Black Girls and Bad Boys: Changing his Tune

Copyright 2013 Neneh Gordon

French Letters Press

License Notes

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your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is written in UK English and is
set in a fictional part of England.

This book is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely
coincidental.  The characters are productions of the author’s imagination
and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material – not intended
for those under the age of 18.

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A
s Noah surfaced from the depths of a dreamless sleep, he slowly
came to realise that the banging wasn’t just going on between his temples – it
was happening on the door to his room as well.

He groaned and tried to weigh the pain getting up would entail
against the benefit of stopping the noise hammering its way into his brain. It
was too much effort to get out of bed. He pulled the covers up over his head
and begged the world to go away.

The door opened and the sound of the curtains swishing open made him
glad he’d covered his eyes. “Go away.” His plans for the day consisted of lying
very still until his headache got tired of tormenting him and then possibly
thinking about having something to eat.

“Noah, you’ve got company.”

“I don’t care, John.” When would that guy learn that he couldn’t
function before midday?

The quilt got yanked away. Noah pulled it back up, but John was more
determined. “You remember Miss Jones.”

He squinted into the daylight. A shapely black woman in a white
shirt and black trousers looked down at him with a world-weary expression. She
did look familiar. Her long, dark hair was tied up in a ponytail. As far as he
could tell, the only make-up she wore was a couple of flicks of eyeliner. Not
that she needed any more than that – she had a pair of cheekbones you could use
to slice prosciutto and dark full lips with a perfect cupid’s bow.

“Mr Trent?” She held out her hand.

He sat up automatically and his head throbbed so hard he couldn’t
take the hand she offered. “Excuse me.” He fell out of bed and half-ran,
half-crawled to the en-suite. While he was emptying his stomach, he realised
she was from The Cloister. She was the rehab assistant he wished had been
assigned to him. For all the wrong reasons.

Crawling back into the bedroom, he had vivid fantasies of the thick
pile carpet parting so the floorboards could give way and swallow him up. At
least he’d worn his underwear to bed the night before. “What’s she doing here?”

“She’s your new assistant.”

“I’ve never needed an assistant before.” He sat on the floor,
propped up against the foot of the bed. The room taunted him by refusing to
stop spinning. His manager wasn’t fooling anyone with that euphemism. She was
his new babysitter. “No offence.” The delay was down to his hangover, but he
finally cottoned on to the fact he was being rather rude. He couldn’t imagine what
she must think of him – back on the booze, throwing up, a tangle of long,
greasy hair covering half his face. Whatever. She’d have seen worse in her line
of work.

“John thought you could use some support while you get ready for
your next tour.”

“Who says I’m going on tour?” He glared at John through a gap in his
dark hair. Touring was the last thing he wanted to do. The novelty of
travelling the country on a cramped bus and not knowing any local dealers had
long since worn off.

He looked up at the woman his manager had brought into his inner
sanctum. She impressed him by not looking completely disgusted. Having an
assistant might not be so bad. But she was too pretty. She’d scare away the
groupies.

“Your bank manager says so. If you want to keep a roof over your
head, that is.” John threw up his hands.

Watching the movement made Noah clutch his throbbing head.

“Look, I’m this close to finding another job. You can’t afford me
any more.”

“So you’re taking on more staff?”

“I’ll pay for her. Get your arse on tour and you can pay me back.”

Things must have been bad if John was putting his hand in his
pocket. “But I’ve got no new material. I can’t do a nostalgia tour.” It would
be so embarrassing. Like taking out a full-page spread announcing he was
creatively bankrupt.

John got down on his knees. Another wave of nausea washed over Noah,
but he held it down. The stern look on John’s face made him feel even sicker.

“Noah, get over yourself. You need to bring in some money, or you’re
finished.”

He met John’s stare. He was serious. How had things got this bad?
Stupid question. He was in this mess for the same reason he’d ended up in The
Cloister. Too much booze, too much blow, too many bad decisions.

“Okay. But I’m writing a new album first.”

“If you can get it recorded in a month, that’s fine, but you’re
going on tour.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” Maybe John wasn’t worried, but Noah’s
mouth was making the kind of promises the rest of him would have trouble
keeping. He turned his attention to his new assistant. “Looks like you’re stuck
with me, love.”

She gave him a bewildered smile. “If I’m staying, we’re going to
need some ground rules.”

“I don’t do rules, love.” There was no point agreeing to all this if
he couldn’t have a bit of fun.

She looked at John and then back at Noah. “I’m not your ‘love’. Rule
number one, no drugs. Rule number two, no alcohol—”

“Don’t tell me, rule number three is no sex?” He waited for the
discomfort to show on her face, but she lifted one corner of her mouth in a
smirk.

“That’s probably a good idea, but I don’t think you’ll have to worry
about it looking like that.”

He looked down at his pale body. He’d always been snake-hipped – more
of a swimmer’s build than anything else – but now he was bordering on painfully
thin. “I doubt you’d look too great in your undies after a night like mine,” he
muttered, but he knew he was talking rubbish. She had a seriously impressive
set of curves. He’d be lucky to get a glimpse of her in her lingerie – whatever
the circumstances.

“Think you can follow those rules, Mr Trent?”

“Call me Noah.”

“Then you should call me Angelique.”

“Angie’s snappier.”

She gave a micro-scowl and he realised he’d hit a nerve. Good. It
might have been childish, but he’d get a kick out of calling her by a name she
didn’t like. Especially if she didn’t want to admit she didn’t like it.

John circled the room, retrieving several nearly-empty bottles of
various spirits. Even the one hidden under the bed.

“Come on man, you don’t have to take those.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Angie ignored the interruption.

“Whatever. Just get me through the tour, okay?” The morning was
spinning way out of control. All he wanted was for them to go away.

“Okay. We’ll have you fighting fit in no time.”

He narrowed his eyes. Why did health professionals have to use the
royal ‘we’ all the time?

“I’ll let the label know the good news.” John almost bounded out of
the room.

When Angie left too, he lay down on the floor and went back to
feeling sorry for himself.

***

N
ow the introductions were done with, Angelique was free to unpack
her things. John gave her a hand carrying her bags up to Noah’s suite – they’d
felt it best not to mention she was moving into the room that adjoined his. It
was the easiest way for her to keep an eye on him. After his little outburst,
she was quite looking forward to seeing his face when he found out.

Addicts were like big kids. She should know – she’d only been sober
herself for a couple of years. But putting away the bottle hadn’t been enough
to stop her losing custody of her son.

She pushed down the guilt and the hurt. Concentrate on the work.
Looking after the famous Noah Trent would earn her enough money to take her
ex-husband back to court. She was good at her job – so good The Cloister had
agreed to keep her position open while she did this. Her life was back on
track. With a more expensive lawyer, she stood a shot at joint custody of Lewis.

In the meantime, she was moving into the biggest house she’d ever
seen outside of a magazine. John had explained the whole situation to her – Noah
had made a down-payment on the place with the money from his third album, but
he was still paying the mortgage and his descent into addiction had put a real
dent in his ability to keep up the repayments.

Which was where she came in.

It didn’t take long for her to empty her clothes into the chest of
drawers and set out her row of toiletries. She wasn’t sure if the ornate gilded
furniture was antique or reproduction. If the stories of excess and conspicuous
consumption were true, she’d go for the former.

Running her fingertips over the highly polished wood, she looked at
herself in the mirror. Could she do this? The guy had a real attitude on him.
She kissed her teeth. That went with the territory. Damn rock stars were nearly
always the worst residents at the clinic. Once you got used to thousands of
screaming fans it was difficult not to think you were above everything else.

She hadn’t had much to do with him while he was at The Cloister, but
she’d hoped he would stay clean once he left. Her main client at the time had
been pretty friendly with him and he hadn’t seemed like a bad person. In fact,
he’d come to her aid when one of the residents had treated her to a torrent of
verbal abuse in the lounge.

Just as she sat down on the chintzy chaise longue and pulled out a
paperback, Noah emerged from the room next door looking a lot more human than
he had earlier.

“Mr Trent?”

He stared at her, stared at her bags. “You’re not staying here. You
can take a room down the hall.”

“Mr Trent, I need to be close at hand.”

“So you can spy on me, you mean?” He looked so different now he’d
cleaned himself up. More like the sex symbol on the front of all those
magazines. He even looked a bit bulkier in his trademark skinny jeans and a
plain black t-shirt. His dark brown eyes bored into her and she had to remind
herself she was there in a professional capacity.

“How have you been finding it since you’ve come home?”

He looked at her for so long her skin started to prickle under the
scrutiny. “I’m going out.” He flounced over to the doorway, his dark hair
bouncing.

“I’ll come too.” She couldn’t risk him leaving to score on her
watch. She got to her feet.

He stopped with his hand half-way to the door handle, turned and
gave her an icy look. “I think I can manage by myself.”

“You know I can’t let you do that.”

“So I don’t get to go anywhere on my own now?”

“I’m only looking out for you, Mr Trent. It’s what I’m paid for.”

They stood in silence, locked in a stalemate. Eventually he sighed
and gestured towards the exit. “Tag along then. But I don’t think you’re going
to have much fun.”

Fun wasn’t part of the deal. She went out into the corridor and
waited for him to take the lead.