Kind of Famous (Flirting with Fame Book 3) Page 2

  A third deeper, darker part of me—the one that hid online behind a fake persona—wanted to retreat to my empty hotel room and catch up on a day’s worth of fan forum chatter that was already piling up. I’d been cramping all day, thanks to a particularly painful period that was mercifully coming to an end, and the idea of burrowing under covers alone in my jammies with a hot cup of cocoa appealed to me a lot.

  Online, people thought I was cool and connected. Online, I could delete my social gaffes.

  But when would I ever have a chance like this again?

  So I stood there debating with myself, probably with my jaw agape, drool threatening to spool over my dumbstruck lower lip until Jo nudged me. “Well? I promise we’re not ax murderers. Micah’s not supposed to be home until tomorrow, so it would be just the two of us. You’d like Micah, I’m sure. You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

  “No.” I still wasn’t sure if that was an answer to her first or last question.

  “Then it’s settled.” She grabbed a pen and scrawled down a number on a Post-it. “Here’s my cell. Give me a call when you’re ready to leave work. I have something to do downtown, but I can swing back up and fetch you. Okay?”

  As I stuck the Post-it to the back of my phone, frequent scene of my crimes, I vowed I wouldn’t break her trust or treat her like an exhibit at the zoo.

  Talking Disaster Forum

  Topic: Other Bands - Whiplash - Tours - Spring Fling - DC - Page 6

  Hipster101 wrote:

  I’ll have more pictures to post later. And Jayhawk was there. I think he shot some video.

  Jayhawk wrote:

  Yeah I shot the whole show. Trippy to see Theater of the Absurd opening last night.

  Sailor8 wrote:

  Ooh, @Hipster - any pictures of Micah or Noah? *Fingers crossed*

  Hipster101 wrote:

  *eye roll* I took pictures of the band, yes. They aren’t Glamour Shots.

  Jayhawk wrote:

  Were any of you around back when Walking Disaster opened for Whiplash? And now Theater of the Absurd is . . . I predict big things.

  Insidious wrote:

  @Jayhawk - Yeah, but one of these things is not like the other. Of those three bands, one’s not touring . . .

  Pumpkin39 wrote:

  For good reason, Sid.

  DeadFan wrote:

  Adam’s staying home with the baby after all!

  Sailor8 wrote:

  Hey @Pumpkin39, do you have any secret insider knowledge about the next tour?

  Pumpkin39 wrote:

  As if. I wish I did. I’ll know as soon as you know.

  Jayhawk wrote:

  Can we get back to the Whiplash tour? Did you hear about some tension between the bands? There were some rumors that something went down after the show involving Noah possibly.

  Chapter Two

  Just as I was beginning to think I’d imagined the manager who’d interviewed me over Skype, Byron rolled in and ushered me into a conference room where he introduced me to the team: a couple of guys who identified themselves as Ajit and Dave. I quickly discovered I didn’t corner the market on social awkwardness. Dave barely made eye contact with me, and Ajit snort-laughed when I dorkily blurted something about having a case of the Mondays.

  Joining a team of developers at a rock music magazine should have been the most thrilling and intimidating part of my day. I was a self-taught programmer, hired to propose new functionality for others to code, and I worried the legit geeks would ferret out all my technical blind spots.

  But my awe at meeting Josie overshadowed the excitement of a new job, and since it soon became apparent that I didn’t have enough knowledge yet to follow along, I began to daydream about the pending dinner with Jo. Would we gossip about the workplace? Would she share secrets about Micah?

  Before long, Byron asked if anyone had anything else, then dismissed us with a last request to Ajit to show me how to set up my workspace. An hour later, I had my laptop, some basic software, and a connection to the Internet.

  Ajit said, “Don’t worry. It always takes time to ramp up. We’ll have you walking through code in no time.”

  A frisson of joy passed through me, and I didn’t bother to correct his assumption that I’d been hired as a developer.

  I itched to jump on the forum to share my incredible morning. The fans were the only people on earth who would understand how mind-blowing all this was, but I couldn’t yet. Not only would that be unethical and hypocritical, I wasn’t ready to deal with the curiosity such a confession would invite.

  Still I wondered if I could at least text Ash and squeal with her.

  As if she’d read my mind, my phone rang out a riff of Walking Disaster’s “Expulsion”—Ash’s text message ringtone. Since I had no other pressing tasks, I slid it open.

  Help! There’s a revolt on the board. They’ve decided to stage some kind of search and destroy mission against that reviewer. I’ve tried to intervene, but they’re ignoring me

  Shit.

  My fingers flew. Just lock the thread. Or delete it.

  The phone rang out again. Layla, please. Just pop in?

  I gritted my teeth. I’d put her in charge because she promised she could handle any drama in my absence.

  Glancing around to make sure nobody could spy on my laptop screen, I opened the fan site and logged in, smiling at the rotating banner up top. A picture of Adam from the early days loaded, giving me a twinge of nostalgia for the rush I’d felt building my community alongside the rocketing success of the band.

  I quickly found the thread in question since it now had a fire icon to the side, indicating it was literally a “hot topic.” I clicked on the last page to jump right into the fray. The last message, written only a minute earlier, told me all I needed to know.

  Di$a$ter, who had no life off the boards, had written: All right. I’ve set up a fake email account so I could register. Let’s all go and let Gabriel Sanchez know he can’t mess with WD.

  I rolled my eyes at how childish these people could be and at myself for letting this still be such a huge part of my life, but I began composing my trademark level-headed response to the incredibly short-sighted attempts to salvage the already solid reputation of the band from one bad review.

  Guys, are you shitting me? You do realize that this is one review among dozens. The reviewer has a right to his opinion, and you only give the fan base a terrible reputation by flooding the comment sections. It won’t change the mind of the reviewer. It may in fact cement it. I’m going to lock this thread now.

  If I come back and find you’re continuing this nonsense, I’ll have to start banning accounts. I don’t want to do that. I know you mean well, but please knock it off, you knuckleheads.

  This was my life. My weird alternative life.

  The fan reaction didn’t surprise me. Fans assume the world revolves around all the arcane knowledge they’ve collected over the years. After a while, a fan community is nothing but inside jokes, memes, and long-held grievances. The name Gabriel Sanchez would be added to the ever-expanding list of people who were dead to us.

  Of course, I didn’t reveal that I currently sat at the very magazine they were battling. Hopefully Gabriel Sanchez wouldn’t know I had anything to do with the fans. If I ever crossed paths with him.

  The reality of that possibility hit me.

  I stood and scoped out the other cubes wondering if Gabriel might appear in the flesh. It would have been funny to tell him to his face what my posters wanted to say in blog comments, but I didn’t see anyone matching his bio pic, so I settled back in at my desk disappointed.

  Confident I’d put out the distant fire, I couldn’t resist a quick run through unread threads.

  Most of the action was about Walking Disaster’s new album and some chatter about conc
erts for other bands. I zeroed in on a discussion about a show Jo’s boyfriend Micah’s band had opened. The forum members would have lost their shit if I’d casually mentioned I’d be dining at their house that evening.

  As it was, I was losing my own shit.

  Once I’d caught up, I put my phone in airplane mode to avoid the distraction, but as soon as five o’clock approached, I reconnected. For a wonder, Ash had only texted me twice, and the second said: Never mind. I straightened it out.

  The immediate temptation to check on the earlier forum drama lost out to my promise to contact Jo. After so much time dealing with brand-new coworkers, I considered bailing. I could unwind alone with my hundreds of anonymous friends, vague-posting about my brush with fame and hinting about the night that might have been.

  But I knew I needed to wean myself from virtual society and make real-life friends, so I sucked up my courage and dialed Jo’s number, worried she’d forgotten about me anyway.

  My pulse sped up as she answered. “Layla?”

  In my mind, a million hearts exploded at the sound of her voice. It was official. I had a girl crush.

  She instructed me to head down to the street, and fifteen minutes later, a town car with its own driver whisked me away like I was a movie star. As we rode across town, Jo told me about an art show she was putting together. I found myself straddling a line between showing enthusiasm while not veering into outright familiarity.

  When she asked me about my day, I babbled as if she really wanted to hear all the technical mumbo jumbo, all the while saying, “Shut up!” in my own head. But it was easier to ramble about work than anything else, and she was sweet enough to listen.

  We pulled up at her place. The front steps were identical to others up and down the street, punctuating one long row of townhouses. It looked like Sesame Street to me.

  “Is this called a brownstone?”

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  She dug out her keys and entered the abode, dropping her bags in the entry and moving quickly to the kitchen where she sat down and pricked her finger with a stick. “Don’t mind me. I’m diabetic. I just need to test my blood sugar real quick. Then we can eat.”

  I knew all that. Of course, I did. I’d been peering through her virtual window for years. The worst of it was, I knew less about her than I did about her boyfriend Micah. And I knew less about Micah than I did about his sister, Eden. And I knew less about all of them combined than I knew about Eden’s husband, Adam Copeland.

  One degree. I was one degree of separation from Adam Copeland.

  Ten years ago, that would have driven me to fan-girl frenzy. Five years ago, I would have begged Jo to introduce me to Adam at the expense of her friendship. Even two years ago, it would have given me an intense thrill to get invited this far into a world I’d been watching like a scripted TV show for so long.

  It was exciting. Of course, it was, but compared to my former psychologically questionable levels of fanaticism, my response to the current situation bordered on intellectual curiosity more than hysteria. Somewhere, sublimated deep in my brain, I was blowing my mind. But Jo was so nice, and her house seemed so ordinary. Her life was just . . . normal. And she’d taken me in as a friend.

  All in all, I felt like I was being pretty damn cool.

  As she packed away her testing kit, she said, “I’ve got these premade dinners in the freezer. I can heat up this incredible Thai peanut shrimp. You’re not allergic, are you?”

  I shook my head as I climbed on a stool at the kitchen island, trying not to gawk at everything. “That sounds great.”

  She grabbed a couple of Tupperware boxes of premade dinners that looked homemade. She turned the oven on and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to change. I’ll just be a jiff.”

  “No problem.”

  Alone in her kitchen, I looked around. What would they say on the forum if I snapped a picture and told them where I was? I couldn’t do that, though. It would open such a can of worms. They’d want me to dig through drawers, basically destroying any chance of maintaining a friendly relationship with Jo. One glance at the boards, she’d know without a shadow of doubt who’d betrayed her.

  I considered texting Ash, but she might get jealous or blab.

  There was one person I could talk to who’d never spill. She’d been trying to call me anyway. I slipped through the sliding door out into the backyard and dialed my mom’s number.

  A little cat showed up and rubbed around my ankles while the phone rang and finally picked up.

  “Hello, Pumpkin!”

  Yup. That’s where the nickname originated.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “How was your first day? Meet anyone interesting?”

  I dropped onto a chaise longue facing out toward the fence on the far side and stared up into the dark sky, unable to make out a single star in the not quite black night.

  “I’ll say.”

  “I want to hear, sweetie, but you’ll have to tell me quick. Your dad and I are on the way to Phil and Debby’s.” Something dinged in the background, and I could hear Dad say something. I wished they’d FaceTime. I missed them, and it made me a little homesick to hear them going about their normal Monday night without me.

  I glanced back into the house at the empty kitchen and petted the cat. “You wouldn’t believe where I am right now.”

  “Let me see. Times Square?”

  “No, Mom. I was there today. It’s crazy over there.”

  “Oh, I know. Your dad and I went there a couple of years ago. Remember?”

  I remembered. It was an anniversary trip. “I do, but I’m actually in Brooklyn at someone’s house.”

  “Ooh. That’s interesting. Is it a coworker’s house? I hope it’s not some stranger’s house. You haven’t been meeting people in bars, have you?”

  I snorted. “No, Mom. This is actually someone I already knew, but she didn’t know me.”

  “Hmm. A mystery. Is it one of your friends from online?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh, you’ll have to just tell me. We’re here.”

  “She’s a friend of a band I follow. Her name is Jo. She’s really nice.”

  “That’s great, sweetheart. Here’s your dad. He wants to say something.”

  The phone audibly passed between them, then my dad’s voice filled my ear. “Hey, Pumpkin. You’re settling in okay?”

  “Yes, Dad. Better than expected.”

  “The offer still stands if you want me to come help you find an apartment.”

  I did want them to come out and smooth my transition, but this was my life to create. “Thanks, Dad. Not right now.”

  “Okay. Take care, Pumpkin. We love you. Here’s your mom.”

  “Layla, don’t forget to call Max. He said he’s been trying to message you on Facebook.”

  I groaned. I had a couple of different Facebook profiles but constantly forgot to log into the one my brother knew about. That was the one where I was still “friends” with Liam, an overly intense guy I’d dated in college. Anyway, I knew already why Max wanted to contact me.

  “So, have they finally set a date?”

  “Call him, Layla.”

  My brother Max and his girlfriend had been best friends forever. Just like my parents before us. It was inevitable they’d get married sooner than later. I felt a pang of jealousy. Maybe if Liam hadn’t been so pushy, or maybe if I hadn’t found it easier to control relationships on the Internet, I might have had the courage to go to bars against my mom’s warnings. I might have met someone by now.

  Impossible to know.

  “I’ll call him later, Mom. I should be getting back to my hostess.”

  “Call us again soon. We love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Once they hung up, I stared at the Chrome ico
n on my phone for a heartbeat. On any given night, I’d be Jonesing to read the boards, if for no other reason than to clear my Unread Posts notifications. Not tonight. I needed to interact with real humans. Jo was about as easy an introduction into the real world as any. She’d practically forced me to socialize.

  I stood and took one long breath of the warm spring air. When I turned around to go in, I nearly dropped my phone from shock.

  Chapter Three

  Sitting at the kitchen island were three men I’d recognize anywhere. Closest to the door sat Micah Sinclair, lead singer for the band Theater of the Absurd, Jo’s hot-as-fuck boyfriend. On his right, the unmistakable red hair of his drummer whose name completely escaped me. My eyes were drawn immediately to the pretty-boy lead guitarist, Noah Kennedy. My heart tripped over itself.

  A few years back, Theater of the Absurd went on tour, opening for Walking Disaster in Europe. That’s when fans started threads to discuss their music, learned their songs, and picked favorites among the band.

  I confess I’d ranked the guys’ hotness over the years. I’d gone through a phase where Micah was my number one pretend musical boyfriend from his band, and I wasn’t alone. As the front man, he got the most attention, plus he’s simply beautiful with his blond hair, blue eyes, and broad build. Once he’d fallen into a serious relationship with Jo, it became a bit harder to even joke about him in fake romantic ways. Not that it would stop me from drooling over a photo. I mean, they’re just pictures.

  But that was no photo, leaning over the kitchen island with that thousand-kilowatt smile.

  Then there was Noah, a bit mysterious, sometimes distant with fans, but onstage, he exploded. I’d seen him shred a guitar at a show, and I could still remember what color pants he’d had on that day because his ass was one of those works of art that people had made a point of photographing whenever possible. Jeans, red leather pants, or the rare suit slacks all worked in service of his perfect butt. And it was sitting on a stool five feet away from me. All that separated us was a plate-glass door.