POP ROCK Read online

  “What? I didn’t catch that?”

  He heard me.

  I shake my head. “We don’t have time for this. You’re not drunk. Cancelling interviews last minute is terrible publicity, especially one with the most popular station in the country. If you stand them up, they’ll tear you apart and never play your songs again.”

  He surprisingly sets the drink down and grunts while making his way back to the couch. He grabs a shirt draped over the back of it and pulls it on. “This is all you’re getting from me. Take it or leave it.”

  I’ll take anything right now. He can show up in a chicken suit or a rhinestone embellished thong for all I care. I stand up, grab a stick of gum from my purse, and toss it to him. “Where are your keys? I’m driving.”

  He looks at me like I said I’m about to castrate him. “There’s no way in hell you’re getting behind the wheel of my car. We’ll take yours.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  He points to my purse. “You have a two thousand dollar handbag, but no car?” He stares at me in that intense, studious, weird way again. “Are you a hooker?” A smile cracks on his lips. “No wonder you know Thomas. That fucker loves to pay for pussy and then try to do the whole hoe into a housewife shit.”

  “I’m not, nor have I ever been, a hooker,” I snap, my hand itching to slam him. “Thomas is a friend of my father’s, not my fucking sugar daddy. Now I’d love to stay here and chat about how I don’t open my legs for a handbag or a car, but we have somewhere to be.” I hold out my hand. “Keys.”

  “Do you know how to drive a stick?”

  “Sure do.”

  I follow him into his office where he opens up a cabinet, punches in a few numbers into what I assume is a safe, and pulls out a set of keys. He shuts the cabinet and goes to hand them to me but pulls away suddenly.

  “Are you lying?” he asks.

  “No. Now give me the damn keys,” I push.

  He holds them up in the air “If anything happens to my baby, it’s your ass.”

  I snatch the keys from his fingers before he gets the chance to stop me. What’s up with men referring to cars as their babies?

  He leads me out of the office and into a garage that’s filled with cars.

  “Can we take that one?” I ask, pointing to the bright green Lamborghini. It’s a newer model of the one my dad taught me to drive in. I even took my driving test in it.

  “Hell no. We’re taking the Porsche.”

  I shrug, perfectly okay with that. He opens up the door of the black Porsche Cayman and plops down in the passenger seat. The scent of leather and cinnamon hit me when I slide into the driver’s side and start the engine. I plug in the radio station’s address into the GPS and can tell he’s surprised when I shift the car and reverse out of the garage, but he stays quiet. I don’t know why I was expecting a pat on the back or something.

  The only emotion this guy knows how to show is arrogance.

  The ride is silent, and I keep my eyes on the road while he pays attention to his phone. I follow the directions from the GPS and merge onto the freeway.

  “Jesus Christ,” he yells out suddenly, causing my fingers to tighten around the steering wheel. “I don’t think either one of us is going to make it there unless it’s in a body bag.” He stretches the seatbelt across his body and buckles it. “Do you even have your driver’s license? Or is that why you don’t have a car? They revoked it from your crazy ass because you drive like a damn lunatic?”

  “I don’t drive like a lunatic,” I argue, swerving into another lane. The car behind us honks, and I’m pretty sure the driver is waving his middle finger through the air.

  He snorts. “And I don’t have a penis.”

  “Oh, we all know you come equipped with one of those.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve sent your fair share of dick pics.”

  He gives me a sly look. “So you’ve seen them?”

  “Negative. I’d actually like to keep my eyes and not acid burn them from their sockets.”

  “Your loss, and by the way, there’s no dick pics of mine out in cyberspace. They’re all impersonations.”

  “That’s good to know,” I mutter. Selfies of his cock are the last thing I want to talk about. “So let’s go over this interview.”

  “What about it? I’ve done thousands of them. Same shit, different person asking the questions.”

  “Anything off limits?” Another horn blares in the background when I merge into different lane.

  “Stella. My latest arrest. I don’t like discussing my personal business with strangers, which is why I don’t want to go. The assholes only want to talk about my so-called scandals, my fuckups, my problems because that’s what gives them listeners.”

  “You have to talk about your arrest and sound apologetic. Tell them it was a stupid mistake that you regret and will never happen again. You hate that you disappointed your fans.”

  “That’s what every celebrity who gets into shit says. I’m not about to be as pathetic as them. I punched a pap who had his camera shoved in my face, wouldn’t move, and was saying some bad shit to me after I asked him to step away three times. I don’t regret doing it. ”

  “Definitely don’t tell them that. For future reference, if you don’t want to talk about getting arrested, stop getting arrested. Your new album recently released, and your tour is paramount. You need fans to support your music and buy tickets.”

  “My fans won’t let me down.” We both go flying forward when I slam on my breaks. “Fuck woman, no more talking. Keep your eyes on the road.”

  3

  Knox

  Today is a goddamn nightmare.

  Showing up for this interview is at the end of my shit I want to do list.

  Kayla, my old assistant, would let me ditch anything I wanted. She did her job when it was needed but knew to keep her mouth shut and not challenge me. I have a feeling new girl isn’t about to do the same.

  I’m surprised we made it here alive when she pulls into the parking lot to the radio station and parks the car. I want to jump out and kiss the ground, but there are probably video cameras out here.

  “Please go in there, act professional, and try to refrain from using profane language,” my lovely new assistant says, like she’s lecturing her child.

  I don’t know where Thomas found her, but Punk Malibu Barbie doesn’t look like she’s qualified enough to work for one of the top celebrity agents in the country. Whoever she is, I’m positive she’s going to be a pain in my ass.

  “I can’t make any promises,” I say, in all honesty. I open up the car door. “My politeness will depend on their questions.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the phrase kill them with kindness?” she asks, trailing behind me as I make my way to the entrance doors.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “If they ask something you don’t want to talk about, change the subject or give them some vague, bullshit answer. I’ll tell them what’s off limits, but I can’t promise you they’ll listen.”

  It’s a live interview, and I can tell Libby is nervous when I leave her and walk into the recording room. She’ll look incompetent if she can’t even control me on her first day.

  The hosts, on the other hand, look like they are children on the way to Disney World. I shake their hands, a man and a woman, both in their late thirties. They’ve been in the business for over a decade, and I’ve interviewed with them before, but that was when I was known as The Golden Boy, and there were no juicy scandals to talk about. They’d asked about Stella, but I didn’t mind that then, because shit was good and we were happy.

  I take a seat and put the headphones on. They crack a few jokes to break the ice, talk about my latest single that’s flying up the Billboard charts, and congratulate me on the album’s success.

  My jaw goes tight when they ask the first question Libby told them was off limits. “So are the rumors true?” the woman asks. “Did you and Stella break up for good this time?”

  I swallow down the lump in the base of my throat before leaning forward to answer through the microphone. “We mutually decided to go our separate ways,” I say, trying to control my shitty tone, but I don’t think I’m hiding it.

  “So sad,” she whines. “Is there any truth to the rumor that there’s a sex tape you’re threatening to release if she doesn’t take you back?”

  Is this chick fucking kidding me right now?

  Is she deaf?

  I told her two minutes ago that we mutually decided to end things.

  I snort, digging my fingernails into my shorts. “There’s no sex tape, and even if there is one, I wouldn’t release it to anyone. I’m not a goddamn snake.” Their phony smiles collapse. “Is that the answer you were looking for?” Neither one can muffle up a response. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

  They flinch at my reply.

  And then glee spreads across their faces.

  Shit.

  Bait and fucking switch.

  I didn’t entertain the whole sex tape story, but they did get a rise out of me, causing me to look like an asshole.

  “Ecstasy is a great song,” I say, trying to control my breathing and stay calm. “The entire album is kick ass. My tour starts in two weeks. Tickets are already on sale. Get them before they sell out.”

  I tear off the headphones, chuck them onto the table, and storm out of the room. Libby grabs her purse and jumps up from her chair to scurry behind me while I rush towards the exit. I push the door open and hustle back to the car while she struggles to keep up. The car beeps, and I jump into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut.

  What a fucking day.

  My party got crashed for this shit?

  “Now do you understand why I didn’t want to come?” I ask when she dips into the driver’s side. “They could’ve cared less about my release or tour.” I slap the dashboard. “You know what they care about?” I wait for a response, but she stays quiet. “They act like I’m the only person who’s fucked anyone.” I scrub my hands over my face. This is going to be all over the internet. Fucking fantastic.

  Libby looks over at me. “That’s a part of the life,” she says. “You know what you signed up for.”

  “What I signed up for? I signed up for this shit when I was thirteen years old with no damn clue what fame even was. I love music. It’s my passion, what I live for. I thought that’s what I was going to be doing.”

  “There’s never a good without a bad.” She gears the car into drive and pulls out of the parking lot.

  Her response lights a fire inside of me. “Why don’t you do your job and keep your comments to yourself, okay? You don’t know what it’s like to have people expose every personal detail about your life and then be scrutinized for it. I get a ticket? People tweet me telling me to kill myself. I’m not in the mood to take a selfie with some teenager while I’m trying to take a piss? I’m a dick whose music needs to be boycotted.”

  “You’re right,” she says, her tone somewhat cold. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “If I have any more interviews, you let them know I’m not talking about who I’m screwing, my arrest, or Stella. They ask, I walk, and will never do anything for them again.”

  “Got it.”

  And with that, the conversation ends.

  I probably sound like a dipshit for complaining about my situation. Don’t get me wrong. I’m appreciative of how far I’ve come and how successful my fans have made me.

  I grew up poor, dirt fucking poor, to a single mother living off food stamps and the welfare system. Her, my younger brother, Easton, and I lived in a small two-bedroom apartment that could fit in the living room I have now. I was teased in school for the hand me downs I wore and receiving free school lunches.

  All I wanted to do is escape my miserable life.

  And that’s what music did for me.

  It helped me evade the hurt and insults.

  When I was twelve, I tagged along with my grandma to a garage sale. That’s when I saw it, the guitar that changed my life. I begged her to buy it for me, promising to mow her yard every week, and she agreed. It felt like Christmas when I brought it home. I finally had something that was all mine. I spent all of my time learning different songs and then went out on the streets to play for people’s spare change. Someone recorded me, posted the video online, and two days later, Thomas showed up at my doorstep.

  I’d been discovered at thirteen. Now, thirteen years later, everyone knows my name and I can buy anything I want.

  I became the poster child for a young, successful musician. I allowed everyone else to make my decisions and tell me how to act and feel. I was afraid to rattle people’s tails, but that changed three years ago. I decided to start living the life I wanted and let loose, and everyone lost their shit.

  The fame and money are nice, don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for everything I have, but it can also be a burden. If I make one wrong move, it’s all over the news. I get more fucking publicity than the damn Pope. I can’t go to the club or hang out with a woman without the entire world hearing about it.

  I make business calls during the ride back to my place, and the rush of heat smacks me in the face when I open up the door after Libby parks in my driveway. I get out and walk to the front door, but stop to turn around when I realize she isn’t doing the same.

  “You coming or staying out in the heat all day?” I yell.

  She doesn’t reply, but gets out of the car and follows me inside. I stroll through the large foyer and head straight into the kitchen.

  I bought this place on my eighteenth birthday when I decided it was time to live on my own … and with Stella. I let my mom keep the house I bought two years before and settled in here. It was nice, but not my style, so I had the entire home renovated.

  Everything is now sleek and modern. The kitchen is equipped with all stainless steel appliances, the cabinets are black and flat-paneled, and the counters a white marble. There’s a pool and hot tub out back, along with the perfect entertainment area, equipped with a full fireplace and pizza oven.

  “Keys,” I say.

  She tosses them to me. I walk around the island, open up a drawer, pull out another set of keys, and hand them to her.

  She eyes me in confusion. “Where are we headed now? I didn’t see anything else scheduled for today.”

  “We’re not going anywhere. These are keys to the Jeep in the garage. It’s yours while you’re working for me since you have no means of transportation. Try to do the speed limit and not kill anyone.” My cousin, Nate, has been using the Jeep while he’s staying with me, but I texted and told him to leave the keys in the kitchen. I jerk my head towards the hallway that leads out to the garage. “You’re off for the rest of the day.”

  After that bullshit interview, all I want to do is sit by the pool and write some new music.

  She tries to hand the keys back to me. “I can’t take these.”

  “How did you get here today?”

  “I took an Uber.”

  “Uber isn’t dependable. I won’t be happy if I have to wait around for some Uber driver whenever I need something. Use the Jeep. Consider it a company car.”

  She blows out a long breath. “Okay, thank you.”

  I’m usually not the nicest guy, especially lately, and handing out cars to strangers isn’t something I do on the regular, but this chick is surprising me. She didn’t pry for information about my private life, she’s not afraid to challenge me, and didn’t ask for my autograph like most of Thomas’ hires do. He once brought one over who tried to SnapChat our entire conversation and even followed me into the bathroom.

  No, Libby is straight business.

  “And will you do me a favor?” I ask, and she raises a brow. “Give Thomas a satisfactory progress report. He’s going to be pissed about the interview. I won’t be answering my phone, so he’ll probably start blowing yours up. Try to talk him down for me.” I smile, winking.

  She rolls her eyes and holds up a finger. “First off, never wink at me again. Winking is not a turn on ever. It’s actually creepy.” She lifts her hand up and wiggles the keys in the air. “Thanks again for the wheels. I really appreciate it, so I’ll give you a B- minus for today. But before you get rid of me, we have to go over this week’s schedule. What I walked into today better not happen again.”

  So much for being in peace.

  I collapse onto a stool. She takes the one across from me, and we spend the next twenty minutes going over my schedule twice. She grabs my phone and punches everything in the calendar, just in case I get amnesia or some shit.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, bringing herself up from the stool.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  My eyes stay on her as she leaves the kitchen. My new assistant is sexy but in an innocent kind of way. She’s wearing a loose, black dress that runs all the way down to her ankles, but it hugs her in all the right places and accentuates her plump ass.

  Nate comes strolling in a few seconds later and whistles. “Damn bro, who was that?” he asks.

  I recently let him move in with me temporarily to help him get his shit together. I didn’t want to but my mom begged me. A year ago, I agreed to pay for his college, but he failed all of his classes and got kicked out. Now he’s working at some club and trying to save up enough money for his own place.

  “Thomas hired her because my other assistant wasn’t exactly doing her job. Libby is supposed to keep me in line,” I answer.

  “I wish I could get someone like that to work for me.” I give him a hard look, and he shrugs. “And assistant? I still don’t understand why you won’t give me the job.”

  “You couldn’t survive freshman year of community college. There’s no way in hell I’m putting you in charge of my career.”

  He chuckles while opening up the fridge and grabbing a beer. “So instead of hiring me, Thomas hired you a babysitter.” He pops off the cap and takes a big gulp. “At least she’s hot. Am I allowed to screw the help?”

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