Noah

There's no reason to be jet-lagged. As a card-carrying rock star, I sleep all day and party all night, same as it ever was. A night flight to Argentina doesn't change anything about my sleep patterns.

Still, there's something fucked in my head. I'm all jangled up inside, and champagne doesn't fix it. Whiskey doesn't fix it either. Drugs might could fix it, but I doubt it. Anyway, I'm done with my drugs phase. Too many rockers dying of that shit lately. At some point, it isn't cute anymore. If it ever was cute.

The first performance in Buenos Aires is completely fucked. My voice is shit, and Kendall is scrambling to keep a rhythm that makes sense with my rhythms. I'm just... off. Fortunately, the fans come to party, and they don't seem to notice, but my people sure as fuck notice and Kendall has fire coming out of both ears.

“That's your worst performance since we were playing that pub in Amsterdam where they kept throwing glasses at us.”

Full glasses of some skanky-smelling beer I still have nightmares about. I always thought the Dutch were a peaceful people, but this pub was the kind of place where sailors meet bikers and, well, a White Stripes inspired two-piece evidently wasn't what put them in the mood.

When that's your first professional gig, trust me, there's nowhere to go but up.

Lydia Goldmann calls, and she's all about the movie deal. Sometimes, my agent makes a little chitchat before she gets down to it, but not today. “We're so close, babe,” she says.

“Why would they pay me twenty-five million?” That's what an established star makes, not a newbie actor. Shitfire, I'll take the money if they're throwing it away, but you got to figure there's some kind of major strings attached.

“Because you're a superstar and because, more important, I'm a superstar.”

I sense there's more to it than that, but I've learned I can't pressure Lydia, girl super-agent. “If you pull off this deal, you'll make the front page of Variety.”

“Oh, we're the front page of Variety already.” She texts me the link, and it's all about the movie.

All about me.

They think it's a done deal.

So fucking close.

I can't let anything fuck this up.

Before I put the phone away, I go to text Maddy, and that's when I realize I don't have her contact information anywhere in my phone. Not so unusual. Nailgun usually takes care of that stuff. But now that she's checked out as a non-drunk, non-druggy, non-crazy that's sweet and sexy as hell and I want to see her again, he needs to hand over that damn contact information.

I text him, and he texts back something vague, and I call.

“Damn it, Nailgun. I know you've got the fucking contact number, and I'm the one who signs your paycheck. So you know?”

“Sir, I feel like I'm caught in the middle of something here.”

It's never a good thing when he calls me “sir.”

“There's no middle. I'm the boss. Give me the number.”

“Drewitt is my boss, sir.” Luther Drewitt is my head of security so, to be technical about it, Nailgun is correct. But then he says something that isn't so correct. “And Lydia Goldmann is your boss, sir.”

“The fuck she's my boss. I'm her client. She's my agent. She works for me.”

“Sir, she's working on a multimillion dollar deal with a movie studio that she could very easily bring to a bigger star. You work for her.”

Holy fucking hell. He's right.

“What's their problem with me calling a hookup? She's clean, she's easy to get along with, and I like her.”

Kendall, who's there in the room with me, is the one who puts his hand on my arm. “Noah, listen.”

“Don't ‘Noah, listen,’ me. If I'm not happy, ain't nobody happy. I'm the fucking talent here, and she makes me happy.”

Nailgun has taken the opportunity to end the call, so I'm left staring at Kendall and that ham-sized hand that's still squeezing my arm.

Now Kendall's other hand is holding up his phone to my face. “Maybe nobody's told you yet that you're in a high profile relationship with Barbie Strange.”

His phone's open to Twitter, and I can see a trending hashtag that hits me like a kick in the stomach. #StrangeNoah. There's only one picture tweeted and retweeted endlessly, but there are a million crazy stories. She's a photogenic girl, Barbie. Blonde and leggy, with an excess of eyebrows and a strong jaw. Not pretty but striking. Beautiful if you like the bitter and brooding type.

Her nails are short, scarlet, and chipped— deliberately chipped. A cold statement of, “I don't have any fucks left to give. You can do my nails when you're paying me to be in a fucking movie.”

“I've fucking met her,” I say. “That's hardly a fucking relationship.”

But the picture tells a different story. See, before Vegas was Los Angeles, and in Los Angeles, Barbie Strange somehow turned up backstage with a VIP wristband. My people had arranged it. A publicity stunt. No rocker with any sense willingly goes out with a big deal celebrity because you surrender all your privacy. The yellow press can't run photographs of private citizens going about their business without a signed release, but they can run photographs of public figures all fucking day long. She was probably about as thrilled to be there as I was thrilled to see her.

It was all a set-up, but our people wanted us photographed together, and I didn't see the harm in it, and she didn't bite— although she looked as if she wanted to— so why not?

I don't remember any flash going off backstage when we were introduced, but the support band was playing and they had some pyrotechnics going that involved a lot of flashing lights, and, sure, we were getting some of that backstage. I probably wouldn't have noticed anybody sneaking a picture. People do that shit all the time. I can't spend my energy stressing about it.

But now...

Damn you, Lydia, I think. You posed me like a fucking doll, didn't you?

Because now I remember Lydia taking my arm and turning me a little and there was Barbie there to be introduced. Barbie leaned in for the briefest of phony LA air kisses, but if you snap the photo from just the right angle, it looks like we're closer than we are.

It looks like the kiss is real. Like it's making actual contact.

And somebody had to be there at the right place at the exact right moment. Somebody arranged it. My fucking agent, and my fucking publicist. I knew twenty-five million dollars was too much for somebody who never had a major role in a motion picture before. There's no such thing as luck, and everything happens for a reason.

The reason for this is Barbie Strange and I got set up to be in a good old-fashioned Hollywood fake relationship.

When she leaned in like that, she whispered in my ear. A tickle. “I'm only doing this for the money,” she said. “You don't get to fuck me.”

“Nice to meet you too.” My voice probably sounded fairly salty, and all I remember thinking is, “Wowser. Now I know why they call her ‘Strange.’”

Now I know a fuckton more than that. Now I understand what she was trying to tell me. Now I understand all kinds of fucking things.

“When were you guys going to tell me I've been slamming Barbie Strange?” I ask.

Kendall stands there defiant, arms crossed over powerful chest. “Man, it isn't my job to tell you how to run your career. That's Lydia's job.”

“This is fucked. Just when I find somebody.”

“Did you find somebody? Or did you find an excuse to fuck things up because you can't handle prosperity?” Kendall's dark eyes flash with intensity. “A chance like this comes once in a lifetime. They can give the fake relationship and the movie deal to somebody else. They can use another band's music while they're at it.”

Fuck me. I want to hit something, but I know he's right. Kendall has worked too hard, and he's been with me all the way. Everybody on my team has worked too hard.

“It's your responsibility to play along with the publicity. It's millions of dollars for all of us to split up. You wouldn't be throwing away just your share but everybody's share.”

“Yeah. Yeah. OK.” I put up my hands, palms out. A gesture of surrender. “I get it. I understand.”

I can't throw away everybody's share. But, fuck me, there has to be another way. Somebody on my team has Madison's information. I'm going to get that information, and I'm going to get back to her. It'll have to be above top secret shit for a while, but I'm not giving her up.

Not for all the money in the world, I'm not giving her up.

I'm going to find a way.