POP ROCK

by Charity Ferrell

  “Speaking of the ladies loving you.” She jumps up from the couch, skips over to her bag, rummages through it, but doesn’t pull anything out. “Guess what I found?” She’s excited, eager, and I know she has something up her sleeve.

  “I can only imagine,” I answer, rubbing my chin. “But I’m hoping it’s a pot of gold or some World Series tickets.”

  She whips it out, and it’s me looking at me. I groan. I insisted they quit selling them ten years ago, but people still put them on eBay and Amazon. My mom and Thomas talked me into doing it when I first became famous.

  She holds it up in the air and waves it back and forth in front of me. “It’s you … only as a doll. I can’t decide who’s more handsome, you or Ken, but I’m sure you both fought over Barbie.” She can’t hold in her laughter, and even though I’m the brunt of the joke, the sound of it is intoxicating. I have to figure out more ways to get her to laugh, even if it means embarrassing myself in the process.

  I run my hand down my chest. “Barbie chose me, obviously. There’s no competition.” I stand up and grab the doll from her. “And it’s an action figure. Where did you even find this thing? They quit selling them years ago.”

  “Some woman brought it with her to the concert. She wouldn’t give it up when I first tried to buy it from her, which is weird considering she was my age.”

  “Yet you were trying to buy it from her.”

  “Fair point.”

  “So how did you convince her to hand it over?”

  “I gave her a strand of your hair in exchange for it.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  She blows out a breath and flops back down next to me. “Fine, I gave her fifty dollars and your fake phone number.”

  I hold the doll back out to her. “You only wanted it so you could sleep with me at night.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I pat her leg. “Libby, you don’t have to lie. We’ve known each other long enough now that you can tell me you not only have a kinky obsession with dolls, but you have a kinky obsession with dolls that have my face and body.”

  “I so do not have a kinky obsession with anything that has your face on it.”

  “Right,” I draw out. “And I don’t wish I could get you out of that dress right now.”

  She gets up and points my way. “Sexual harassment.” She opens up one of the drawers in the kitchenette and pulls out a knife.

  “What the hell do you plan on doing with that?” She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she sets the doll down and proceeds to cut off his head – or my head off to be more exact. “Ah man, that isn’t cool.” She grins and tosses the decapitated action figure to me.

  “What are you planning on doing after this?” she asks, after I throw mini-me in the trashcan. “Do you want me to order you room service, or are you going to an after party? I know some of your friends came to see your show.”

  “We can order something to eat and then we’re going out, probably to gamble.”

  “Okay, have fun and stay out of trouble.”

  “I said we are going out.”

  She holds her hand up. “We are not going anywhere, especially gambling. You can, but I’d prefer to sit in my room without cameras in my face asking me if we’re secretly banging.”

  “Fine, you’re such a party pooper.” I get up from the couch. “Just have something sent up to my room – whatever you’re ordering is fine. I might need you to do some stuff for me, so keep your phone on and text me your room number.”

  She opens her mouth to most likely tell me it’s not necessary to give me her room number, but I leave before she has the chance.

  Will she text me her room number?

  Probably not, but considering I’m paying for it, they’ll tell me.

  I’m standing in front of Libby’s door and can hear the TV blaring on the other side. I made sure to tell her to book our rooms on the same floor at every hotel we’re staying in.

  I pull my phone from my pocket, hit her name, and can hear her phone ringing over the TV. It goes to voicemail.

  I redial.

  Voicemail again.

  I pull my hand up and bang it on the door.

  The TV volume decreases, and the door suddenly swings open. Libby is standing in front of me in plaid pajama shorts and a tight little tank top with no bra. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail, and her face is makeup free. I stand there for a few seconds, staring at her fully alert nipples.

  My gaze swings up at the sound of her cough, and her arms cross over her chest, blocking my fantastic view.

  “Are you ignoring my calls?” I ask.

  “No,” she answers, moving her bare feet back and forth across the carpet. “My phone is on silent.”

  Dirty little liar. “Really?” I raise a brow at the same time she nods. “I just heard it through the door.”

  My sweet view of her nipples comes back when she throws her hands up in the air. “Fine, yes, I’m ignoring your phone calls because I want to sit in this room for the rest of the night and binge on some obnoxious reality show. Not go out like you want me to do.”

  She takes a step back in surprise when I walk through the doorway. “Too bad. We’re going out.”

  “I already told you no.” I head into the room and spot her open luggage. She gasps when I start to go through it. The door slams shut, and she comes stomping over to me. “Could you be any more annoying?”

  I drop the shirt in my hand when she grabs my elbow and pulls me across the room, away from her shit. I turn around to look at her. “You pick something or I will.” I clap my hands together in a pleading motion. “Come on, Libby. We have miles of being on the road ahead of us. Let’s get out, do something fun, live a little. We can’t hide in fear the entire time we’re on tour from the cameras. Fuck them.”

  “For the hundredth time, no.”

  “No one will notice us, I promise.” I nudge her with my elbow. “You don’t think I have connections?”

  “It’s almost one in the morning.”

  “Vegas never sleeps, sunshine.”

  “But I do, or I’m one cranky bitch.”

  “You have all day on the bus to sleep.” She stays silent. “Secret of the day.”

  “What?”

  “If you say no, I will cry.”

  She slaps my shoulder. “You’re seriously a pain in my ass, in case I haven’t told you.”

  “Tons of times. Your favorite pain in the ass that you’re about to go explore the city and do tourist shit with.”

  “The only tourist shit available at this time is strip joints and prostitutes.”

  “I promise there will be no hookers.”

  She bites into the corner of her lip. She wants to come, I can tell, but she’s too proud to admit it. She groans and points her finger in my face. “Fine, but you better not be lying.”

  “I would never,” I answer, dramatically, and hold my hand over my heart.

  She stomps back to her suitcase and starts pulling clothes out. “So what exactly are we going to be doing? I have to know so I can dress accordingly.”

  “We’re going out and having fun. That’s all you need to know, and you don’t need to worry about what to wear.” Her clothes are going to be coming off, anyways.

  She grabs her stuff and goes to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. I sit down on the bed and take a look around when something hits me.

  Is it in here?

  I slowly get up and tiptoe back over to the suitcase. There’s no way she’d leave it on the bus, so it has to be in here. I unzip it and feel around. Nothing. I look in the front pocket. Nothing. I continue my search, fully aware it’s wrong, but I’m curious. Just as I’m about to give up, I find a small bag crammed in the corner and open it.

  Jackpot, baby.

  I slip it in my pocket and rush over to the bathroom door.

  “Hey,” I yell through it. “I forgot something in my room.” I snag the key card to her room from the dre
sser, just in case she tries to lock me out. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Got it. I’ll be done in about ten minutes,” she answers.

  I dash two doors down to my room, swipe my key card, and ignore the people inside as I go to my bedroom and cram the bag into my suitcase. Let’s hope no one else finds it, or they’ll think I’m into some kinky shit. I make it back to her room before she’s out and sit down on the bed, acting all innocent and shit.

  “Does this look okay?” she asks, stepping out of the bathroom.

  My eyes roam down her body, and I can feel my dick stir underneath my jeans. I gulp. Please don’t let me get a boner in front of this chick right now. She’d kick me out of her room and probably quit. I take in a few deep breaths and try to talk my dick down.

  “You look perfect,” I answer.

  She took her ponytail out. Her straight strands hit right above her breasts. Her tight black dress shows off her toned legs and gives me a perfect view of her cleavage. Her tits would fit perfectly in my palms. It sucks she’s not going to be wearing that tonight. She’ll be changing as soon as we get to my place.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she says, grinning.

  “You only make me want you more when you say shit like that.”

  “We all know I’m not Knox Rivers’ type.”

  “I already told you I don’t have a type. Why would I only want to explore one pond for the rest of my life? Give me something different. I love different.”

  And that’s exactly what Libby is. She’s not a model walking the runway with a million Instagram followers. She’s not an actress who has high expectations for every date we have. She’s real.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  She blows out a long breath. “I guess.”

  I grab her hand. “You’re going to love this.”

  23

  Libby

  I’m bitching the entire time Knox takes my hand and leads me down the hallway.

  I’m in Vegas – and all I want to do is collapse on my bed and relax. Gambling, drinking, partying, I don’t want to partake in any of that.

  I’m close to panicking when we stop only two doors down – at his suite. He has something annoying up his sleeve, I’m sure of it.

  I can hear music playing in the room while Knox slides his key card into the slot and opens up the door. I stumble forward when he snags my hand again, pulls me through the doorway with him, and leads me straight into the living room.

  What the?

  There’s a group of guys with drinks in their hands crowded around the furniture. They all grin, throwing their hands up and cheering like we’re the stars of the party when they see us.

  Okay, Knox technically is.

  But that’s not the weirdest part.

  None of them look like they’re about to have a night out in Vegas. Instead, they’re all dressed in clothes that had to have been bought at some hillbilly hoedown. Some of them are sporting cut-off jean shorts that are grossly too short. They’re sporting American flag and beer advertisement apparel out the ass – on their shirts, pants, and bandannas. A few of them even have mullets.

  They’re in the mid-twenties but look like middle-aged men with beer bellies going through their mid-life crisis. I saw them before Knox’s concert today, and none of them had this look going on.

  I blink a few times, noticing two of the men are Marvin and Lucas. I glance over at Knox, then to the good ol’ American boys, and back to Knox, waiting for someone to give me an answer as to what the hell is going on.

  Knox laughs, obviously loving my confusion, and claps his hands. “You ready to have some fun, sunshine?”

  Everyone’s attention goes straight to me.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  I don’t want to act like a bitch in front of his friends, but fun … or whatever the hell this is … was not in agenda for tonight. I had a grand plan of eating Cheetos and Facetiming Mia to talk shit about the latest Real Housewives fight.

  “I told you I don’t want to be bombarded by paparazzi,” I answer, trying to keep my voice low, so the others don’t hear my lame excuse.

  “There won’t be any,” Spencer says, moving in towards us. He’s one of Knox’s friends and the apparent leader of the pack. I grimace, my face turning red. I guess I was louder than I thought. “Because they won’t know it’s you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  A door opens, interrupting us, and a woman walks out wearing short-shorts, a red tube-top, and cowgirl boots with her hair teased to the Gods. Even dressed in that outfit, I know who she is. Yasmine Ulta – one of the hottest supermodels in the world right now.

  She looks directly at me, her red lips forming a smile. “It’s like playing dress up,” she starts to explain. “We put on these ridiculous disguises so no one recognizes us and go have fun. We do it all the time, and surprisingly, no one has caught on yet.” She skips over to us, grabs my hand, and drags me further into the living room. “Knox asked me to bring a few options for you.”

  There’s a large suitcase opened up on the floor next to the couch that’s filled with clothes similar to what everyone else is wearing.

  “So what look do you want to go for?” she asks. “We have everything from showgirl, hooker, redneck tourist …”

  “Redneck tourist!” Spencer shouts. “It’s the fucking best. You can do an accent and everything.” He wraps his arm around Yasmine’s waist and smacks his lips against her cheek. “Me and this smokin’ babe are the redneck couple of the year.”

  “I have a better idea,” Yasmine draws out. “You and Knox should dress up like a couple that’s eloping. That would be awesome.”

  “I love that,” Knox says, coming up behind me. “Do you think we should do the whole wedding dress and tux thing, or act like it’s spur of the moment, unplanned?”

  “Spur of the moment,” Yasmine answers. “Those are the best.” She bends down and starts to rifle through the suitcase. “I did throw a few wedding dress options in here, nothing too crazy. I mean, you can never go to Vegas without packing an emergency wedding dress.”

  “She carries them with her everywhere we go, you know, in case I ever propose,” Spencer says.

  “You’ve proposed to me three times, Spencer, and I’ve told you we’re waiting every single time,” she argues.

  I stand there, paralyzed in place, and stuttering to find the right words to tell them I don’t want to fake elope Knox.

  I grunt when Yasmine shoves a handful of clothes in my arms and points down the hallway. “Bathroom. I left some of my makeup in there if you want to use it.”

  I nod and head to the bathroom because I haven’t come up with a plan on how I’m going to get out of this yet.

  Do they really think we can get away with this?

  People know Knox is here tonight and are most likely going to be looking for him.

  I shut the door and start going through my outfit options.

  The first one is an eighties-inspired wedding dress with ridiculous shoulder pads.

  Hell no.

  The second is a pair of shorts that resemble Yasmine’s, complete with red stars sewn into the denim. I toss them to the side. I’m not usually insecure about my legs, but there’s a supermodel in the other room wearing the same thing. That’s not happening.

  Next.

  I try on a blue sequin dress. It’s short, only hitting a few inches below my ass, but it’s the best option I have. Sequins aren’t my thing, but the other choices are a no-go.

  I poke my head out the door and call Knox over.

  “If we’re supposed to act like we’re married, what’s my new husband wearing?” I ask when he reaches me. I can’t believe I’m actually asking him this question.

  “I haven’t decided yet.” He peeks in through the opening. “Whoa … that’s the look of my future bride? Yes!” He yells for Yasmine, and I suddenly regret asking him. He pushes the door open when she joins us, now wearing a black wig. “What should t
he groom wear with this look?”

  “Considering the theme is pretty much hillbilly, if you guys are dressed too different it might out us. I have the perfect cowgirl boots to go with that, Libby. Here’s your wig. You have to wear that.” She hands it to me and then looks over at Knox. “And I’ll find you something.”

  She pulls Knox away, and I shut the door again. I finger the hideous, blonde wig in my hand. The strands are crimped and frizzy. I sigh before putting my hair up and pulling the wig on over it. I open Yasmine’s makeup bag and add some mascara to my lashes. I take one last glance at how ridiculous I look and go back into the living room.

  Knox is changed, and I can’t help but burst out in laughter. He’s wearing a t-shirt that looks like a tuxedo and jeans with connecting suspenders, but that’s not the best part. The best part is his long, brown wig that’s pulled into a low ponytail complete with matching sideburns and a moustache. He looks ridiculous.

  “Are you really going out like that?” I ask.

  “Damn straight I am, and you’re not going to be able to keep your hands off me knowing we’re celebrating our honeymoon tonight.”

  “There’s no honeymoon tonight, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Now let’s not make any rash decisions yet, my dear. Once you hang out with me tonight and we go down to The Little White Chapel, you might change your mind about wanting to sleep with me.”

  “Stick to Blackjack. Your chances of winning are much higher on that.”

  I shiver when his mouth hits my ear. “My chances of winning are always high.”

  “How about a pregame shot?” Spencer yells.

  “I’m game,” Lucas replies. “Let’s get this party started. Not to mention, I love drinking expensive liquor for free. Once we get down there, it’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”

  I look around. “How are we supposed to drink without showing our IDs?”

  “Glad you mentioned that,” Yasmine says, grabbing something from her purse and handing it to me. “Here’s your fake.”

  I look down at the ID.

  It looks real – like has my actual photo from my real one, but the name and address is different.