European Tour (Rocking the Pop Star Book 1) (2 page)

Sky nods, her green eyes twinkling merrily.

“If you don’t have plans for this afternoon,” Mrs. Samuelson says, “you may ride with us to Sky’s home so you can meet her current P.A., Amber. You’ll begin training immediately. Amber is in her last trimester of pregnancy and has been advised against traveling abroad. None of the recent applicants from the agency where we got her are a good fit. That is why we came to your establishment.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” I say. The deal now done, I’m exceedingly thankful that I won’t be idle this summer. Perhaps working for a pop star won’t be so bad after all. It seems Sky’s mother has kept her on a short leash, which means I won’t have all the acting out and potential drug use to deal with. Lord knows I can’t be around that shit anymore.

DAY ONE

“Here.” I hold out a steaming mug of my special tea recipe to Sky. I swallow hard, my breath heavy in my chest.

My first official act as her new P.A. is to offer the new boss what Kim always called our “miracle throat remedy.” Oddly enough, I feel somewhat guilty serving it up to a girl I barely know. It seems too intimate somehow.

“Drink it,” I encourage her. “It should have your throat feeling better in no time.”

Sky wears a dubious frown, but she accepts the mug and takes a sip. She frowns even harder and grabs her pad and pen.

You’re evil, Brody!

I laugh. “Hey, it is rather disgusting, but I bet once your throat starts feeling better in a minute, you’ll want to drink these before and after every practice and performance.”

Kim and I used to drink this stuff like water when we had to perform every few days, and sometimes four times a week. If only we’d stuck to just this organic remedy and not moved on to harder things.

Sky shudders and sets the cup on the edge of my desk. Then she peruses the set list I just printed out for her. It has all the songs she plans to sing at the birthday concert that’ll kick off her tour.

She makes notes on the copy—rearranges songs, strikes out two and adds replacements—then hands it back to me. She sips tea. I make the changes.

Amber had only spent an hour or so with me to review my most pressing tasks before taking off for a doctor’s appointment. She’ll be back in the morning, supposedly. I have a week to get a handle on my new job before we take to the skies. Sky’s entourage is double the size of The Savages’s, but then again, rock bands don’t need the extra fluff. That train of thought reminds me that I need to take care of the concert staging and soon.

“Amber says we still need to send a team over to set up the Staples Center in a couple of days,” I say. “I know it’s a birthday theme, but I’ll need a few additional details. What is this, your eighteenth birthday?”

Sky collapses in a fit of giggles. I can’t, for the life of me, understand what I said that is so damn funny.

Wiping away her tears of laughter, she grabs her pad and scribbles another message.

Guess again! I’ll be 21.

Fuck! I’m either bad at guessing ages, or she’s the youngest-looking soon-to-be-twenty-one-year-old, ever. I don’t even want to think about how many groupies I’ve slept with who may have lied about their ages and I was clueless.

She writes more.

I suppose people don’t realize I grew up in the business. I worked on Savvy Teen, a popular teen variety show until I was 13, and cut my first album at 15.

“I remember that show. A lot of young Hollywood insiders got their start there, right?”

Sky nods vigorously.

With some quick mental math, I determine Skylar had been just starting out when The Savages were at their zenith. Kim and I were already strung out, and then she died and I bottomed out.

I concentrate on my beautiful young boss who is riding high in her career, rather than dwell on my sordid past.

I would have Googled her or some shit, but David sprung this gig on me without any warning. I know her on the same superficial level as most of the world. Without her warpaint on, Sky is so wholesome and laid-back, it’s easy to forget how much she’s accomplished in her short life.

I know what young fame is like, though. In eight short years, my bandmates and I grew The Savages into a billion-dollar brand. Kim and I almost squandered our shares several times throwing lavish parties, sponsoring mooching friends who never paid for shit, and drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. Shortly after she died, though, I had an epiphany.

Kim and I had always spoken of somehow ensuring that our families were taken care of—my grandfather, despite his disdain for the music I loved, and Kim’s family, who hadn’t deserved to lose her the way they had. Our brains had become so fucking clouded by drug use, we’d forgotten the early promises we’d made to our families and the things we wanted to do to help others.

I had to ensure that Kim’s death was not in vain, that a legacy for her was in place to remind those who cared about her that she’d existed in the world.  I had a charity set up in Kim’s honor in Downers Grove, created a monthly stipend of Kim’s share of the royalties for her parents, and had my grandfather put in the best nursing home in LA for Alzheimer’s patients. Then I entered rehab, or I certainly would have died the same way Kim did.

Royalties are still pouring in because radio stations continue to play our songs. The fans don’t know where the fuck I am, but they keep buying our shit. The band had written enough songs to release a full album every year for the past five years, even after I disappeared from the limelight. My rock career is the gift that just keeps on giving.

I tune back into my conversation with Sky. “Sorry,” I say. “I guess the ‘girl next door without makeup’ look fools a lot of people, huh?”

A dreamy smile plays on her lips.  She lowers her head to write a response.

I love that I can disappear and be myself when I want. Only my closest friends know what I look like when I’m not Skylar the pop star. I’d like to keep it that way as long as I can.

I can identify with that.

As Savage Saban, I’d been a dreaded, bearded wild man ravaged by heroin until my muscle mass was almost zero. In five years, staying clean, training with my MMA coach, and eating right had brought about a transformation that Kim would find amusing. I’d cut my hair to shoulder length and shaved off my beard. Most days I wear a five o’clock shadow and my hair, close-shaved at the back and sides, is usually pulled up in an elastic band to keep it out of my face.

Sky’s soulful eyes lure me like a beacon. I could get lost in them, but seven years is quite possibly too much of an age gap to overcome, especially given her innocence and my baggage. I need to establish clear boundaries, because if she or her mother were to find out about my checkered past, they might not be benevolent enough to ignore it.

I make a silent vow to keep our relationship strictly professional, and drum my pen atop her pad to make her grin. 

“Then I’ll do everything in my power to help you stay incognito,” I say.
And me too
, I think.

DAY TWO

Amber and I are going over the instructions for the upkeep of Skylar’s website as Skylar the pop star emerges.

She enters the room in full regalia. Flawless makeup replaces the girl-next-door, and I, even with my copious experience with women, am somewhat intimidated by her star persona. It’s ridiculous given my own star status for eight years, but most stars don’t believe their own press—unless they’re narcissistic…and a good many of them are.

“Good morning, Sky,” Amber says.

I practically swallow my tongue as my eyes take in her form. The woman before me drips sex appeal like she alone manufactured it. With no sign at all of the freckles from yesterday, her Japanese features are played up with the deft handling of a makeup brush. Slanted green eyes peek out of long lashes darkened with black mascara, and generous lips are no longer red as a candy apple. They are the lips of a woman begging to be kissed.

“Good morning, Amber.” She pauses, either letting me know that she can finally speak without her vocal cords rasping like sandpaper, or to acknowledge the fact that she’s rendered me speechless. “
Brody
.”

“Good morning,” I say blandly. What I’m really thinking is “Whoa! Wow! Or some equally superlative “W” word, and my dick is as piqued as my brain.

I roll my eyes inwardly.
Smooth move Mr. former rock star. You have seen a good-looking woman before, right?

Plenty of them, but the cliché that some people look much better in person than in pictures is very true if the vision standing before me is any indication.

Sky’s wearing a soft cotton halter in bright summer colors and low-riding jeans which have to be tailored to fit only her body, because I can’t imagine any other woman wearing them the way she’s wearing them right now.

The revelation that she’ll be twenty-one in a few days seems to have given my body permission to lust after her, because it’s officially gone into overdrive. I hope I’m not asked to stand anytime soon.

“So, Amber,” Sky says, “I think I’ll have Brody ride along with me to my interview at KTLA.” She riffles through the files on the desk. She uncovers the one containing the interview questions and her canned answers.

“You’re the boss,” Amber says with a shrug.

Sky looks expectantly at me, and I mentally shake myself free of the lascivious stupor her entrance put me in.

“Um, yeah. Sure.” Verbal much, Brody?

She turns on her heel and walks away, and I can’t decide which view I like better.

The driver is waiting at the curb as expected, because Amber is such a fucking multitasker, she doesn’t miss a beat. I have some huge ballet flats to fill, which is Amber’s shoe of choice at this point in her pregnancy. She’s assured me that I’ll know everything I need to know before we fly out to London on Monday, so I try not to fear that I’m going to fail at this job big time.

Malik Thompson, the beefy bodyguard Mrs. Samuelson referred to yesterday, speaks to Sky, but I’m given only a tight nod as he holds the limo door open.

The man of few words rides shotgun with the driver.

As we exit the gates from Sky’s property, I open Amber’s email. It contains contact information and instructions for when we enter the television station. I review the information while Sky reads over her interview questions.

On the 101, Sky puts the file aside. She must want to talk. I put my phone down.

“I have to say, I’m not sure if it was the steroid prescription from my doctor or your miracle tea that did the trick, but I’m so thankful I won’t be croaking like a frog at this interview today,” she says.

“I’d put my money on the tea.” Obviously, I’ve regained my verbal swagger since her stunning earlier entrance. Now I’m wonder if I’ll ever tire of hearing her smoky, natural speaking voice. It has a sexy noir film star timbre that together with her scent keeps me on the verge of near-erection. The warm and sensual fragrance she wears with jasmine undertones is enough to drive any self-respecting man insane.

She grins. “You would say that, because it’s your recipe.”

“Well, that, and because it’s never failed me.”

“David said you have a music background. Do you also sing?”

“I do…um did.” I clear my throat. “Ancient history.”

“How ancient, old man? You can’t be more than a few years older than me.”