I’M FLOATING ON a cloud above the Jersey Shore. Looking down, everything looks calm. Even the ocean is as smooth as a new drum head. A seagull flies directly at my head from the left. Putting my hand out, the bird lands on my palm and immediately transforms into a flower. A rose. Holding it by the stem, I rub its soft petals over my cheek, reveling in the smoothness while inhaling its sweet scent. Suddenly, my cloud starts to shake as if the waves were hitting my fluffy white pillow rather than the land below. Startled, I drop the rose and it descends into the water below. The impact causes ripples to head toward the shore.
I wake with a start. The woman lying beside me is tossing and turning, causing the bed to shake. Reaching over, I place my hands on her bare shoulders and she immediately quiets. I close my eyes and try for more sleep, but it’s no use. I’m awake. The clock reads twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Thank God Platinum arranged for late checkout. Even so, I have to get moving. I have a Meet and Greet scheduled before the show tonight.
Stretching out in the comfortable, large and blessedly stationary bed, I allow myself a couple of minutes to relax. Quite a far cry from the MPB’s bunks, that’s for sure. Getting up, I perform my normal routine of one hundred push-ups, followed by one hundred sit-ups. This stuffy hotel must have a proper gym, though, so I dig out a pair of shorts, a shirt and socks. Lacing up my sneakers, I cast my eyes over the naked woman in my bed and head out of the room, quietly closing the door behind me.
The main living room area looks like a tornado hit it hard. All manner of liquor bottles are strewn about, accompanied by enough glasses to restock a department store, ranging from full to empty. Some are tipped over in sticky-looking puddles. Someone must have been smoking in here, because butts are littered about. Holes are burned into the sofa too, if I’m not mistaken. An iPhone is still playing music through the speakers. I close my eyes, sending a prayer of thanks that it’s not too loud.
A couple of my band members and a smattering of groupies are passed out, all of them in various stages of undress. As I pick my way through the room, my sneaker sticks to something on the carpet. Shaking free, I take a few more steps and squish into a puddle of I-don’t-know-what. I turn the cell phone off, plunging the room into silence.
Finally, I make it to the kitchen and take a bottle of water from the fridge. Four pizza boxes are crammed in there, together with ice cream. I move the soupy carton to the freezer. A broken plate is in the sink.
Last night was off the hook.
A piece of paper that’s been shoved under the door catches my eye. Bending over, I scoop up the hotel letterhead and hold my breath.
Dear Mr. Manchester,
While we appreciate your business, we have to advise you that we received numerous complaints about the noise emanating from your room in the early hours of this morning. This was after we had to ask your party to leave the bar hours after last call. At that time, you were informed that the police had already been diverted by our staff twice. We had to respond to three more noise complaints overnight.
We pride ourselves in offering first class service and amenities to all of our guests. Unfortunately, your party’s actions did not meet our standards. Once you settle your bill, please do not book with us in the future.
The letter details the bar bill from last night. $30,000. And that number didn’t include the alcohol consumed in here and the damage done to this room. Fuck.
I take the letter and return to the bedroom. Sitting on the chair by the window, I stare out into the afternoon sky, not really seeing it. I need to call my publicist and make sure this is all taken care of quietly. The last thing I need is for the press to run with this story and paint me as some party boy.
Echoes of the promise I made to Mom and Aunt Doreen ring in my ears. So long as my antics aren’t publicized, the “bad boy” moniker won’t be associated with me. I will have technically—though only technically—kept my promise. Greta and her team have done a kick-ass job of keeping my random hook-ups out of the media in the past, so hopefully this will be a piece of cake. Red velvet cake.
Picking up my cell, I dial my account rep. Despite its being Saturday, she picks up on the second ring. “Rose Morgan.”
“Hi Rose, it’s Cole. How are you doing?”
“What’s up, Cole?” She never wastes time with idle chit-chat, which I appreciate. Besides, it’s not like we’re friends—I’m her client. She’s paid to make problems like this one disappear.
“I’m here in Phoenix. We had our first show last night.”
The sound of her rummaging through some papers transfers over the phone. “I see. You play there again tonight, but your tour bus is driving overnight to your next gig in Palm Springs.”
Sighing, I give her the highlights of last night, minus my willing groupies, and end by reading the hotel’s letter. “I never saw the police, so that’s good.”
I give her a moment to process everything. “How badly is your room trashed?”
“Well, all the liquor has been opened and some of it was spilled on the carpet. There are a few burn marks on the furniture, too.” I grimace as I confess.
“Can you please take some photos of the room and send them to me, together with a copy of the letter?”
“Sure thing.” Shit. What about all the bodies out there? It looks like an orgy. “Do my, ah, friends who crashed here need to be in the photos too?”
The chick from last night stirs. She stretches her very lithe and limber body. Too bad I have to take care of this shit instead of going for another round with her. She gets off the bed and kneels at my side, naked. Crap, what did Rose say? “I’m sorry Rose, you cut out. Can you repeat that?”
“Don’t worry about your friends. Email me the photos as the room looks right now. They’re just for me. No one else will see them, I promise.”
“Okay.” The chick’s hands are at my waistband. Placing my hand over the phone, I whisper, “Not now, darlin’.”
Rose asks, “Is there anything else I should know about last night?”
The chick giggles. She runs her hand over my semi-awake cock. “Like, um, what?”
“Are there any women that need to be taken care of?”
“Nope.” The two chicks on the bus and this one aren’t the sort to seek publicity. Not like some of the others Rose has handled for me. I’ve gotten good at avoiding the ones who want the spotlight.
“Okay. I’ll take care of the hotel and make sure they get paid for the repairs. The media won’t publicize this, I assure you. I’ll wait for your pictures.”
“Thanks.” I disconnect the call and turn my attention to the woman who is doing a naked dance for me. As much as I want to be entertained by her—and entertain her—I have to get those photos off to Rose to ensure the night is buried forever.
“As much as I would love to do an encore darlin’, I need to take care of something.”
Her face falls. “I guess I’ll take a shower.” I watch as her perfect ass heads in the direction of the bathroom.
Willing my cock to stay down, I pick up my cell phone and get busy taking photos of the suite from all possible angles, making sure to document all the damage. I even take a picture of the iPhone in its docking station, and the insides of the refrigerator and freezer.
Returning to my room, I send the photos to Rose. Once completed, I occupy myself by watching the hot chick dress in her skin-tight outfit from last night. Damn, that dress looks hot on her. But it definitely was better on the floor.
My thoughts are interrupted by my ringing cell phone. “Hi Rose, did you receive the photos?”
“Yes, I got them, thanks. They documented the damage clearly enough. I will take care of all of this. Don’t worry, and have a good concert tonight.”
“Thank you. I plan on it.”
“OKAY, COLE, THEY’RE ready for you.”
“Thanks.”
I take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob to the room designated by the venue for backstage events. These radio station Meet and Greets are great, but I prefer to do them after I perform. I’d much rather be working out my nervous energy with some push-ups and trading mindless wisecracks with my band. It had to be scheduled this way, however, because we’re leaving for Palm Springs right after the show.
My ass vibrates. Raising my hand to the crew guy, I pull out my cell phone and check my texts. Dan. My best friend-slash-roommate wants to know when I’m going to be “home.”
I type, See you in a couple of days.
His response is instantaneous. Better take an advance on my paycheck to restock the fridge with beer.
My thumbs compose a response: Douche. I hit “Send” and follow it up with a second text: Gotta go do some PR. Popping my phone back into my pocket, I nod to the crew guy. He opens the door to the Meet and Greet, and I enter the room sporting a real grin on my face.
About one hundred of my fans line the room, many of them carrying items for me to autograph, everything from photos of me to bras. They erupt into a warm welcome—clapping punctuated by excited shouts and woots.
“Hello everyone,” I say, even though only the first few people can hear me. I take in the mainly female gathering. Most of them appear to be in their early twenties, but some young teen and tweens—accompanied by their moms—are thrown in for good measure. This, my label has told me, is my demographic. Works for me. Everywhere I look, I’m greeted by smiling faces.
“Hello!” I shout a bit louder, careful not to hurt my voice before the show tonight. I join the radio DJ at the front of the room, waving to my fans as I go. He motions for the crowd to quiet down, with some minor success. Thankfully, he has a microphone.
“Welcome to Phoenix, Cole. If last night’s concert was any indication, tonight’s going to be a fantastic show!”
I drink in the moment of warmth and nod in gratitude. “Thanks.”
“Do you have anything to say to your fans before you start signing?”
A hush descends on the room, my fans quieting to hear my every word. Clearing my throat, I begin. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out tonight. Ever since I was a kid, all I wanted to do was make music. It’s because of you that I’m able to live my dream—”
From the back of the room, a female voice shouts out, “You’re my dream, Cole!”
I wink in the general direction of where the voice emanated from. “Why, thank you darlin’. And I want to be your dream for a long time.”
The DJ takes over and the meet and greet process begins. After I’ve signed souvenirs for a dozen or so ladies, a young boy wearing my concert T-shirt and ripped jeans reaches the front of the line, craning his neck upward to look at me. A riot of brown curls frames his serious face.
“Hi, I’m Cole.” I extend my hand, which the boy shakes. “What’s your name?”
Even though he’s staring at me with his mouth open, he manages to reply, “Josh.”
Wanting to engage the cute kid, I ask, “How old are you, Josh?”
“Ten.”
Dropping to my knee so that I’m more on his eye level, I say, “You know, I was your age when I started taking music lessons. Do you like music?”
“Yes, Mr. Manchester, very much.”
“Well, Josh, I hope you stick with it.” It’s the advice I would have wanted someone to give me at that age, but he bites his lip and his eyes get watery. Clearly, I said the wrong thing. A woman, presumably his mother, puts her hand on his shoulder. I give Josh a reassuring smile and fist bump. Standing up, I give the woman a quizzical look.
“Thank you for talking with Josh, Mr. Manchester.” She fiddles with her son’s sleeves.
“Cole,” I reply automatically.
Her lips purse. “Josh’s teacher told me he’s talented, but I don’t have the money for him to take private lessons.” I guess the ripped jeans aren’t a fashion statement. She looks down, and my heart breaks for both of them.
I crouch down to the boy’s height. “What do you play, Josh?”
He puffs up. “Violin. I’m first chair in my school’s orchestra.” Violin…just like Nicole.
“That’s awesome, buddy. Make sure you keep practicing, no matter what. Promise me that you’ll always follow your dreams, okay?”
“I promise, Mr. Manchester.”
“That’s Cole to you.” The boy beams at me. Standing back up, I address his mother. “Thanks for bringing him here.”
“You’re his favorite.”
I smile and tousle the boy’s hair. Still addressing his mom, I ask, “Can you do me a favor? Please write down your name and address and leave it for me before you go.”
She seems caught off-guard, but after considering my request, she nods. “Sure.” Mom and son snap some photos with me and move on. I greet more fans, but my mind remains on Josh. A plan forms. I’ll talk to Nicole if she’s backstage tonight. Maybe I can arrange for the kid to get some lessons.
Two teenage girls step up, both looking at me like I’m the last cupcake in the bakery. “Cole, you’re the best singer ever.” The girl who says it is shaking. Poor thing.
Her friend points a camera at us. “Photo?”
“Sounds great.” I wrap my arm around her and feel her tense up. “I hope I don’t break the lens.” The girls titter and relax somewhat.
Once the photo is taken, they switch places so now my arm is around the other young lady. “Can I give you a kiss?”
Not an unusual request. I wink at her, bend down and offer her my cheek, on which she promptly places her lips. I’m pretty sure they planned this, since the girl at the camera takes an inordinate amount of time with the photo. The girls give me a thumbs up and move toward the door, chattering excitedly.
Finally, the last woman gets her autograph and photo, leaving me alone with the DJ and a few other staffers from the radio station. “Nice job,” the DJ says. “You really made your fans feel like they spent some quality time together with you.”
“Thanks. I meant what I said. Without them, I’d be back in New York City playing at small clubs and bars. I try never to forget that.”
The DJ nods. “Oh, by the way, the lady with the young son asked me to give this to you.” He hands me a folded piece of paper.
A name and address is scribbled on it. “Thanks.” I refold it and put it in my back pocket. “It was nice meeting you. Join me backstage?”
“I’d love to, but I have to do some fan interviews and commentary before your show.”
“Well, if you get a break, stop on by.”
“Will do.”
In the backstage area, the pre-party and preparations for tonight’s show are in full swing. Scanning the crowd, my eyes zero in on the black-haired beauty from last night. Her friend appears to have reunited with my keyboardist.
I stride toward Nicole. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.” I give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks, Cole. Me, too.”
“Listen, I just met this boy at the fan meet and greet. His name is Josh and he’s ten.”
Her eyebrows raise. She doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “I don’t know all the details, but he’s made first chair violin in his school’s orchestra, and his mom doesn’t have the money to pay for private lessons. Do you know anyone who might be able to help him out? I’d like to cover the bill.”
“Oh, wow. Yes, I do. Do you have his contact information?”
“Sure do.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the folded paper and hand it to her.
“I’ll personally make sure that he’s matched with a great teacher.”
“Thank you.” It’s nice to feel like I did something good today. Especially after the hotel debacle.
The stage manager bellows from the doorway. “Fifteen minutes ’til showtime!”
Nicole puts her hand on my bicep. With a smile, she says, “Break a leg out there. I really am looking forward to the show tonight, especially from back here.”
I return her smile. “I hope to see you perform someday, too.”
Twenty minutes and a hundred push-ups later, I bound onto the stage. “Good evening, Phoenix!”
The roar of the crowd lifts me up, just like it always does, their energy feeding me. I love it when the crowd is all riled up. I start playing the first song of the set.
After the third song, I take my usual break and grab the bottle of water by Jeffrey’s drums. Walking to the front of the stage, I ask: “How’s it going, Phoenix?” More screams. “Turn up the house lights, I want to see you.”
The lighting guys, who are used to this request, immediately comply. I make out a sea of people—probably close to five hundred—and quite a few signs. “I LOVE U COLE!” and “MARRY ME COLE!” seem to be the most popular tonight. Laughing, I say, “I love you, too!”
I wait for the noise to quiet somewhat before I continue. “I met this great kid named Josh today. He reminded me of me when I was ten years old, just starting to play piano. I’ll tell you what I told him: promise me that you will always follow your dreams. Got that, Phoenix?!” Cheers erupt from the audience. I look backstage and catch Nicole’s eye.
Jeffrey starts the hard, driving beat of the next song.