’ me either.” She mouths “darlin’” to Nicole. Much better than risking a wrong name, in my book.
A hot chick in a skin-tight black dress interrupts our conversation. After giving me the once-over, she offers us all shot glasses. Holding up a bottle, she asks, “Whiskey?”
“Don’t mind if I do. Ladies?” Nicole shakes her head, but her friend—was it Lizzie, maybe?—gives me the thumbs up. “Two, thanks,” I add. The chick pours one for me and one for the redhead. I savor the burn as the liquid goes down my throat.
My attention diverts to Nicole, who is trying to hide a yawn behind her hand. Returning the emptied shot glasses to the hot groupie-cum-bartender, I ask her to bring us a soda and a beer. The redhead declines another drink. Balancing our two shot glasses with at least five other empties, she sashays off. She looks as good going as she did coming.
To divert my wayward thoughts, I ask, “Nicole, do you have practice tomorrow?”
“Yes. Our next concert is a couple weeks away.” This time she cannot hide her yawn, which makes me laugh.
“Past your bedtime?”
She smiles. “Cole, it was past my bedtime when we were down at the bar.”
“I don’t want to make your hubby mad at me.”
Her friend responds, “Her husband is cool.”
“I believe it, but I’m sure he wants his wife back in one piece.”
Nicole lets out a long breath, as if she’s relieved to have permission to blow this popsicle stand. Her friend appears annoyed, but I’m more concerned about Nicole. After all, she’s the one who needs to drive home. “How far do you have to drive?”
“We’re about twenty minutes from here.”
“Good.” The smoking hot groupie returns with our refills, which I take off her hands and pass the soda to Nicole. “Don’t think that I’m kicking you out, but you look beat. I want you both to get home safely.”
Nicole responds. “Thanks.” She looks at the redhead, and I can tell they’re going to need to hash this out. A phone starts ringing somewhere in the suite, the perfect excuse to leave them to it.
I deposit my untouched beer onto a nearby side table and say, “Ladies, I’ll be right back.” Scanning the room, I spy a hotel telephone with a blinking light sitting on a desk by the sofa. I head on over and pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mr. Manchester?”
“Yes.”
A young woman’s voice stammers, “We’ve had a couple of, well, complaints about the, ehrm, noise level in your room. Would you mind keeping it down a bit? Please?”
Jeez. What a bunch of uptight assholes stay at this hotel. But the clerk’s just doing her job. “Not a problem.”
Hanging up, I walk over to the speaker system and dial it down, which gets everyone’s attention. I shrug. “Hotel got some complaints.” Everyone resumes what they were doing, only in comparatively hushed tones.
When I return to Nicole and her friend, they both stand and Nicole says, “Libby and I are going to head out.”
Libby—that’s her name. Thank you, Nicole. I look at the redhead and say, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Libby.”
She grins and gives me a program from tonight’s concert. “Would you mind signing this for me?”
“Of course.” Taking her pen, I write: To my redheaded Libby – It’s been a pleasure. Cole Manchester. I return the program to her and give her a barely-there kiss on her mouth.
“Thanks.” Her voice sounds breathless, and her fingers fly up to her lips.
Turning to Nicole, I say, “Just in case we don’t get to chat before the concert tomorrow, I want you to know that I enjoyed talking with you. I wish you all the best with your orchestra.”
“Thanks. I had a lot of fun talking with you, too. I’m truly looking forward to the concert tomorrow.” She holds up her VIP pass, and continues, “Hopefully I’ll see you again when you come back to Phoenix.” She places her hands on my shoulders and kisses my cheek. What a classy lady. I could see myself with someone like her—maybe in ten or twenty years. In the meantime, there are too many women, too many backrooms.
A little later, Jeffrey joins me in the kitchen area. “Some night, huh?”
“Yup.”
“I saw you chatting up those chicks. Getting ready for another threesome?”
I shake my head. “Nah, they left. The brunette was cool—and married. She’s in an orchestra.”
His eyebrows go up. “Cool.”
“We had a good conversation.” Noting that he’s alone, I can’t resist needling him. “So what happened to your brunette from downstairs? Scare her off?”
“She’s waiting for me in my room, asshole. I only came back here to get more champagne.” He holds up a bottle.
Clapping me on the back, he crosses the room toward to the door. Since I never retrieved my beer from earlier, I open the refrigerator for a last one. Shit. It’s empty other than several bottles of water. Closing the fridge, I survey the party’s die-hards. Roadies and groupies are grinding all over each other to music that’s crept back up. Uninterested in joining, I wander over to the sliding glass doors that lead to the suite’s balcony. Guess I’ll have one last smoke before calling it a night.
Stepping outside, I’m hit with the oppressive Arizona heat once again. I take my shirt off, toss it over the arm of the patio chair and pull out a cigarette. Before I can fish my lighter out of my pocket, a sultry female voice asks, “Need a light?”
I turn to see the “bartender” from earlier. Putting the cig to my lips, I lean in to the proffered light and puff. This chick is hot. Maybe the threesome didn’t totally wear me out after all.
“Are you enjoying yourself, darlin’?”
She looks me up and down, and licks her lips. “I’m starting to.”
“That’s good.” I take a step closer to her. Even in this dim light, I can see her pulse quicken.
“What’s your name?” Why do I bother to ask? I never remember. At least not in the situations that don’t involve much talking.
“JoJo.”
I pitch my voice lower. “Nice to meet you, JoJo. I hope you like what you see, ’cause I sure do.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, running her hands up and down my naked torso. She traces my six pack with her dark purple fingernail.
Yup, I’m definitely up for another round.
I’M FLOATING ON a cloud above the Jersey Shore. Looking down, everything looks calm. Even the ocean is as smooth as a new drum head. A seagull flies directly at my head from the left. Putting my hand out, the bird lands on my palm and immediately transforms into a flower. A rose. Holding it by the stem, I rub its soft petals over my cheek, reveling in the smoothness while inhaling its sweet scent. Suddenly, my cloud starts to shake as if the waves were hitting my fluffy white pillow rather than the land below. Startled, I drop the rose and it descends into the water below. The impact causes ripples to head toward the shore.
I wake with a start. The woman lying beside me is tossing and turning, causing the bed to shake. Reaching over, I place my hands on her bare shoulders and she immediately quiets. I close my eyes and try for more sleep, but it’s no use. I’m awake. The clock reads twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Thank God Platinum arranged for late checkout. Even so, I have to get moving. I have a Meet and Greet scheduled before the show tonight.
Stretching out in the comfortable, large and blessedly stationary bed, I allow myself a couple of minutes to relax. Quite a far cry from the MPB’s bunks, that’s for sure. Getting up, I perform my normal routine of one hundred push-ups, followed by one hundred sit-ups. This stuffy hotel must have a proper gym, though, so I dig out a pair of shorts, a shirt and socks. Lacing up my sneakers, I cast my eyes over the naked woman in my bed and head out of th
e room, quietly closing the door behind me.
The main living room area looks like a tornado hit it hard. All manner of liquor bottles are strewn about, accompanied by enough glasses to restock a department store, ranging from full to empty. Some are tipped over in sticky-looking puddles. Someone must have been smoking in here, because butts are littered about. Holes are burned into the sofa too, if I’m not mistaken. An iPhone is still playing music through the speakers. I close my eyes, sending a prayer of thanks that it’s not too loud.
A couple of my band members and a smattering of groupies are passed out, all of them in various stages of undress. As I pick my way through the room, my sneaker sticks to something on the carpet. Shaking free, I take a few more steps and squish into a puddle of I-don’t-know-what. I turn the cell phone off, plunging the room into silence.
Finally, I make it to the kitchen and take a bottle of water from the fridge. Four pizza boxes are crammed in there, together with ice cream. I move the soupy carton to the freezer. A broken plate is in the sink.
Last night was off the hook.
A piece of paper that’s been shoved under the door catches my eye. Bending over, I scoop up the hotel letterhead and hold my breath.
Dear Mr. Manchester,
While we appreciate your business, we have to advise you that we received numerous complaints about the noise emanating from your room in the early hours of this morning. This was after we had to ask your party to leave the bar hours after last call. At that time, you were informed that the police had already been diverted by our staff twice. We had to respond to three more noise complaints overnight.
We pride ourselves in offering first class service and amenities to all of our guests. Unfortunately, your party’s actions did not meet our standards. Once you settle your bill, please do not book with us in the future.
The letter details the bar bill from last night. $30,000. And that number didn’t include the alcohol consumed in here and the damage done to this room. Fuck.
I take the letter and return to the bedroom. Sitting on the chair by the window, I stare out into the afternoon sky, not really seeing it. I need to call my publicist and make sure this is all taken care of quietly. The last thing I need is for the press to run with this story and paint me as some party boy.
Echoes of the promise I made to Mom and Aunt Doreen ring in my ears. So long as my antics aren’t publicized, the “bad boy” moniker won’t be associated with me. I will have technically—though only technically—kept my promise. Greta and her team have done a kick-ass job of keeping my random hook-ups out of the media in the past, so hopefully this will be a piece of cake. Red velvet cake.
Picking up my cell, I dial my account rep. Despite its being Saturday, she picks up on the second ring. “Rose Morgan.”
“Hi Rose, it’s Cole. How are you doing?”
“What’s up, Cole?” She never wastes time with idle chit-chat, which I appreciate. Besides, it’s not like we’re friends—I’m her client. She’s paid to make problems like this one disappear.
“I’m here in Phoenix. We had our first show last night.”
The sound of her rummaging through some papers transfers over the phone. “I see. You play there again tonight, but your tour bus is driving overnight to your next gig in Palm Springs.”
Sighing, I give her the highlights of last night, minus my willing groupies, and end by reading the hotel’s letter. “I never saw the police, so that’s good.”
I give her a moment to process everything. “How badly is your room trashed?”
“Well, all the liquor has been opened and some of it was spilled on the carpet. There are a few burn marks on the furniture, too.” I grimace as I confess.
“Can you please take some photos of the room and send them to me, together with a copy of the letter?”
“Sure thing.” Shit. What about all the bodies out there? It looks like an orgy. “Do my, ah, friends who crashed here need to be in the photos too?”
The chick from last night stirs. She stretches her very lithe and limber body. Too bad I have to take care of this shit instead of going for another round with her. She gets off the bed and kneels at my side, naked. Crap, what did Rose say? “I’m sorry Rose, you cut out. Can you repeat that?”
“Don’t worry about your friends. Email me the photos as the room looks right now. They’re just for me. No one else will see them, I promise.”
“Okay.” The chick’s hands are at my waistband. Placing my hand over the phone, I whisper, “Not now, darlin’.”
Rose asks, “Is there anything else I should know about last night?”
The chick giggles. She runs her hand over my semi-awake cock. “Like, um, what?”
“Are there any women that need to be taken care of?”
“Nope.” The two chicks on the bus and this one aren’t the sort to seek publicity. Not like some of the others Rose has handled for me. I’ve gotten good at avoiding the ones who want the spotlight.
“Okay. I’ll take care of the hotel and make sure they get paid for the repairs. The media won’t publicize this, I assure you. I’ll wait for your pictures.”
“Thanks.” I disconnect the call and turn my attention to the woman who is doing a naked dance for me. As much as I want to be entertained by her—and entertain her—I have to get those photos off to Rose to ensure the night is buried forever.
“As much as I would love to do an encore darlin’, I need to take care of something.”
Her face falls. “I guess I’ll take a shower.” I watch as her perfect ass heads in the direction of the bathroom.
Willing my cock to stay down, I pick up my cell phone and get busy taking photos of the suite from all possible angles, making sure to document all the damage. I even take a picture of the iPhone in its docking station, and the insides of the refrigerator and freezer.
Returning to my room, I send the photos to Rose. Once completed, I occupy myself by watching the hot chick dress in her skin-tight outfit from last night. Damn, that dress looks hot on her. But it definitely was better on the floor.
My thoughts are interrupted by my ringing cell phone. “Hi Rose, did you receive the photos?”
“Yes, I got them, thanks. They documented the damage clearly enough. I will take care of all of this. Don’t worry, and have a good concert tonight.”
“Thank you. I plan on it.”
“OKAY, COLE, THEY’RE ready for you.”
“Thanks.”
I take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob to the room designated by the venue for backstage events. These radio station Meet and Greets are great, but I prefer to do them after I perform. I’d much rather be working out my nervous energy with some push-ups and trading mindless wisecracks with my band. It had to be scheduled this way, however, because we’re leaving for Palm Springs right after the show.
My ass vibrates. Raising my hand to the crew guy, I pull out my cell phone and check my texts. Dan. My best friend-slash-roommate wants to know when I’m going to be “home.”
I type, See you in a couple of days.
His response is instantaneous. Better take an advance on my paycheck to restock the fridge with beer.
My thumbs compose a response: Douche. I hit “Send” and follow it up with a second text: Gotta go do some PR. Popping my phone back into my pocket, I nod to the crew guy. He opens the door to the Meet and Greet, and I enter the room sporting a real grin on my face.
About one hundred of my fans line the room, many of them carrying items for me to autograph, everything from photos of me to bras. They erupt into a warm welcome—clapping punctuated by excited shouts and woots.
“Hello everyone,” I say, even though only the first few people can hear me. I take in the mainly female gathering. Most of them appear to be in their early twenties, but some young teen and tweens—accompanied by their moms—are thrown in for good measure. This, my label has told me, is my demographic. Works for me. Everywhere I look, I’m greeted by smiling faces.
“Hello!” I shout a bit louder, careful not to hurt my voice before the show tonight. I join the radio DJ at the front of the room, waving to my fans as I go. He motions for the crowd to quiet down, with some minor success. Thankfully, he has a microphone.
“Welcome to Phoenix, Cole. If last night’s concert was any indication, tonight’s going to be a fantastic show!”
I drink in the moment of warmth and nod in gratitude. “Thanks.”
“Do you have anything to say to your fans before you start signing?”
A hush descends on the room, my fans quieting to hear my every word. Clearing my throat, I begin. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out tonight. Ever since I was a kid, all I wanted to do was make music. It’s because of you that I’m able to live my dream—”
From the back of the room, a female voice shouts out, “You’re my dream, Cole!”
I wink in the general direction of where the voice emanated from. “Why, thank you darlin’. And I want to be your dream for a long time.”
The DJ takes over and the meet and greet process begins. After I’ve signed souvenirs for a dozen or so ladies, a young boy wearing my concert T-shirt and ripped jeans reaches the front of the line, craning his neck upward to look at me. A riot of brown curls frames his serious face.
“Hi, I’m Cole.” I extend my hand, which the boy shakes. “What’s your name?”
Even though he’s staring at me with his mouth open, he manages to reply, “Josh.”
Wanting to engage the cute kid, I ask, “How old are you, Josh?”
“Ten.”
Dropping to my knee so that I’m more on his eye level, I say, “You know, I was your age when I started taking music lessons. Do you like music?”
“Yes, Mr. Manchester, very much.”
“Well, Josh, I hope you stick with it.” It’s the advice I would have wanted someone to give me at that age, but he bites his lip and his eyes get watery. Clearly, I said the wrong thing. A woman, presumably his mother, puts her hand on his shoulder. I give Josh a reassuring smile and fist bump. Standing up, I give the woman a quizzical look.