Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  The minimal twilight filtering through the seam in the heavy curtains is infused with neon flashes from the billboards below. Otherwise, the room is dark, and you have to feel your way back to the bed in the unfamiliar space. When you find the edge of the bed, Freddie pulls you to him and kisses you, running his hands through the hair at the nape of your neck and sending a warm thrill down your spine. Your legs give way and you sit heavily on the edge of the bed, trying to pull Freddie to join you.

  He stands still, resistant, so you weave your fingers through his and tug gently. When he still doesn’t join you, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You quickly find and undo the button of his pants and pull down the zipper. His huge erection strains against his boxers (silk, you notice, with amusement). You slip your fingers into his fly and release him, running your fingers along the smooth skin. He is thick and hot, and you are surprised by how badly you want him. When you run your tongue along his length, he gasps.

  “Honey, don’t,” he protests.

  You answer by taking him into your mouth and sucking gently, while you cup his balls with your hand, working your fingers into the thick, curly hair around the base of his cock. His taste is slightly sweet, his scent clean and warm.

  You feel him tense under your touch, and he groans as he rests his hands on your shoulders, then seems to regain his composure, “Honey, I can’t.” He pulls back gently.

  “You can.” You smile in the darkness, pulling him back toward you.

  You kiss him as you unbutton his shirt and slip it from his arms. You run your hands down his chest and his surprisingly firm stomach. Without thinking, you slip you hand back under the band of his boxers, eliciting a gasp.

  “Not yet,” Freddie says, pushing you gently back onto the bed. He unbuttons your jeans and deftly slips them off, then slides a finger along the edge of your lace thong and skims it down your legs. He runs his hands back up your legs and along your hipbones, then up your stomach, pulling your shirt over your head. You rise up onto your elbows as he pauses to look at you in the dim light.

  “My God,” he gazes at you, then cups your breasts in each of his hands. “You are so beautiful.”

  You’ve imagined this moment so many times, and now that it’s here, it’s more than you expected. The feel of his skin on yours, the slight prickle of his chest hair against the swell of your breasts, the strength of his hands on your back as his tongue dances with yours, the taste of his kiss, tinged with the smoky, sweet wine, is like coming home.

  Falling back onto the bed, you pull him to you and lift your hips to join his. The silk of his boxers is cool and delicious against you, but is also an obstacle you can’t wait to remove. You move your hand down to push them out of the way, but Freddie takes your hand to still it. “Not yet,” he says, his voice thick with desire

  He kisses your neck, pausing to breathe you in. “You smell so good,” he tells you, working his way lower, planting small kisses along the tops of your breasts, then gently taking your nipple between his teeth, grazing it just slightly before he moves lower, kissing you along your stomach and bringing his fingers up to test your most sensitive area. “Mmmm,” he groans when he finds you more than ready.

  Dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed, he places both hands on your thighs and pulls you decisively toward him. He begins with light kisses then lets his breath fall gently against you before pulling your legs farther apart and using his tongue to explore you.

  You are lost as he swirls his tongue against you. Expert and creative, he brings you quickly to the edge. The strobe of the lights bouncing from the walls seems the perfect backdrop for this improbable fantasy. You run your fingers through his thick curls as he works his magic. You are suddenly close. “Come back up,” you say.

  “I’m enjoying this,” he barely pauses before going back to his work.

  “I’m too close”—you move your legs slightly together—“and I want you.”

  This gives him pause, and he finishes with two long, slow strokes of his tongue and after a moment he rises, slips a condom from the bedside table drawer, towers over you, and gazes hungrily into your eyes.

  His thrust is immediate and strong, as you arch up to meet him. The feel of his skin against yours is unimaginably erotic. You match every thrust and grasp his strong buttocks to pull him farther into you. Much too soon, waves of ecstasy roll through you, and you grip him with your legs, pressing your face into his neck as you come. “Freddie,” you say, as you feel him join you a second later.

  “Honey,” he moans, kissing you deeply.

  You lie together, more satisfied than you have ever felt, and fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

  A glaring light and sharp noise jars you from your dreamless sleep. Momentarily disoriented, you blink as your eyes adjust to the light. You nearly jump out of the bed when you see Freddie’s slumbering form beside you and memories of the night before come flooding back. You pull the sheet up to cover yourself just as Sasha bounds into the room.

  “What in the name of all that is holy?” Sasha gasps, horrified. He leaves as quickly as he entered, shutting the door loudly behind him. Somehow Freddie manages to sleep through it. You slip from the bed as quietly as possible, pausing to cover Freddie’s bare torso with the comforter. You quickly pull on your clothes.

  A second later, Sasha bursts back into the room. “Okay, I thought I was having some kind of waking nightmare, but clearly that is not the case. Do you care to tell me what in the name of insanity is going on here?”

  “Shhh!” You glare at Sasha and glance over at Freddie, shocked that the commotion hasn’t awakened him. You shut the door gently behind you and lead Sasha from the room.

  Sasha begins to pace the length of the suite wildly.

  “Relax, Sasha, it’s not what it looks like.”

  “Not what it looks like? Not what it looks like? Because I cannot even begin to imagine what else it could be. Unless the two of you decided to play naked Twister and somehow fell asleep during the game. Except there was no game board that I could see. And you were in the same bed. And usually Twister is not played in a bed. At least not that kind of Twister. Tell me you are going to lie to my face, Henrietta. What do you mean it is not what it looks like?”

  “Just . . .” you begin, but then realize you don’t know how you can explain what happened last night. You look up at Sasha, and see total confusion mingled with hurt and betrayal in his eyes.

  “I’m waiting.” He stops mid-pace and folds his hands across his chest.

  “I don’t know how to explain it.” You fall back onto the sofa and sit with your head in your hands. “I need some time to think.”

  “I would bet that you do,” Sasha walks toward his room then stops and turns around. “Were you going to tell me at some point?”

  “Sasha, it just happened. I haven’t been hiding anything from you.”

  “Okay,” he snaps. “Best keep it that way.”

  * * *

  Mercifully, you, Freddie, and Sasha have no reason to interact for most of the day. You can only imagine how awkward that would be. The day is filled with appearances and meetings for your fledgling fashion line. You are shuttled around the city endlessly and exhausted when you return.

  The packed schedule leaves you little time to think, but when you do your mind returns to your night with Freddie. Somehow it was exactly what you needed at exactly the right moment. And you’re incredibly grateful that you were able to fall asleep on your own, without the help of any of Freddie’s pills. Maybe the warmth of his arms was the perfect antidote.

  You jump almost directly from your last appearance, a hasty interview over a salad and coffee, into prep for your show. Your driver deposits you at the Barclay Center’s performers’ entrance. Freddie meets you at the door, not letting on for a moment that anything has changed between you, though every time your eyes meet, you burn with a desire you hope the people around you cannot sense. Your stomach clenches at the tho
ught of having Freddie and Sasha cross paths—and at the fact that as far as you know, Freddie is blissfully unaware that Sasha knows what he knows.

  After the show, Freddie quickly retreats to the hotel. The second the dressing room is empty, Sasha starts. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “You know what,” he huffs, heaving an armful of costumes onto the hanging rack. “You going to tell me what is going on or not?”

  “Sasha.” You sigh, pulling on your stretchy yoga pants and comfy sweatshirt. “I am exhausted. This has been the longest day, and I really just need to decompress. No offense but I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

  Sasha hangs the rest of the costumes. “That’s fine,” he says, clattering the hangers more loudly than necessary. “You just let me know when you’re ready to be honest with me. Your best friend. Or is that no longer the case?”

  “Sasha, don’t be an idiot.” Suddenly you are just too tired to deal with any additional nonsense.

  Sasha draws himself up to his full height and pushes the rack of costumes roughly back into the corner of the room. “Now I’m an idiot? Whatever, Henrietta. You need to get over yourself. Or at least be honest with yourself, if you’re not going to be honest with me.”

  He flicks the light off and locks the dressing room door. The ride back to the hotel is totally silent.

  Back in the suite, you busy yourself with social media updates and tweet a note of gratitude to your NYC audience, which really was amazing. You push thoughts of your friction with Sasha out of your mind and wait for him to lock himself in his room, then tiptoe to the door adjoining your suite with Freddie’s. You knock softly until he answers.

  He is dressed in dark jeans and a soft, cashmere sweater over an oxford shirt. He pulls the glasses from his face and sets his book down on the bedside table when you enter the room. You close the door and bolt the lock.

  “Honey, we shouldn’t,” he begins, but you stop him with a kiss, which he returns reluctantly at first, then with more gusto as you pull him to you.

  “My heart is beating so fast,” you tell him, lifting his hand and placing it against the swell of your breast.

  “It is,” he says, stroking your hair. “See, this is making you nervous.”

  “No, I’m just happy,” you tell him, smiling. “I want to be with you.” You take his hand and lead him to the bed, pulling his sweater over his head and running your hands over his chest.

  He takes both of your hands in his, careful with your injured hand, and looks you in the eyes. “You know how very much I care about you,” he begins.

  “I do.” You smile.

  “So you have to understand that this is not an easy thing for me. You are one of the most special people in my life, Honey. I want to be sure we get this right. I would not be able to live with myself if I were to hurt you, or to disappoint you.”

  You smile up at him, the sincerity in his eyes warming your heart. “You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried,” you tell him.

  He leads you to the little loveseat by the window and sits down beside you. “Even if that’s true, it is part of my job to protect you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You don’t need to protect me.” You take his hand and rub small circles into his palm with your thumb. “I can take care of myself.”

  Freddie lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your palm gently. “I know you can, you are one of the toughest women I’ve ever met. And very capable. But I want to take this slowly. For me if not for you. You can understand that, right?”

  “Of course.” You are immediately relieved. A second before you’d been certain he was going to tell you to go back to your room, that this couldn’t possibly go on.

  “Good.” Freddie sighs, rising and pulling you into his arms. “Then we will move at my pace.”

  True to his word, he takes it very slowly, deliciously slowly, exploring every inch of your body with his hands and his lips before bringing you expertly to ecstasy.

  After, you lie in Freddie’s arms and wait for sleep to come. He snores softly beside you, one arm draped around your waist. For some reason, the thoughts of your argument with Sasha run endlessly through your mind. You resolve to find a way to talk to him tomorrow, but then you obsessively consider every possible outcome of your confession. What if he tells you he thinks you are delusional, or acting out some kind of father-figure fantasy? You imagine each argument, playing out your responses. Before you know it, hours have gone by and sleep still eludes you. You shift out from under Freddie’s heavy arm and try to lie facing the other direction, sure that a little space or cooler air will allow you to sleep.

  When another half hour passes, you begin to worry. Tomorrow—well, today, now—promises another grueling schedule. You can’t bear to think about how you will be able to function without any sleep. You slip deftly from under the sheets and quietly steal into Freddie’s bathroom. Once again, the little travel kit sits open on the counter. You know the exact location of the pill bottle and silently open the cap and slide a little pill from the plastic container. You pop it into your mouth and swallow it dry, then creep back into the bed. Sleep is upon you in seconds.

  Your time in the city passes in a New York minute and before you know it you’re on the road again. Sasha gradually accepts your burgeoning affair with Freddie, and even seems to begin to enjoy the time the three of you spend together. Somewhere between New Hampshire and Maine, Freddie moves onto the tour bus with you. He makes sure you have coffee in the morning and even pulls down your bedsheets at night.

  “We are going to have to start calling you Princess Henrietta,” Sasha laughs and shakes his head as he watches Freddie spoil you.

  * * *

  Freddie stays by your side at each new tour venue, rescheduling appearances when you need an extra hour of sleep or have trouble making your meet-and-greets. For some reason, you seem to need more sleep than ever before. You find yourself feeling edgy and irritable during the long days and though physically exhausted after each show, sleep takes longer and longer to come. Freddie still hasn’t noticed his dwindling supply of sleeping pills.

  One morning on the long ride to Chicago, you find you’ve run out of Red Bulls—the only thing that seems able to give you enough energy to function in the morning. You notice Freddie and Sasha exchange looks when you insist that the caravan pull off at the next gas station to restock your supply. While you are there, you sneak a bottle of Seven Hour Spark, an over-the-counter pill that advertises energy all day. True to its promise, the pills are better than Red Bull and you are practically bouncing off the walls of the bus as you make your way to Chicago. Your heart beats hard and fast, and you feel like you could run a marathon.

  The day you arrive in Chicago is packed with interviews and appearances, and you pop another energy pill to wake up and get through the day, then top it off with a mid-afternoon Red Bull.

  That night, sleep takes even longer to come. You cuddle up to Freddie and resist the urge to sneak a second sleeping pill.

  Freddie shakes you awake as daylight slashes harshly through the gap in the hotel room blinds. “Honey? Honey? I need you to wake up.”

  You roll over and blink at him, bleary-eyed. “I probably only got about four hours of sleep, if that. I’m so tired.” You pull the thick comforter over your head.

  “Come on, it’s already late. I’ll get you some strong coffee,” Freddie tugs the comforter down and kisses you on the forehead.

  As soon as he leaves the room, you rummage through the side pocket of your travel bag to find the energy pills hidden there. You pop one into your mouth and know that it will help—and that the coffee will wake you up completely.

  The first few hours of your day fly by. You have boundless energy for your mini-concert on the Hello Chicago show and you’re carted from interview to appearance in a haze of happy excitement. It’s four p.m. when the crash comes. The back seat of the black SUV is suddenly stifling and claustrophobic, and you feel
like you can’t get enough air.

  Freddie sits beside you, scrolling through e-mails on his phone. The overwhelming need to sleep washes over you like an ocean wave, pulling you into an undertow you cannot escape. You’re asleep on Freddie’s shoulder before you know it, and awaken only when the car makes a jolting stop in front of your last appearance of the day, an album signing you don’t think you have the energy to do.

  “Good morning,” Freddie says, brushing your hair away from your face.

  “I’m exhausted.” You yawn. “I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through this thing.”

  “I can see that,” Freddie says. “But I know you. You’ll get in there and you will be fine. You’ll see.”

  You’re not so sure, then you remember the energy pill you stashed in your jacket pocket this morning. You wait until Freddie turns to exit the car then you quickly swallow the pill. The effect is almost immediate. Your heartbeat quickens and you feel your spirits lift as you walk into the packed atrium and are handed a Sharpie.

  The show that night is one of the best you can remember. You are totally on and even engage the audience in some ad lib dialogue. Afterward, you high-five the dancers and crew and invite them back to your dressing room for an impromptu celebration.

  Back in the hotel room, you quickly brush your teeth and climb into bed beside Freddie. You fit yourself to his back, cuddling up against him as you wait for sleep to come.

  You try to calm your breathing and slow your galloping heart. After an hour, you creep out of bed and sneak another of Freddie’s pills, then return to the bed and close your eyes. Your heartbeat begins to regulate but you still feel wide awake. Song lyrics and melodies run incessantly through your mind—you’re in full-on creative mode, in the middle of the night.

  Tiptoeing out of the room, you grab the little notebook you keep for moments of inspiration and furiously jot down strings of lyrics until they are fully expunged. At last you look up, refocus your vision, and spot a bottle of merlot resting on the counter of the makeshift bar. You quietly uncork the bottle and pour a glass, hoping the wine will help you relax enough to sleep. Returning to the stiff sofa, you take a few swallows and scribble some simple melodies.