Noah

The tour's over, and I'm back in Los Angeles. And my situation is complete bullshit. I'm tired of being controlled by money and my sense of responsibility. The movie deal is made, and I don't understand why #StrangeNoah can't get just as much publicity from a polite breakup as from an extended relationship.

“Because you'll be working together,” my publicist says.

“Because if there's rumors of tension on the set, it's bad for the movie,” Lydia says.

“You're telling me I have to pretend Barbie and I are together for eight more months?” Because that's how long before filming ends.

“That's the deal I cut because it's the deal you signed off on six months ago,” Lydia says.

Dimly, I do recall something about agreeing to follow through with a fake relationship deal if she could nab one. But, hell. That was before I met Madison.

It feels like fate is laughing at me, and Lydia definitely is. Desperate, lovesick Noah isn't anybody she knows. Looking at me like I've turned into a Martian, she begins to explain her position— for the umpteenth time— in the bell-like tones you'd use to spell things out to a five-year-old. “It's less than a year for your chance to create a franchise that will pay you at least twenty-five million dollars per film. Plus merchandise. Plus product endorsements. You can keep your dick in your pants for a few months for that kind of money, can't you?”

“It isn't about my dick.” I have to insist, but she just laughs louder.

“The hell it isn't about your dick. You've never had a serious relationship, and now you're talking about how you have to see some hookup just when you have the opportunity of a lifetime? You've got to let this girl go, Noah. There's real money on the bottom line here.”

Bottom line: they're still not handing over the information they have on Madison, and I'm starting to figure out they'll never hand it over. The trouble is, weeks keep going by, and I'm afraid she's already forgotten me. I can't let this go on for eight more months, no matter how much money is at stake.

My handlers have kept a tight leash on me ever since South America, but I'm a grown man and they can't keep me under lock and key forever. Barbie's sick of it too. She has a fuck buddy relationship with a guy from back home, and she's desperate to sneak away for a weekend in Vegas. Our social media teams agree to make it look like #StrangeNoah is out partying on a private island in the Caribbean so we can get some time to ourselves.

“I need a few nights out on the town,” I tell Lydia. “Something to get Maddy out of my mind.” Although, in reality, I already have some different ideas for what I might do with my unexpected time off.

On the Thursday night before, Barbie and I are being paid to appear at some foo-foo club in Los Angeles. She wears a scrap of designer lace that should've probably been sold in the lingerie department. Her spike heels have a lot of straps. We dance some, and it isn't as awkward as it could be.

She orders a round of Scooby Doo shots, which turn out to be green, although I doubt they're particularly healthy. She does a couple of the shots, and then she looks at me with speculative eyes.

“I like you, Noah. You're OK.”

“Yeah? I guess you're OK too.”

“I've done fake relationships with plenty of guys. Well, you know. You see Twitter.”

For the first time, it occurs to me that everything the public knows about Barbie Strange's private life is a lie. Of course, I'm a lie, but for some reason, I've never put it together before that all the other guys were lies too.

“All those guys?” I ask. “They're all guys like me?”

“I don't get those feels about guys. I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my career, you know, but my publicity says it makes me sound too hard and bitchy. I don't know why Lukas and I can't just have our private fuck buddy thing to blow off steam, but for some reason I've got to be seen out in public with famous dudes. So, you know?”

It's time for me to do a shot. Green and sweet. Definitely unhealthy. “What do I know?”

“Most of those dudes, well, all of those dudes...” She rolls her eyes and makes a little spitty sound. “They're all bullshit, man. You're the only one who respects the deal. The others, every fuck one of them, sooner or later, he had his hands all over me trying to get away with some shit.”

“I know it's business. I don't put my hands on people who don't want my hands there.” I look her in the eye so she can see I'm serious about that.

She shakes her head in disbelief. “You'd be surprised how many famous dudes lack your sense of ethics. When they told me a rock star... Man, I really had some doubts about it, but I've got to hand it to you. I think we're going to have a long relationship, and we're both going to make a ton of money.”

A long relationship? The hell? I mean, she's an all right chick to work with, but this fake relationship is seriously starting to interfere with my real life. “And Lukas is happy with that? Being in the background?”

“He's a shy guy, you know. An artist. Sensitive and all.”

She's anything but sensitive, so I guess it's what they say. Opposites attract.

“Maybe he'd like you to be there a little more often,” I say. “This setup isn't ideal, you know?”

Her brow crinkles but only for a moment. “Ah, he's fine. He needs a relationship that's peaceful and not too much drama. Fuck buddies, that's what he needs. And that's what I need. So we understand each other.”

I touch the back of her hand with a finger. They're more than fuck buddies, but she doesn't even know it yet. Hell, it would be hard for me to explain how I know. It's something in the way her voice hesitates before she says his name, like it's something precious you want to pick up with both hands. Not sure what else to say, I eventually go with, “Well, that's so cool you guys can be together like that and have an easy thing.”

“A lot of drama in your private life is terrible for work when you're an actor. I can't create with a lot of drama. He's perfect for me, because he's the same way. We both need our peace of mind so we can visualize and create.”

I wish I had my peace of mind. I envy what they have, even though I can see she doesn't even really know they have it.

Madison wasn't fancy. Madison wasn't drama. I could be with her the way Barbie is with Lukas. Peaceful. Drama free. I just know it could work, if only I could find her again in time.

If she's already forgotten me, fuck... I don't even want to think about what I'll do if she's already forgotten me.

“You driving into Vegas?” I ask.

“Yeah. Too many paps at LAX.”

“Mind if I ride in with you?”

“Yeah, no problem, man. We're sneaking out early though. I'd have to swing by around four.”

In the morning?

“Sure,” I say. “But in that case, I'm done with the shots.”

“I was actually planning on pulling an all-nighter.” She gives me a fake kiss, and I prolong the fake kiss because there are some flashes going off, and then our bodyblocking bodyguards pop up from all directions to take us away to some inner chamber where there are no more cameras. There's a couple of other movie people already back there, and they all start squealing and yapping with Barbie, and I slip away into the night with Nailgun.

“I'm heading out tomorrow real early with Barbie,” I say. “I won't need my own security team.”

“You always need your own team.”

“Not this time, bro. Her people will do me just fine.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Is this fake relationship turning into something real?”

I hate to lie, but it'll work better if I do. “Maybe. We don't really want to go to the island, but we want to find some things out.”

“Good luck, man. Wouldn't that be cool, if fake love turned real?”

His words send a chill down my spine, and not because I think it's cool. It's the word “love.” Personally, I prefer the word “obsession.” There's something obsessive about the way I can't stop thinking about this one particular girl.

But I can't call it love.

Not after only one night.

♫♫♫

Barbie's driver drops me on the strip, and it's still a ridiculous hour of the morning, and I realize there's no use doing anything except get a room and get some sleep. I force myself to set the alarm for eight o'clock at night, but I don't sleep even with the blackout curtains pulled as tight as they can go. I think about sending down for a bottle, but I don't do that either. I have a long night coming up, and it isn't a time for rockstar drinking.

Maddy's a Vegas party girl with a fake ID. The logical place to start is by checking out the trendy clubs, the ones where younger people go to party. There's fewer of them than you might think, relative to the size of Sin City. I can eliminate the piano bars and the magic shows/comedy routines, hell, I can eliminate all the quiet places with expensive views meant to appeal to the older crowd.

If I played the rockstar card, I could walk to the front of the line of any club I wanted, but I'm not even supposed to be in Vegas. I'm supposed to be on an exotic island spending the weekend in bed with Barbie Strange. So I'm wearing the dark wraparound glasses and the baseball cap shoved down hard to hide all the hair. A long blue button-down shirt conceals the ink on my arms, and suddenly I look like a normal guy in from Iowa to check out the sights.

At least I do as long as I keep my mouth shut. I don't talk like a guy who was born in Hammond, Indiana. But there's nothing I can do about the slight British accent that came with being brought up in London from the age of eight months.

I've let a little scruff develop, more than the usual five o'clock carelessness. I haven't shaved in days, and my fans have never really seen me with the real start of a beard. So I figure nobody's going to look too hard at Mr. Midwest and, as long as they don't look too hard, I'm pretty safe from being recognized.

Some of the clubs, I just take a glance at the line, and I get a feeling, and I don't even go any further. You know? The crowd's too old, or too ... I don't know... too country, maybe, for Madison. She likes it a little bit indie. I know that much because she's one of my fans.

Then I get to Peppersalt. A young crowd, well dressed. Everybody's supposed to be twenty-one, but plenty of them are probably closer to eighteen or nineteen. Madison's kind of people. I shift my shoulders back and put an official expression on my face and stick out my finger to make a counting gesture as I work my way forward. Nobody challenges me for cutting the line. I look like I work there even though I don't have a badge.

Two big guys at the door, one young, one probably thirty-five or so. They both look like a wall of bricks, but it's the younger one who catches my eye. I've seen him before.

He sees me seeing him, and we look at each other for a long moment. “Can you remove your glasses, sir?” His voice wobbles.

“No,” I say.

We keep looking at each other. The other bouncer is very aware of something going on, but for now he's handling the line.

After a minute, I say, “I need to know where Madison is.”

“You waited a long time to need to know that.” He folds his arms over his chest.

“I made a mistake.”

“I'll say you made a mistake.”

“I was wrong, all right? I had people talking in my ear trying to tell me what to do.”

“Yeah? Is that what happened?”

“Yeah. That's what happened.”

We glare and stare at each other. I'm not getting a boyfriend vibe off the guy. It's more the big-ass protective brother vibe.

“Are you Madison's brother? Can you tell me where to get in touch with her?”

He shakes his head, but he takes out his phone. “You give me your information, and I'll let her decide if she wants to get in touch with you. I wouldn't hold my breath.”