The Rookie and The Rockstar

by Kate, Jiffy

  This is classic Terry. Not too long ago he wanted to exploit my relationship with Bo...now, he’s moved on to Blaine Wilson. It’s whatever works for him—whatever he thinks will pad his pocket.

  Fuck that.

  “I don’t want a collab. I don’t need it. And I’ve already told you, I’ll do whatever needs to be done from my studio. If you need to send people to me, that’s fine, but I’m staying in New Orleans until the album is ready to drop. Then, I’ll see you in L.A. for the release and the two week radio tour.”

  I’m so tired of people dictating my life.

  Terry sighs, obviously giving up for today. “We’ll discuss it later. But for now, we need to talk about security while you’re out of town. I’m sending someone over to the hotel.”

  “I don’t need him,” I insist, feeling my hackles raise.

  “Do you plan on never leaving the hotel?” he asks.

  Deep breaths, Charlotte.

  “Those are my exact plans.” The details of my stay are not necessary nor pertinent to this conversation and none of his goddamn business. “I’ll call you when I’m back in New Orleans.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he warns. “I’m sending him over whether you want him or not. He’ll be at your disposal when and if you need him. And trust me, you will.”

  His overconfidence at me needing a bodyguard does not sit well with me. “Terry, this isn’t a fucking publicity stunt. If my location is leaked, there will be hell to pay, do you understand me?”

  There’s a long pause before he speaks again, a little more reserve in his tone. “Understood. Safe travels, Charlotte.”

  Is it crazy that when he uses my real name it grates on my nerves? I hate it, actually. Without a parting greeting, I push end on the call and shove my phone onto the bed.

  “Gah, I hate him,” Casey groans. “Like with a fiery passion. After this album, you have to fire him. You know everyone in the industry, surely you can manage your own career. I feel like he’s just sitting up there in his shiny L.A. office getting fat off your hard work.”

  That’s Casey, always on the same wavelength.

  We spend the rest of the day watching the Revelers beat up on Boston while eating our weight in chocolate cake and French fries. After the game is over, instead of hurrying back to Bo’s room, Casey and I watch My Best Friend’s Wedding and part of Pretty Woman. It’s basically a perfect afternoon—no paps, no calls, no rumors—just me and my sister, living our best.

  My two days spent with Bo wasn’t a total fuck fest. We did spend plenty of time in bed together, but we also spent a lot of it just relaxing and watching movies. He’s decided Notting Hill is his second favorite Julia Roberts’ movie, which I couldn’t be happier about, so we did a rewatch.

  The Revelers swept Boston and I wish I could’ve been there to watch it in person, but I didn’t want to risk it. Laying low for a few days was exactly what I needed. Casey has been religiously checking the gossip blogs and none of them have mentioned me since we left New Orleans, except to speculate where I’ve been, most of them guessing L.A. I’m sure they’d eventually put it all together and find me here, but it’s too late, because in a few hours, we’ll be on a plane headed back to New Orleans.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Bo whispers, his lips on my hair. “Having you here was the best surprise ever...I want you with me at all the road games.”

  I laugh, wrapping my arms tighter around his midsection, wedging my head under his chin. I wish I could follow him around God’s green earth, but this was an indulgence I can only allow myself occasionally. The last thing we want is for the media to catch on to me tagging along to away games. That would create a shit show of mass proportions.

  Bo and the team will be flying out in an hour, but Casey and I will be on a commercial flight a couple hours behind them. Knowing that we’re headed to the same city is making this goodbye easier to take, but even knowing that, I still don’t want to let go.

  When there’s a knock at the door, we both jump a little. Looking up, I see Bo’s eyes widen and then cut to the door.

  “Shit,” I whisper, dropping my arms and looking for a place to hide. It’s not that I’m breaking any rules or laws, but we’ve managed to keep this on the downlow and I really don’t want to blow that at the last second. This has been our happy little bubble for a couple days. I’d like to keep it that way. My wig is laying on the table across the room, so I run as quietly as possible over to it and slap it on my head, glancing briefly in the mirror on the dresser to make sure it’s somewhat in place.

  “The bathroom,” Bo whispers. “I’ll get rid of whoever—”

  “Rook,” a familiar voice booms through the door and now we’re both wide-eyed as we freeze in place. It’s Ross Davies, so not the end of the world if he figures out I’m in here. Not great, but not horrible. However, I still scurry into the bathroom and silently close the door behind me, leaning against it and breathing as quietly as possible. Catching a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror, I have to stifle a laugh. I look ridiculous. My wig is sitting a little off center and looking thoroughly fucked, even though it’s not seen any action in the sack.

  Hmmm. Maybe we’ll do a little role play the next time I have to go undercover to see him.

  “Hey,” I hear Bo say from the other side of the door.

  “What took you so long?” Ross asks, sounding suspicious.

  “Oh, uh...I was in the bathroom,” Bo replies. Yeah, not suspicious at all. One thing is for sure, my guy is not a good liar. Which is good. I like that about him. I like that he’s honest to a fucking fault. It’s refreshing.

  “Bathroom, huh?” Ross still doesn’t sound convinced and I swear if I could see him, he’s probably peering around Bo’s shoulder to see what he can see. “You got somebody in here, Rook?”

  “What?” Bo asks, entirely too quick on the draw. “No, wh—why would you ask that?”

  There’s a pause before Ross continues. “Oh, I don’t know, other than the fact that it smells like lavender...and girly shit...maybe some honey or sugar. Are you into that sort of thing, Rook? Something I don’t know about you? Are bath salts your secret weapon?”

  “You got me,” Bo says with a chuckle, a very very guilty chuckle. “Yep, bath salts. Trick of the trade, loosens up those muscles every damn time. My mom, uh...sends them to me. I keep telling her to quit with the lavender shit, but she never listens. I mean, moms...whatcha gonna do?”

  Oh. My. Good. God. Bo Bennett, shut your fucking mouth. Laughing, silently, I drop my head to my hand and wait for it.

  “You’re a damn liar,” Ross says. “A fucking horrible one, but a damn liar.” His laugh tells me his thinks this shit is as funny as I do, but Bo is still trying to cover.

  “What? No...I’m—” he starts, but Ross cuts him off.

  “Look, Rook...you do whatever and whoever you want, but I thought you had something special with you know who,” he says, his voice dropping an octave to keep their conversation private, since the door of the hotel room is still open. “So, don’t go fucking that up, just because you got your dick wet for the first time in years...don’t become a manwhore like Wilson. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s got pussy in every city. But you know what he’s also got?” Ross asks, waiting for Bo to catch up. “Three kids, all different mamas, paying child support out his ass. Don’t be Wilson.”

  “I’m not,” Bo says firmly. “And I’m not stepping out on...you know who,” he says, adopting the same lower, private tone Ross was using. “She’s here,” I hear him whisper. And there must be a silent conversation going on between the two men, because I don’t hear anything else for a long moment.

  Then there’s a hey, Charlotte against the bathroom door and I die. “Hope you enjoyed Boston.”

  Sighing, I focus my attention out the window, to a sky of nothingness as we fly from Boston to Louisiana, and lean against the glass.

  “Already missing him?” Casey asks, most of her a
ttention on the book in her lap. “You’ve got it bad.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Just callin’ it like I see it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  “Shut. Up.”

  Humming to herself, she flips a page. “I’m guessing you’re not regretting this trip.”

  “Nope.”

  Never. This was the best trip I’ve taken in a long time, maybe ever. My time spent with Bo was time well-spent and well-deserved. I feel strong and confident flying back to New Orleans and diving into my work, getting ready for this album release. Whatever is headed my way, I can take it. There’s a quiet strength in knowing how solid I feel about my relationship with Bo, one I never knew I needed or wanted, but it’s giving me a much-needed fresh perspective.

  “How are we getting home from the airport?” Casey asks, flipping another page.

  I let out another sigh. “I sent Terry a text from the airport. He’s supposed to have Frank meet us near the baggage claim, just in case.”

  “Good ol’ Frank,” Casey muses.

  He’s really the best. I never feel uneasy when I know Frank is around, but he’s also at Terry’s beck-and-call. Maybe one of these days, when I kick Terry to the curb, I’ll make sure Frank stays. More than likely, the day Terry and I split, will be like a divorce. There will probably be negotiations and mediations—his and hers.

  Once the plane lands in Kenner, Louisiana, Casey and I grab our carry-ons and are the first to disembark, due to being in first class. It’s the only way to fly, the only way I can fly, without being noticed. As we make our way toward the exit near the baggage claim, my phone rings.

  “Hello?” I say, shuffling my bag to my other shoulder, pressing the phone to my ear.

  “Listen,” Terry starts and I inwardly cringe. Anytime he starts with that, I know he’s up to something. “There will be people outside the airport. You know your job. Look disinterested, keep your head down, sunglasses up, and no comment your way to the car. Frank will be there waiting.”

  “Terry,” I grit out, wanting to reach through my phone and wring his fucking neck.

  “Hey,” he starts, verbally backtracking. “It’s not me...I just happened to be on the phone with Frank and he said there are a few cars he recognizes, so I’m giving you a heads up. Would you rather I let you walk into the lion’s den without warning?”

  Yeah, you’re just a fucking saint, aren’t you?

  “Fine.” I leave it at that and hang up on him. We’ve almost made it to the doors and I know there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I grab Casey’s hand and tell her, “Stay close.”

  Terry was right, and more than likely to blame, for the throng of cameras and people who bombard us as we exit the doors. With the paps attention comes other people’s attention, turning to see if they recognize whoever the media is making a big deal about. Thankfully, I have my wig and sunglasses in place, but that does nothing to keep them from yelling out my name, blocking our path to Frank and the car.

  “Lola, why the disguise?”

  “Lola, over here, were you with Bo?”

  “Lola, did you just land from Boston?”

  “Lola, how’s the album coming?”

  “Lola, what will be your first single?”

  “Lola, is it true you’re pregnant?”

  That last one stops me in my tracks and if it wasn’t for the firm grip Casey now has on my hand and the extra squeeze when she hears the question, I might trip and fall over the words. “No comment,” I mutter, dipping my chin to my chest and pushing my way around the man who asked, his camera right in my face.

  “Is that why you’ve been seen in baggy sweatshirts recently? Are you hiding a baby?”

  “Is it Bo’s?” another paparazzi asks. “Does he know?”

  “I’m wearing fucking sweatshirts because I want to, they’re comfortable, and sometimes I eat too much chocolate cake and French fries. What the fuck is it to you?” That’s what I want to say, but I don’t. I just keep my head down, and Casey as close to my back as possible, and push my way to the car.

  “Miss Carradine.” Frank’s familiar voice and gentle hand on my shoulder makes me look up. I’m sure the look on my face is one of pure gratefulness.

  “Frank,” I say with a smile.

  “Right this way,” he says, a little more force in his tone, as he uses his big body to make a path for us, right to the open door of the car.

  Yeah, I totally get Frank.

  Chapter 19

  Bo

  “Oh, God,” I groan, wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt.

  Charlotte tsks from across the kitchen, facing me on the other side of the island. “Don’t rub your eyes, it makes it worse.”

  I laugh. “Well, it’s either wipe my eyes or cut my fingers off with this big ass knife you have me using,” I tell her, making out her beautiful face through the blurriness of tears. “I kinda need my fingers.”

  “Damn right, you do,” I barely hear her mutter under her breath. “We can switch jobs,” she says.

  Oh, hell no. “Huh uh,” I say, shaking my head and getting back to my task at hand—chopping onions and peppers. “I’m not de-pooping shrimp.”

  Charlotte’s laugh is contagious. “It’s not that bad.”

  Once I have a nice pile of onions, I turn to the sink and wash my hands, feeling that familiar warmth in my chest every time I’m around Charlotte, especially when she’s laughing and happy. The past couple weeks have not been easy for her. If I thought the leaked photos were bad, they were a drop in the bucket to the relentlessness of the paparazzi since we got back from Boston.

  I still get pissed when I think about her and Casey being swarmed as soon as they got off the plane last week. Thank God Frank was there. But the gut feeling about Terry is getting stronger and stronger. He’s a weasel of the worst kind. I know Casey is on to him and I think Charlotte is too, but according to her, her hands are tied until after this album is out.

  My goal this past week has been to make her life as easy as possible. I snuck her in the players’ entrance a few days ago and up to a private box so she and Casey could catch a game and get Charlotte out of the studio without worrying about cameras and reporters.

  The rumor that seems to be bothering her the most is about her being pregnant. It’s laughable. We know that. Everyone close to us who matters knows that. So, I’m not sure why she’s letting it get to her so bad. I tried to talk to her last night, but she ended up seducing me instead.

  Which isn’t hard.

  Charlotte Carradine is my kryptonite. I’m completely weak when it comes to her. And that scares the shit out of me more than what’s getting ready to happen in this very kitchen.

  Charlotte is meeting my parents.

  They’re in town for the Mother’s Day game tomorrow. They both took off an extra couple days to enjoy New Orleans and my mother is dying to meet Charlotte. Instead of subjecting us all to the paps, we decided to cook dinner...me and Charlotte...cooking in her kitchen. It feels so domestic and a far cry from what my life was like just a few short months ago, but I’m not complaining. It’s nice. Better than nice, actually. I love it. I love the change of pace from being at the ballpark. Having these moments with Charlotte—cooking, eating, sleeping, watching Netflix, arguing over who makes the best bacon—helps me enjoy the other side of my life even more.

  I’d always thought a relationship equaled distraction, but what I didn’t realize is that distraction was exactly what I needed. Davies was right. I reluctantly told him as much, which has made him nearly impossible to deal with lately. His head is so fucking big, it barely makes it through the locker room door.

  “Did you say they’ll be here at six?” Charlotte asks, drawing my attention back around to her. “If so, we should go ahead and start sautéing the vegetables.”

  Who would’ve thought it? Charlotte Carradine, on-stage badass, seductress in the bedroom, Netflix aficionado, and amateur chef. I th
ought I was capable in the kitchen, but she can pretty much run circles around me. However, real running is not her forte. I laugh to myself at the thought. She showed me her home gym the other day and I got in a quick workout to keep from having to leave. She wanted to race on the treadmills, but that didn’t end so well for her.

  According to her, she was dying and begging me to show her mercy, which I did not.

  She went back to her Pilates machine and yoga. I stayed on the treadmill with the best view of my life. That was a routine I could get used to.

  “Yeah, six,” I confirm. “And my mom is never late.” I huff a laugh just thinking about it. “Probably the teacher in her, but if you say six, she’ll pull up in your driveway at five-fifty-five and sit there for four minutes before knocking on the door at precisely six o’clock.”

  “Well, in that case, bring your fine ass and your fine work over here and we’ll get this show on the road.” I thought the show was already on the road, but a few minutes later, the amazing smell that starts filling the kitchen lets me know this is where it’s at...like go-time. The peppers and onions, mixed with garlic and melted butter, have my mouth watering.

  Eventually Charlotte shoos me away to set her dining room table, which I happily oblige. A few minutes later, Casey joins us and starts pulling out glasses and coordinating napkins.

  The Carradine girls are quite the hostesses.

  “Meeting the parents,” Casey teases when we’re all reconvened in the kitchen. She laughs, bumping Charlotte’s hip on her way by, to which Charlotte shakes her head and continues stirring.

  Crab and Shrimp Creole—that’s what’s on the menu. My parents are the least picky people on the planet, so I’m not worried they’ll love it...and Charlotte. Mom has already asked a million questions, wanting to know what Charlotte is really like, but other than setting her straight on some of the rumors, I told her she’d just have to wait and see for herself.

  Charlotte doesn’t need me to sell her to my parents. She’ll do that with a five-minute conversation. They’ll see what I saw that first night—a genuine person who is kind and caring and so much more than her onstage persona or anything the media would try to get you to believe. Sure, she’s done some stupid shit in her life. I never said she was perfect, but who is? I might’ve lived a squeaky clean existence for the last twenty-five years, but that was by choice, because I was trying to push my body to extreme limits.