Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  Freddie seems to take this in. He lets the silence spin out for a long moment before continuing. “It isn’t entirely your fault,” he says. “It takes two to tango, right?” He smiles up at you, his eyes sparkling and the laugh lines around them becoming more pronounced.

  “I guess.” You smile.

  Freddie takes in a deep breath. “Honey, you know how much I care about you, don’t you?” he asks, and places his hand lightly on your knee. His touch sends a shimmer to your core, and you pull away ever so slightly, causing Freddie to immediately remove his hand.

  “Sorry.” Freddie frowns and drops his eyes. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

  He rises to go, and every fiber of your being wants to stop him in his tracks. Still, part of you knows that he’s right, that this is a terrible idea. Isn’t it?

  “Freddie.” You place your hand on his arm. The heat of his skin radiates through the sleeve of his suit jacket.

  He turns to look at you, gazing intently into your eyes. Without your shoes on, he seems much taller, and you stand slightly on tiptoe as you kiss him, cupping his deliciously stubbled cheek with your good hand. He kisses you gently then more deeply, patiently savoring every moment. Your head swirls but your thoughts are clear enough to wonder what he would be like in bed.

  There’s a sharp knock on the door and you pull away quickly.

  “Hullo?” comes a raspy voice from the other side of the door.

  Freddie looks you in the eyes again and kisses you very lightly before running his fingers over your lips, no doubt correcting your smeared lipstick.

  He smiles at you and holds up a finger. “Who is it?” he asks mischievously.

  “Is that Freddie?” the voice on the other side of the door asks.

  “Maxx, is that you?”

  “Open the door, you old coot!”

  The door swings open, revealing Maxx Swagger. True to his name, he swaggers into the room, his lanky six-foot, five-inches all legs, gangly arms, and shaggy hair wrapped in a signature head scarf which hangs to his waist. Maxx bounds joyously over to Freddie and they clasp hands, briefly touch chests, and smack each other on the back.

  “Maxx,” smiles Freddie, “you look fantastic!”

  Maxx scowls down at him. “I most certainly do not,” he protests. “Look what they’ve gone and done to my eyes! Went for a simple eye lift and now I look like a bloody alien!”

  Freddie squints at his old friend and assesses the damage. “It is not that bad,” he pronounces. “Maybe like an illegal alien, but definitely not an extraterrestrial alien,” he teases.

  “Bloody hell,” Maxx says, “I knew it.” He stops, seeming to notice you for the first time.

  “Honey Noble!” he cries. He covers the distance between you in one long stride and kisses you on each cheek. “What a sight for sore eyes. Your show was absolutely brilliant! That bit when you floated down from the rafters—glorious! Couldn’t have done that in my day, of course. All we had were ropes and pulleys. Would’ve ended up dropped on my head.” He leans back to take a long look at you. “You are just as gorgeous offstage as on, did Freddie ever tell you that? I bet he didn’t. And that voice! Like listening to the angels sing. You are going to go places, Honey Noble. Mark my word.”

  “Well thanks!” you reply, thoroughly entertained by the force that is Maxx Swagger. His presence utterly fills the room. He’s a music legend, and now almost equally famous for the staggering number of plastic surgeries he’s had. Aside from his signature hair and head scarves, he looks almost nothing like he did in his heyday. The transformation has only made him more famous.

  “What are you doing in Vegas?” Freddie asks.

  Maxx sighs dramatically. “Another one of my endless benefits. Everyone loves a good botched plastic surgery story. Then I heard Honey was playing, which meant you must be here with her. So here I am. Paying a visit to my old—very old (he gives you a conspiratorial wink when he says this)—friend.”

  “Okay, I’m ancient, I get the point,” Freddie tells him.

  “You, my friend, are a legend,” Maxx says. “You up for a drink?”

  “I think I have a few more hours left in me,” Freddie replies.

  Maxx turns to you. “Honey Noble, I would be honored if you would join us.”

  You think for a second, but know you would feel like an awkward third wheel if you took Maxx up on his offer. “Thanks,” you answer, “but I’m really exhausted. And I need a shower. You two have fun. I’m going to crash.”

  “You sure?” Freddie asks, although you can tell from his tone he’s only being polite.

  “Totally sure,” you say. “But thanks.”

  Back in your room it’s blessedly quiet. You pace around the room, head still spinning from your latest encounter with Freddie. You pick up the little odds and ends that decorate the room. A pen emblazoned with the hotel logo. An odd glass paperweight that resembles a blue jellyfish. You walk to the bar and consider pouring yourself a drink, then think the better of it. What you need is sleep.

  You walk to your room and strip off your clothes, folding them carefully and placing them in your suitcase. You sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the notebook you keep on your bedside table, in case song lyrics come to you on the threshold of sleep, as they often do. You tap your pencil on the empty page, feeling an idea imminent, just below the veil of conscious thought. When your agitation gets worse and nothing surfaces, you decide a shower might help.

  You let the hot water run over your neck and shoulders, willing it to ease the tension you feel. You turn to let the steaming water run over your chest, and you feel your nipples harden. The memory of Freddie’s kiss immediately jumps into your mind. You will the thought away, turning your back to the water. As you do, you imagine Freddie’s hands kneading your shoulders, the smell of his cologne as he rubs your neck, the tickle of his thick hair as he begins to kiss you . . . what are you thinking?

  Frustrated, you turn the water off, quickly towel dry, and get into bed. You lie as still as you can, trying to calm your racing mind. You can’t get comfortable so you flip the pillows back and forth, try sleeping on two pillows, then you decide one feels better. You’re too hot so you throw the covers off, but then you are immediately too cold. You lie on your back, close your eyes, and practice meditative breathing. After what feels like hours pass, you are still as awake as when you began. You wonder whether Freddie might have left any of those pills lying around.

  Though no one else is in the suite, you tiptoe out of your room like a thief and slowly push open the door to Freddie’s room. Neat as a pin, it’s hard to tell that he has even been in it. Only the bathroom bears any trace of Freddie’s existence, a single travel bag lying out on the counter. Could it be so easy? You quietly unzip the bag and bingo! The little pill bottle is lying right on top. You pour a single while pill into the palm of your hand, re-cap the bottle, and place it carefully back in the exact position you found it.

  Back in your room, you fill a hotel glass with water and pause as a moment of guilt washes over you. Obviously Freddie trusted you or he would never have left those pills in such an accessible spot. You know it’s not right to have breached his trust—nor his privacy—but still you’re sure if he knew what a hard time you were having getting to sleep, he would have given you another pill. Wouldn’t he? Anyway, there’s no way you could be addicted after only taking these things for two days. It’s an unusual situation, what happened tonight, and after this you know you’ll be back to normal.

  You pop the pill into your mouth and down it with a swallow of tepid sink water. Hours later, the morning light wakes you from a solid, dreamless sleep.

  It takes you a few minutes to figure out where you are as you open your eyes. Then you remember: today is the day you leave Vegas and end the western portion of your tour. You have three long days of travel ahead of you as you cross the country to head to New York and one of the biggest stops on your journey filled with nonstop appearances and three
nights of shows. You’re so glad you feel rested. For one guilty moment, you think about what happened last night. But today’s a new day, and you jump out of bed feeling ready for your next adventure.

  “Well, hello,” Sasha greets you as you enter the living room. “Good sleep?”

  “The best,” you tell him. “How was your night?”

  “Un-be-freakin’-lievable,” he answers. “You should have come with us. Saw a whole side of Vegas I didn’t know existed.”

  “Do tell,” you say.

  “I have plenty of time to fill you in on the bus. Checkout is at hand. Why don’t you go brush your teeth and put on some clothes.”

  “Yes, sir,” you smile. You look around the room. “Where’s Freddie?”

  “Wasn’t my turn to watch him,” Sasha answers.

  “You think he’s downstairs already?”

  “He’s probably already downstairs waiting to lead the caravan as usual.” Sasha looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Why are you so concerned?”

  “Just curious.”

  As it turns out, Freddie is in fact waiting in his car. For a moment, you consider knocking on his window to check in on him but decide against it and climb onto the bus instead.

  The drive to New York seems endless. Sasha regales you with stories of the transgender Vegas “other world” as he calls it, a society unto itself of supportive men in various stages of transition to the female gender, and his friend, Carlie, who is almost through her metamorphosis and loving every minute of her new existence.

  “She’s like a butterfly breaking free of her chrysalis,” he says. “It’s a beautiful thing to witness.”

  That gives you an idea for a song. “Hold that thought,” you tell Sasha as you open the glove compartment and begin to scribble lyrics into your little notebook.

  Sasha gives you a knowing look and a satisfied smile as he drives east, the sun setting at your backs.

  That night the itch for one of Freddie’s little white pills is like thirst in the desert. You tell yourself you don’t need it, and you will sleep to come. After lying awake for an hour, you finally give up and pour yourself two shots of whisky. You sleep for a few hours but find yourself wide awake at three a.m. You spend the rest of the night jotting down lyrics and melodies. When the sun finally rises, you drag yourself out of bed.

  Sasha looks you up and down as he rolls out of his bunk. “You’re up early. You pull an all-nighter?”

  “Something like that,” you say and start a pot of strong coffee.

  You nap off and on throughout the day, your sleep restless and peppered with dreams of Freddie.

  You arrive in New York on a grey and windy afternoon. Tumbleweeds of trash blow down Broadway as you make your way past Times Square to your hotel, 567 on Broad. The inconspicuous façade, which blends into the background of the surrounding buildings, as well as the incomparable discretion of the staff, makes 567 a popular choice for visiting celebs.

  A uniformed doorman whisks you up to the penthouse level and escorts you and Sasha to your suite. Though much smaller than Vegas sprawling apartment, the room is expansive by New York’s standards. The furniture is low, sleek leather and the walls are upholstered in what appears to be dark grey velvet. The lighting is dim and moody. It’s the quintessential NYC hotel. Sasha pushes the heavy draperies aside to reveal a stunning panorama of Times Square.

  “I never get tired of that view,” he says, gazing out into the sea of humanity swirling below the dazzling array of electronic billboards and LED displays.

  You usually love this view, too, but for some reason the flashing lights and milling crowds makes you edgy today.

  “Can you close it?” you ask Sasha.

  He looks at you as though you have two heads. “No, I cannot close it. This is what I live for. What is your problem?”

  “I’m tired,” you tell him, and flop down onto one of the low sofas. “Ow. This is harder than it looks.”

  “That’s what she said,” Sasha jokes. “Not even a smile?” he asks when you fail to appreciate his attempt at humor.

  “Ha,” you manage.

  “Go take a nap,” Sasha tells you, turning back to gaze down at the lights and crowd below.

  There’s a knock at a door you hadn’t noticed before—the adjoining room’s door, set inconspicuously into the wall near the closet.

  “Yes?” Sasha asks before opening it.

  “It’s me,” comes Freddie’s muffled voice from the other side of the door.

  “Me who?”

  “Open up, you idiot.”

  Sasha chuckles and unlatches the door.

  “Hmm,” Freddie says, looking around the room. “I guess this is the deluxe suite. Not very spacious but it’s a palace compared to the tiny cubicle I’m in. Come look.”

  “That probably would rent for five thousand a month in this city,” Sasha says.

  “True,” Freddie agrees. “I’ve been on the West Coast for too long. But there is no place like New York City.” Freddie turns around and notices you on the sofa. “What’s the matter with Honey?” he asks.

  “She’s tired,” Sasha explains. “Three long days of sitting on a bus can be exhausting.”

  For some reason Sasha’s answer triggers your last nerve. “You’re right. Three long days in a bus with you can be exhausting,” you retort. You regret it the second the words are out of your mouth.

  “You do need a nap,” Sasha says, drawing his mouth into a thin line. “I think I’ll go do some exploring. Catch you later.”

  “Sasha, I’m sorry,” you say as he heads toward the door. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s all good, Henrietta,” he says, clearly stung. Then he’s gone, and you feel awful.

  Freddie sits gently down on the sofa beside you. “That is not the Honey Noble I know. What’s up?”

  “I don’t really feel that great. I shouldn’t have taken it out on Sasha.”

  “Well, we all say things we regret. He’ll get over it.”

  “I actually might go take a walk too,” you glance over your shoulder at the lights of Times Square. “This is one of the few places I can be out in public without being accosted by hordes of fans and paparazzi.”

  “Really?” Freddie asks. “Have you tried that lately? I think you may be more famous than you were the last time you were here.”

  “It’s New York. No one even makes eye contact. I’m pretty sure people would still leave me alone.”

  “I would say we could test your theory, but I wouldn’t want to risk your life.” Freddie rises from the sofa and gazes out the window. “You’re definitely going to want to steer clear of Times Square. Check this out,” he says.

  “What is it?”

  You follow his gaze out the window. “I don’t see—”

  Freddie takes your shoulders and pivots you in the right direction. Then you see it—the enormous, glittering billboard advertising your show. GET STUNG AT THE BARCLAY CENTER! the billboard reads. The hallmark image of you in your Nobility Tour costume, a glittering, gold gown meant to evoke both the image of a queen bee, complete with a crown and a scepter, dazzles you even though you’ve seen it in print a thousand times. Something about the vast brilliance of the LED display makes it seems so much more alive. “Wow!” you exhale.

  “Wow is right,” Freddie’s eyes reflect the strobe of the lights as he gazes at the towering billboard. “That’s really something. Think you could walk through the city and be left alone now?”

  You stare down at the mass of tourists filling the square. Many of them have their phones and cameras pointed at your billboard. “I’m guessing probably not,” you admit.

  “I’m definitely in agreement,” Freddie concurs.

  “Well, it’s just as well.” You turn away from the window and blink away the flashing lights that still echo before your eyes as they readjust to the dim room. “I really would rather stay in.”

  Freddie walks over to the bar and rifles through the select
ion of available beverages. He selects a bottle of wine and deftly uncorks it. “Even the bottles of wine are miniature,” he observes. He pours two generous glasses then tips the bottle upright to dispense the last few drops. He walks over to sit beside you again and hands you a glass. “I have a feeling you could use this.”

  “I am definitely in agreement with that.” You take a sip. “Not bad, for such a tiny little bottle.”

  “Well, I guess good things can come in small packages,” Freddie swirls the ruby liquid around and savors his first sip. “It is pretty good.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence while you gaze into your wine glass. You both begin to speak at once.

  “Freddie, I—”

  “Honey, I—” Freddie says at the same time. “You go first.” Freddie’s eyes twinkle with warmth and amusement. Looking into those eyes, the thought that you love him jumps unbidden into your mind. Suddenly you’re not really sure what you were going to say.

  “No, you go first,” you tell him.

  “Well, I was just going to finish what I started to say in the dressing room the other night.” He pauses and takes another sip of his wine.

  “Which was?” you ask, looking up at him.

  He breaks into a huge smile. “You know it is very hard for me to think clearly when you’re looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know, with those huge, beautiful eyes.”

  “Is this better?” you close your eyes, and feel the tips of your long lashes brush the tops of your cheeks. A moment later, you feel Freddie kiss you gently, his lips soft and warm on yours. An instant heat blooms inside you and you return his kiss, running your hand through his thick hair as you pull him toward you. You move to set your glass down and accidentally graze his crotch, and you feel his hot, hard hunger brush against the back of your hand.

  Taking his hand in yours, you rise and lead him to your bedroom. “Honey, I don’t think—” Freddie protests.

  But you place one finger against his lips. “Don’t think,” you whisper as you gently close the door behind you.