by Becky Wicks
Copyright © Becky Wicks 2014
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"A guy and a girl can be just friends, but at one point or another they will fall for each other, maybe temporarily, maybe at the wrong time, maybe too late, or maybe forever."
Dave Matthews Band
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
Lara Craft
Acknowledgements
Before He Was Famous
Prologue
Let me guess. When you say the name Noah Lockton, you see him standing with one of a hundred guitars around his neck, glistening with sweat in the glare of the stage lights.
You see him grinning, maybe on a pap shot, maybe snapped on a red carpet, smiling at you from the middle of a magazine. You see him in the spotlight; hot in more ways than one, right?
You see shouting headlines, hear the shrieks of infatuated fans, visualize the vacuous presenters buffing up his ego on all those TV channels and him batting away compliments like they're bees. You see bulbs flashing, neon flickering, videos playing on loop everywhere. They're in the gym, on the seatback screens of airplanes; in your Facebook sidebar when you're messaging your friends.
You hear his music, obviously. How could you not? It's everywhere. His voice is everywhere. You know the stats. Noah Lockton. Twenty-three. Five-foot-eleven, messy brown curls and steel-gray eyes. Pisces. You think you know him, this superstar, guitar-playing rock star.
But there are some things you don't know about Noah Lockton.
You don't know how proud he was that time, to have made me a cake out of Lego, mud and toothpaste. How when he was eight, he sat up in the tree house for three whole days after Prairie died. I was freaking out that if the dog fell down from heaven no one else would be as close to the sky to catch him. Noah just didn't want anyone else to see him cry. So we sat up there together, neither of us saying a word. Just holding hands.
You don't know how crazy he made me, teaching me guitar till my fingers bled. How we perfected the art of burping the entire first Britney Spears single together after four cans of Diet Coke and convinced a radio station to put us on air.
You don't know how his arms felt wrapped around me when my world came crashing down; how I clung to the feeling of him inside me, filling me up; bringing me back to life again when all I could feel otherwise was numb.
You don't know how we avoid the subject now.
When we were kids, his dad said his eyes were so shiny in all my photos because of all the stars inside them.
Noah was always going to shine.
He was always going to be mine.
But sometimes even I forget the way things were before he was famous.
1
Chloe
One year earlier...
'Do I really have to do this?' Cooper groans for the millionth time since we got here.
'We promised to get as many people here as possible,' I tell my boyfriend, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. 'What else were you planning to do, anyway?'
I resist the urge to add 'sprawl on the couch getting high, watching another mind-bending stoner's cartoon' to the end of my question because we're in a crowded room and also because I really can't handle another stupid fight. I know that's exactly what he'd rather be doing. Cooper hasn't done much else since he quit his environmental engineering major at CU to perfect the art of growing marijuana in his basement.
'Right, can we get Noah's immediate family on the couch here,' the producer says, scurrying round us looking way too pink in the face. 'And close friends just behind it. That would be you guys, yes? You're the brother?'
Jack salutes her. 'That's me!' He plonks himself down and his girlfriend sits next to him, smoothing her already-poker-straight hair, looking nervous. There are three cameras waiting to blast us to the masses in the living room and another outside on the Lockton's driveway, where whoever couldn't fit in the house is out there screaming. It's so surreal.
I pull Cooper to the couch with me and stand behind it with Noah's old band-mates. Alyssa scrambles up next to me, boobs jiggling. 'Am I on camera here, babe?' she asks, buffing up her curly hair and smacking her red glossy lips.
'I don't think it'll miss you,' I assure her.
Noah's mom Anne shoots me a nervous glance from the sofa and I give her shoulders a squeeze. 'He's gonna be great,' I tell her over the cushions.
'I just hope he wins, after all this,' she replies. 'That silly producer's getting filth all over my carpet.'
We watch the frazzled-looking woman clapping her hands, fixing her earpiece, talking to someone standing outside on a radio. 'Right everyone,' she says loudly after a moment. 'When the presenters talk us in I'm gonna need you to cheer and scream and clap and do whatever else you can to make noise. Lots of it. OK? There'll be two slots for us - a short one when the show starts and a three minute one after the second commercial break, which is when we'll talk to the family and... Chloe. Where's Chloe?'
I raise my hand.
'Great, Chloe, so you're going to describe briefly a time you heard your friend Noah on the guitar, and how amazed you were. Like we rehearsed, right?'
'Not a problem,' I say and I wince as Cooper rolls his eyes and takes a hit from his vaporizer pen right in front of her. The pen basically means he can top up his high anywhere, at any inappropriate moment. I reach for his arm to take it away but I catch the end of his cashmere sweater sleeve by mistake and he shoots me a death stare. Cooper hates me touching the ends of his sleeves in case I stretch his clothes; most of which are d
esigner and paid for with his trust fund, naturally.
'Screw this shit,' he's mumbling now, sidling off through the crowd to stand at the back. I sigh after him, will myself not to get wound up.
'Let it go. Let it gooooooo,' Alyssa sings straight away, nodding after Cooper and adjusting her plunging neckline to accentuate her cleavage. I can't help let out a laugh. She's been singing that frickin' Frozen song at me for weeks but she knows I still crack up every time. 'He's probably better off at the back anyway,' she adds, turning to arrange my long hair in a cascade over one shoulder.
She's right, I guess. Besides the fact that Cooper's off his head and would probably have Colorado's cannabis legalization totally reversed should the world see him on TV, Cooper never was Noah's number one fan. He didn't think much of him even before he auditioned for Show Us What U've Got and made it into the top five. It's Noah's brother that Cooper gets along with. We met because Jack gave him bass guitar lessons for about five minutes, four years ago, right here in this house.
'We want everyone out there to know Boulder, Colorado is rooting for Noah Lockton, more so than any other town is rooting for any of the other contestants, right?' the producer's saying now. It's all I can do not to roll my eyes at this. These things always look so staged when they go out on TV. But I'll do anything they want; of course I will. I mean, this has been Noah's dream since he was a kid.
The first thing I remember about Noah Lockton is the sound of his voice drifting from his bedroom and down into my garden, next door. He was playing something by Bon Jovi, I think. I couldn't make out the words, but even as a kid I was mesmerized. I followed the music right through his open front door, up the stairs to his room and hovered in the doorway, staring at his magical fingers flying over the strings. It was at least five minutes before he noticed me and freaked out, wondering who the hell this random little girl was, standing in his room.
My parents came looking for me twenty minutes later, but by then he'd taught me the C chord and Noah Lockton had strummed his way irrevocably into my heart. I always knew he was madly talented. I never actually expected to watch him charm the entire U.S on live television.
A rush of pride soars through me, mixed with the usual awkward rush of something else. I smile nervously at Alyssa and she does a little excited dance on the spot. 'If he wins this round, I'm flying to New York with you for the finals,' she states. 'Fact.'
'We're coming with you!' Jack grins, looking up at us. For a second his familiar gray eyes remind me of Noah's. Noah's a bit taller and arguably better looking. His cheekbones are higher; his abs are so ripped you can see them through his tight white shirts when he's sweaty from hitting the gym; his arms are the kind of big you want to never let you go and his ass looks so good in jeans...
I stop myself, feeling my cheeks flush as Jack grins at me. For God's sake, I'm not supposed to still be thinking things like this. Not after four years.
'OK, people, the show's about to start,' the producer yells as the big screen they've erected in the living room flickers and lights up. 'Remember, as loud as you possibly can. We love Noah Lockton, and we are his biggest fans!'
2
Noah
I'm so fucking hot. I feel like I've got bits of the sun tucked into all my pockets. They've put me in this golden three-piece-suit thing, so it looks more like I'm about to head off to some fancy dinner on a spaceship than onto a stage in front of three thousand people. But seeing as I'm singing a re-worked Elvis song I guess they had to do it to me. The jacket, pants and waistcoat are literally suffocating me though. I haven't even stood under the lights yet. I'm more concerned about melting out there than I am about getting the song right.
I'm not actually worried about the song at all; I've practiced it a thousand times. I've practiced it so much that even Jayde's been telling me to shut the fuck up and she wants me to win this more than anyone. Well, perhaps not as much as Chloe wants me to win this, but Chloe's known me longer than my girlfriend has, obviously. She's the one who told me to enter the competition.
'Noah, are you ready?'
I was born ready, I want to reply as Brad pokes his head around the dressing room door. But that would make me sound like a dick, so instead I smile at the production assistant and follow him out into the corridor.
'You look fabulous,' he says, eyeing me up and down with a flash of his whiter-than-white grin. I realize he's wearing more make up than me. I didn't think that was possible. I'm caked in the stuff. This afternoon I was taken for a glycolic peel to exfoliate my skin and then I had to endure something called a Black Diamond facial, which allegedly involved real crushed black diamonds being slapped and scraped all over my face. According to Timothy, the chief make up artist at Show Us What U've Got, it gives the contestants a proper red carpet-glow. It made me feel like a girl.
They make us do some weird stuff behind the scenes, seriously. All I want to do is sing my songs but apparently that's not possible unless I'm waxed, plucked, conditioned, scrubbed and stuffed into a spacesuit.
'Hey, sexy, love your ass in all that gold,' Courtney purrs, tottering up next to me on heels so high they could almost pass for stilts. 'Is that guy-liner on your eyelids?'
'He's a monster,' I reply, trying not to meet her eyes as we stand by the stage door, listening to the crowd roar. I made the mistake of getting... let's just say a little too friendly with Courtney on the third day of boot camp in Hollywood and she's been trying to get me into bed ever since we got back to New York.
I told her I've got a girlfriend -- I even said it as my pants were round my ankles in that cloakroom and she was sucking me off and I was clutching at her hair in handfuls thinking of... well, not Courtney. I told her I was loaded on free champagne and that I was absolutely, one hundred percent unavailable, but people like Courtney Lentini don't give a shit about things like that.
She's biting her lip. I can almost feel the cool chill of her tongue stud circling my cock and the thought of us going for a reprise in another closet takes up a surprisingly large percentage of my brain.
Shit. Focus.
'You nervous?' she's asking me now, looking up at me through fake eyelashes covered in glitter.
I shake my head. 'Are you?'
'Course I am, Lockton, I'm shitting myself. Three of us are going home tonight. I can't go back to the fucking bank, I just can't.'
'You won't have to work at the bank again,' I tell her, 'trust me.'
She takes a deep breath beneath her pink wig, exhales shakily through her nose as we're joined by the others. They start whispering amongst themselves but I block them out as the theme music starts up in the studio. It's hard enough to concentrate on the moment as it is.
I'm just so fucking tired. Since I got through to the final ten there's been a show every other night and I've barely slept, which has resulted in my mood slipping from bad to something resembling the Incredible Hulk. Not that I ever let it show. I'm expected to be the happy, awesome Noah everyone sees on the TV and that's what I'm trying to be. I can't screw this up.
Brad's back. He's ushering us forward. 'OK guys, they're ready for you. Line up by the mics, you know the drill, good luck!'
I can hear the presenters, Jude Michaels (total fake who was famous for like five minutes, for one song roughly two years ago) and Keith Outwright (kind of cool ex-rocker who's probably a bit deranged thanks to all the acid, but he's nice enough) talking to the audience, showing clips from last night.
They're showing Luther Chadwell being sent home.
Poor Luther. He was sobbing backstage for hours, and so was his mom. He's only fifteen and he charmed America by singing a Jackson Five song in a pitch even higher than Michael ever did. He's terrified he'll have to do something boring now, like go to school and get a real job. To be fair, he probably will. We all know how shows like this suck you up and spit you out, right? I'm twenty-three. I'm not being an asshole, but I kind of think I've got more to lose than Luther ever did. I've worked for longer on this an
d only this... aside from the coffee-making thing at Starbucks. And I like to think I don't sing like someone's got his fist around my ball sack.
'Our final five, ladies and gentlemen. Everything rests on tonight!' yells Jude. 'We've seen them rise, we've seen them fall but tonight, for three more, the dream is over. They'll be on their way home and two will go on to our live final next week in none other than the Radio City Music Hall!'
'But before we get all serious,' Keith cuts in, 'shall we hear them perform together, Jude? Boys and girls, let's welcome Courtney, Noah, Sierra, Ady and Ronette singing their version of the Beatle's classic, Let It Be! Come on guys... Show Us What U've Got!'
My heart lodges in my throat for a second as the audience yells the show's name and cheesy catchphrase along with him and then erupts into another massive, deafening cheer. Courtney grips my hand to the right like a steel vice. I swallow my heart back instantly. I lied to her before. I'm fucking nervous.
The opening bars sound out as we all step out in front of the cameras, take our places in front of the line of microphones, heads down, like we practiced. And right on cue, we sing.
The stage lights are so bright now. I can feel the heat instantly on my face, scoring through my suit, buzzing through my veins as fast as the adrenaline. I sing and I sing, better than in rehearsals I'm sure. I rake the hair out of my eyes, smile like I'm tripping, nod to the handheld camera, flirt with the ones on dollies like they're moving gods when they swing my way. I can't see the audience; I might as well be singing to the headlights of a giant car. But I can feel the tension in the air in spite of our act. This is serious. It's not a game.
'And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Shine until tomorrow, let it be...'
It's not a game to Courtney, who'll die if all this is pulled out from under her. She was raised by her uncle after her parents committed suicide in some weird, fucked up cult somewhere in Peru and calls music her 'safety net'. Yes, really. The producers love Courtney's story.
