Kind of Famous (Flirting with Fame Book 3)

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

  “Did you get any other videos? Anything that might add to the insider experience?”

  “Yeah. I have a lot of video. Too much, really.”

  “And could you put together a bit of a narrative? I was hoping to really capture that excitement of a real hardcore fan getting to hear her favorite band in such an intimate context. Don’t hold it back.”

  “You want me write like a fan, not a Rock Paper reporter?” It went against everything I was trying to present here, but he was right that it would appeal to the band’s fan base in the same way as Gabe’s review hadn’t.

  “I want you to pick out the videos that you think best encapsulate your experience, and let your readers feel like they were there, ya dig? Like a—”

  “Fly on the wall.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. Can you make that happen?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I returned to my desk in a stunned haze.

  No sooner had I packed away all the super fan thoughts about Walking Disaster than I had to manufacture over-the-top enthusiasm for a totally different band. What I felt for Theater of the Absurd did qualify as serious fandom. I had all their albums. I’d covered them plenty on my blog since they were considered a “Related Artist.”

  But until Monday, I hadn’t known the name of the drummer.

  Meanwhile, I could hold a ten-minute conversation about whether or not Walking Disaster’s drummer, Hervé Diaz, had gotten liposuction after the most recent tour. I’d even unearthed video from when Adam drummed for the band, back before they’d changed the lineup and the name of the band from The Pickup Artists. I could discuss the stylistic differences between Adam and Hervé. My level of fandom for Walking Disaster bordered on obsession, and although I could tell you I wasn’t a crazy person, anyone who wasn’t a part of our community might say otherwise. I knew too much.

  Did Lars expect that level of excitement for Theater of the Absurd? Or did he even know that level existed?

  I could only do what I could. In addition to the new song I’d already added, I uploaded the two covers, since Micah had asked me to, plus a couple of their old songs and some of the less explosive bantering to my post. Then I set about bragging and gushing, like the biggest fanatic that ever fanned.

  I hit save to draft and forwarded the link over to Lars for his approval. I didn’t think I could enthuse any more than that. On the plus side, maybe it would make Shane think I loved his band the most. On the minus side, it was going to make him wonder if I might be a little overinvested. Particularly in his bandmates. I knew what Lars wanted. I’d been doing this too long not to know what a fan experience sounded like.

  With a free moment, I finally placed a call to Zion.

  “Hey, it’s Layla!” My phone anxiety threatened to shut me down. “We met the other night? At Adam’s?”

  “Oh, Layla. How are you?” His enthusiasm didn’t match my own.

  “Um, so, Jo mentioned you might have an extra room to rent.” I chewed on my lower lip, fighting against the awkward hesitation. “I was wondering if you’re looking for a roommate.”

  “Right. Jo said you might call.”

  I waited a beat, tapping my fingernails on the desktop. “Of course, I can check craigslist if you’d rather not room with a total stranger.”

  “No, don’t do that.” An exhale followed. “You met Andrew, right?”

  “Yes. The other night.”

  “It’s just that he’s got his stuff all over the apartment right now.”

  “Oh. I understand.” My face flushed with the sting of rejection.

  “He’ll be going out of town in a couple of days though, and he normally stays at his own place anyway, so if you can maybe tread water for a few days?”

  “Of course!” My heart sank. I was sure Jo would let me stay a bit longer, but this was no way to live. I should have let my dad come help me find my own space. I was practically homeless.

  “Can you swing by next week?”

  “Yup.” What else could I say? “Thanks, Zion. I appreciate it.”

  “Sorry I can’t be more hospitable. Timing.”

  “No worries. I’ll be in touch.”

  As I hung up, I got a response from Lars. Perfection. Let’s post it on Monday. My mood rebounded. I was on an emotional trampoline lately.

  Publishing under my own name meant my online family wouldn’t recognize it as me, the persona they knew as Pumpkin. It was petty to want their praise and congratulations on top of everything else, so I swallowed those feelings. I was plenty lucky with what I’d been able to do.

  Speaking of which, I made a quick perusal of the fan forum, made sure the drama on the blog comments had stopped at some point, and then checked my private messages. That Sandman guy was back.

  So, I went to the comments section like you told me to. I see that I’m not alone in my disregard for your shallow opinions. Maybe you’ll figure out that reviews should be left to the professionals.

  I should have left it alone. He wanted attention, but I could never resist sparring with the assholes. Not to mention, I’d been involved in a lot of shenanigans over the years, and my spidey senses were tingling.

  One time, a competing forum started stealing our best concert photos and claiming them as their own. It became a huge drama. Our posters created hundreds of fake identities, or “sock puppets,” so they could flood the other site with accusations of theft. It brought home how unregulated and deceptive the Internet could be. Nobody was who you thought they were, and people would go to weird extremes when their passions were inflamed.

  Remembering that incident, I opened the admin center on the blog and started checking the origins of those new comments. Every single one originated from the same IP address. The same as Sandman.

  He was a one-man show.

  I returned to my private messages and composed a reply.

  Gee, Mr. Troll. That’s a subtle way to try to make sure I see all your sock puppet posts. Please grow the fuck up.

  It made me feel kind of nauseated once I’d actually typed it out. It felt good to write it, but sending it was a whole different matter.

  My cursor hovered over the Send button, but my phone rang out the chorus to “Close Enough” I’d chosen for Shane’s notifications, and I Xed out of the message without sending. Instead, I picked up my phone, smiling at Shane’s text.

  Guess where I am?

  I responded: Middle Earth?

  Before my phone could explode in sound again, I lowered the volume. Shane’s next text came in muted, vibrating.

  Oh, good. For a second I worried your phone was off and all this was in vain.

  All what?

  I’m here.

  You’re joking.

  It’s 5. I know you’re free. We’re invited to Jo’s for her birthday dinner. Let’s go find her a present.

  I shut down my laptop and threw it in a bag. I was on my way to the elevator in minutes. Just before the doors shut, a hand shot in and stopped them. Gabe stepped in.

  “Got any plans, tonight?” He inched closer. The space was so confined, I’d back into a wall if I moved. I didn’t relish the idea of being trapped by Gabe.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” I straightened my spine, hoping my demeanor might make him back off.

  Thankfully, the doors opened, and I quickly strode over the polished marble floors through the turnstile to get some distance. Shane crossed the lobby toward me. I heard Gabe say, “Mmm-hmm. I see,” as he continued out into the late afternoon traffic.

  Pretending nothing had happened, I flashed Shane my brightest smile, which only grew bigger when he leaned forward and scorched me with the kind of kiss I’d only dreamt about.

  “Come on, Star Shine. There’s a cool Broadway store around here somewhere, and I know
Jo loves T-shirts from musicals.”

  He slipped his hand in mine, and we headed out. I’d been in New York City less than a week, and everything felt like a fairy tale.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We arrived at Jo’s around seven. Shane added our contribution to the pile of presents stacked on the coffee table. An actual chef worked at the kitchen island while Micah, Zion, Eden, and Adam observed. Baby Joshua slumbered in his car seat.

  My eyes goggled at the sight. “You have your own chef?”

  Jo waggled her eyebrows. “Yeah. Micah’s been learning to cook, but it’s easier to learn from a professional than attempting to grab recipes online. Pratosh comes by on special occasions.”

  Everyone rearranged themselves so Shane and I could sit next to each other. I ended up right next to Adam, so close our arms might have brushed if I’d been so bold.

  Even though I’d seen Adam a few days before, my shock and awe had reset back to wide-eyed bewilderment. It was Adam fucking Copeland after all. I’d seen him on TV. He’d been on the cover of the Rock Paper. It would take me more than a week to adjust to casually rubbing elbows with him, literally.

  Shane’s arm snaked around me. I leaned into him, and everything seemed normal again. When he pressed a kiss to the top of my head, I reached up to clasp hands with his, draped over my shoulder. He pulled me tighter, and I melted a bit. How could someone’s body feel like a second skin in so short a time? How could he turn me on while simultaneously putting me at ease?

  Micah caught my attention when he started cutting up veggies like a sous-chef, asking questions about the spices and other culinary techniques.

  Jo explained to me how they’d found Pratosh. “Micah figured we could get some authentic Kerala cuisine. Kerala is the part of India where my dad lives. Do you like curry?”

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  While they worked, Zion said, “So, Layla, why don’t you stop by on Wednesday? The room should be ready for you by then.”

  Jo said, “Oh, I’m glad you guys were able to work that out! Not that I mind having you here, Layla. I just think—”

  “Wait, what?” Shane’s voice rose.

  I faced him. “I’m talking to Zion about renting his extra room. I can’t keep living out of a suitcase in Jo’s guest room.”

  “You could move your stuff to my place for now.” He scratched his chin and held his breath in a way I read as a mirror to my normal awkward posing.

  “That’s really nice, Shane, but—”

  “I mean, until Zion’s ready. I’ll be gone in a couple of days anyway.”

  It did make a certain sense. I’d imposed on Jo long enough, and I’d assumed or at least hoped I’d be going home with Shane again tonight. “Okay.”

  His face brightened, reminding me of the night when I’d first seen him sitting in this very kitchen. When I’d first locked eyes with him, like he’d been my destiny. And here we sat now, not even a full week later, with expectations, with history. He waggled his eyebrows, happy again. “Good. Now that that’s settled . . . Where’s the food?”

  Diced chicken sizzled in a wok. Soon, Pratosh began ladling it out, and Micah popped a bottle of champagne.

  “Hope y’all don’t mind, but this is non-alcoholic.” He poured and passed out six flutes. Raising his, he said, “Happy birthday, Jo!”

  Everyone chimed in. “Happy birthday!”

  As we ate, conversation went from hopes for Jo’s success in the next year, to the amazing food, to touring, and landed on the topic of writing music, which Shane eagerly joined in. Zion, Jo, and Eden started a side conversation on their end of the counter, so I sat between Adam and Shane while Micah cross talked.

  “It’s the meter that kills me,” Shane said. “Do you just write without regard to meter and fix later?”

  Adam took a drink of water. “Depends. The structure can change a lot as a song morphs, so I try not to get too bogged down in lyrics at first.”

  I started to lose my grip on normalcy. The Adam Copeland was discussing his songwriting process a half a foot from me. I’d spent one third of my life trying to get into that man’s head, analyzing song lyrics with other fans, speculating how they related to things going on in his personal life or in the world around him.

  “You write the music before the lyrics?”

  He frowned, thinking. “Sometimes. It’s more that I don’t get married to any particular lyrics until we’ve hammered out the melody. Like with ‘New Dawn,’ there’s a line that goes, we welcome a brand-new sun.” He sang it, and I leaned forward, wanting to ask him if he was singing about his son, but he went on. “The original lyric went something like, in the light of the rising sun, but I had to re-tool it a bit to fit the music. I’m kind of happy with it.”

  My eyes fell on his mouth as he spoke, and I could superimpose a decade’s worth of images on those lips, from photos, to music videos, to concert bootleg. I’d seen thousands of photographs of those lips. I’d watched them make love to a microphone. I’d watched them smolder on the jumbotron, sitting in the audience, too far away to see them for real.

  The reality of those lips curled up, pursed, or moved with the words he spoke with that voice I’d heard nearly every single day for ten years.

  I hadn’t started my fan site to drool over Adam. In fact, I’d started it to learn how to build a website. When the band blew up, and people flocked to my site, I learned how to put up ads so I could earn revenue. Traffic increased. I made it my mission to be a one-stop source of photos, videos, news articles, tour info, and community. And in time, the site consumed my whole life.

  My whole life devoted to this one man.

  What did Adam think of what I did? Did he approve? Did he even care? I wanted to ask. Did my fan site make him proud?

  “Layla? Hello?” Shane tapped me on the shoulder, and I pulled my gaze away from Adam and refocused my eyes. All the guys were watching me.

  Adam said, “The salt, please? I didn’t want to reach over your plate.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I passed it over, wondering how long I’d been mesmerized into a complete drooling idiot.

  Shane covered for me. “You have to bear in mind, Layla’s still a bit starstruck.”

  Adam laughed, but I didn’t think he was mocking me. He struck me as so realistic and even modest about who he was. Charisma rolled off him in waves, effortlessly. He lived in the vortex, but he didn’t let it consume him.

  “Layla?” Shane chided.

  I’d done it again. I blinked my eyes a few times. “I’m sorry. It’s just a lot to process.”

  “Take your time.” Adam kept on eating as if we were talking about the weather rather than me nearly professing a devotion that I’d spent half my life cultivating.

  “She’s actually a cool fan,” said Shane. “Lars sent her out to check out our rehearsal, and she recorded everything without rushing the stage.”

  “Do people do that?” I remembered thinking about doing that very thing.

  Shane dragged a piece of chicken through the brown sauce. “They do at concerts.”

  Micah blotted his lips with a napkin. “We used to be able to go out into the audience for part of the show, but it’s getting harder to do that.”

  “For you, maybe.” Shane’s dig had a bitter tinge.

  “You should send Rick out,” Adam joked.

  Shane guffawed at that suggestion, and we all laughed. From what I’d gathered about Rick, he was the kind of musician who clocked in and performed proficiently but hadn’t signed up for the rock star life. And the rock star life had left him alone. I barely remembered he was a part of the band.

  Adam turned to me, his dark eyes like pools of ink. I reminded myself not to fall in again. It wasn’t lust or love. Just plain-old circuits misfiring. I knew he was just a man, but I’d built him up to be a rock god, and my br
ain couldn’t make sense of it.

  He cleared his throat. “You should come to our rehearsal. I mean, if you wanted to.”

  I nearly fell off my stool. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s a cool idea to release some behind-the-scenes stuff to the magazine. I could talk to Lars.”

  Cue a volcanic eruption of fan babbling. “Oh, my God. I know Lars would say it was okay because he’s been talking about how he wanted to put up more fan-driven content to generate the kind of excitement that would bring more traffic.” I bit my lip to shut myself up.

  Adam exchanged a glance with Shane. “What do you think?”

  Shane put a hand on my shoulder that felt like he was saying, Mine, though I wasn’t sure if the message was intended for Adam or for me. I measured my breathing and tried again, slowly. Normal. “I mean, I’m sure he’d use it.”

  Shane squeezed my shoulder. “Yeah, you should ask him. I think Layla’s going to be gushing about us in an upcoming blog. I can’t wait to read that.”

  I flashed back to what I’d actually written. If Shane expected gushing, he wasn’t going to be disappointed.

  Adam nodded. “What about your friend? The huge fan of ours? Maybe she’d like to do it.”

  “Ash? She lives in Portland.” Not that I’d let anyone else take my place.

  Shane narrowed an eye. “Your best friend lives in Portland?”

  “She’s not really my best friend. We met online.”

  He looked at me like I’d said we met on Mars but let it go. “Hmm. Do you think you know enough about Adam’s music to do it?”

  I coughed. Was he joking? “I’ll be fine. Swear.”

  “What about next Friday then?” Adam’s eyebrows rose, and I studied him for another moment. “Shane won’t miss you since he’ll be gone.”

  Shane hugged me into his chest. “That’s exactly why I’ll miss her.”

  “She could come with us,” offered Micah, and my composure began to seriously falter. “If she wants.”

  I thought of Byron. I could get Friday off maybe. The weekend was mine, but an entire week to follow a single band? I doubted even Lars would find any benefit to that. “Maybe one day.”