Noah

I Google around and even try to get some online detective place to run Madison down, but I haven't got enough to work with. A common first name for a girl of that generation. An address somewhere in Vegas or maybe the surrounding suburbs. Fuck. For all I know, she flew in from somewhere. It's a tourist town, after all.

I lurk on some Tumblr fan groups, and I learn that many fans have an active fantasy life. There's a whole subset of fanfic about the homoerotic relationship between me and Kendall. After reading an explicit description of Kendall putting me on my back so he can probe my butt with... Never mind. The point is I shut down that line of research. Anyway, it doesn't seem to matter. Some of the fans post selfies, but I'm not seeing anybody who looks like Madison.

Anyway, most fans probably aren't posting their fevered fantasies to the internet.

Not that what Maddy and I had was a fantasy.

It was so fucking real. As real as it fucking gets.

Barbie Strange flies in before the São Paulo gig, and we appear at a few interviews together, Barbie mainly looking sullen and having no comment to make about our alleged relationship. “Isn't this about the fucking music?” she says. “It ain't about me.” Her eyebrows do that thing they do.

“The fans are fascinated by the high profile relationship between an A-list star like you and a brilliant rocker like Noah Hammond,” says some ass-kisser who keeps shoving the microphone in her face.

“On this tour, he's the A-list star, and I'm the fucking brilliant one,” she says.  “Ask him a few of these fucking questions.” When the cameras turn off, she's off too. That's fine with me. I don't like the setup any better than she does.

Also in São Paulo, after Barbie's vanished and the show's over, Nailgun has somebody he wants me to meet. “Eighteen, curvy, just your type.”

“Oh fuck me running.” I fold my arms over my chest and look him dead in the eye, and never mind that he's twice my fucking size. “Like that's what it is. A type.”

“This obsession with a one-night stand isn't healthy, Noah. We both know that.”

“Fuck me.” I haven't been drinking— well, not much— but my accent gets a little more London this late at night, especially when I'm tired and grumpy.

Even though I already said no, the girl somehow turns up in my hotel room. It's uncanny how Nailgun picked her out of the crowd of candidates. There's even the blue streak in her hair.

As if that's what this whole thing is all about. A certain look I'm programmed to respond to.

Sure, fuck yes, I like the look, but it isn't just about the look. It's about a feeling, and tonight I'm not feeling it.

The girl walks around the hotel room to check out the bar with its selection of fine bottles and the silver cart with its champagne bucket of Krug on ice. A four-person hot tub is the centerpiece of the great room, and she considers the choice of bath salts. Behind her, floor-to-ceiling windows provide a view of a city without billboards.

I never heard of a city without billboards before. The view is so foreign to me that I feel as if I've stepped into a dream. The city isn't real, the room isn't real, the girl isn't real. Everything's... off.

Even my body's off. It doesn't belong to me. I feel like I'm a ghost inside this body. I'm a stranger to myself, and I don't know what to do about it.

One thing I do know: I should fuck the hell out of this girl. It's what she wants, and it's

what my team expects, and it's probably what my body needs so I can fucking sleep.

Trouble is I'm not fucking feeling it.

After careful consideration, she pours herself a flute of champagne and drops a chocolate drop in it. “Fix you a drink?” Her voice is tense, and I realize the silence has gone on too long.

“I can't do this,” I say.

“What's wrong?” Since I haven't told her what to fix, she goes over to the bar and comes up with a Scotch and cola. She uses silver tongs to add two tinkly ice cubes. A kid's drink, the syrupy cola spoiling the complex flavor of the whiskey, but she isn't old enough to know that.

“How old are you?”

“I'm eighteen. You know. Your people checked me out.”

“Yeah. I know. I know that.”

“You can trust me, man. Really, Noah, you can. You're my hero. I have a Tumblr blog all about The Night Bell.”

“I know. Sure, I do trust you.” I put my face in my hands.

“Hey, hey. It's OK.” She puts down her champagne flute and sits next to me, her hand hovering a moment before she tentatively touches me on the arm. “I understand. You're starting to get feelings, aren't you? I can see it. All the fans can see it. You put more meaning into the songs now.”

I nod, although I shouldn't. Nobody needs to know this.

“You and Barbie Strange. Everybody's talking about it. I know you guys want to keep it on the downlow and keep away the publicity machine, but it's gonna come out that you're together. Everybody can see how you're different since you met her. There's something richer about you. Something deeper.”

Me and Barbie Strange. All I can do is laugh low in the back of my throat. My team's strategy is working.

“It's magic between the two of you. I can see it. No, you don't have to say anything. I can see the look in your eye. I can see how you're different. It's sooo, sooo sweet. All the fans can see it. You two are the talk of Tumblr.”

What the fuck can I possibly say?

“We need to keep it professional until the contract is actually signed,” I say. “You understand.”

She looks thrilled. More thrilled than if I'd fucked her, because I'm giving her a peek at the inside Hollywood dealmaking machine that even TMZ and The Hollywood Reporter haven't seen yet.

“You have to keep up the rockstar pose and make it look like you're still playing around. Yeah, I get it. Don't worry. I can keep a secret.”

She's loving it that she's the first to know about me and Barbie Strange.

I already know she's going to be leaking this story on her blog tomorrow. Some people will believe it, and some people will call bullshit, and all her followers will be sharing it. Fine. There's no such thing as bad publicity. This is all a calculated part of the plan. I can see that now. I can see everything. All part of the process of feeding the beast.

“What's she like, Barbie Strange? She seems kinda moody and broody.”

I laugh. “Well, I am too, so we're a good match there.”

She laughs. “That's so cool. You're such a cute couple.”

My team thinks I'm nailing this girl to the mattress, and instead we're holding hands and swapping lies about celebrities. And me, I'm one of the lies. One of the celebrities.

“Can I take a selfie with you? In front of the window?”

“Sure,” I say. “It'll only add to the legend.”

She loves being a conspirator. Everybody loves it.

Except me.