Authors: Willow Aster
Fade to Red
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Photograph by Aaron Cota
Model: Jeanette Abell
Cover Design by Blade
Formatting by Jovana Shirley,
Unforeseen Editing
Copyright © 2015 Willow Aster
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1516979141
ISBN-13: 978-1516979141
My first telescope was not much more than glorified binoculars, but I faked stargazing long enough that my parents finally bought the one I really wanted. Guilt could do that. And money. My parents would buy anything just to avoid seeing me. I didn’t care. It gave me more time to peek in his window.
With acres between our houses, I never had to worry that he would see me.
The second telescope really worked. I could see the smallest details in his room, right down to the red stain on his carpet from a spilled drink. He was only able to get half of the stain out of his carpet, and eventually, he put a bean bag over the spot.
I watched him come in after school, take his shirt off, and play his guitar for hours. He had a blue electric guitar and a dark brown acoustic that sat in the corner. A keyboard was on the other side of the room.
I saw the way he threw things in his garbage can from across the room, making 90% of the shots.
Sometimes his sister came in his room, and those days were especially lonely. Every now and then I could make out what they were saying, but it usually just reiterated how alone I really was.
I subtly followed him at school. He was popular and funny and so cute it made my stomach fall every time I thought of him.
He was perfect. And perfect for me. He just didn’t know it yet.
A few things happened in our sophomore year that changed everything.
We finally met. I made sure I brushed my hair until it was shiny that morning, put on my favorite blue shirt that matched my eyes, and scheduled an ‘accidental’ run-in with him after gym.
I played that conversation over and over in my mind for years.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, reaching down to pick up my book. “Here you go.” He stood back up and looked me over. “Hey, I’ve seen you around. How’s it going?”
I stared at him, speechless, until his smile grew. I cleared my throat. “Hi,” was all I was able to utter.
“Ah, we’ve got a shy one here,” he said kindly.
I knew I would love him forever.
“I’m Beckham.” He gave a wave and leaned closer to me. “You have killer eyes—they’re so blue. Colorful hair, too.” He nodded. “Bold. What would you call that?” He pointed to my hair.
“Thanks. Cotton candy,” I whispered and then giggled. I quickly stopped when he smiled.
We stood there staring at each other for a moment.
“Well, I’ll see ya,” he said and was off before I could catch my breath.
From then on, every time he saw me in the hall, he waved. I kicked myself every night for not saying more, not making more of an effort. I was working up my nerve to speak to him, practicing daily in the mirror. Trying my best to not stutter or blush or do anything other than make smart conversation.
And then it all went to hell.
A tour bus began to park in his yard. I knew his family was talented. They’d done music in L.A. for a long time. I started looking into it online and finally one night, on an entertainment blog, my digging paid off. The Woods family had gotten a recording deal and were going on a huge tour.
Before I knew it, his room was practically empty and everything changed. Once they left, they didn’t come back, or at least not to that house. Beckham Woods blew up and left me in the dust.
I failed all my classes that year, dropped out of school, and began to plot how I’d cross paths with Beckham again.
It was true lust the moment he saw her.
He had hoped to avoid the audition, altogether, but once he walked into the auditorium and saw her, he was transfixed. Tall, lean, with legs that seemed endless, and blonde hair piled on top of her head, other dancers surrounded her, but even the spotlight seemed captivated by only her. Every movement she made possessed the music. From one song to the next, he watched as she was completely enraptured by the rhythm. The girl could move.
“I don’t care who you pick—they all look good. But you have to keep that one.” Beckham tapped the choreographer’s notes on number four.
“Oh, that’s a given.” Anthony rolled his eyes. “She could make even you look like you know what you’re doing.”
“Watch it.” Beckham tweaked Anthony’s fedora so it fell over his eyes.
“Trying to do a job here,” Anthony said as dramatically as he could, which was extremely dramatic.
Beckham stood watching the dancers until Anthony raised his hand and told them to stop. He thanked them and called the next group auditioning. Beckham had seen enough; he usually avoided the whole scene until he knew who Anthony had chosen. Extra guards were stationed all over the theater, and each dancer had been instructed to only speak to Anthony if they had any hopes of being part of the tour. No autographs from Beckham would be given, no pictures, no exceptions. So far, only one girl had tried to get past a guard backstage and she had been escorted out.
Beckham walked to the back of the theater and went to the green room, still thinking about the girl. She made him want to forget the man he’d become. Just a year ago he would have made sure he got her into his bed. A girl who could move like that. Hell. The things he could do with her. He contemplated going back in the auditorium to see if Anthony would have her dance again, but didn’t even want to let himself get into that line of thinking.
They’d been in San Diego for two days, trying a different talent pool for this tour. He had holed up in the theater or on the bus during the day, avoiding the crowds that seemed to be multiplying at their hotel. This would be an intense tour, and if he had anything to say about it, the last he’d ever do again. As much as he loved singing for thousands every night to packed-out stadiums, after multiple world tours and dozens of shorter runs, he was ready for a break. A long break. A
forever
break. Not exactly the right way to be thinking before the stringent rehearsal schedule began in a couple of weeks.
Grabbing his sunglasses and ball cap, he walked back into the hall. A little boy who looked around 4 or 5 with curly brown hair had materialized in the short time he’d been in the room. Beckham wondered how he’d gotten through security, but he didn’t mind him being back there. He wasn’t bothering anyone. He was playing with a ball on the floor and didn’t look up until Beckham was standing right by him.
“Hey there. Whatcha playin’?”
“My mom says I can’t talk to strangers,” he lisped all his S’s, “but I know who you are, so I guess it’s okay.”
“Well, she’s right. Is she here?”
The little boy nodded and then a smile took over his face. And Beckham was finished, done for, smitten.
“Wanna play jacks?”
