Rock Star: The Song (Book 1 of a Bad Boy Romance) (3 page)

S
he turned me down
. I couldn’t believe it. Either she was throwing down the gauntlet, or had no clue who I was. Odd. Everyone knew who I was. I shook my head, now I was starting to believe my own press. Fame had a strange way of going to your head, no matter how you fought it. Sure, I hadn’t had an album out in two years, but people aren’t that quick to forget, or are they?

I stared down at the quiche. Unwrapping the foil, I took a slice and shoveled it away.

Oh my god, that is delicious.

It didn’t take me long to gobble down the entire thing. I wiped at the plate, savoring its flavor. I smiled at the thought that she didn’t have a boyfriend. Or was that a lie? I mean, how could a fine bit of ass like that, not have a lineup of guys?

I tossed the plate on the bed and sat back with my notepad. I scribbled a few words down before frustration kicked in again. I tore the sheet and tossed it across the room. It landed among the pile of paper balls that I had built up over the past two weeks.

I needed to get out.

Being holed up in this room was starting to drive me crazy. I began to think about what she’d said. An open mic? I stared at my phone. Mia would kill me if I ventured out without telling her. Anytime I did that, I always had a bodyguard with me. This was the first time in eight years that I had been left alone. I guess she thought that mosquitoes weren’t exactly a threat.

Just a quick night out. Something low-key, no one would notice me. I would slip in and slip out. Hell, it might help me remember that I could actually write a tune if the music was really bad.

Leaping up from the bed, I pulled on my camo boots, threw on a leather jacket, and threw my hood up over my head. As I walked out, I snatched up some sunglasses. It would have to do.

Outside was a small bicycle. It was the most absurd bike I’d ever seen. On the front was a metal grocery basket. This was no man’s bike. What the hell kind of place was this?

It was ten minutes away. We’d passed the café on the way in.

Screw it. The bike clattered as I hauled it up and carried it down the steps. I hadn’t been on a bike in… well, forever. At least not a bike like this heap of junk

If anyone saw me, I would be the laughingstock of the tabloids. As I pedaled out, I flashed a look either way to make sure no one was around. Even though I was dressed like an Eskimo in the middle of the summer. You still think that someone is going to see through a disguise.

The evening was warm. The sun had completely disappeared and the light on the bike bounced its way down the road. The road wound its way down through what seemed like a valley. I could barely see a few feet ahead of me when the town lights came into sight.

A sense of relief washed over me. I’d made it there without being mauled by a bear, or chased by a mob of fans.

The faint sound of music caught my ear as I drew closer to the café. The café was hedged between a spaghetti eatery and a pizza fast food joint. A few cars lined the small roads that came together at a four-way stop. I ditched the bike down a dark alley between two stores and made my way to the door.

To say I was a little paranoid would have been an understatement. Then again, this place was so far off the map, any chance of people bumping into a celebrity was very unlikely.

Outside a huddle of teens stood smoking. One of them glanced my way before returning to their conversation that I couldn’t quite make out.

The café was quaint. It had all the charm of a small town. A sign hung outside the door blowing slightly in the window. The lettering was in gold, and a small light lit up its name: Steamy Beans Coffee House.

Double windows framed in the main entrance. Both were plastered with old tattered flyers announcing various bands in the area. Others were advertisements for dog sitting, guitar lessons and — I blinked — a good time.

Great, the place was a brothel. So that’s what they did in their downtime.

As I opened the door, a bell let out a shrill, and several patrons inside gazed my way. I could feel myself getting hot around the collar. I wasn’t sure if this was from the mountain of clothes that I had heaped myself in to avoid being recognized, or the fact that I was sure they would see through my thin disguise.

Hell, I must have looked like the Unabomber with my hoody and dark glasses. I was just waiting for someone to ask why I was wearing sunglasses at night.

Thankfully, looking weird in this town passed as normal.

Inside it smelled of sweat and a wall of heat hit me. I was used to playing in dimly lit bars before I got my break, so dealing with rancid smells was part of the business. However, it had been many moons since I had needed to do that. Now I only played in stadiums.

It was noisy. On the far left of the room was your typical coffee counter. Behind it a tattooed guy with arms like twigs must have fancied himself as the next Tom Cruise, as he was tossing around bottles and frequently dropping them. It was hard to see the front row due to so many people squashed inside what could only be described as an orange box of a store. It had to have been the smallest coffee house I had ever been in.

People were chattering while sipping on coffee, others laughing, a couple sucking each other’s face in a dimly lit corner while a strange man in a French beret squeezed his way through to the front and took the mic.

Then he began spilling words that made no sense.

A
fter that he
took his seat.

Dear God, what the hell was that?

“Right, thank you… uh… Simon, once again that was very unique,” a woman’s voice said.

Unique? I was waiting for men in white coats to come and take him away.

Next a girl, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, took the stage. She wore a thin dress that provided plenty of exposure to her voluptuous breasts that were close to busting out.

Hopefully she would be a little bit better than the last.

The mic crackled as she took it and leaned back in a chair as if she was preparing to have someone paint her naked body. With all the jiggling around that was going on inside her dress, I was sure it wouldn’t be long before that became a reality.

“
O
K
, thank you, Shelly,” a woman said, grabbing the mic from her hand and cutting her off before she could finish what was no doubt going to be as peculiar as beret man.

Open mic night, more like freak night.

I turned to head out. It was a mistake coming. I would have rather plucked hairs out of my legs, or suffered waterboarding than endure another five minutes listening to this waffle.

I hadn’t made it but a few feet from the door when I heard her voice.

It was like I shifted from hell to heaven in the matter of a breath.

A
n acoustic guitar
came over the speaker, blending perfectly with that silky smooth voice. I cast a glance over my shoulder and peered over the top of the crowd to see Meghan holding the mic. Beside her, sitting on a stool, was a kid with hair that practically covered his entire head. He was no Eric Clapton, but he knew how to play a melody.

I slipped over to the counter and leaned against it, just drinking in what I was hearing.

Singing away, she carried herself with a natural confidence that was rare. In the music world there was no end of people trying to get a break. Women and men would line up after a gig just to get a chance to show me their singing ability. As if I had some way of influencing their success. Sure, I could have given one of the countless demo tapes they shoved into my hand over to Mia, but nine times out of ten they were awful.

As much as people wanted the dream, the harsh reality was business. Money, ratings and social approval far outweighed someone’s drive to want to be a singer. You had to know how to work a crowd. Hold their attention with one word, one note, one look.

Some had it, most didn’t.

Those who did were quickly carried away into studios or endless touring until they were burnt out or replaced by another new face. Truth was, the business was brutal and definitely not for the faint of heart. Many a dream had been kicked to the curb by what most said were heartless corporations.

I felt the pain of many a singer. But I didn’t call the shots. All you could do was sing and hope that someone would see potential. And right now, I was hearing it.

This girl knew how to sing. Her deep, silky and husky tones were her own. She didn’t sound like one of the many wannabe country singers that frequented the bars in Nashville. She was unique, that was for sure. And the best part was that I hadn’t heard this song before.

People who could sing were a dime a dozen. People who could write and sing were what the labels wanted. And if you could show them you could play an instrument, work a crowd and look like a million bucks even on your worst hair day, you were priceless.

“Can I get you a drink, matey?” the bartender said in a thick Scottish accent.

“A light beer.”

A few seconds later he slid a cold bottle in front of me. I tossed him some change without taking my eyes off her. See, while other people were hearing the song, I was hearing something else. My own voice alongside hers. I was filling in spaces, harmonizing and picking up on all the subtle nuances that most wouldn’t have heard. When music was your life, you got used to hearing how verses and choruses could be improved. You heard drumbeats when there were none. Guitar licks at certain moments when there should have been one. It was what separated those who worked in the industry and those who tried teaching at your local music store.

A
s she belted
out the chorus, I watched the people in the room look on in awe. Mouths agape. They were mesmerized like I was. Somehow all of us knew we were in the presence of greatness. Someone who could tap into the vein of emotions that moved the heart. But it wasn’t just the music that captivated me.

It was her.

Long before I’d heard her sing.

She was completely stunning. I had fallen for many a woman. Dark hair, blonde, red hair. Thin, full figured. It never mattered to me. The body was one thing, but the face. That always did it for me. Some women just had a way of stopping your heart. Bringing your world to a halt with a simple glance, or smile. Meghan was one of those. Dark hair flowed down her back. She wasn’t skinny like some of the bony girls who wouldn’t dream of eating a cheeseburger, but she looked after herself. That was clear to see. She had dark brown eyes, and long lashes that only drew me in. Her lips were like bubblegum. Pink and full, the kind you could lock onto for a few hours and get lost in. She was… well… words could barely describe what I was feeling. I know it wasn’t just her voice, though that was a pleasant surprise, for sure.

I had to know this girl. I wanted to know her.

The rest of the evening played out with Meghan singing a few more songs, before allowing a band called the Jelly Babies to come on stage. That was when it all went downhill, and I decided to slip out unnoticed. So did a vast majority of people to the dismay of the lead singer.

I didn’t take me long to get home that night. I raced back on that grandmother’s bicycle with all the zeal of a teenager in heat. I was closing in on twenty-six years of age but I felt like I was eighteen again. That was all it took. One night, and she had me.

I
t hit
me like a two by four. I bolted upright in my bed. How could I have not recognized him? It was dark last night, and the previous time I’d seen him his hair was slicked back wet and well, being naked is enough to make anyone lose their train of thought. Then again, maybe it was because I wasn’t a fan of his music, but I was certain that it was him.

After a quick shower, taking a little more attention to add some blush and lipstick, I checked myself in the mirror before scurrying downstairs.

My apartment was above the café. It wasn’t much more than a single bedroom, a tiny living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. But it was mine. I could have kept my parents’ house but I couldn’t bring myself to stay there. Not after I buried them a few years back.

Ducking behind the counter, I slid out all the old CDs onto the floor. We rarely used them with MP3s easy to download, and load up on the music system, but there was something to holding in your hand a physical copy. Being able to look through the cover art, read lyrics and see amazing photos of the singers. So much had been lost with everyone downloading everything digitally. It was almost like people no longer thought they owned anything. Most now even saw it as their right to be able to have what an artist had worked hours, days, even months creating.

As I sorted through the huge pile, I saw it.

Chase Bryan. He looked slightly younger in this shot, but still the same. Wielding his six- string axe with all the power of a demigod. He still had that cheeky, sexy smile painted across his face. I wondered for a second how many others had seen him butt naked. How many others could stake that claim?

Still, even with the CD cover in front of me, I had to be sure. With so many people impersonating singers, and making careers out of it, I didn’t want to look like a total buffoon. Not that his music impressed me but his body did.

I snatched it up and began preparing his usual breakfast and coffee. Sophie wouldn’t be in for at least another half an hour. I decided to have a listen to his music. I’d never really paid attention to him. With so many artists out there, and little time to myself to listen to them all, I usually let Sophie or Spike pick out songs to play in the background. We usually went for something light and easy. Over the past few months we had opted for jazz just to give the place a similar feel to our competitor.

Guitars kicked in, and the tune played. I didn’t like it. I flipped to the next one, hoping that it would get better. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sing. He could hit notes that I’m sure few men could reach. Nor was it that he couldn’t play. He owned that six-string like it was part of his own body. It was just that I’d never really paid attention.

Flicking to the next tune, I stopped pouring. Now this was good. It was a ballad. Him and some woman. I’d always thought he was one of those crazy axe-slinging country stars. The ones who always wore mirrored glasses, hats, no shirt and sang about beer, trucks and jeans painted on.

But this was different. It was stripped down and catchy. It had heart which is what most songs these days didn’t have. Anyone could sing. But few knew how to write a song that would stand the test of time. The kind of song that even if you didn’t like country, you would find yourself tapping your foot to, or humming in the shower.

Those were the kind of songs I aspired to write. Ones that would leave you breathless and make you play them again, and again until the button broke on your cell phone.

I didn’t realize how lost I had become in his music, until Sophie showed up. I hadn’t even heard the bell shrill. She stood there with her mouth open, as if she was witnessing me in the act of making love. Sure I was swaying a bit behind the counter and using the dishcloth like it was the shirt of a man. But nothing as weird as the crap I had caught Spike doing.

I had to throw out that damn melon. Dirty freak.

“What is this?” Sophie smirked

I spun around wide-eyed and quickly turned the music off.

“Oh no, you don’t. You are a secret Chase Bryan fan.”

“No, you have me all wrong.”

“Away with your lies, you little hussy,” Sophie said, tossing her bag and keys on the counter.

I bolted upright, knocking my head on the counter.

“I knew it.”

“No, I was just checking out what all the fuss was about,” I said, rubbing the emerging bump on my skull.

“And?”

“So-so. I’ve heard better.”

“Oh please. The guy drips sex appeal. Admit it, you have a thing for him.”

I tried to busy myself by heaping another portion of quiche onto the plate and covering it with foil.

“Listen, I may be a little late. Do you think you can cover me for an hour or so?”

“And where might you be heading off to?”

I was heading towards the door when I answered her.

“Errands. Drop off the food, do a bank run, maybe pick up some new supplies.”

She gave an inquisitive eye, and pulled the air between her teeth.

“If I’m not mistaken, I think, Miss Sullivan, you are up to no good.”

“You know me. The rebel of the town.”

“Hey, by the way, your singing was great last night.”

“Thanks, hon.”

“No, really. You should try putting together a demo tape and sending it into one of those fancy music labels.”

“I don’t think so. Speak later.”

As I opened the door I nearly bumped into Spike.

“Morning, sweet cheeks.”

I hated it when he said that. Despite his complete and utter fascination with Sophie, he had caught me slipping on a pair of jeans that I had taken out of the dryer. My dryer was located on the ground floor, as no one in their right mind was going to lug it up a flight of steps. Since then I hadn’t lived that down.

“Get a job,” I snapped.

“I would, if you would let me work here.”

“And have you molesting the staff? I think not.”

I grinned. Truth be told, I liked Spike, for all his crazy antics and odd behavior, he had a good heart, and often helped out around the café even though he never got paid. I already had Mike on nights and Sophie on days. Between them and myself, the café wasn’t bringing in enough to support another member to the team.

* * *

O
nce I made
it to Rita’s Cottages, my nerves were a little on edge. I’d never met a celebrity before, this kind of thing just didn’t happen. Sophie said she’d seen Robin Williams one time on the streets of London when she was visiting the UK. But I hadn’t stepped foot outside of this town. Vacations were a luxury that I couldn’t afford. Neither would have Sophie if it wasn’t for the fact her father lived there.

Now as I sat in my truck gripping the morning breakfast, I tried to think of what I might say. These kind of moments you’re meant to be all cool and such. You know, not giving off an air of desperation. Was I desperate? If anyone knew how much use my pocket rocket got, I’m pretty sure they would be shipping me off to sex rehab.

Opening the truck door, I took a deep breath.

Get hold of yourself, girl. He’s just a man.

Upon reaching his door, I gave it a firm, confident knock and waited.

No answer.

I knocked again. Then a third time.

Oh please tell me he is skinny-dipping.

I walked around the back, but the back door was locked. I covered one hand over my eyes to block the sun out. There was no one in the lake.

Um… must have gone for a walk.

When I returned to the front porch. I looked around for the money. Sure enough it was on the side. As I laid the food down, and a cup of coffee, I noticed his guitar and notebook laid out.

I was about to leave, but I couldn’t resist. I flipped it open. A pen was still inside, bookmarking the page. I could see pages had been torn out. No doubt either stored away or thrown in the trash.

I checked the next page, it had scribbles all over it. The next one was in an even worse state. Either he enjoyed drawing in some alien shorthand or he was super pissed off.

A sense of guilt washed over me and I closed it. I certainly didn’t want to look like a nosy, obsessed fan. For a second I realized I had enjoyed the music I’d heard. It was strange how you could never sum up one person by one song. Yet I had done exactly that. I’d heard one of his songs and then notched him up as being crap. How quick I was to judgment.

I glanced around, wondering if I should stick around. Instead I strolled back to the truck. I sat inside for a little while, hoping that he might show up. But after ten minutes I decided it was best that I left.

When I returned to the café later that day. Sophie had a huge grin on her face. We weren’t busy. A few patrons sat sipping lattes in the corner, while Spike had stepped out back to light up a cigarette.

“What? You aren’t going to ride me about listening to his music again, are you? I don’t think I can handle an afternoon of your banter.”

“Touchy. Maybe I won’t tell you about what just came in the mail.”

I put my hand out and the other on my hip. All sassy-like. Sophie pulled an envelope from under the counter and slipped it across the counter surface. I glanced at her inquisitively thinking it was just another bill.

“Go on, open it.”

“You already have.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Unfolding the letter inside, my eyes widened. The heading at the title said:

T
he Next Country Star
.

D
ear Miss Sullivan
,

After receiving your audition submission, we would like to congratulate you on being selected for our next round. Please submit a video within fourteen days from receipt of this letter, with a new song that you have written. Only those selected in the next round will be given a chance to reach the finals. If you make it through to the final round, we will fly you out to New York where you will be featured on live TV as part of our The Next Country Star Contest.

More details can be found at our website.

S
incerely
,

Thomas Parker,

Coordinator

I
scanned the letter again
, not believing what I was reading. Was this a prank by Spike? I would kill him if it was.

“Hold on a minute. OK, Spike. I know this is a joke as I never sent in a video.”

Sophie glanced around as if wondering what the heck I was going on about.

“Spike isn’t behind this.”

“I never sent in a video.”

Sophie’s eyes dropped.

“Sophie?”

She wiped down the side of the counter.

“Sophie?” I repeated myself, drawing out each letter.

“OK. It was me. But look where it’s got you. You are into the second round.”

“But what did you send in?”

“Well, you know someone had uploaded that video from your first week, that was me. I needed somewhere to host it while I sent in the video.”

“But that was just me and Spike.”

“Yeah, I told yah. You need me, sweet cheeks. What can I say, all that magic in my fingers does wonders for songs.” Spike came in pulling up his pants as though he’d just taken a leak. He picked up the letter and scanned it over.

“So why aren’t they mentioning old Spike?”

He liked to refer to himself in the third person. Apparently it was something that had continued since he was a kid. It was his imaginary alter ego. Eventually people just decided to call him Spike.

Sophie battered him with a dishcloth. “It’s a singing contest. You don’t sing, you twerp.”

“But I’m the one who brings it to life.”

“Well, sort of. I did kind of hum the tune I was wanting you to play before you found the chords,” I said.

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Oh, go ahead then, take the glory. I don’t give a hoot. But don’t think for a minute I won’t be throwing in one of my epic solos, if I make it to the final round. America is aching for a little bit of Spike.”

“About as much as they are aching for dose of acne,” Sophie said before she went to attend to a customer. Spike followed her like a lost puppy.

Snatching up the letter, I read it over again. It really hadn’t sunk in. Was this how it felt? Was this even real? The fact that Sophie had not admitted initially to the video being uploaded made sense now. She didn’t want me to know about this, but still.

I had to admit, I felt a twinge of excitement inside. I even spent an extra few minutes in the bathroom looking over the letter. This kind of thing didn’t happen to me. The closest I had come to winning a prize was a guitar. My name showed up as one of twenty winners but they never sent the guitar. My mother had tried to follow up with the company, but it appeared they disappeared. Since then I had always been skeptical of contests, lottery tickets, hell, anything where I stood the chance of coming out on top.

But this. I swallowed hard.

Who knew what the outcome would be.