The Rookie and The Rockstar

by Kate, Jiffy

  It’s the worst sleep I’ve had in my life...worse than the night before the draft...worse than the night before I signed my contract with the Revelers...worse than any night I’ve ever lost sleep combined.

  Chapter 22

  Charlotte

  I didn’t listen to Bo’s message last night, I couldn’t. I let every call go to voicemail because I didn’t trust myself to be strong enough to do what I know is best for both of us right now, which is me in L.A. and Bo in New Orleans, or wherever the Revelers are playing.

  Never in a million years did I expect a chance encounter with a hot baseball player to turn into this, whatever this is. I think I know what it is, but I’m scared to admit it. Admitting it means I’d have to tell my secrets and I haven’t done that...ever.

  When I texted him last night, I knew I owed him that much. Casey had already called Mom and Dad and told on me, basically. She didn’t talk to me. She probably won’t for a while, unless I apologize and make things right, but again, I can’t do that.

  But now, in the quiet of my old bedroom, I have my cell phone pressed to my ear and Bo’s sweet voice sounds all kinds of worried and it’s literally crushing my soul. My fingers are dialing his number before I can overthink it and the next thing I know, he’s answering.

  “Charlotte?” He sounds relieved and I hate I might be giving him false hope.

  “Bo,” I start, checking my voice when it cracks on his name alone. Clearing it, I start again. “Hey, I, uh...sorry I didn’t call you last night and for leaving like I did.” I am sorry for all of that. I really, really am. “I didn’t mean to make you worry. That was really shitty of me.” But I had to, I want to tell him. I had to get the hell out of there and clear my head. It’s crazy that the place I ran to is usually the only place I’m running from.

  When I arrived at the airport last night, surrounded by paparazzi, I immediately regretted my decision, but it was too late. I’m here now and I need to somehow make all of this go away before it gets any worse. I’m not sure how to do that, but I’m praying I’ll get some sort of divine revelation while I’m here.

  “Are...are you mad at me?” he asks and my heart breaks a little more.

  I shake my head to myself, hating that he’s assuming responsibility when he’s done nothing wrong. He’s amazing. He’s good...maybe too good, too good for this life and all the shit that comes with it. “No,” I finally say. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  For a second, I almost come completely clean, telling him what that final straw was that broke the proverbial camel’s back, but I bite my lip to keep it inside. That’s not a conversation I want to have over the phone. I’m just hoping and praying I get a chance to do it in person, when everything has settled.

  “Then why did you leave?” he asks, confusion and maybe a bit of anger surfacing under that hurt that’s so audible it’s chipping away at my resolve. I’ll take his anger. That I can deal with. “The last time we talked, you seemed fine...I know things have been bad with the rumors and media, but I thought we were dealing?”

  “I was trying,” I admit, I can at least give him this much. “I was...we were. But…” I pause, exhaling sharply and pulling at my hair. God, why does my life have to be so fucking complicated? What happened to just having a dream and living it? Can people not do that anymore? “It was just too much and I hated that it was becoming such a distraction for you...I never wanted all of this to affect you.”

  Some of that is bullshit. I know it. He knows it. Bo’s actually handled everything like a champ. He’s ignored the rumors, not even paying attention to gossip articles, even when he’s mentioned in them. When people approach him, he tells them he doesn’t have a comment and he moves on. It’s me...the professional...the veteran, when it comes to paparazzi and living life in the public eye, who’s breaking under the pressure.

  “I just need to finish this album,” I tell him. “In two weeks, this will all be behind me and hopefully after the album drops, someone else will do something scandalous and everyone will forget I even exist.”

  God, that sounds amazing.

  “And when that happens,” I continue. “Because it will.” It’s happened before. I have no doubt in a month’s time, rumors of me being pregnant will be old news. And no one will care where I’m at or what I’m doing or who I’m doing it with. “I’ll be back in New Orleans and we’ll pick up where we left off.” At least, that’s what I’m hoping for.

  Bo’s quiet, too quiet for my liking, and I’m getting ready to tell him to say something when he finally speaks up. “Are we breaking up?”

  Are we?

  Would that make it easier on him?

  I feel like I know Bo, but I don’t know this, so I ask. “Do you want to break up? A break?” I offer, hating the way the words taste on my tongue—bitter and ugly and wrong.

  “I…” he hesitates, sucking in a sharp, audible breath. “I want whatever will make you happy Charlotte.”

  If he had physically stabbed me, it would’ve hurt less than that statement, but I suck it up and try to make this as painless as possible. “I’m not looking to be in a relationship with anyone else,” I tell him. “If that makes this easier...better. This isn’t me telling you I don’t want to be with you. It’s just me telling you I need to figure my shit out and the only way I know how to do that is to be here in L.A., where I can focus on the album. When I’m here, I know what to expect. No one will get one over on me. I need that. I need to feel like there’s something in my life I can predict right now.”

  He’s quiet for another moment, but then I hear people talking in the background. Glancing down at the clock on my nightstand, I see it’s almost ten o’clock in the morning here, which makes it almost noon there. The Revelers have a game starting in about an hour.

  “I can give you that,” Bo finally say, his voice barely above a whisper. “Whatever you need.”

  I have to swallow hard around the tears that are threatening to spill.

  “I’m just a phone call away, Charlotte,” Bo continues softly. “Anything you need, just call me.”

  I lose the battle with the tears and feel one slip down my cheek. Brushing it away, I tell him, “Okay.” The fact that after all of this he still wants to be there for me makes me want to crawl through the phone and curl up in his lap. I could tell him everything and we could hide away from the world. It’d be like the bubble we were in back in Boston. But I can’t do that, so I do the only thing I know to do. “Goodbye, Bo.”

  “Goodbye, Charlotte.” Those last words from him sound more tortured than anything else he’s said, like they were ripped from his body.

  Closing my eyes, I fall back on my bed and curl up into a ball. I’d like to stay like this forever, but I know I can’t. As much as I want to hide away from the world, I can’t. Sighing, I bring my phone back up and dial Terry.

  “Lola,” he says, happier than I’ve heard him in months. But why wouldn’t he be? I’ve played right into his plans. I’m here, in L.A. I’m exactly where he wants me. “I was just getting ready to call you. I have a driver scheduled to pick you up in an hour and some studio time blocked out at Venture Records. John and Sam will both be there to mix a few of those last songs you laid down last week. With you and them in the same studio, it will make all of it go much smoother.”

  This business-as-usual demeanor is actually making me breathe easier. Studio work is something I’m good at. Paparazzi can’t follow me into a studio. “Sounds good,” I tell him, rolling over to stare at the ceiling. “I’ll be ready.”

  “I’ve also got you an interview on KXCA set for tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  “Encore would like a photoshoot,” he adds. “I thought we could schedule that for the day after next. It would be great for you to get some hair and makeup done and make some appearances. These pregnancy rumors floating around are okay...I mean, no publicity is bad publicity,” he says with a chuckle. “But I’d like to debunk those and get their atte
ntion directed in other areas. We could set you up to be seen leaving a few key places...with the right people...and in something form-fitting…”

  His words become a drone of nonsense in my ear, so I tune him out, letting him talk because I know nothing I say will change any of this. I just have to suck it up and deal—pay my penance.

  “Charlotte,” one photographer yells, while another one thrusts a camera in my face.

  “Is it true you’re pregnant with Bo Bennett’s baby?” another yells.

  My hands go up to shield my face, while I keep my head down and pray I don’t trip and fall on my way to the car. If this was New Orleans, Frank would be at the end of this torture, waiting to rescue me and help me in the car. But this isn’t New Orleans and Frank isn’t here. The new driver Terry assigned to me is waiting at the car with the backdoor open, but other than that, when I catch a glimpse of his face, it’s a blank slate, showing no emotion.

  “Does he know?” the guys yells again, snapping a photo.

  “Did the two of you break-up?”

  “Have you put on weight?”

  “Are you seeing Cruise Salvatore?”

  “What brings you back to L.A.?”

  Their questions are rapid-fire and nothing new. I’ve heard them all. I’m gaining weight, according to them, but the truth is that I’ve lost nearly ten pounds in the last two weeks. The pregnancy rumors are the ones that always get me, but the more they ask, the less it stings.

  I don’t even waste my breath by telling them I have no comment any more. I just try to block out as much as I can and get to the car as fast as possible.

  They’re everywhere. I haven’t been one place in L.A. without at least a handful of cameras following me or meeting me there. The worst of the recent questions and rumors are surrounding Bo. I actually thought about confirming that we’re not together in hopes they’ll leave him alone, but I couldn’t say something like that knowing it would get back to Bo. That statement would hurt him more than any rumor ever could.

  “Charlotte, over here,” one guy yells.

  “Come on, baby. Give us something,” another yells from my right side, making my back stiffen at the baby. Who the fuck does he think he is? I know who I am and it’s definitely not his baby.

  “We know you’re not a prude,” the same guy jeers, laughing and getting a few of the others to laugh along. My heart rate spikes about that time, realizing there’s only one of me and about half a dozen of them.

  None of the photographers in the past have ever crossed the line between wanting to get the story and a personal attack. I’ve always been fortunate in that regard. But the tone this guy is using has me on edge.

  “She spread her legs for Salvatore,” he adds, snickering, like it’s an off-handed comment between friends. “Wonder if she’d spread them for me?”

  At that, I whirl, my breaths coming in quick harsh spurts. “Shut the fuck up,” I yell, losing myself and my cool. “You don’t know me. Stop pretending like you do and stay the fuck away from me.”

  Our eyes meet, his and mine, and I wish they hadn’t, because in those eyes, I see no fear. He’s unflinching and I’ve made this some kind of game or challenge. I know it’s true when he darts his tongue out and licks his bottom lip suggestively.

  Turning, I force my way through and stumble to the car. The driver shuts the door behind me like he’s put out by the display, but nothing else. No care for what just happened, which I know he heard. How could he not? I think everyone in a two block radius heard that bullshit.

  “Drive,” I growl, pressing my head into the seat and taking some deep, cleansing breaths.

  “So, tell me about this media attention,” Cindy, the DJ for KXCA says from across the desk and I immediately begin to fidget, which is so not me. At least, it’s not the Charlotte from a few months ago, but I find myself fidgeting more and more these days because I’m constantly put into uncomfortable situations...like this one.

  “Uh,” I stutter, knowing that’s only going to make things worse. I need to come across as confident and unphased, don’t give them anything to play off of...don’t fucking bleed. “Well, I mean, it comes with the territory,” I finally go with, trying to brush it off and under the closest fucking rug.

  I came here to talk about the album. “Especially when you’re getting ready to release your first album in two years,” I add, hoping it will be a good segue into more comfortable territory.

  “Yeah, but, I think even you can admit it’s been a little much lately,” she hedges. “Am I right? I bet you feel like you’re being stalked. Do you even use the bathroom without a camera in your face these days?”

  I know she’s trying to be funny and relevant and give her listeners what they want—the juicy gossip, the dirt, the insider information—but I’m really starting to not like her.

  “Pretty much,” I reply, adjusting the headphones and giving her a tight-lipped smile.

  “And what about Bo Bennett?” she asks with a lascivious smile. “Now, there’s a hottie if I’ve ever seen one...baseball player...in the running for rookie of the year.” Her eyebrows go up as if to say impressive.

  I nod, but then swallow nervously when I realize no one listening on the radio can hear a nod. “Yeah, he’s pretty...great.”

  “Are you two handling this long-distance thing, okay?” she asks, and I freaking want to strangle Terry. He promised me an interview about the album. He said nothing about being on Unlocked After Dark.

  “Fine,” I bark, a little too abruptly and give her a quick smile to try to smooth it over. “He’s busy, you know, with baseball...and I’m busy with my album.”

  “What are your plans after the album drops? Will you be staying in L.A. or going back to New Orleans?” Thankfully, we’re at least going in the right direction, so I try to sound a bit more enthusiastic with my answer, albeit vague. “I’m still unsure...kind of playing it by ear.”

  There’s no way in hell I’m telling thousands of people my life plan.

  “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be living your life in the public eye...I’m sure you’re used to it by now, what with growing up on Life with Charli and now being in the music scene. But even you must get tired of it.”

  Either her genuine interest or my exhaustion breaks down my walls and I reply honestly. “I do...I am,” I tell her and the sad smile she offers me across the desk tells me she understands, or at least can empathize. Maybe this is my chance. I have a platform, I should use it. “No one tells you what it’s going to be like, you know? You have this dream, but to live it, you have to be in front of people. And after a while, and with some success, people start feeling like you owe them for your fame...and the pay they want is your life...public and private. Some people are more innocent and only want to know more about their favorite singer or actor. But so many feel entitled. You know?” I ask, realizing that the entire studio is dead silent and all eyes are on me. I feel the blush creeping up on my cheeks and the on-air sign is glaring at me, reminding me I’m talking to millions of people. “I love what I do,” I continue, searching for the right thing to say to make this less awkward. “I just would like to be able to do it without cameras breathing down my neck twenty-four-seven.”

  After the interview is over, I duck out a side door, headed to the waiting car and who is standing on the sidewalk? None other than the pervert from yesterday. When I climb into the back of the car, I can’t help watching him walk to a similar black SUV parked a few cars behind us.

  The weirdest part is he didn’t have his camera. He was just standing there, waiting. I can’t explain the feeling that washes over me, but it feels a lot like self-preservation and I suddenly just want to get back to my parents’ house.

  “Take me home,” I instruct the driver.

  “Mr. Carlson said to take you straight to the restaurant,” he informs me.

  I grit my teeth and chance a glance out the back window where I see the same black SUV following us. “I’m not feelin
g well. Take me home.”

  “Mr. Carlson—”

  “Terry doesn’t run my life,” I yell, sitting up straighter in the seat. “Take me home. And lose the guy tailing us.”

  At this, he checks his rearview mirror and notices the vehicle following entirely too close. When he picks up speed, I sit back in my seat and try to keep calm. I just need to get home.

  As we turn down a side road, I can’t help checking, but the fucker is still there.

  For a second, I think about telling him to drive to the nearest police station. My dad always told me to do that if I felt like I was being followed, but I have no clue where a police station is. Actually, I have no idea where we are. Looking out the window as business and buildings blur, I can’t get my bearings.

  The faster my driver goes, the faster the vehicle behind us goes, meeting us turn for turn.

  “I can’t lose him,” the driver says and for the first time since he started driving me, he’s actually showing some emotion and it freaks me out even more, because there’s nothing but fear written all over his face when he looks over his shoulder at me. “Where should we go?”

  “Police station?” I offer.

  When he turns back to the road, I feel the car lurch forward and we have to be doing over eighty down the side streets of L.A., way over the speed limit. I’m about to tell him to slow down when a vehicle blows a stop sign on a perpendicular street. “Look out!”

  I feel the car swerve, tossing me across the seat.

  Chapter 23

  Bo

  “I know we’ve discussed this before,” Skip says, sitting down beside me on the bench in the locker room with a heavy sigh. “If you need our team publicist to handle this media attention, just give us the word.”