Before He Was Famous: HotFlush Book 1

by Becky Wicks

  'Are you gonna go for the job?' he asks suddenly.

  I pause, glancing at my boyfriend. I haven't spoken about the job to anyone, least of all Cooper. I did look it up online though, after Noah sent me the Craigslist ad. Shimmer is a bit of a teen staple, second only to Seventeen, or Teen Vogue I think. I doubt I'd get the job in a million years, but as soon as I read the description I knew I could do it. I've been taking photos since I could hold a camera and photo editing for years. I taught myself Photoshop when I was twelve.

  My portfolio is pretty impressive, even if I do say so myself -- I've got landscape shots of Colorado's mountains, right through to weddings, Chuck e Cheese parties and random buskers on Pearl Street. Jack helped me make a website so all my work is online, too. It's tempting to go for it, but there are other factors involved, obviously. Like leaving my mom. And being in New York... with Noah.

  'I'm still thinking about that,' I tell him.

  'You can't talk now, I get it. OK, well tell that... Cooper, to drive safe yeah? Can't wait to see you Chlo.'

  'Ditto,' I say, and my heart actually does a little leap knowing it's only a matter of hours until I'll be in the same room as him. 'I've missed you,' I admit.

  'I've missed you too baby,' he replies seriously and a flock of butterflies zoom up from my stomach into my throat. Before I can read into it I hang up, Cooper pulls out of the parking lot and within minutes we're hurtling down the freeway again, towards Chicago.

  7

  Noah

  I'm in make-up when I get the message. My phone's been buzzing all day, all week in fact with friend requests from people who think they know me. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to delete my proper Facebook account pretty soon. This time it's a text from Chloe:

  Change of plans. Can I stay at your place? Just me.

  I feel my skin prickle instantly, instincts primed. I type back, in spite of Timothy trying his best to cake my face in foundation.

  No problem. I'll try n come over tnt. Everything OK?

  There's a gap of about ten minutes before she replies. I'm now wearing some sort of dazzle dust on my cheeks, too.

  I broke up with Cooper. Long story.

  Shit. My heart starts hammering harder and it's got nothing to do with the fact that we've got a live rehearsal in the Radio City Music Hall in two hour's time and I'm expected to have my fingernails buffed again in approximately fifteen minutes. I'm not surprised she's ditched the dick-head, given his stealing. In fact I'm fucking ecstatic she finally did it after more than five whole years of justifying his douchebag ways, but I have a feeling something else has happened.

  She wouldn't just ditch him on a road trip with Alyssa there, and she wouldn't ditch him before the live show anyway... I know her. She'd keep the peace a little longer, for my sake, until the timing was better. I type again, quickly, before Timothy attacks me with any more guy-liner:

  Proud of u Pan but hope ur OK. Tell me everything later.

  I want to call her but I can't. People are hovering all around me and Courtney is in the next chair, staring at a sheet of paper that I'm pretty sure are all her lyrics. The Great Catsby's on her lap, making her look like she's some kind of pint-sized James Bond villain with a pixie-cut. She keeps glancing at me but I'm doing my best to ignore her, like I did this morning when she ironed a dress for about thirty minutes in the middle of the kitchen wearing just her bra and a pair of red lace panties.

  We're singing three songs each in the live final, two covers and one of our own. We're also singing a song together with Candy Buttola, the girl who won the show two years ago. Apparently she can sing again, now that she's out of rehab. As for the kid who won last year? He went off the radar after one top ten hit. Even the paps got bored of him after three months or so. Makes me shudder. Anonymity after a show like this must be even worse than before it.

  The eyebrow pencil is upon me now. I can't escape it. 'Hold still hot stuff,' Timothy sing-songs, leaning over my face. 'Almost done!'

  'Thank God,' I mumble and he tuts. But really - all this bullshit for barely anything. We only have to do our own song this afternoon for the technicians and stage manager. I'm doing The Facebook Song, again. It's the one everybody seems to know. And I mean everyone. Even Courtney's been humming it around the apartment.

  Some people are pissed about it. Our contracts state we can't talk to any journos, do any press, play any gigs or flaunt our own stuff anywhere until the finals are over, but as it's all out of my hands and the video was posted on YouTube before I went on the show, there's nothing anyone can do.

  I text Jayde when Timothy finally backs off to admire his handiwork:

  Chloe's staying with us. Leave key w doorman.

  Courtney left ages ago but my vocal coach, Kym, is getting me to go over and over the other two songs for the finals at the piano. She sings fa la la la la la la at me and motions for me to copy her, and the magnitude of what we're doing hits me all over again.

  Standing there on the empty stage just now was one of the most bizarre moments of my entire life. Just looking out at over six thousand seats made my stomach do somersaults, but again, I tried not to let it show. Aunt Madeline was at home there. There's no reason why I can't be, too.

  R u gonna make it back 2 Brklyn tnt? comes Jayde's text.

  When Kym gets up to fetch a drink I hurry back:

  I don't think so, so busy, wanna bring Chloe 2 Chelsea n check out the apt?

  Fuck it, I'm sure there won't be a problem. Courtney will be locked in her room with a bottle of vodka and her cat, as usual, and aside from the video diary entry I'm supposed to make every night for the show's blog, the only thing I'm meant to be doing tonight is resting.

  I will do my best ☺, comes Jayde's reply.

  I'm aware the two girls have never met. Something doesn't seem quite right for a second but I push the thought away. It was four years ago, for fuck's sake. They're probably gossiping already, anyway. Jayde works in a cocktail bar in TriBeCa and always has some random celeb-spotting story. I didn't actually mean to let her move in but she's so low on cash and it's easier on us both to share rent for my shitty bedroom in the warehouse, than for us to live apart. New York's a fucking killer. If I didn't get free coffee and sandwiches from Starbucks I'd probably be dead by now. My phone buzzes again.

  Chloe has been in loft room all aft. Think she's crying ☹

  My stomach pricks and instantly I want to slam my fist against the wall. Or Cooper's face.

  'Everything OK, Noah?' Kym asks, taking her seat at the piano again and handing me a glass of water.

  'Yep,' I reply. 'Everything's just sinking in, that's all.'

  She smiles empathetically as I down the water and shove my phone in my pocket. She knows how demanding our schedules are. She helps us warm-up and practice on a daily basis and has actually taught me some valuable stuff over the past six weeks about looking after my voice. I know how to stretch my face out, do lip bubbles by holding the sides of my mouth and singing a different octave every time to warm up. I have to drink honey and lemon with hot water three times a day. She knows her shit. I can feel myself getting stronger.

  'You're gonna be fine,' she's saying now, closing the piano lid. 'I think we're good here anyway, gorgeous. You go home and get some rest. Big day tomorrow.'

  I nod gratefully, feel a wave of nausea rush through me as she holds her fingers up all crossed. I'm stronger, sure, and I know for a fact that Courtney is struggling. She blew out one of her vocal chords after the fourth week. She made a big deal over it on Twitter, got the sympathy vote and she's only just recovered enough to feel confident about hitting certain notes. But the thought of winning fills me with as much adrenaline as the thought of losing does. Show Us What U've Got is watched by almost twenty-three million viewers per episode. That's some nerve-wracking stuff.

  I think the nerves got to Courtney just now, whereas I was still thinking about what Cooper could've done now to warrant Chloe ditching him, but who knows? My insi
des twist again, just thinking about her.

  Bring her with u, 6.30. See u soon, I type back at Jayde as I gather my stuff. I yell bye to the loiterers in the studio, grin into the camera that films everything for the behind-the-scenes show, shove my guitar on my back and hurry out the door, where a black car is already waiting to take me to Chelsea.

  8

  Chloe

  'Pan,' Noah breathes the second the door opens. Before I can reply I'm engulfed in a hug that smells the same as it always does; laundry detergent and Lynx and strawberry laces. I don't even think he's eaten any strawberry laces, but I get a flashback of us threading them through our shoes up in the tree house.

  Instinctively my arms come up around his shoulders, his broad back. The feeling of his strong muscles flexing around me tightly make the nerves melt away and then spring back with a vengeance. 'Peter,' I reply.

  'Are you OK?' he asks, pulling away to study my face.

  'I'm OK,' I say, holding my breath as I take in his new line of stubble, the bigger, bouncier curls on his head that everyone in America now loves as much as me; the dark, curling lashes that most women would kill to feel butterfly-kissing their body. I swallow. It feels like I've travelled a million years to get here somehow - into some weird-ass movie version of my own life.

  For a start we had to be escorted up to the top floor in the elevator by a security guard, who scanned the passports we were told to bring. Walking into the building we saw a photographer loitering outside, no doubt waiting for Noah or Courtney. Courtney's already got a reputation for attracting the press on purpose. She barely ever wears anything but hot-pants, she carries a Siamese cat (who has his own Twitter handle) around with her in a turquoise fuzzy purse, and apparently her parents died drinking some sick potion in a jungle somewhere when she was a kid.

  Jayde clears her throat behind us and Noah releases me, plants a kiss on her cheek and ushers us inside. He doesn't take his eyes off me. I catch a look of concern, or maybe pity and I know I probably look like shit. He nods to the security guard and closes the door behind us, walks ahead into the living area.

  'Welcome to the pleasure den, ladies,' he beams, widening his arms in a gesture of extravagance.

  I notice instantly his defined midsection as his T-shirt rises. His chest has broadened since I last saw him, too. He's been working out every day and it's paying off. He's totally ripped and as he strides towards the windows on light feet I can't help but notice how he oozes power effortlessly with every move. More so than ever. It's the same power I needed, fed from when I wanted my pain kept in check by something stronger. The memories make my skin tingle, my pulse quicken. Damn. I have got to pull my shit together.

  'Holy crap, it's huge!' Jayde cries and wanders into the middle of the room in awe.

  'That's what they all say,' he quips, but she misses it and I refuse to meet his eyes. Her short blonde hair is bouncing. Her skin is tanned in her low-backed tighter-than-tight pink dress, which I noticed back in Brooklyn matches her toenails.

  'My God, Noah, this is immense!'

  Jayde really is a sweet girl but I'm pretty sure the lights aren't all on. When I first let myself into the apartment, still shaking from what that asshole did in Chicago she frowned at me for at least five minutes in the hallway, appraising my bangs, my skinny jeans, my button up shirt, my purse and my wheelie case, before seemingly coming to her senses and introducing herself.

  I couldn't handle her inane small talk as she questioned me about my camera kit and Noah and the show, and when she started spouting some tale about some dumb, drunk movie star who spilled a margarita on her shoe I fled to my room and stayed there. There's never any point making friends with Noah's girlfriends anyway. They never last long.

  'How are you holding up?' Noah's asking me now, draping an arm around my shoulders as Jayde twirls around the room like a ballerina. I shrug, forcing down the butterflies I always get when I first see him after a while. I lean in against his warm neck for a second as we take in the view. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the sun like another high-end feature, setting over Chelsea. It's casting orange patterns across the hard wood floorboards and a cream rug that looks like it was stitched from the skin of two or three white lions.

  To the left, the Flatiron Building is gleaming. Two cream L-shaped couches face a TV that's almost as big as a cinema screen and a spiral staircase winds up to the second level, where I can see at least four doors. Noah's favorite guitar is resting on its stand in the corner. Sheets of paper are scattered over a low glass coffee table around his MacBook Pro. Everything's in white, cream and black, except for a row of mugs I can see hanging over the breakfast bar to the right. They're bright red. It's seriously rock star standard.

  'How long do you get to live here again?' I ask him as he guides me towards the open kitchen and pulls a six-pack of beers out of the fridge. Noah flips the lid off one and offers me it. I shake my head, frowning. He knows I don't drink anymore.

  'If I win, I get it for a year,' he tells me, forcing my eyes back to his face. I realize I've been studying his body. His biceps are practically bulging like rocks out of his green Shamrock T-shirt -- the one I bought him at The Celtic Tavern in Denver when we saw my other favorite singer Joshua Radin play a gig. Weirdly, Noah kind of reminds me of him sometimes. His hair suits him a bit longer, hanging over his forehead, framing those amazing eyes. I groan inwardly at myself. Joshua Radin is one thing, but am I really getting starstruck over Noah?

  'A year?!' Jayde replies loudly, following us to the kitchen and wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. 'You get this on top of the two million dollars? This place has gotta be worth at least ten grand a month in rent! You'd better win, baby. No pressure or anything!'

  Noah grins, hands her a bottle and she takes it, leaning up against the counter. I notice her appraising me again through thick black eyelashes as he heads back to the fridge and hands me a Diet Coke. I didn't bother to change like she did. She was wearing track pants and a vest top in the apartment, and no make up. She actually looked better. Now she just looks like a doll. I guess the sex must be good because it's pretty obvious Noah's not getting much stimulation from their conversations.

  God, Chloe, you don't have to be such a bitch.

  'So how long have you guys known each other?' she's asking him now, looking between us.

  'Since she snuck into my bedroom and scared the shit out of me... what was I, six?'

  'You were seven,' I answer. 'My family just moved from Denver.'

  Jayde smiles. 'Cute. So you're like, best buddies from way back?'

  'The bestest,' Noah answers quickly.

  'Cute,' she says again and I can almost picture the limited dictionary in her head withering a little bit more in frustration. She fixes an angelic smile at Noah. 'Babe, if you end up living here, do you get the whole place to yourself or...'

  She stops in her tracks just as Courtney walks into the kitchen barefoot. '...oh my God, it's you!' She whacks a hand over her mouth.

  'Hey,' Courtney replies, eyeing her up and down and frowning as the cat I've seen in all her photos pads in after her and curls around her legs. I have to stop my own eyes from bulging for a second. It's like she's just stepped out of the TV. I can't help but notice she looks shorter than she does on the screen, though. She's also wearing what looks like a guy's pajama bottoms with a fishnet covered crop-top. It's kind of weird, but she's super toned. Her short, jet-black hair is also stupidly shiny.

  'Hey Catsby,' Noah says as the slinky thing rubs its face on his foot. Courtney puts a dish of cat biscuits down and I catch him look between her and Jayde for a split second as he clears his throat. 'How's it going up there?'

  Holy shit. He's been with her, I know it. I always know, with Noah.

  'Trying not to freak out and die,' she replies pointedly. 'I don't know how you're always so calm, Lockton. Hey, I'm Courtney,' she directs at us both, holding out her hand. I force my expression to stay neutral as we introduce ours
elves. 'I've seen you before,' she says to me. 'Oh, on the camera, on the live show, right?'

  'You're gonna be amazing!' Jayde interrupts. 'I love your voice -- it's incredible, really. I've been hoping you'll get through every single round, Courtney, well, as well as Noah, obviously. What are you singing tomorrow? Can you tell us? You can't tell us can you? What are you gonna wear? Do you get to keep your costumes here?'

  I catch a brief, amused look cross Courtney's face as she reaches up into a cupboard for a glass and goes about filling it with ice from the freezer. Is he sleeping with them both? The thought of it is kind of hard to take in.

  Jayde and Courtney start chatting as she pours at least a triple Smirnoff into her glass and he motions for me to follow him back into the living area and up the spiral staircase. He turns to me at the top and his five-eleven frame casts me in his shadow. 'So, you wanna talk about it?'

  My breath catches. Cooper. Even thinking about what happened makes me want to vomit. Noah puts his hands on my shoulders, looks down into my eyes. 'Chloe, what the fuck did he do this time?'

  I look at the floor. Suddenly I'm not even sure I should tell him. Alyssa and I swore we wouldn't say a word to anyone and surely it's for the best if we just forget it.

  'Chloe?'

  I shake my head. Noah sighs. 'Fine, have it your way.' He walks with me to the second door on the landing, opens it and leads me into the bedroom. My mouth drops like I've turned into a guppy fish.

  Another of his guitars is lying on the four-poster bed, almost camouflaged by the cheesy leopard-print comforter. A walk-in wardrobe that could probably hold about ten Narnias inside takes up one side and an open bathroom with two basins, a behemoth tub and a shower the size of his entire kitchen back in Brooklyn is on the other. More floor-to-ceiling windows show the rooftops of Chelsea and a sliding door leads out to a balcony. He walks over on the shiny wooden floors and slides it open.

  'This is mad,' I say, following him, 'for a start, that's a bed just begging to be jumped on!' But Noah's gone into serious mode. He's resting against the railings outside in the sunlight, folding his arms with his hands on his very visible triceps, deciphering me the way he does in silence.