Lucky Girl (New Adult Rock Star Romance) (7 page)

I sat straight up in bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The first light of morning crept across the plush hotel carpet, not quite reaching the bed. Dale’s side was empty.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Dale’s voice, growing louder.

“What is it?” I croaked. My throat was dry and I was incredibly thirsty. Either I was a little hungover from the lure of last night’s open bar or I was dehydrated of all bodily fluids after our wild night of homecoming sex. Probably both.

“Look at this.” He burst into the bedroom wearing just his boxers, tossing something on the bed. I was far too interested in him standing there shirtless—how could I possibly be thinking about sex after the night before was beyond me, but I was—to really pay attention. “That goddamned wedding photographer sold pictures to the paper!”

“What paper?” I grabbed it, scanning the top. It wasn’t the Times—they wouldn’t have bothered with it. It was the New York Daily News, a complimentary copy slipped under the door by hotel staff for light breakfast reading. We weren’t on the front page—Dale had it opened to the entertainment section, where they’d printed a fuzzy photograph—me pressed against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist like a monkey, our mouths slanted in an open mouthed kiss.

“Fuck.” I swore, skimming the article. There were more photographs—Dale sliding the garter up my leg, my dress pulled up sky high, another of the two of us dancing together, bodies pressed close. The article named me and speculated that I was the girl Dale had proposed to during the Battle of the Bands.

Dale’s manager and pubicist had done everything they could to quell that incident, telling all the tabloids and teen mags we’d broken it off. Reporters had never found out my name and the story had died off. Besides, whenever Dale jetted off to L.A. to do television spots or interviews, he always denied being involved. Whenever someone asked him about me, he said, “It’s over. I don’t like to talk about it,” giving the world the impression he was a now-a single broken hearted rock star on the rebound—which is just what his manager wanted everyone to think.

I hated it. It was like a knife twisted in my gut every time I heard him say it. But Dale hated it even more. I remembered the first time his
manager had broached the subject, me sitting between John and Dale, sipping wine at a restaurant so fancy they had bathroom attendants. Fancy shmancy, Dale didn’t let that stop him. It was the manager’s fault—he was like a dog with a bone, he just wouldn’t let it go. He insisted I be kept a secret, hidden away.

“You can still see her, I don’t care,” his
manager had said. “But we’re telling the media you broke up. I can’t sell a married young rock star to the buying public. It’s not the image you’re going to need to project.”

“I don’t care about my image,” Dale had scoffed.

“Then you’re done before you even got started.” The manager had thrown his napkin on his plate, pushing away from the table. “She goes or I go. And if I go, all your dreams of fame and fortune go with me. Bye-bye!”

“Fine.” Dale had squeezed my hand under the table. I remember the
manager’s knowing smile. He had clearly done this before. He was anticipated the outcome like a gambler counting cards in Vegas, calm and cool, arms crossed over his chest.

He definitely hadn’t expected Dale to get up and walk away from the table.

Of course, after all the posturing and two more meetings with the manager—he brought Dale’s publicist along to back him up—Dale had finally relented. But not before he asked me if I was okay with it, and I’d lied through my teeth. It was the night before the last meeting and we were in bed. Dale tossed and turned and groaned into his pillow until finally, I just told him, “It’s okay. Let them play their little game. It’s probably better the world doesn’t know about me anyway. We don’t want reporters hanging around outside.”

I’ll never forget what he said.

“Sara, I can’t do it. I can’t live that lie. I love you and I want everyone to know it. All I want to do is play guitar and love you. That’s it. If I can’t have both—then I choose you.”

I couldn’t be responsible for him not living his dream. I just couldn’t. So I lied.

“You can have both. Just do what they say for now. Then when your first album goes platinum and you’re selling out on tour, you’ll have the leverage to say no.”

He was thoughtful. “I’ll walk away from it all right now, Sara. I swear to God I will. All you need to do is say the word. You’re more important to me than anything.”

“I know. You don’t need to prove it to me,” I reminded him.“If our relationship isn’t strong enough to withstand this, then I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“I love you, Sara. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell you how much.”

“So show me.”

And he had.

I stared at the paper in my hand while Dale picked up the phone, remembering that first concession—the first of many. He got tired of fighting, after a while, and just starting giving in. At first he was adamant. He wasn’t going to lie about me, so he said, “I don’t like to talk about it.” The manager and the publicist eventually wore him down and he started saying, “We broke up, I don’t like to talk about it.” Then it was his hair. He refused to cut it. They insisted. Arguments ensued. Finally, they won. By the time they got around to recording the album, I think they believed they’d molded him into something soft and pliable they could bend, but they were wrong.

On the album, Dale refused to compromise. All of the songs were his—and he’d even insisted that I do the cover art. He’d conceded on everything else, even on me, but he wouldn’t compromise his dream. I loved him for that, more than he would ever know.

I put the paper face down on the bed. I didn’t want to see the pictures, read the speculation.

“Greg
wants to meet.”

Greg was his manager.

“Now?”

“In two hours. At our house.”

Our house was John’s house. Dale would have to call and let him know.

“I’m sorry, baby.”
It was a big mess.

“It’s okay.”
He shrugged, looking at me still curled up in bed. “Cheer up—we’ve got time to order room service. And if we hurry, we can still soap each other up in the shower.”

“Why does the rest of the world seem to disappear when I’m with you?”
I asked, only half kidding.

“Because I am your world?”
Oh that smirky smile, the one that brought out that sweet little dimple.

“That must be it.”
I laughed. “I’ll call room service. You get in the shower.”

      CHAPTER
SIX     

We arrived home wearing various designer clothes from the gift shop in the hotel lobby.

They carried several designer lines, marked up of course, which meant they were so expensive none of them even had price tags. Their clientele obviously
never asked and I didn’t either—I was too afraid. I just grabbed some Calvin Klein—jeans and sweatshirts—and took them back to our room so we could change. The salesman asked what room we were in as I went to hand over Dale’s card, and then he waved it away and told me he would charge it to the room.

I had lugged the new clothes upstairs, barefoot in my formal bridesmaid dress. After we changed, I was careful to fold Dale’s tux before putting
it back into the now empty bag and Dale had laughed at me.

“What? It’s a rental, remember?” I had said, putting my dress in too, along with my one remaining shoe. I’d also picked up two pairs of Nikes and two pairs of
Ralph Lauren socks. I didn’t even know he made socks.

Dale had put his arms around me, chuckling.

“Sweetheart, after this tour is over, we’re going to be able to buy everything in that store.”

The concept was so foreign to me, I couldn’t quite grasp it.

When I’d asked how we were going to get back home, Dale just made a phone call and there was a limo waiting to drive us when we got downstairs to the lobby.

Rutger
s’ full-time faculty housing was nice—instead of apartments, they were townhouses all stuck together in rows. John was a professor there and he’d insisted we move two years ago after everything happened with the stepbeast. He said it was because he didn’t want people hounding Dale once his name was out there and the Black Diamonds were famous, and I’m sure that was partially true.

Rutger
s’ full-time faculty housing was completely private—they didn’t want students bothering the professors at home. For that reason, it was near campus but technically not on it, hidden away in a little wooded cul-de-sac. You’d never know it was there—it didn’t even have a street sign. All the mail went through the university, so while the townhouses had addresses, they weren’t published or used anywhere. The only bad thing about it was we could never get pizza delivered—they couldn’t find the house!

I think that was the reason we’d managed to keep it from the press
for so long that Dale had a girlfriend—me!—and she was living at his house. They could have traced Dale’s father—they had the same last name—to Rutgers, but that would be as far as they could go, unless someone directly told them John lived in faculty housing. And even then, they’d have a hard time finding the townhouses.

The limo driver even passed it twice, the driveway was so hidden. Finally, he pulled up at the townhouse and we climbed out.

“He’s here.” Dale nodded to the Porsche 911 that reminded me of a squished VW Beetle in front of the house with the license plate: SPD DMN. Speed Demon. It was like he was asking to get pulled over, but that was Greg—bold, brash and in your face.

“Awesome.” I carried the bag with our clothes in it up the steps. “I can’t wait.”

John and Greg were sitting at the kitchen table. I smiled at John but I didn’t even acknowledge Greg as I passed them on the way to the stairs. The townhouses were built with one, two, or three bedroom units. We had the latter. John’s bedroom was on the ground floor and ours was upstairs. The third bedroom, on the other side of the bathroom from ours, he used as an office.

“Sara!” John called after me. “I made cinnamon rolls!”

He knew they were my favorite.

“We ordered room service,” I called back over my shoulder, seeing Dale standing there, hands in his jeans pockets. He’d told me to go straight upstairs, that he would handle things with the
manager. Which was fine with me. Greg Richer didn’t like me and vice versa. It was always better when we weren’t in the same room together.

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“I’ve got to get ready for work.” I trudged up the stairs, heading into our room at the top of the stairs. I loved coming home. When Dale was gone, I spent a lot of time in our room, on the bed where we made love, smelling him on the sheets. The room was an amalgam of us—my easel and paints, his guitars and sheet music.

I tossed the bag
and crawled into bed, hugging my pillow and closing my eyes. I hadn’t slept much the night before—not that I was complaining—but the moment my body hit the mattress, I realized how tired I really was.

I hadn’t shut the door so I could hear them. At first it was just talking, mumbled voices, nothing clear. Then the voices got louder. And louder.

“I don’t give a flying fuck if they know!” That was Dale. “I’m going to marry her. If I lose some crazy little girl bubblegum pop fans because they can’t handle that? Well so fucking what!”

“If this gets picked up by the teen mags, you’re over before you even started, kid.”

That was Greg. When Dale told me his full name for the first time, I couldn’t believe it. Greg Richer. Managers, as a concept, were mind-boggling to me. They took twenty percent of an artist’s income, and for what? It was Dale who had put his foot down with the record company. They had songs and tracks for him all planned out—they wanted him to sing what
they
wanted.

Dale refused. He’d been the one to negotiate with them, not Greg. In fact, Greg had insisted he conc
ede or there would likely be no record deal at all.

But he was wrong.

Dale had gotten what he wanted—Black Diamond had recorded all of their own, original songs. I often told Dale Greg’s last name was apropos because as far as I could tell, Greg got richer while Dale did all the work. But for some strange reason, a manager was considered necessary. A necessary evil, maybe.

“What do you want me to say? Our friends were getting married. I wasn’t going to skip out on them because there might be cameras around.”

“You didn’t have to dry hump her in the hallway!” Greg snapped. “They’ve got a picture in here of you grabbing her crotch under her skirt.”

“I was not. I was putting on a garter. It’s a tradition.”

“Image is not about what happened. It’s about what it looks like happened. And right here, it looks like you’re grabbing her crotch.”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Dale said. “
So it’s out. We deal with it.”

“Jan’s got to find some way to spin this.”

“Did you come here to lecture me or was there a point to this meeting? My fiancé is waiting for me.”

“The record company wants to cancel the tour.”

My head came up off the pillow, my heart dropping to my toes. I couldn’t even imagine what Dale was feeling, hearing those words. I ran to the doorway, straining to hear.

“I told you, image is everything. So you can sing, big deal. You have a pretty face and you can play the guitar and make girls go nuts. Big fucking deal. Do you know how many others there are just like you? Kids like you come and go in this business.”

I couldn’t hear anyone then. I held my breath, trying to hear something—anything!

“Did you talk to Roy Masters?
”

He was the head of Sonic House
, the label that had put out Black Diamond’s album. He was a gruff old man, nearly entirely bald, who smoked cigars and rasped when he talked. I had met him only once, when Dale had taken me to L.A. to show me around—it had been my very first time in an airplane. Roy had gotten up from the chair behind his desk, which was no easy feat, considering he had to weigh three-hundred pounds, and peered at me, frowning.

“So this is the young lady who’
s giving us so much trouble?” Roy mused, glancing at Dale, then back to me, where I was pressed tight against Dale’s side. “Well son, she looks like the good kind of trouble to me.”

Then he’d laughed and puffed on his cigar, sitting back down in his executive chair, the leather making a “whoosh” sound under his weight.

“He’s the only thing standing between you and disaster, punk.” Greg again. He sounded weary and I smiled. I couldn’t blame him. When Dale wanted something, he was tireless and fearless in his pursuit. And breaking him down wasn’t easy, although I’d watched it happen over the course of the past two years, inch by inch.

“That and
I’ll Always Come For You
just hit Billboard’s number one.”

Greg said it like an afterthought but his words seared through me like fire. I couldn’t breathe, I was so stunned. Then I was running, bolting down the
stairs, jumping the last two and tearing around the corner, heading to the kitchen.

“Number one? Number one!” I squealed, putting my arms around Dale, who looked so stunned I nearly knocked him over. He grabbed me by the waist, meeting my eyes, and I laughed when he squeezed me tight and swung me around the kitchen.

“I have to call the band.”

“You have to lay the fuck low!” Greg insisted, wagging his f
inger at both of us. “And you, missy, you need to be invisible. You hear me? In-fucking-visible! Don’t you go
anywhere.”

I laughed as Dale put me down. I heard his heart hammering in his chest when I rested my flushed cheek there. Greg Richer wasn’t going to put a damper on this day, I wouldn’t let him.

“Go to hell.” I stuck my tongue out at him and hugged Dale harder. “He’s got the number one single!”

“I know.” Greg stood, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. I was sure he had it dyed because the lines around his eyes told me he was at least fifty, in spite of the spray-on tan. “But that all happened before this.”

He picked up the newspaper and shook it at us.

“Shake the stupid paper and yell all you want, he’s still number one.” I grinned up at Dale and he grinned back,

“If I thought it would do any good, I’d roll it up and smack you both on the nose like the naughty damned pups you are.” Greg glanced over at John, who just sat quietly, sipping his coffee. “John, can you talk any sense into these two kids of yours?”

“Only one of them is officially mine,” John reminded him over the rim of his coffee mug. It had a reprint of
Munch’s “Scream” on it. “But I’d love to make the other one official, since I already think of her as my daughter.”

His words filled me with warmth.

“If he marries her, all this goes away!” Greg exclaimed. “Don’t you get that? Nights at the Waldorf Astoria and two hundred dollar pairs of Nikes go bye-bye!”

He waggled his fingers, glaring at me. I looked down at my shoes, feeling guilty. Had they really cost two hundred dollars?

“You don’t know that.” I turned to the manager, frowning. “So the news is out now. Let’s see what happens. Black Diamond is number one and the world now knows Dale Diamond has a girlfriend.”

“A fiancée,” Dale countered, putting his arms around my waist from behind. I closed my hands over his.

“So let’s see what happens,” I said.”Maybe it won’t make any difference at all.”

“I can tell you after twenty years in this business, it’s going to make a very big difference, young lady.”

“You can’t cry over spilled milk,” John interjected. “The horse is out of the barn, as they say. So let it run.”

“Let it run?” Greg put his head in his hands. “Listen, kid, I’m on your side. Quit treating me like the damned enemy. I do what I do for a reason. You might not know what that reason is, but I always have one.”