Kind of Famous (Flirting with Fame Book 3) Read online

  The other guy—I wanted to say Shawn—had the other two entranced with some story he was telling. His hands shot dramatically forward and up and down and back, in circles, in swoops, like he was drumming out the narrative. His face lit up so that I desperately wanted to hear what was so funny. Micah and Noah leaned in to listen, both so engaged, it made me hesitate to interrupt.

  On the other hand, I was dying to actually meet these guys. What a day.

  With a good shake of my hair to maximize volume, I slid open the glass door, and three heads turned my way.

  Micah said, “Well, hello.”

  I swallowed hard. My brain fritzed, and I stood there, frozen.

  Jo popped up from the base of the fridge. “Oh, here you are. Someone came home early. Let me introduce you to my boyfriend and these other clowns.” She flipped her hand toward Micah. “This here is Micah Sinclair. This is his house, actually. I’m just a guest, alas.”

  Micah grabbed her upper arm and reeled her in for a kiss. “Liar. You’d be out on the streets if you didn’t live here.”

  She pushed his chest away. I admired her restraint. “Stop. We have guests.”

  “I thought you were a guest.” He chuckled at himself.

  Jo simply rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Excuse him. He’s literally the worst. Meanwhile, over here, we have the insufferable Shane Morgan.”

  Shane! Right.

  Shane tipped an invisible hat and said, “My lady.”

  He still wore a mischievous smile leftover from the anecdote he’d been sharing before I walked in.

  “Finally, this brat is Noah Kennedy.”

  Noah winked, and I melted a little.

  “Gentlemen, let me present my newest coworker and a brand-new resident of our fair city, Layla—” she faltered “—shit, I’ve already forgotten your last name.”

  “Beckett. Layla Beckett.”

  Noah immediately sang my name, and it should have thrilled me to hear those words coming out of his beautiful lips. I couldn’t help it though. I judged people who went for the obvious joke the minute they met me, as if they honestly thought it was original and clever. People often asked me why I didn’t just go by my middle name if I didn’t like being a punchline. Except my parents had saddled me with the middle name Prudence. Their love of music spilled over into their kids’ names. My brother had scored with Maxwell Jude.

  I schooled my face into a placid mask of indifference until Noah flashed the charming smile I’d seen in pictures on the forum. “Awesome name. Really.”

  Maybe he realized his faux pas. His comment smoothed some of my ruffled feathers. “Thanks.”

  My mind searched for anything I knew about Noah, besides how perfect he looked. I’d read about some fan encounters with him, but I usually ignored them unless they got graphic, and then I nuked them without much thought. Of course, Micah had a worse reputation with women before Jo tamed him. But fans claimed Micah was a sweetheart. Noah on the other hand came off as rude. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, since Lord knew, fans could be demanding.

  Noah waved his hand toward me then Shane. “Can you imagine the children these two would have?”

  Shane’s head rose as he realized Noah was talking about him. A blush crept up his pale skin to the roots of his hair.

  “Red’s turning red!” Noah laughed.

  I trained my eyes on Shane, willing him to look my way. His milky skin had a definite reddish cast to it, but I couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. I’d heard every red-haired taunt in the book, and although Noah probably thought he was gently ribbing his friend, Shane’s tense jaw and gritted teeth belied years of buried hurt with layers of insults heaped on top.

  Finally, with a flick of the eyes, he glanced over. I pegged him with what I hoped was a penetrating gaze, a telepathic communication to say, “I know.”

  A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and he breathed in and exhaled. “You’re right, Noah. We’d have gorgeous kids. Look at her.”

  It was the first time he’d been completely still. His hands settled onto the counter, and all the mischief and mockery drained from his face, leaving behind an open sincerity that sucker-punched me. Time slowed, and I brazenly stared at him, as if he were another photograph posted in some fictional Hot drummers thread. He might not have the glitz of Micah or the glam of Noah, but next to them anyone would appear ordinary. Overall more boyish than his two pretty bandmates, Shane had a rugged build, wide shoulders, and a tight muscle running up the side of his neck. That cord could have spawned a photo thread of its own. I followed the set of his jaw to his mouth, dragged my eyes over his plump lower lip, took in his slightly crooked nose and high cheekbones, and studied the small gauges in his earlobes.

  By the time I’d made the circuit back to his arresting eyes, I’d concluded he was very easy to look at. And he didn’t seem to mind looking at me either.

  My lips curled to match his. And quite possibly, my cheeks now matched my own hair.

  With the unexpected arrival of the boys, Jo abandoned her dinner plans in favor of ordering a bunch of pizza, apologizing to me for the switch, as if I would’ve been eating anything other than takeout back at the hotel. While she made the call, I excused myself to go to the bathroom, freshen up, check my teeth, and freak the fuck out privately.

  My brain hadn’t yet absorbed the new reality. These people lived in photographs and videos. They existed as anecdotes from fans who’d made it backstage, onto the bus, or into the hotel. I couldn’t wrap my head around the everyday banality of them.

  Once I’d returned to earth, I casually strolled into the kitchen and climbed onto the stool beside Noah, pretty, pretty Noah. Sailor8 on the forum would cream her pants to be close enough to touch his wavy blond hair. She’d demand I sniff him and report back my findings, but that wasn’t about to happen. I was working undercover, and I didn’t want to blow my disguise.

  As we waited, Micah set plates and glasses on the kitchen island. He and Jo moved around each other like choreographed dancers, putting out silverware and drinks. All the while, she interrogated the guys on their tour.

  “How was it traveling with Whiplash?”

  I wanted to gush about what a great score it was for them to open for such a huge band, how it would expose them to even more fans. I waited for them to rave about the amazing opportunity, but they all sort of awkwardly looked in different directions until Micah said, “Noah doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  He didn’t laugh, so I couldn’t read if he was teasing or serious.

  Jo shot a look at Noah. “Oh, right. Sorry.” I was curious to know what had just passed between them, but she changed the topic abruptly. “How long are you home?”

  There’d been something in the forum about tension on the tour. I was dying to ask them to fill me in on the mysterious subtext only I couldn’t decipher.

  After a heavy pause, Micah said, “We have to head back out on Sunday.”

  Jo sagged. “Okay, then. I’m glad you got home early.”

  She reached her arms around Micah’s neck and gave him a proper kiss right there in front of us all.

  Noah whistled, and the weird vibe seemed to dissipate with the teasing camaraderie. He suddenly cut his gray eyes over to me, catching me studying his perfect profile. He flashed a wicked charming grin. “So, Ginger Spice.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek at the unintended slight. His bratty reputation seemed well founded.

  “Where did you say you’re from?”

  “I didn’t. I’m from Indiana.”

  Noah drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, lips twisted, like he was trying to remember where Indiana might be. “July. We were in Indianapolis in July.”

  “Uh-huh.” I wasn’t sure how best to respond to that piece of information.

  Shane’s face lit u
p. “Oh, yeah. Maybe Layla was there.”

  “Yup. I totally was.” I laughed.

  “Sure,” said Noah, sarcastic, as though reading my response as polite good humor, which suited me just fine until Shane’s mouth squeezed together in disappointment.

  “No, I really was.”

  The admission of my fan status was worth it if only to watch Shane’s face brighten again. His expressions changed like a chameleon, like a mood ring. And those eyes. Noah’s were a fascinating swirl of gray cold mist, and Micah’s were the clear aqua of island seas you find in travel brochures. Shane’s were the dark blue of the midnight sky. A black ring encircled the universe of his incredible eyes, and, as I lost myself in those depths, he let me drink my fill.

  Noah turned all the way to face me, elbow on the counter, blocking my view of Shane entirely. “So, where did we play then?”

  Never did I expect I’d be sitting here having to prove my fan cred to a member of a band I was slightly overinvested in.

  Without missing a beat, I said, “You played the Lawn at the White River State Park.” Savoring the pearly white grin spreading across his face, I added, “Chain Smoke opened for you.”

  Noah swung his head back to face Shane. “Is that right?”

  It was. My interest in Theater of the Absurd was genuine. Not nearly as ardent as my love of Walking Disaster, but I could hum a few bars.

  Micah started laughing, and that distracted Noah enough to lean back so I could see Shane clapping his hands.

  “Well done.”

  I hugged myself a little. I could have died right then. Hanging with these guys had made me feel truly special, and that was something I could take with me when this night ended. I wished I could snap a picture, get an autograph, or just tell someone about this, but I forced myself to behave like a human and focus on the experience.

  The pizza arrived, and once Jo placed the boxes on the counter, we helped ourselves. Jo chose a piece covered in veggies, while Micah and the two guys demolished a meat lovers. Fearful I might lose a limb if I ventured too close to the pepperoni, I hesitantly reached for one of the veggie slices.

  Chewing on his food, Noah honed back in on me with a lift of the brow. “So, you’re a fan then?”

  The question confused me. Had my confession ruined any chance of being treated like one of them? I told the truth. “I don’t know what the right answer here is.”

  Jo cut her pizza with a fork and knife and pointed an impaled corner at me. “The proper answer is always yes. They want to hear you’re a huge fan.”

  I snickered. “In that case, yes. I’m a huge fan.”

  Fishing the depths of my sincerity, Noah said, “Name one of our songs.”

  Shane laid a hand on his shoulder. “Man, ease up. She just said she came to a show. What difference does it make?”

  Noah’s eyes slid off me and over to Micah. “Just curious if she’s a normal fan or a super fan.” He set me in his sights again. By the way he’d said super, it sounded synonymous with creepy, and I didn’t want to fail his test. “Five bucks she can’t tell us what instrument Shane here plays.”

  Now, that was a trap. He wanted me to confess knowledge no casual fan ever knew: the name of the drummer. If anyone had asked me to name their drummer this morning, I would have drawn a blank, but it was stupid to point to the guy and ask what he played when I just told him I’d been to a show. Process of elimination would rule out guitarist.

  If I pretended to guess, if I lied and said, “Bassist,” I felt like I’d be letting Shane down.

  I nervously glanced to Jo for help, and she laughed. “Noah, she’s not a super fan. She’s a music fan. She works at the Rock Paper. She’s gonna know her bands.”

  Micah shook his head with a look of parental disapproval. “Noah, you can be such a dick.”

  Shane had watched this whole exchange in silence, but now he said, “I play drums, Layla.”

  For that little kindness, it was worth blowing some cool points. I shot him my flirtiest smile. “Yeah, I knew that. You’re a force of nature.”

  He beamed. “Hurricane Shane. That’s me.”

  Noah’s shoulders relaxed, and he seemed to give up his cat and mouse game. I had no idea what he was after. Did he suspect my interest here bordered on stalker? Did it matter? Would they treat me differently if they knew what I did in my spare time? If they knew I could sing some of their songs by heart?

  It wasn’t like they were Walking Disaster. I wasn’t sure I could be so cool if Adam Copeland or Mark Townsend were sitting at that counter.

  Not to mention, Jo was right. I knew my bands. Rock trivia wasn’t a game I played to lose.

  Fortunately, the heat of the conversation lifted while everyone concentrated on eating. I might have been imagining things, but I felt as though Shane glanced my way surreptitiously a few times. When dinner came to an end, Noah said, “Let’s hit the road, man. I’m beat.”

  Shane thanked Jo for dinner, punched Micah on the shoulder, then shoved a hand in one of his pockets and said, “It was nice to meet you, Layla.”

  A swirl of sunrise played along his jaw, and I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my own arms. I shoved my hands under my thighs and sat on them. “You, too.”

  As the guys headed out, I started gathering my things together, wondering if I should call a cab.

  Jo laid a hand on my arm. “Micah and I think you ought to stay here.”

  I was speechless. “Uh.”

  “We’ve got a cozy guest room upstairs for when my mom visits. You could take a little more time to scour craigslist for something affordable but not sleazy.”

  “I don’t know.” It felt incredibly invasive. Micah had just come home, and he clearly wanted some privacy with his girlfriend.

  Micah spoke up. “I can send my driver over to pick up your things. You’d be safer and more comfortable here.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you.” Jo led me to the top of the stairs. I peered into a master bedroom with an enormous king size bed, but she crossed the hall, explaining, “I work in here sometimes, but I’m done for the day.”

  The guest room had a queen bed and a desk. On the wall, above a laptop, hung a picture of Micah sleeping like a god on a divan, covered in nothing but a blood red throw. I stared at it. “I think I’ve seen this before.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah. My old boss published that in an effort to show him in an unflattering light.” She cocked her head. “But I like it. Plus, it embarrasses my mom.”

  I didn’t know anything to say, but my lack of response was bordering on rude, so I forced myself to smile and tell her, “Thank you. This is incredibly generous of you.”

  “Nonsense. You’d do the same I’m sure.”

  True. But would she have been so neighborly if she knew about my hobby? Would she invite me into her home if she knew I was the equivalent of an Internet peeping Tom?

  Talking Disaster Forum

  Topic: Walking Disaster - Adam - Hot Photo Thread 7 - Page 321

  CaliforniaDreamin wrote:

  I see tummy! *swoon*

  AdamsWife wrote:

  OMG, I love that one, CD! He’s so casually sexy, you know?

  NewDawn wrote:

  Hi. I’m new here. That photo brought me out of lurker mode to say, meow.

  mAdam wrote:

  Welcome to the forum, @NewDawn! I cannot disagree with you. That’s one beautiful photo . . . of one beautiful man.

  NewDawn wrote:

  Hee hee. Love your username! I think I’m going to love reading back through this thread.

  WeedGirl wrote:

  Holy shit! That photog sure knows how to capture Adam’s lips.

  Pumpkin39 wrote:

  That’s one of my favorites. Wouldn’t mind trading places with that microphone. :)

  Califor
niaDreamin wrote:

  We even got Pumpkin to comment. Score! Hey, Pumpkin, you think you could maybe get this one into the banner rotation?

  Pumpkin39 wrote:

  I dunno. You know how the music nerds object to the objectification . . . But I’ll see what I can do.

  CaliforniaDreamin wrote:

  Bows down. We’d love you forever!

  WeedGirl wrote:

  Marry me, Pumkpin! You’re the best.

  Chapter Four

  Alone, waiting for my things to arrive from my hotel, I slipped my shoes off and propped myself against the fat pillows in decorative shams.

  I was exhausted, but I needed to get online soon, or I’d be so far behind I’d never catch up. I trusted Ash to keep order, but there was usually something to attend to, so I booted up my laptop and turned on my phone’s hotspot.

  The front page of my site held the blog—curated content where I could post recent tour videos, new album releases, links to reviews, or write my own personal commentary about anything, band related of course. Usually. Sometimes I posted on other topics, but I kept it at least tangentially related. I could, for example, post a recap of my day, along with a picture of Micah Sinclair’s guest room. Fans would eat it up, and the hit count would explode, which would bring me more money since I’d monetized the site.

  But I had no intention of exposing myself to that level of scrutiny. Tonight, I only wanted to make sure nobody had disrespected my order to stop talking about invading the comments section of Gabriel Sanchez’s review. I wasn’t surprised to find an inordinate number of private messages from people responding to my edict. I already knew these would fall out into a Neopolitan of three predictable flavors.

  The yummy chocolate would be the do-gooders who’d observed the dramatic review revolt thread with consternation. They’d pat my back and tell me Adam should send me free tickets to his shows in heartfelt gratitude for all the hard work I did. I’d never ascertained what these suck-ups thought they’d get for praising me to high heaven. I was a nobody with a website. It wasn’t like I could get them backstage passes.