Page 10 of Hot Shot Rock Star
So what if his words would have been true for most of my life. They stopped being true the second I met Ben. I’m not a rental. I want him forever.
Then why haven’t you agreed to marry him?
Because it’s him I’m worried about—not me. I’m afraid he’s only renting me.
“You’re so wrong.” I shake my head and laugh one of those scary, sad laughs, but it’s a convincing one because he scowls at me. I don’t bother explaining because I don’t owe him an explanation. He ends up shrugging.
“No matter. It’s the story we’re going with. Deal with it.” Discreetly, I give him the finger and he laughs. There’s media around and he’s paying more attention to them now than me. There are a couple of TV cameras and sportscasters with mics talking to the coach and the guy who scored the winning goal.
“Although, maybe we could get some cross press for you with the hockey-player angle. How many of these crazy hockey people do you think might be in your target audience?”
“None. Don’t even think of using Ben—”
“No need to worry there. Even if we could bump up your visibility it wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, we already have the whole campaign worked out. Within a month you’ll be the new it girl on the music scene.”
The little bubble of something floats up from deep inside and pops in my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s a cool thing or if I’m having heartburn. The ruffle in my gut makes me think it’s something good, like the anticipation of something so big my body can’t believe it’s real and gets shook up. Like jumping into an alternate universe, a close cousin of jumping off a cliff, all nerves and butterflies and hiccupping, a mess of haywire emotions.
“You need to leave now. The last thing we need is a scene—and not the good kind—when Ben comes out of the dressing room.” He gives me a long look like he’s not sure if he should argue with me and I heave a sigh of relief when he nods.
“I’ll leave, but not because I’m afraid of Ben. Because I have this other mess to deal with—a musician who shall remain nameless who didn’t get the kind of dressing room he bargained for down in New Jersey. So I have to take off and straighten that out.”
“Good. You do that.”
“I’ll see you bright and early.” He leans in to kiss me and I barely avoid it, holding him off and sidestepping. I don’t bother responding, and he laughs as I walk away from him to stand further down the hall, away from the media and the press room. Some of the guys come from the locker room all dressed and head for the press room. I’m not sure who they all are, though I should be because Ben talks about them, and I’ve seen their photos in the program. But I don’t remember who’s who and can only hope that when I meet the guys, as I inevitably will, that I’ll start remembering then.
Unless I have some kind of block, which makes no sense. Why would I have anything against Ben’s career as a hockey player? I’m the one who encouraged him to go for it in the first place. But when I see a crowd of girls shove their way into the hallway and shout for some guy who comes from the locker room all dressed for a night on the town, it slams me in the gut.
The reason is that I hate the idea that he’ll be a chick magnet the instant he gets in the spotlight. Fuck. How could I forget about all the women surrounding him back at SPU? I hated it then and I know it’ll drive me over the edge now because I’m having a major bout of insecurity.
Ben and I are on some kind of line, walking as straight as we can, but there are so many forces trying to push us over. The girls disappear with the guy dressed to kill, but he turns, and I see Ben emerge from the locker room and the hot shot says to him, “We’ll see you at Mustang Harry’s,” loud enough for everyone to hear. The girls give a whoop of encouragement and Ben smiles, giving a thumbs up before he turns to look for me.
The second his eyes find mine, the sickening turmoil of jealousy disappears in the glaring joy of his smile. This smack hits me in the heart with the force of a volley of Cupid’s arrows and I know what the term thunderstruck means now. He heads straight for me, and I don’t realize I’m wearing a giddy grin with my arms open until he reaches me and my arms wrap around him and his mouth lands on mine, wiping the smile away.
My mouth has better things to do than smile with this man’s lips smashed against mine, his warmth and his hard muscles bolstering me like I am about to fall. And yet I feel like I am falling, in a heart-in-my-throat free-for-all into an endless, starry universe where it’s just me and him without the noisy, busy corridor filled with hockey people looking on.
The bright, unmistakable light of a camera forces us apart and a reporter shoves a microphone at Ben.
“Quite an assist today—not as spectacular as that kiss.” The man grins and Ben hangs onto me, the known flight risk. I stay put and try to get my mind back in place because a hunk of it is still floating in space and my heart still pounds like I’m trying to outrace the speed of light.
“Nothing is as spectacular as kissing Jazzy,” Ben says. “This is my fiancée, Jazzy Romano.” The reporter tells the cameraman to cut and lowers his mic. “Just funning with you, Ben. I wouldn’t put your personal life on display.” He turns to me and shakes my hand, which is outstretched because Ben nudged my arm. That’s all I need to turn on the performer version of myself, the only other version besides Ben’s lover that I have down to perfection.
“Nice to meet you, Jazzy. You new to New York?”
“Nice to meet you too. I may not have lived here before, but I have the soul of a New Yorker.” I flash a smile and a wink. Ben laughs, but barely holds back an eyeroll.
“She’s a musician,” he says. “Singer-songwriter.”
“Is that right? Anything I might have heard?”
“No,” I say at the same exact time the proud-fiancé version of Ben says “Yes.” We all laugh.
“We’ll tell you all about it another time. We have to get going to meet the guys,” Ben says.
“I heard. At Mustang Harry’s.” The reporter looks at me and shakes his head. “Good luck, Jazzy.” I nod and wonder what the hell that’s about, but Ben sweeps me away and we head for the garage in a semi-rush like he knows we’ll be sidetracked if we don’t move fast. He’s probably right. He’s a celebrity in these halls, if not on the street.
That bubble rises and pops again in my throat and I wonder what’s in store for me if I ever start selling my music, if I actually do make it as a singer-songwriter.
