FanGirl Squeal (RockStars of Romance Book 1) (3 page)

I shook my head. Weddings…no, I don’t do weddings. It’s not
that I’m not happy for my college friends and high school buddies who are
working on their first husbands, but after being left at the alter on my
wedding day, I just can’t do it. Weddings are too hard for me.

“We’re not talking about weddings,” I told Troy.

“Honey, it’s been two years.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” I replied. “Feels like it happened
yesterday. So, are you and Brandon coming to the KISS FM party with me tonight?
This might be my chance to get some interview time with Cash.”

Troy’s dark brown eyes swam with laughter as he tried not to
choke on his coffee. His light brown cheeks flushed red all the way to the top
of his bald head. I pushed back my chair and stood up. First, the wedding talk
and now he’s laughing at me. I’m done with Troy for now. I know why he’s
laughing and I don’t find it amusing.

“Savannah, wait!” Troy called as I stomped down the hallway
back to my bedroom.

I ignored him. I’m just not in the mood to hear “if you had
emailed him when I told you to, you wouldn’t be trying to chase Cash Myers down
to interview him.”

Maybe he’s right. Or maybe it’s just not meant for me and
Cash to ever sit down and have a real conversation. I’ve been to every show he’s
played in Los Angeles, before and after he got signed. I’ve been in the same
clubs, the same theaters, even the same restaurants as Cash Myers at least
twenty times and I have yet to talk to him. I even know his publicist
personally. Still no meeting. I simply refuse to call what happened eight years
ago a meeting. I’m sure that Cash doesn’t remember it and when Cash Myers meets
Savannah Ford, it will be quite memorable.

I logged into Pandora, plugged my iPad into the speakers,
and listened to the Cash Myers station I’d created while I took a long shower,
not even bothering to tie up my hair or put on a shower cap. If Troy can’t fix these
curls tonight, I’ll throw this mess into a ponytail and call it a night.

After I finished, stood in front of my floor length mirror
and did a routine exam of my body. My breasts are still perky enough that I can
get away with not wearing a bra sometimes. My legs are definitely benefitting
from my evening run around the neighborhood, and my butt was sitting proper
because of the grueling 30 Day Squat Challenge my best friend, Amy, had talked
me into doing with her.

The last thing I am is conceited, but I think I look pretty
good. I may sit behind my computer all day, but it doesn’t show. Thank God,
because my desk drawer is full Skittles, Starburst, and more chocolate than I
think is allowed in the state of California.

Before throwing on my uniform of yoga pants and an Old Navy
tank top, I checked my newest tattoo. The butterflies, stars, and stardust
design started right under my armpit and went all the way down to my hip, decorating
a verse from my favorite poem.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

I sat for six painful hours getting that done, but it was
worth it. The tattoo is absolutely beautiful. My parents are going to hate it,
just like they hate all the others. I don’t understand how they could hate the
Savannah
and Ashley Forever
rose tattoo on my shoulder. It was done during a brief
moment when we were actually getting along. Sure, we were only sixteen, but it
commemorates the last time Ashley and I actually had fun together. They should
love it.

My assistant, Nicole, was already in my office working at her
desk when I went downstairs. I really like Nicole. She is everything that I
wasn’t when I went to UCLA. She’s bubbly, easily excited, and eager. She’s also
a fabulous graphic designer and the most organized and detail oriented person I’ve
ever met. Without Nicole, there’d be no Savannah Ford. Or at least there wouldn’t
be an on time, deadline meeting Savannah Ford.

“Hey girl!”

Nicole looked up in surprise. Her face said she wasn’t used
to seeing me in the office, fully dressed and ready to work, this early.

“I know,” I sighed. “But I leave for Vegas in two days. The
Hollywood Bowl concert is tomorrow, and the KISS FM party is tonight. I have a
lot of work to get done.”

“Yes, you do,” Nicole agreed. “I have all your promo stuff
scheduled to Facebook and Twitter. I updated your tumblr queue and emailed E!
that you’re going to do the Billboard Red Carpet for them. I also checked with
The Capri to make sure everything is set for the tailgate event and confirmed
your room, concert tickets and Meet & Greet passes.”

After hearing Nicole run down all the things she’d done
while I was in the shower, I felt a sudden urge to get right to work. Along
with my blog and social media consulting work, I also do freelance writing for
a number of magazines and websites.

Despite the fact that I don’t manufacture anything, my office
is huge. I don’t know what the people who owned my townhouse used it for, but I
turned the basement into an open office as soon as I moved in. It’s where I
read and enjoy my music, as well as write. Since Troy forbids me to display my
concert merch upstairs in what he considers the common area, I have my tour
posters, framed autographed artwork, CDs, and t-shirts decorating my office.

All that’s missing is the two items that I want to mount on
my wall. A replica of Jimi Hendrix’s Monterrey Strat and Cash’s signature red
and white strat he calls Bonnie. When I get an extra seven or eight grand, I’ll
have them both. Until then, that wall remains empty.

I may not be a lawyer like Ashley or a tenured NYU professor
like my parents, but my family cannot deny that I’m successful in my career.
They had their doubts in the beginning, especially my cynical nemesis, so I
went back to school and got my Master’s, which seemed to satisfy them. Too bad
Jacoby turned out to be such a dick. I’d be married and working on the first of
my 2.5 kids by now.

Oh well. Life doesn’t give you everything you want all at once.
Unless you’re Ashley Ford and your sole purpose for existing is to make your twin
sister hate you.

The sun dipped low behind the clouds, causing red, orange,
and pink streaks across the sky. A gentle summer evening breeze whispered
through the palm trees. There wasn’t much about Los Angeles that he was going
to miss when he moved back to the East coast except the beach.

Although there were a millions thoughts running through his
head,
the best thing about Los Angeles will always be the sunsets
, was
the only thought that Cash Myers let himself hear.

Shirtless and still in his gym shorts from his run on the
beach hours ago, Cash sat on the balcony of his apartment trying to ignore his
MOMager and publicist discussing tonight’s party.

Cash picked up his phone and unlocked the screen. She still
hadn’t replied to his text. He ran his hands through his wavy dark hair with a
heavy sigh. Just two days ago, Victoria had been joking about him needing a
haircut while basking in a lovely after-sex glow. Now she wasn’t even answering
his calls.

Cash wasn’t quite sure what he’d done wrong. When gossip
sites start spreading rumors that his fiancée was sneaking off the set of her show
and into her co-star’s trailer, he was supposed to ask her about it.

All he did was ask a simple question. “Is there anything
going on with you and Paul Fisher?”

It was a simple yes or no question. He hadn’t even been angry
when he asked.

Cash hadn’t expected Victoria’s reaction to his question. He’d
expected her to say no and remind him of their dinner reservation. Instead, he
got tears, yelling, accusations, and reminders of his own infidelity.
Controlling his temper had never been one of Cash’s strong points, but he got a
handle on it before Victoria said something that pushed him over the edge. He
could guess what the headlines would say.

Rockstar destroys hotel room amidst volatile fight with
fiancée
.

Is this the end of Cash and Victoria?

He didn’t want to deal with the speculation and it wasn’t
fair to ask his publicist to handle his personal business. But the fact that
Victoria used her alleged infidelity to bring up his past indiscretions, things
that he’d done before meeting her, pissed him off.

He’d kicked her out of his hotel suite and flew home without
her. He never expected her not to call. She was, in no way, forgiven yet, but
he thought she’s try to salvage their relationship.

The breeze coming off the ocean tickled the newest tattoo on
his muscular chest. The flaming Stratocaster was symbolic of how he felt when
he was onstage playing his music. As intense as his music was, he was always completely
relaxed with a guitar in hand or sitting at a piano. God, he wished he was
onstage right at that moment. Anything was better than agonizing over what or
who his fiancée was doing.

His mother was convinced that Victoria was a lying cheating
whore…her words, not his. He invested three years of his life with Victoria. He
was nearing thirty. It was time for him to start living a normal life with a
wife and kids. Plenty of touring musicians had families. Keith Urban, Chris
Martin, Aiden Tyler, Jon Bon Jovi…if they could do it, so could he.

He just needed to know the truth. If Victoria had feelings
for someone else, he wouldn’t hold onto her. Ultimately, she was a nice girl.
She deserved happiness.

Maybe his mom was right. A nice, normal, non-celebrity girl
was what he needed. Maybe a schoolteacher or a nurse. Unfortunately, Jennifer
Myers was acutely unaware that those types of women weren’t readily available
to celebrities. They lacked the determination to maneuver their way through
throngs of screaming fans, groupies, and security guards to get to him.

Never had a nurse or schoolteacher slipped him her number in
a restaurant or threw her bra on stage with her number and email address
written on it. Real schoolteachers and nurses, not the ones who just wore the costume,
didn’t send him nude pictures on Twitter and Instagram. What he had access to
in abundance were actresses, pop stars, models, and the types of women that his
mother forbade him to date.

Where the hell was he going to find a nice normal girl? The
bank? The supermarket? He hadn’t stepped foot in those types of places in
years. The last time he’d went to Target to pick up a couple pairs of boxers,
chaos ensued and at least four continents found out that he wore Hanes boxer
briefs, size XL.

The glass balcony door slid open a bit and his sixteen-year-old
sister slipped onto the balcony. Brittany, with her frizzy red curls and green
eyes, looked nothing like him, but she was his everything.

Nine years ago, when he stepped out of his cab in front of
one of the only places in L.A. he could afford to live, armed with a guitar and
a dream, Brittany was the first person he met. She was a feisty seven-year-old
homeless kid who walked up and down the sidewalk smiling at strangers and
asking for their loose change. She was often without her mother for hours once
the woman gave Brittany clear instructions to sit in front of the corner store
and not to move.

Brittany liked Cash’s name and his guitar. He scored a job
at a sandwich shop close to the apartment and would bring her a sandwich or two
every day. They’d sit outside on his stoop; she’d eat while he worked on new
songs. She never asked him for money, but he tried to give her some anyway. She
made him keep it in a shoebox in his apartment so her mother wouldn’t take it
from her.

They saw each other every day then Brittany disappeared for
a full week. Cash was worried sick about the little girl. Two weeks then three
weeks passed and still no Brittany.

On her eighth birthday, six weeks after she had disappeared,
she showed up at his door. Her mother had OD’d on bad meth and Brittany had
been taken in by the Department of Family Services. They put her in an
emergency foster home. Her foster dad had touched her “girl place” so she’d
kicked him in the balls and ran out of the house. Somehow, she remembered how
to get to Cash’s place…the only place in the world where she truly felt safe.

Brittany stayed with Cash for a month before anyone from
social services came looking for her. The caseworker was too overworked to put
up much of a fuss. She filed the paperwork and Cash became Brittany’s foster
parent. A year later, he adopted her. Brittany never felt like anything more
than his little sister so it felt strange when people referred to him as her
adoptive parent. He preferred guardian. She preferred guardian angel.

 “Hey Cash.” Brittany leaned over and gave Cash a one-armed
hug. “You okay?”

Slowly, Cash shook his head. “Haven’t heard from Vic since
last night.”

“Geez,” Brittany sighed. “That sucks. She really hooked up with
that actor, huh?”

“She said it only happened once.”

“She’s an idiot. You should ask for the ring back and tell
her to get her stuff out of our apartment. I’ll tell her if you don’t want to.”

Cash’s infamous half-smirk, half smile graced his face as he
playfully mussed Brittany’s wild curls. She was just as protective of him as he
was of her. That felt good. Having someone else looking out for him was
something that he desperately needed. Sometimes his mom just didn’t cut it.

He’d never say anything bad about his mother. She was a hard
working single mom who tried her best. She’d taken on the role of his manager
just as soon as the ink was dry on his contract. She moved to Los Angeles,
enrolled in an online college program for business management, and totally
immersed herself in his business affairs. She was already fully immersed in his
personal affairs.

Sometimes, it was too much because the lines often blurred
between manager and parent. She was a good manager, an excellent negotiator,
and didn’t have any qualms about busting his balls if she had to. He didn’t
mind her as a manager. But he was a grown man, the legal guardian of a child.
He didn’t want his Boston-bred mother knowing who he slept with or when he
stumbled into his apartment after drinking with his friends. He certainly didn’t
want her screening his girlfriends for the sake of his career.