by Jessica Ashe
The alarm sounds on my phone, so I slowly open my eyes, letting them adjust to the light before I stand up and walk back over to my dressing table. The table is fairly sparse; I don’t do my own makeup, so I only keep a few essentials in case I need to top up the foundation or run a brush through my hair one more time. Although speaking of my makeup, where the hell is my face cream? This place can’t get anything right.
A woman in high-heeled shoes is walking quickly towards my door, which can mean only one thing.
“Showtime, Naomi,” Katrina says, poking her head through the door.
“Be right out,” I reply.
It’s not actually showtime yet, but Katrina knows I always need a few minutes before walking out. I grab the photo of my dad from the dressing table. In the photo, we’re in the park and I’m on my dad’s shoulders. I was only six when the photo was taken, but I remember the day vividly. He kept pretending to drop me, and I would scream at the top of my lungs. Mom had taken the photo, and you can see my cheeks are bright red and I’m gripping hold of Dad’s hair tightly.
The photo is in a cheap plastic frame that is designed to look like wood, but instead just looks cheap and tacky. Back home, I have photo frames that cost more than most people’s televisions, but I never want to replace this frame. It’s the one Dad bought, and it means almost as much to me as the photo inside.
The photo grounds me. No matter how much I earn, or how many celebrities I date, this photo reminds me of where I come from. Dad and I are both dressed head-to-toe in clothes bought at a cheap department store, and neither of us cares. Dad was the least materialistic person I have ever known. He’d be proud of my success, but he’d never let it get to my head. He’d still make me do the dishes after dinner, and keep my room tidy.
I reach out and touch the glass where Dad’s face smiles back at me. “I hope you like this one, Dad. The third song is dedicated to you.”
There’s another knock at the door and I know that this time I really do need to get a move on. I put the photo down and take one last look in the mirror.
Showtime.
Chapter Two
Damon
Working two jobs almost makes me too tired for sex. Almost.
After five hours moving gear around at Wembley Stadium, I headed straight over to the pub to play guitar for Leona. Now I’m fucking exhausted.
However, women like guys who can play guitar, and I like women who…well, I just like women.
“Another pint please, Marty,” I say to the barman. “And a vodka orange for the lady.”
‘Lady’ might be pushing it a bit. The woman hanging from my arm is dressed mostly in black and has tattoos all down her right arm and over her chest, most of which is now on display. I don’t usually go for the grungy type, but my little meeting with Naomi Price earlier tonight got my blood boiling.
I still can’t quite believe what happened. Naomi Price. She’s one of the biggest singers on the planet. I can’t say I’m a huge fan of her music, but I sure as shit know who she is. I smile as I think back to the moment when I pretended to read her name off the door, as if I hadn’t recognized her immediately. She’d hated that. Probably does her good to be taken down a peg or two.
I’m not exactly known for my modesty, but she’s arrogant enough to make me look reserved by comparison. She clearly thinks she walks on water, and I’m sure the little posse she keeps on a short leash regularly reinforces that impression.
The tens of thousands of fans screaming her name probably help as well.
I look around the bar which is already half-empty fifteen minutes after we’ve finished our set. Leona sold one of her CDs, and I took some photographs with a couple of girls. This tattooed bird is the best of the bunch.
“I love guitarists,” the girl says as she picks up the vodka orange and drinks half of it in one go. She did introduce herself earlier, but I’ve already forgotten her name. It’s something incredibly tame and normal like Jessica or Michelle.
“I love girls who love guitarists,” I reply.
I’m not lying. I know women like her are only after me because they see me playing a guitar on stage, but I don’t care one iota. Groupies go at it like you wouldn’t believe. On more than one occasion, I’ve been worried one of them would suck my dick straight off, they were devouring it so aggressively. Best of all, they never expect to see you again. Win-win in my book.
“Are you and the singer an item?” the girl asks. “Not that I mind. I’m more than happy to join the two of you if that’s what you’re into. I actually quite like women with a bit of meat on their bones. Sorry, am I being too forward? My friends always say ‘Laura, not all men want you to throw yourself at them.’”
Laura. Close enough.
“This man is more than happy for you to throw yourself at him. And no, Leona and I are not an item. She sings, I play guitar; that’s all there is to it.”
“Cool.”
Leona and I have known each other far too long for any of that. She’s more like a sister than anything else. A threesome would’ve been nice mind you. No, who am I kidding; I barely have the energy to satisfy one woman right now.
I’d have loved a go on Naomi, though. God damn, that woman is stunning. Sounds obvious, I know, but she actually looks better in the flesh than she does in photo shoots or in those cheesy videos she does for her songs. I’ve never gotten off on heavily photoshopped women in magazines. If they look more like a doll than a human being then I’m not interested.
The woman I’d come face-to-face with earlier this evening had definitely not looked like a doll. She wore a short skirt that revealed her toned, thin, and tanned legs, and probably quite a bit more if I’d looked closer. No, scratch that, there were probably safe panties on under the skirt otherwise everyone in the crowd would’ve gotten a look at the goods. She sported a boob tube on top, so I didn’t get a great look at her breasts. Very slim stomach though.
I misjudged the situation with Naomi. It all made sense in my head at the time. I figured she had men fawning over her and kissing her ass all day and all night, so I took the opposite approach. I told her that she needed a good seeing to, and that I was the man for the job.
Turns out she doesn’t like the direct approach. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me. I don’t pay too much attention to celebrity gossip, but it’s impossible to ignore the constant talk of who she is and isn’t dating. More often than not, she dates actors that have a ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ look about them. Safe to say, I’m a little rougher around the edges.
Now I’m stuck here with just Laura for entertainment. She seems like a nice enough girl, but she’s a bit of a come down after Naomi Price. After talking to her for a couple of minutes, I realize she’s a little posher than my usual adoring fans. Probably a college student from an upper-middle-class family who’s just rebelling a bit. Oh well, if she wants to rebel by hooking up with a musician then who am I to argue?
“That’ll be £5.50 please, mate,” the barman says after finally finishing up pouring my pint.
I grab my wallet from my pocket, but when I open it, my Wembley Stadium security pass drops out onto the sticky bar.
“Oh,” Laura says excitedly as she sees the pass and picks it up off the bar. “You’re playing at Wembley Stadium?”
As if. I barely managed to get work there doing manual labor. I got lucky when a flu virus took out a couple of the usual guys and they needed someone to step in at the last minute. They offered me a couple of days’ work, and I needed the money.
I look down at the pass in Laura’s hand. My job at Wembley Stadium involves moving the equipment around and preparing the stage for Naomi’s performance. That means my pass conveniently has ‘backstage access’ written on it in large letters. There’s also a photo of me and a couple of gold seals that make the whole thing look expensive and important. Best of all, nowhere on the pass does it say that I’m just a lackey.
“I start tomorrow,” I say casually. “I’m just a
support act though.”
I leave her to figure out the rest. Lies are always more believable when you let someone else suggest them in the first place.
Laura keeps looking at the pass and the pieces finally come together. “Wait a minute, isn’t Naomi Price performing there at the moment?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe.”
“Oh come on, don’t be bashful. You know I can just look it up online.”
“Okay, fine. Yes, I’m the support act for Naomi Price. I’d rather not make a big deal of it though. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not the biggest fan of her music.”
“Neither am I, but holy shit, that’s huge.”
Thank you, Naomi. One way or another, you’ve gotten me laid tonight.
“Speaking of things that are huge,” I say leaning in to Laura, and hooking some of her hair behind her ear.
“Taxi’s here, Laura,” a loud woman screams from the other side of the pub. “Try not to throw up in this one.”
“Sorry, got to go,” Laura says, handing me back the pass.
What kind of groupie gets in a taxi just as she’s about to get laid with the support act for Naomi Price? Laura’s definitely new at this game.
“Why don’t you meet me after my performance tomorrow?” I shout out.
Laura hastily agrees to pop by, although God knows how she’ll find me. I look around the bar to see if there’s anyone else available, but the place is emptying out and the few remaining customers are guys. Naomi has really got me frustrated and in desperate need to stick my dick somewhere.
Maybe striking out is for the best. Whatever lucky girl I fuck next will be nothing in comparison to Naomi. I’ve had women like her before, on paper at least. Women who are prissy, fairly slim, and with firm thighs. I’ve even had a fair few women whose arrogance might rival Naomi’s, although they’ve not had the skills or talent to back it up.
None of those women had the sparkle I saw in Naomi’s eyes. She’d been angry at me the entire time we talked, but it was all an act. There’s more to her than just some vapid, arrogant pop Princess. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I’m never going to find out what that might be. I’ll forget her eventually. I think. Three or four women down the line, and with any luck Naomi will be a distant memory.
Please God, let that be true. I’ve only once been hung up on a woman, and that hadn’t ended well.
“Did I hear you tell that poor girl you’re a support act for Naomi Price?” Leona asks, sitting down next to me at the bar.
“I said no such thing. She saw my pass and assumed I was performing. I just chose not to correct her.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of the bullshit?”
“Not when it gets me laid.”
“It didn’t tonight.”
“True, but I have a sure thing for tomorrow night.”
“Unless she realizes you’re not the support act and you’ve just been lying to her.”
“I can talk my way out of that. You know me; I can charm my way into any woman’s panties.”
Leona sighs. “I wish I could argue with you on that one, but it does seem to be true. Apparently I’m the only one who can resist your charms.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I’ve just never tried it with you.”
“And you never will, because you know if you do I’ll punch you in the mouth.”
I laugh and take a long sip of my beer. Other than the time I tried to come on to a lesbian, I’ve never known a woman to rebuff me as forcefully as Leona. I like that. It’s nice to know there’s a woman out there I can’t have. Maybe I should add Naomi Price to the list.
“She’s going to notice you’re not the support act for Naomi Price,” Leona continues.
“I doubt it. I don’t think she’s all that bright.”
“Good point. You do usually go for the stupid ones. How did the work go earlier?”
“Fine,” I reply gruffly. “Boring, and hard work, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Do you think your lady friend will be as impressed if she knows you’re just hauling around equipment?”
“I don’t plan to let her find out. Besides, I’m still a musician, and she seemed plenty impressed by that.”
“I don’t know why you’d want her thinking you’re a support act for Naomi Price anyway.”
“Why?”
“Well, that’s hardly your scene, is it? She’s a pampered pop Princess, whereas you’re a rather rough-looking guitarist. I can’t imagine you share the same fan base.”
“I don’t have a fan base. Anyway, her music isn’t that bad.”
Leona opened her mouth incredulously. “Did I just hear you right? Her music isn’t that bad? It’s everything you hate.”
“She sings what makes her money, but she’s still talented. She plays the guitar and writes all her own songs.”
“I never thought I’d see the day where you defend Naomi Price.”
“I just don’t think she’s as bad as she’s made out to be in the press.”
Leona stares at me for a few seconds as if she doesn’t recognize the person sat next to her. “Oh my God, did you meet her? You did, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“How did that happen? Never mind, I don’t care. What’s she like in the flesh? Please tell me she has really bad acne under all that makeup. Her legs can’t be that toned, can they?”
“She had makeup on, so I can’t comment on the acne. Her legs are definitely toned though.” I’m never going to look at pictures of her in a magazine again. I’m worried that if I see photoshopped images of her, they will replace the mental image I have of her legs in my head. I want to see the real thing when I close my eyes, and not some plastic looking things.
“Wow. I can’t believe you actually met her. I suppose there was always a chance, but I figured she’d be locked away in her dressing room the entire time you were there.”
“She was. I burst in on her.”
Leona laughs. “I bet she loved that.”
“She did seem a little miffed.”
“Yeah, no shit. You get a date out of it?”
“Not exactly. I had to withdraw my offer after I sensed some reluctance at her end.”
“Wait, you actually asked her out on a date? I was joking.”
“Not a date as such….”
“Then what….” Leona trails off as a look of recognition and disappointment crosses across her face. “You propositioned her?”
“I merely offered her the opportunity to relieve some of the stress she appeared to be under.”
“You offered her a fuck?” I shrug in response and take another sip of my drink. “You burst into the dressing room of one of the most famous people on the planet, and you offered her a fuck to help relieve the stress?”
“Like I said, I ended up withdrawing my offer.”
“My God, you’re incredible.”
“Shame she didn’t realize that,” I reply. “I might have gotten a bit.”
“I would give anything to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.”
“Don’t ask, don’t get.”
“You should consider yourself lucky to still have a job.”
“It’s only for one more night anyway. I’m just covering for a guy who’s off sick.”
“Plan on bumping into her again?”
“No way. She did not endear herself to me during our last meeting. I was almost offended.”
“Shame,” Leona replies. “I bet Emma would love to get Naomi’s autograph.”
Shit. I forgot about Emma. She loves Naomi’s songs, and insists on singing—or should that be screeching?—along to them in the car. An autograph would definitely get me in her good books for quite a while.
“Speaking of Emma, I’d better be off.” I down the rest of my pint and kiss Leona on the cheek. “You killed it tonight as always.”
“Couldn’t do it without you,” she replies. “See you next time.”
; I walk outside and the cold air hits me immediately. It feels sobering, even though I’ve only had a few pints. A couple of taxis are lingering by the taxi rank, but I opt for the thirty-minute walk home instead.
While walking home, I pull out my phone and do a quick search for ‘Naomi Price’ on Twitter. The hundreds of results form the typical meaningless noise you get on Twitter. People talking about tonight’s concert, her latest album, or just how they want to screw her.
I try a Google search for ‘Naomi Price diva’ and get a whole host of articles talking about her behavior when she’s not on camera. An article near the top of the results suggests that Naomi has an extensive list of demands for food and drink that has to be included in her dressing room for each performance. She’s probably not the only celebrity to have that, but it still means she’s a little over pampered. Plus, by all accounts, she threw a complete hissy fit tonight when someone had the nerve to put jelly babies instead of jellybeans in her dressing room.
I might have dodged a bullet with this one.
Her list of ex-boyfriend is like a Who’s Who of A-list Hollywood celebrities. If they’re single and about the same age as her, she’s probably dated them at some point. None of the relationships seem to last very long—we have something in common in that respect.
I still think I’m right—she needs a good hard fucking. None of these ex-boyfriends look like the type to just throw her down and give her what she needs. They’re probably too focused on their appearance during sex, never able to let their guard down even in the heat of the moment.
After a few more Google searches, I notice something else about Naomi. Her fans love her. They don’t just love her music, or worship her as a celebrity, they love her as if she’s part of the family. For every anonymous exposé about her diva behavior, there are one hundred reports of her going above and beyond for her fans. There’s personalized letters, gifts, hospital appearances, and more selfies with fans than I thought possible.
I suppose that’s all part of the image these days though. Being on social media is almost as important as the songs you release. That’s why I want no part of it. I’m more than happy just to write songs and play guitar while Leona sings her heart out.