by Seven Steps
Her hand trembled as she rolled the dice. She hoped he didn’t see.
“Twelve.” He smiled. “Great roll.”
Their small corner of the plane seemed smaller now. Like it was only them. Like no one else existed.
She moved her piece, looked back up at him. He didn’t move.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice choked.
He shook his head. “No, it’s your turn.”
His hot gaze told her what he meant. He had given her a token of his affection. Something to hold on to. He wanted one back.
She didn’t know what to do.
She’d been around men before, men who had admired her. But none of them looked at her like that. None of them made her heart pound and her hands tremble. None of them were Noah LaRock.
When she didn’t move, he beckoned her over. “Come here,” he said. She was slightly eased when his voice came out just as choked as hers.
She slid into the chair next him.
He placed one hand on her knee, making small circles with his thumb. She seemed to feel it everywhere.
They locked gazes, their hungry eyes devouring one another.
His voice was a warm breeze over her lips. “God, you’re beautiful.”
He focused on her lips again, moved closer, then, a knock.
She jumped back, crossed her legs.
“Mr. LaRock,” the stewardess said. “We’ll be landing shortly.”
He huffed.
“Thank you.”
He turned back to Cassie, now hugging the arm of the seat as if her life depended on it.
“Well, it looks like we’ll be in London soon.” He sat back in his chair, appeared to catch his breath.
“Yeah, I guess. I’d better get back to my father.”
He nodded. “Yeah. But before you go…”
He grabbed her face and gave her the kiss she’d been craving all day. His tongue danced along her top lip. She opened her mouth slightly. Encouraged, he rolled his tongue against the it, coaxing a moan from her. He supped at her bottom lip, then pulled away, adjusted himself in his seat, and turned away from her.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you in London.”
Her heart fell. Her cheeks coloring, she yanked off the sweater, hurled it at him, and dashed from the curtained room.
She felt humiliated, used. She wiped the tears away as her father yawned and fluttered his eyes.
“Are we there yet?” he asked.
“No, Dad. Soon.”
He frowned at her. “Are you okay?”
No.
“Yeah, I just got a little sick, that’s all.”
“It must run in the family. Next time you can have one of my pills.”
She didn’t smile. She turned her head and watched the ground grow into view.
I don’t need pills. I need to get a grip. I need to stay away from Noah LaRock.
Chapter 13
London
The screaming crowds drowned out the plane’s engine as they taxied away from the runway.
The chants were fervent, on the verge of lunacy.
“Noah! Noah! Noah! Noah!”
Nearly a hundred men and women pushed and shoved each other to get a closer look at their king. Colorful signs lined the corridors of Heathrow airport.
“The Rocktards are out in full force today!” Dondo said, his face pressed to the window.
Noah passed Cassie’s seat as he walked to the door of the plane. He dropped his sweater in her lap, not looking behind him to see her reaction.
The plane door opened.
Noah threw up his hands with a hoot, and, stepping out into the heat and humidity, stopped to sign autographs and take pictures with his adoring legions.
Cassie walked as quickly as possible to the limo, hoping to find some peace there before Walter and Dondo arrived.
I need to be by myself, at least long enough for me to get my thoughts in order, she thought. What was I thinking spending all day with Noah? In the end, he pulled the same crap today that he pulled yesterday. Kissing me, then sending me on my way. What game is he playing at? She pouted. It doesn’t matter. From now on, I will no longer be a part of it.
The familiar feeling of disappointment rose in her heart. She had to admit the truth to herself. She was starting to develop feelings for Noah. Sure, he was handsome, but there was so much more to him. He was sweet, kind, attentive. He made her laugh. He challenged her.
She bit the inside of her cheek and stared out the window, hugging his sweater close.
It’s good that this happened now, she thought. A few more days and who knows where my heart would have ended up.
Her father and Dondo joined her nearly a half an hour into her pitiful wallowing.
“Why did you run to the car, Cassie?” Walter asked, a grin on his face, his breath coming in hard. “You missed the fun.”
“The fans broke through the barrier!” Dondo cried. “By the time Noah made it to the limo, the girls were on top of the car. It took security fifteen minutes just to clear a path.”
“That happened just now?” Cassie asked.
“Yeah. They must’ve run right past here. You didn’t see them?”
“No,” Cassie shook her head. “I guess I was thinking.”
The engine purred to life and they drove in the direction of the hotel. They passed another pack of screaming fans on the right.
“How does he do this all the time?” Cassie asked. “This is insane.”
“He handles it surprisingly well,” Walter said.
“And I handle it even better.” Dondo smiled. “I got twenty numbers stuffed in my pocket just walking from the plane to the limo.”
Cassie’s mind raced back to Kelly.
Would the girl Dondo chose end up like Kelly? She pushed the thought from her mind. No, Dondo would never do anything like that. Kelly was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had nothing to do with Dondo.
Still…
Chapter 14
Noah
Noah began his day with a radio interview on The Beat, a station based out of London.
Two jockeys, Morris and The Chest, discussed the upcoming concert behind two hanging microphones. Noah sat across from them, his microphone tied with a tie-dyed strip of cloth.
“So, Noah, there has been a lot of talk about you retiring.” Morris pushed his shades up his pudgy nose, though the room was dim. “What do you want to say to the critics who are calling this a farewell tour?”
“Not true,” Noah replied shortly. “Not true at all.” He sipped his coffee. The intern had put too much sugar in it. His teeth began to itch.
“Where do you think those rumors come from?” The Chest asked. His stringy hair was pulled into a ponytail, his flabby bare chest devoid of color.
“I don’t know. I’ve been in this business for sixteen years now, and some people may think that’s too long. Maybe some people are tired of me. I mean, I hope they aren’t, but, you know.” He paused. “I just want all of my fans out there to know that I have no plans of retiring. I’m still writing music, I’m still touring. I’m going to be around for a long, long time. For as long as the Rocktards will have me.”
“Speaking of writing music, what artist are you listening to these days?” Morris asked, his eyes hooded as they looked at the cards in front of him.
“Who am I listening to?”
“Yes, and, bear with me, because I am trying to make a point.”
“Uh, okay. I like older stuff: The Who, The Cure, Rolling Stones, Aerosmith. I’m a huge Queen fan, obviously—”
“Okay, okay,” Morris interrupted. “Here is the point that I am making. Those bands that you listed, they all wrote their own songs, yes?”
“Right.”
“They were bands, they played their own music, yes?”
“Right.”
“And you yourself write your own songs, and play your own music, yes?”
“Right.”
“So what i
s your opinion of upcoming artist now who don’t do those things?”
Noah narrowed his gaze at Morris. He knew this question would come up eventually.
“These new pop stars,” Morris continued, “they are performers. They dance, they work a crowd, they perform. But what they don’t do is they don’t write their own music, they don’t play their own instruments, and some of them don’t even sing well. As a musician yourself, what is your opinion of these up and comers? Do you consider them artists?”
Noah paused, cleared his throat.
“By definition, a musician is a person who plays a musical instrument and/or is musically talented. I consider myself a musician. I play seven instruments, bass, piano, drums, guitar, saxophone, harmonica, and violin, and on top of that I sing.”
“And no one is debating that,” Chest said.
“By definition, an artist is someone who creates, practices, and/or demonstrates art. I consider myself an artist, with music being my art. I don’t consider this new emergence of pop stars, although they are very talented, I don’t consider them as being musicians because they don’t play an instrument and many of them are not musically talented. They are, as you said, performers. They’re packaged, they’re dressed, they are sold. They’re like candy, like bubble gum. Do I consider them artists?” He sucked his teeth. “Well, I’ll put it to you this way. They are to art, what a fast food cheeseburger is to a filet mignon.”
“So you are calling them a cheap imitation?” Morris asked.
“I am. They are a cheap imitation of quality music. They are music that is stripped, sanitized, chewed down, and shoved down our throats.”
“So, I take it you are not a fan.”
“No, I’m not a fan.” Noah drank the too sugary coffee, his mood considerably darkening.
“So, if one of them asked to do a song with you, would you do it?”
Another pause. “I would take them under my wing, to teach them musicality and the business. But would I collaborate with them? No. My music won’t allow it. My fans won’t allow it. I wouldn’t be able to do that.”
“What do you think about the future of music?” Chest asked. “Do you think that it’s moving in the right direction?”
Noah shook his head. “Honestly, there are some great bands out there, but geez, I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Last question, Noah,” Morris said. “It’s no secret that the face of music is changing. You of all people should know that. I mean, your last album went platinum in a week, this album is struggling to get there. If you had to elect the next rock king, who would it be?”
Noah’s coffee turned sour in his mouth. Struggling to get there? What did that mean? Had the sales been slacking?
“Noah?” Chest asked.
Noah cleared his throat. “Uh, well, I don’t know. I guess only time will tell.”
“Thank you, Noah. Noah LaRock, everyone!”
The studio clapped for him before the show went to commercial.
“Great interview, Noah,” Chest said, his middle bouncing as he walked over. “I’m sure the kids will love it.”
Noah nodded his thanks to the jockeys, his mind racing as he left the building and slid into the limo next to Walter.
He would next be appearing on London Style to discuss the tour, do a song, and a short interview.
“Don’t worry about that,” Walter said.
“About what?”
“About that whole album, uh, next king stuff. Those guys were just goading you.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“I can see it all over your face.”
Noah looked out the window as the limo pulled away from the curb.
“Walter, be straight with me. How are we doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like with me. How am I doing?”
“Leave that stuff to old Papa Bear. You just worry about—”
“Walter, I want to know. How am I doing?”
Walter shook his head, his expression pained. “Well, Noah, we’re not as good as the last tour. Ticket sales aren’t what they used to be. Album sales aren’t what they used to be.”
“What do you mean not what they used to be?”
“They are down by twenty-five percent.”
“All of them?”
“All of them. Album sales a little more.”
Hurt speared through him. Had his fans abandoned him? No, it couldn’t be. The concerts were packed, weren’t they? The green room was always filled with people, wasn’t it? How could his sales be down by twenty-five percent?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to be distracted. You know how this industry is. They want a pretty pony, then the pony gets old and they shoot it. That’s life.”
“Old? I’m only twenty-four.”
“Yes, well, you’ve been doing this since you were eight. That’s a long time in industry years.”
Noah frowned, watched Walter’s hands begin to shake.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“We keep doing what we’ve been doing. Touring, writing music, and moving ahead.”
“Move ahead?” Noah asked. It felt as if his world was crumbling beneath him.
Where were his fans, his Rocktards? Where were all of the girls who stood outside of the airport waiting for him? Had they all abandoned him, sacrificed themselves to the pop music machine? How could this happen?
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Walter said. “You’re worried about it.”
“Shouldn’t I be? Is that why Aaron keeps calling?”
“Aaron calls you, huh?”
“Yes. Aaron. The accountant. He calls me fifty times a day.”
“And you don’t answer?”
“You know I don’t deal with that stuff. I figured if he couldn’t get me, then he’d call you and you would handle it.”
He fished his phone from his pocket. Another missed call from Aaron. He hit the call back button and raised the phone to his ear.
“Noah, look at me.”
Noah looked up at his manager.
“Put the phone down. Leave Aaron to me. It will all be fine. You believe in me, right? Right?”
Noah’s father died when Noah was fourteen. Sarah, his mother, died two years later. Walter was the only father Noah had left, the only one besides Dondo who’d been there through thick and thin. If he couldn’t trust Walter, he could trust no one.
Noah nodded, hit the end call button. “Yes, I believe in you.”
“Good, because I believe in you. I believe in us, our partnership. I believe that we can make this work. Have I ever let you down?”
Noah shook his head.
“No, I haven’t, and I won’t start today. You just let old Papa Bear work this out. You’ll be back on top again. You’ll see.”
Walter’s attention turned to the driver, as he called for him to turn on the local news radio.
The trouble didn’t stop.
Upon arrival at the London Style studio, he was informed that his interview would be cut short, and his song would play the host out to commercial. A new artist had come into town and agreed to appear at the last minute.
Lesliee Day.
The pink-lipped pop star blew into the London Style studio like a hurricane. Around her, a flock of homely women and men squawked and crowed. Her hot pink tank top and matching skirt shined brilliantly, each gemstone catching the studio lights just right. Stacked heels added an extra five inches to her short stature. She was pop’s newest queen. The way her eyes swept over the room dared anyone to forget it. When she saw him, she twirled one of her blonde pigtails around a dainty finger and sashayed over, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Noah LaRock?” She gasped. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s you. My father loves you. You know, I was born the year your first album came out.”
Her smile, like her breasts, was drenched in falsity. She smacked on her gum and looked him over as if he were
an old relic.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Me?” She placed a hand on her ample bosom, her powder blue eyes wide in shock. “Who am I?”
“Who. Are. You?” He smirked. He knew exactly who she was, but giving her that acknowledgement was not in him today. She was a sixteen-year-old girl. He had guitars older than her, with infinitely more talent. What did this generation see in her anyway? She was an oversexed, auto-tuned, choreographed princess. Just the sight of her made his blood boil. Is this what his fans left him for?
“I’m Lesliee Day. You must’ve heard my songs on the radio.”
“I don’t listen to the radio much.”
“What about on the Pepsi commercial?”
He squinted as the light from her gemstones hit him in the eye. “Sorry, don’t watch television,” he lied.
She nodded, her bottom lip poked out as she frowned.
“Well, I know who you are, Mr. LaRock, and I wanted to say that I heard the news and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“For your record label dropping you. That must be tough.”
What?
“If you ever want to guest on any of my tracks, let me know. I’ll talk to my manager and we’ll see what we can do.”
An intern with horn-rimmed glasses hanging off his nose appeared. “Ms. Day, you’re needed in makeup.”
She thanked the intern, and turned back to Noah.
“Nice meeting you, Mr. LaRock.”
With pity in her eyes, she, and her crew, left.
He felt Walter’s hand touch his shoulder. “Noah?”
“They dropped me?”
“Noah, just calm down.”
“You knew about this?”
Walter froze, his mouth squeezed into a flat line. “Noah—”
“You knew about this.”
Noah marched toward the door.
“Noah, wait! You can’t just walk out, you’re on next.”
“Tell them I’m sick.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then tell them whatever you have to!” he roared. “I’m not staying here.”
Walter grabbed Noah’s shirt and yanked him into the corner of the room, away from the prying eyes of the studio staff. His voice turned to a harsh whisper. “Noah, grow up! You have commitments. You will not just walk out.”