You rummage under the dashboard until you find the little notepad you have stashed away there for moments like this, and begin to pen the lyrics to “Mirage,” which exactly nine months from now will take on a life of its own as your next hit single.
Four grueling months later, the Nobility tour finally wraps. Even though you love touring, it takes a physical toll that requires a lengthy recovery. True to your word, you’ve kept in as much contact with Jett as you could. As soon as you stopped touring, Jett began traveling internationally to DJ at the hottest clubs all over the world and to do PR for the Max. Lately, you’ve been texting, even returning his calls via text. Sometimes the sound of his voice brings on a longing and sadness that takes days to shake. You don’t mean to push him away and you know you have the habit of closing yourself off when you’re afraid you might be vulnerable, but it’s a habit that’s difficult to break.
When the photos of you and Jett on the Vegas Strip went public, Crispin went ballistic, sending you a string of angry texts that led you to finally decide to make your break permanent. Thinking about it now, you know that everything happens for a reason; Jett came into your life just when you needed him most. You can only imagine what might have happened if you’d tried to resuscitate your unstable relationship with Crispin. Lately, you’ve heard rumors he’s back with Trixie again. You’re glad things ended when they did.
Back at home, you spend your days in the cool solace of your house, luxuriating in mostly unscheduled days, the fact that you can choose to cook a meal in your own kitchen or simply curl up on your comfy armchair and write your music. You feel your creativity resurging as the days pass. You find your thoughts returning to Jett over and over again and the ache that is left by what could have been lends inspiration to your songs. You can’t believe that after all these months the feelings haven’t faded, no matter how hard you try to push them away.
One day, you’re sitting at your piano, plinking away at the melody for a new song, when you hear the front door open.
“Hello?” you yell, your voice echoing down the hall.
You hear footsteps approaching and are sure it must be Sasha, the only person besides you who has a security clearance and a key.
Jett steps out of the sunlight, looking more gorgeous than you remember. He seems taller somehow, and his blue eyes shine with the same otherworldly glow you see in your dreams.
“Hi,” is all he says, then quickly bridges the distance between you, pulling you into an embrace that feels as though it fills up every empty space inside of your heart.
He looks into your eyes and kisses you, setting off a shimmer of fireworks behind your eyelids.
“Are you really here?” you ask, unsure of your own eyes.
“I really am,” he assures you.
“Oh my God,” you say, the tears you’ve held back for so many months spilling down your cheeks. “I missed you. So much.”
“Me too,” Jett says, kissing you again.
“How did you get in here?” you ask him.
“I have a good friend who happens to have a key.”
“You’re welcome!” calls Sasha from the direction of the doorway.
You laugh through your tears as you hear the door close behind him.
“I had to see you,” Jett tells you, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Those short little texts were not nearly enough. And you said you would call.”
“I tried,” you tell him. “It just made me miss you too much.”
“Well, no need to miss me now.”
You lead Jett to the couch and he fills you in on his news. He’s in town to shoot the pilot for a Silversmiths reunion series. He’ll play the grown-up version of his childhood character, now a successful rock star.
“My acting is a little rusty,” he admits, “but with any luck, fans of the original show will forgive me and watch anyway. And if it gets picked up, I’m here to stay. I’m thinking it could be time to settle down.”
“I’ll be watching—and Sasha will, too, of course,” you tell him. Suddenly the light in the room seems brighter, colors more vibrant. “Jett, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” he says again. “You have no idea.”
Jett stays with you throughout the shoot. You spend your days at the studio while Jett is on set, your evenings in lively conversation or playing silly board games with Jett and Sasha, and your nights in Jett’s arms.
You wait on pins and needles to find out whether The Silversmiths Shine will be picked up. The night you get the news, you, Jett and Sasha celebrate together with dinner and champagne. Somehow, your unique little threesome balances one another perfectly.
Club 2000 throws you a private debut party, when your single, “Mirage,” drops. All of your friends, your tour cast and many of its crew members, and even your family are present. Jett guests in the DJ booth. When the song comes on, you climb up into the booth and pull him into your arms.
“You know I wrote this about you,” you tell him.
“Really?” he asks. “That is so romantic.”
He listens to the lyrics as the song plays. “Flattering as it is, though, I need you to know how real this is to me.” Jett drops to one knee, causing the crowds to explode into cheers.
“Honey Noble,” he says, pulling a huge, sparkling diamond from his pocket. “I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you in that smoky DJ booth. Here we are, together in a DJ booth again. Seems fitting.” He takes your hand in his, and looks into your eyes. “Would you do be the great honor of marrying me and making me the happiest man alive?” His eyes shine as he holds the glittering ring in front of him.
Music pulses and light strobes through the smoky room. Sasha stands in the distance, phone trained on you to catch the moment. You see your siblings in the crowd, beaming as they wait for you to answer. You pull Jett up to kiss him as he slides the ring onto your finger. “Yes,” you tell him. “Yes!”
As the last strains of your song drift into silence, you wonder whether maybe this is all a mirage, maybe just a dream. If so, you hope you’ll never wake up.
THE END
To take Honey on a new Bedventure, go back and choose a new path.
From page 49 and page 69 . . .
Jett escorts you to the elevator and pauses before the door slides shut. For a moment you think he’s going to lean in for a kiss, but instead he settles for an awkward hug goodnight.
You close the door to your room and are instantly grateful for the silence. “Hello?” you call.
“Hello!” comes Freddie’s booming voice from the other side of his bedroom as you enter the suite. He emerges, still dressed in the suit he wore during the day. “Turning in early?” he asks.
“I guess. I was thinking about doing some gambling. When in Vegas, and all that. But my hand is throbbing and my head doesn’t feel much better after that noisy club.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” you say. “I smell like smoke.” Ten minutes later, you feel entirely better. You hair and skin feel and smell fresh and you’re wrapped in a luxurious hotel robe. Freddie sits on the sofa, paging through a file. His reading glasses make him look even more handsome. You curl up on the other end of the sofa.
“Sasha’s not back yet?” you ask.
“Nope. Must be having fun.” Freddie tosses the file onto the coffee table and looks at you for a long moment. “You know you look beautiful without any makeup on.”
“Thanks,” you tell him.
“I don’t know whether I’ve ever told you how lucky I feel to represent you; that you signed on with me. I know you had options.”
“Well, Freddie, thank you again. I feel just as lucky. I couldn’t think of a better person to represent me.”
“Well,” Freddie smiles, “since we’re in Vegas and I’m not gambling and you’re not gambling, we may need to entertain ourselves with something more pedestrian. Did you see that there’s a stack of board games under the bar? What do you say to a friendly game of Parcheesi?”
“Honey, you haven’t lived until you’ve played Parcheesi!” Freddie rises to grab the game.
You set up at the little table in the corner. You’re pretty sure Freddie lets you win the first round but he beats you handily the second time. Freddie brings his final game piece home apologetically.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “I can take it.”
“Well, you did very well for your first Parcheesi,” Freddie says with a grin. “And considering you had to play with your left hand.” He boxes up the game and walks back to the bar. “How is it feeling anyway?”
“A little better,” you tell him. “Definitely not as sore as it was. But it’s a little red around the edge of the bandage. Probably just from pressure. But I’m going to have the doctor look at it when we get to New York.”
“Let me take a look,” Freddie offers. You gingerly reach out to rest your hand in his. He gently lifts the edge of the bandage to peer at the periphery of the incision. “It is not as red under the bandage,” he pronounces. “I think you are going to live.”
“Thank you, doctor.” You laugh, looking up into Freddie’s eyes. Something about the warmth of his smile, the tenderness of his touch, the concern in his face makes you melt. You reach up with your other hand and lay it against his cheek, rough with stubble. “Freddie, I—”
Afterward, you won’t remember who initiated the kiss. You’ll just remember that it tasted of mint, felt like safety, and made your head swim.
It is Freddie who ends it, pulling away as if from a magnetic force and stepping back blinking, as if coming back to his senses.
“I don’t know what came over me, Honey,” he stammers. “I’m so sorry!”
You take his hand. “Don’t apologize,” you tell him. “That wasn’t just you.”
He runs his hands through his thick, black hair, peppered with just a few strands gray. “I think,” he says gravely, “that we should go to bed.” He blushes hotly. “Alone, I mean. Of course.”
You smile, amused by how discombobulated Freddie is. “I knew what you meant,” you assure him.
Now your heart is pounding fast again and your own pulse whooshing in your ears. That kiss was a pure shot of adrenaline and you know it will be hours until you sleep. Unless . . .
“Freddie, do you have any more of those pills you gave me last night.”
Freddie’s eyebrows draw into a tight line of concern. “That was only a one-time thing,” he says.
“So it will be two times,” you tell him. “This will be the last one, I promise.”
“Hmmm,” is all Freddie says, thinking.
You lay a hand on his bicep. “I swear.”
Freddie holds up one finger. “Last time,” he tells you.
“Last time,” you agree. “Scout’s honor.”
Freddie goes to his room and returns with a single pill, which he deposits into your palm. “Good night, sleeping beauty.” He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead.
Sleep hits you mercifully quickly.
The next morning is a packed day of interviews, appearances, and of course the show with its meet-and-greets before and after. You and Freddie act as though nothing happened. You do your best to push aside thoughts of the night before but every time you have a quiet moment, the confused jumble of emotions springs back to the surface.
On the car ride back from your morning show appearance, Sasha senses your mood. “Okay, Henrietta, spill it,” he says, tilting his sunglasses away from his eyes.
“Spill what?”
“Whatever it is,” he drawls. “You are unusually quiet today. Something is going on.”
So much of you wants to share what happened between you and Freddie, but at the same time you know it could be a very bad idea. You’re so glad you decided to not let things go any further with Jett; things are already complicated enough as they are.
“Just thinking, I guess,” you tell him.
“About?”
“Just, stuff.”
“Henry.” Sasha looks you in the eyes over the rims of his shades. “I am not a dentist.”
“It’s nothing,” you tell him, knowing that now that you’ve hinted that you are thinking about something, Sasha’s not going to relent until he has successfully extracted the information. “Well, I have been wondering about Freddie. What do you think of him?”
“What do you mean you’ve been wondering about Freddie?”
“I mean, what kind of person do you think he is? He’s a good guy, right?”
Sasha knits his eyebrows, clearly confused by your line of questioning. “Yes . . . he’s a good guy. Why are you asking me this?”
“I don’t know. We just spend so much time together, all of us, and I feel like I don’t know him that well.”
“Freddie is a character,” Sasha says, “but you know I love him. Lord knows he gives me good advice when I need it. He’s like a father figure to me. To both of us.”
“Right,” you say, catching Sasha’s slight emphasis on the word father.
You decide to change the subject, and thankfully Sasha lets it drop.
That night, before the show, you and Freddie are left alone in your dressing room. Sasha has run off to ensure the costumes are in place and crew is making the many last-minute preparations for the production.
The tension between you is palpable. You feel as though there’s an imaginary cord running between you, pulling you insistently toward him. This is what magnetism feels like, and it’s almost impossible to fight. You do everything you can to avoid making eye contact for the few moments you are alone. You try to think of something to say to bridge the awkward silence, but Freddie carries on as though nothing is awry.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“Yes, yes, let’s do it,” you answer then head down the hall to your meet-and-greet.
For the first time on tour, you flub a dance step during your “Waterfalls” routine. You gamely carry on, covering the misstep as smoothly as you can, and hope no one notices. You are relieved when the last number comes to an end. You’ve felt off all night.
Serge finds you in the dressing room as you are unstrapping your shoes. “You okay, Honey?” he asks you.
“Yeah, fine. Why?”
“I thought maybe you tripped, during “Waterfalls?” he says. It takes you a minute to decipher what he is saying, through his thick accent.
You look up at him, less surprised that he noticed than that he’s taken the time to come check whether you are okay. “Yeah, I forgot a step,” you admit. “I just blanked.”
Serge smiles at you, his shock of dark hair falling over his eyes. “Happens to all of us,” he says reassuringly. “You covered it like a pro.”
“Thanks, Serge.”
He leans against the doorframe, seems about to say something else, then nods his head.
“Well, I’ll be going, then. Long day of travel tomorrow.”
“Right,” you smile. “Goodnight.”
Serge turns to leave the dressing room.
“Hey,” you stop him.
He turns back to you, an expectant look on his face.
“Thanks for checking in,” you tell him.
“Of course,” he says, his white teeth flashing as he smiles. “Goodnight.”
Moments later, Freddie breezes into the room. Your heart clenches unexpectedly as the scent of his cologne fills the room. What is wrong with you?
You feel a hot blush rise to your cheeks and spin around quickly, away from Freddie.
“Another excellent show,” he tells you.
“Thanks,” you say, bending to unstrap your other shoe. It’s no easy task with your injured hand.
“Can I help?” he offers, and kneels in his suit to help remove your shoe. “Even my big hands are probably more useful than your injured one.”
“Ahhhh, that feels a thousand percent better,” you sigh, wiggling your toes.
Freddie sets your
shoe next to its mate. “Honey, do you have a minute to talk?”
Before you can answer, Sasha rolls into the room, lugging the heavy rack of costumes behind him.
“Whew!” he exhales. “Vegas, check!” He looks around to see Freddie standing awkwardly nearby. “Burning the midnight oil?” he asks.
Freddie straightens up and brushes the front of his slacks with his hands. “Yeah, well, I just need to talk to Honey for a minute before I go back to the hotel.”
“Okay . . .” Sasha says. “Henry, let’s get you out of that first so I can hang it up,” he says, eyeing the costume you are still wearing. He hands you your robe and begins to unhook the elaborate fasteners at the costume’s back. “Don’t mind me,” he says. “Talk amongst yourselves.”
Freddie sits on the ottoman, “It is no problem. I can wait.”
“What, you can’t say what you have to say with me here?” Sasha asks, chuckling slightly.
“Actually no,” Freddie replies. “We kind of need to talk privately. You know, business stuff.”
“Alrighty then,” Sasha catches your eye and you give a little shrug. He expertly drapes the robe around your back while you shimmy out of the costume and skim your stockings past your feet. He scoops up the discarded garments and you tie the robe snugly.
“You don’t mind if I meet up with Carlie, do you?” Sasha asks. “Just for drinks. I won’t be too late.”
“Not at all,” you answer.
Sasha hangs up the costume and heads for the door. “Well, I will leave you two to it, then. Ta-ta!”
“’Night, Sasha,” you call after him as he shuts the door to allow you privacy.
You fall into the comfy chair across from Freddie, who politely averts his eyes. “It’s okay, I’m decent,” you tell him.
He hesitantly brings his gaze to meet yours.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” you ask.
He looks down at his hands before answering. “Did I do something to make you feel uncomfortable? Today, I mean?”
“No,” you assure him. “Not at all.” You think for a moment before continuing, not sure how much of your feelings you really want to share. “I’m sorry I’m making you feel awkward. It’s totally my fault. I wish I could just rewind. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Pop Star Page 17