Bad Boy Rock Star
Page 20
I pressed "send" on my reply as the train pulled into the station. The cameras would be swinging to Jack at this very moment. By the time I got home, he'd be off stage and on such a high. He might look for me but probably not, and then he'd go out drinking with the others and they could laugh about the way he'd played me big time. Stupid Hannah, too dumb to notice. A bit of pretty talk and few kisses, that's all it'd taken. Too easy. He might even pick up another chick, like that one he’d had at the flat, and take her home. I was well out of there.
The train doors opened. As I stepped into the carriage, someone grabbed me. I struggled. Another reporter?
I’d had enough of bloody reporters just looking for someone else’s misery to splash all over their front pages.
"Fuck off, mate. No photos."
I swung around, prepared to hit him. I’d knock his camera to the ground before any more photos of me could appear on their front pages. As my fist connected with his face, I realised it wasn’t a reporter.
It was Jack Colt.
###
Candy J. Starr used to be a band manager until she realised that the band she managed was so lacking in charisma that they actually sucked the charisma out of any room they played. “Screw you,” she said, leaving them to wallow in obscurity – totally forgetting that they owed her big bucks for video equipment hire.
Candy has filmed and interviewed some big names in the rock business, and a lot of small ones. She’s seen the dirty little secrets that go on in the back rooms of band venues. She’s seen the ugly side of rock and the very pretty one.
But, of course, everything she writes is fiction.
candyjstarr.wordpress.com
@candyjstarr
Coming soon:
Rock Star vs. Millionaire
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