A Crazy Kind of Love
Page 28
Celebrities he’d burned in the past joined in, and soon stories about his behavior came out. Accusations of blatant harassment or misleading claims piled up, and when the investigative reporters began to dig into Andy’s personal life, more than one embarrassing skeleton fell out of his closet. I guess he figured nobody would ever have any reason to wonder what he charged on his credit cards, but apparently America loves to point and mock a certifiable villain with an eHarmony subscription.
Honestly, I almost felt bad for the guy. Almost.
Epilogue
Concert photographer. It sounds pretty cool, doesn’t it? Too cool to be an actual job, right? Think again.
A month after I lost my job, Lars Cambridge followed up with me about doing some work for his magazine. He’d also forwarded my photos to Stuart Michaels with my permission. I’d worked it out with Stuart to display the photo of Micah in one of his upcoming shows. As a settlement in the wrongful termination suit against the Daily Feed, I’d gotten all my pictures back. It thrilled Micah to become an actual work of art. Stuart said he’d be happy to consider future work. Maybe one day, I’d be able to put together a show of my own.
I’d been a professional photographer for years, but for the first time I felt legitimized—like I might finally get the blessing of my dad. But of course, I no longer needed it. I had all the approval I needed from industry professionals, my boyfriend, my best friend, and of course my oversharing mom.
Still, I sent photos and articles to Dad. I liked to think he was secretly proud of his legacy.
Lars had offered me an open-ended freelance gig. I’d have to get my own medical insurance through the state’s marketplace exchange, but it beat being unemployed. I’d already covered a couple of huge acts, wearing my credentials into the press pit and working with incredible equipment. My art degree hadn’t been a complete waste of time and money after all. Of course the pay was uneven, but good when I got the right jobs.
Tonight I had the best job.
Positioned where I stood, I could get great shots of the entire band plus the faces of the people floating on their backs, carried across the top of the crowd. They laughed as hands pushed them like a living conveyor belt to the back of the theater. Where the human surfboards went from there remained a mystery.
Micah hauled another volunteer onto the stage, and the process started over again. Photographing his shows always gave me ample material. The fans were as interesting as the band. And I’d grown to like the music.
Tonight, like every night, Micah fed the crowd energy. He looked my way and winked. I shot the picture.
He hit the last note and turned around to the band with a nod. They started playing something new to me. His repertoire was bottomless. Every night, they played fan favorites and sprinkled in some of their older songs or some new song they were trying out.
Micah said, “I’m a little nervous about this new song. Normally, I don’t have to sing to my muse.”
It took me a second to parse his meaning, and by then, he’d pulled the microphone from the stand and walked to the corner where I perched with my camera. I let it drop, and it smacked me in the gut. Everyone in the audience looked at me.
Micah threw his guitar around his back and sat down in front of me. “This song is called ‘Josie.’ ”
I flipped on the video on my camera to capture the audio. And he started to sing.
“I’ve got a crush
on her cinnamon curls
It’s a sugar rush
And I’m high on a girl”
The band echoed his last words. He took my hand and broke into the chorus.
“Jo-Jo-Josie
Devil from Georgi-a
Can’t live without you
ñan ninne snehikkunnu”
As he sang, I twined my fingers with his. But my hands flew to my face at the Malayalam for “I love you.” I hadn’t heard those words in years, and he gave them back to me in the sweetest way possible. But he didn’t need to write me a song to tell me how he felt.
He’d been a rock for me, through crazy times that might have shaken any other guy. He’d literally carried me when I was at my lowest. And right here, at his highest, he wanted me. He needed me.
He’d proved himself to me every day over the past six months. When the tabloids tried to paint me as his next groupie, he went and outfitted his tour bus to accommodate his “road wife” with a veritable pharmacy of insulin and healthy snacks. When the tabloids lost interest in me and tried to catch him with other women, he invited me to come live with him. When they ran stories about his gold-digger-hanger-on girlfriend, he brought me breakfast in bed. And when the girls flirted with him at the meet and greets, he flirted back, but he left with me.
And every day, he religiously updated his daily log with my glucose readings. And sat beside me, rubbing my back while I recovered from light-headedness. And drove me to the edge of insanity with just a touch.
And every night before I fell asleep, he whispered the same words in my ear:
“I will love you tomorrow—and every tomorrow after that.”
Acknowledgments
If a picture is worth a thousand words, I’d need a thousand pictures to express my gratitude to my editor, Wendy McCurdy, for her continual faith and expert guidance. Kensington is a landscape of infinite support. Thanks especially to marketing geniuses Jane Nutter and Lauren Jernigan for spotlighting my work, to Paula Reedy, a portrait of production prowess, and to Steven Zacharius, a perfect model of encouragement. Out on location, I was lucky enough to click with Jen Halligan, publicist extraordinaire.
I owe an enormous debt to Kristin Wright, Kelli Newby, Laura Heffernan, Susan Bickford, and Rachel Reiss. I’m forever aware of the watermark you each left on my words. You all were instrumental in developing this book from a negative into a positive. You give me flashes of inspiration and never tell me to shutter up. (Sorry, you know I can’t f-stop with bad puns once they start shooting.)
Special thanks to Tara Sim for consulting on Indian-American culture and Sarah Marsh for her input on living with diabetes. Any errors in representation are entirely on me.
To my family, I appreciate that you never complain when I disappear into my metaphorical darkroom to expose the world of my imagination.
And to my extended writing family, the CD and the Pitch Wars community, you all keep me focused and balanced. Thanks so much for your constant generosity and bursts of sanity.
I’m deeply thankful to everyone at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret, specifically Rachel Stout, Jane Dystel, and Mike Hoogland, for zooming in on my work and shepherding me through this process.
Most important, thank you, reader, for allowing this author to capture you for a moment in time. Without you, our stories would be like a roll of film in a forgotten canister.
Any book’s acknowledgments are limited to a snapshot. Many more people, from copy editors to designers, will be involved with the production of this book before it’s finally released. To anyone who’s out of frame, please know that I’m eternally grateful. I did not do this alone.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
A CRAZY KIND
OF LOVE
Mary Ann Marlowe
About This Guide
The suggested questions are included to enhance your group’s reading of Mary Ann Marlowe’s A Crazy Kind of Love.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. What do you think of Jo’s job as a tabloid photographer? Do you understand why she took this job, even though she is such a talented artist?
2. Why does Micah help Jo get a picture of Maggie Gyllenhaal in the first chapter of the book?
3. Are Micah and Jo using each other—Jo for her job, and Micah to get publicity for himself?
4. Why does Jo try to keep her father a secret? Do you understand why he behaves the way that he does? How has this affected Jo?
5. Can you imagine photographing celebrities for a living? Would you be any good at it? What would be fun about it an
d what would be the drawbacks?
6. What do you think of Andy as a boss? Who was the worst boss you’ve ever had, and what made him or her so bad?
7. What do you think of Zion as Jo’s roommate? Is there anyone in your life who plays a similar role?
8. If you were a member of the paparazzi, which celebrity would you most like to snap a picture of? How far would you go to get this pic? Where would you draw the line?
9. Do you sometimes read the tabloid papers and celebrity magazines, or at least sneak a peek while standing in the grocery store line? Which one is your favorite? What makes this kind of media so irresistible to so many people? Do you have a favorite place to indulge—i.e., mani-pedi, hair salon, bathtub, waiting room for a doctor’s appointment, etc.?
10. Can you imagine dating someone really famous? How would this change your life—or would it?
11. If you have read both A Crazy Kind of Love and Some Kind of Magic, whose story do you find more romantic, and why—Micah and Jo’s or Eden and Adam’s?
Do not miss Eden and Adam’s story in
SOME KIND OF MAGIC
By
Mary Ann Marlowe
Now available in bookstores and online!
What if you could seduce anyone in the world....
In this sparkling novel, Mary Ann Marlowe introduces a hapless scientist who’s swept off her feet by a rock star—but is it love or just a chemical reaction . . . ?
Biochemist Eden Sinclair has no idea that the scent she spritzed on herself before leaving the lab is designed to enhance pheromones. Or that the cute, grungy-looking guy she meets at a gig that evening is Adam Copeland. As in the Adam Copeland—international rock god and object of lust for a million women. Make that a million and one. By the time she learns the truth, she’s already spent the (amazing, incredible) night in his bed....
Suddenly Eden, who’s more accustomed to being set up on disastrous dates by her mom, is going out with a gorgeous celebrity who loves how down-to-earth and honest she is. But for once, Eden isn’t being honest. She can’t bear to reveal that this overpowering attraction could be nothing more than seduction by science. And the only way to know how Adam truly feels is to ditch the perfume—and risk being ditched in turn....
Smart, witty, and sexy, Some Kind of Magic is an irresistibly engaging look at modern relationships—why we fall, how we connect, and the courage it takes to trust in something as mysterious and unpredictable as love.
Read on for a preview....
Chapter 1
My pen tapped out the drumbeat to the earworm on the radio. I glanced around to make sure I was alone, then grabbed an Erlenmeyer flask and belted out the chorus into my makeshift microphone.
“I’m beeeegging you . . .”
With the countertop centrifuge spinning out a white noise, I could imagine a stadium crowd cheering. My eyes closed, and the blinding lab fell away. I stood onstage in the spotlight.
“Eden?” came a voice from the outer hall.
I swiveled my stool toward the door, anticipating the arrival of my first fan. When Stacy came in, I bowed my head. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on a wooden peg. Unimpressed by my performance, she turned down the radio. “You’re early. How long have you been here?”
“Since seven.” The centrifuge slowed, and I pulled out tubes filled with rodent sperm. “I want to leave a bit early to head into the city and catch Micah’s show.”
She dragged a stool over. “Kelly and I are hitting the clubs tonight. You should come with.”
“Yeah, right. Why don’t you come with me? Kelly’s such a—”
“Such a what?” The devil herself stood in the doorway, phone in hand.
Succubus from hell played on my lips. But it was too early to start a fight. “Such a guy magnet. Nobody can compete with you.”
Kelly didn’t argue and turned her attention back to the phone.
Stacy leaned her elbow on the counter, conspiratorially talking over my head. “Eden’s going to abandon us again to go hang out with Micah.”
“At that filthy club?” Kelly’s lip curled, as if Stacy had just offered her a non-soy latte. “But there are never even any guys there. It’s always just a bunch of moms.”
I gritted my teeth. “Micah’s fans are not all moms.” When Micah made it big, I was going to enjoy refusing her backstage passes to his eventual sold-out shows.
Kelly snorted. “Oh, right. I suppose their husbands might be there, too.”
“That’s not fair,” Stacy said. “I’ve seen young guys at his shows.”
“Teenage boys don’t count.” Kelly dropped an invisible microphone and turned toward her desk.
I’d never admit that she was right about the crowd that came out to hear Micah’s solo shows. But unlike Kelly, I wasn’t interested in picking up random guys at bars. I spun a test tube like a top, then clamped my hand down on it before it could careen off the counter. “Whatever. Sometimes Micah lets me sing.”
Apparently Kelly smelled blood; her tone turned snide. “Ooh, maybe Eden’s dating her brother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Kelly.” Stacy rolled her eyes and gave me her best don’t listen to her look.
“Oh, right.” Kelly threw her head back for one last barb. “Eden would never consider dating a struggling musician.”
The clock on the wall reminded me I had seven hours of prison left. I hated the feeling that I was wishing my life away one workday at a time.
Thanh peeked his head around the door and saved me. “Eden, I need you to come monitor one of the test subjects.”
Inhaling deep to get my residual irritation under control, I followed Thanh down the hall to the holding cells. Behind the window, a cute blond sat with a wire snaking out of his charcoal-gray Dockers. Thanh instructed him to watch a screen flashing more or less pornographic images while I kept one eye on his vital signs.
I bit my pen and put the test subject through my usual erminator-robot full-body analysis to gauge his romantic eligibility. He wore a crisp dress shirt with a white cotton undershirt peeking out below the unbuttoned collar. I wagered he held a job I’d find acceptable, possibly in programming, accounting, or maybe even architecture. His fading tan, manicured nails, and fit build lent the impression that he had enough money and time to vacation, pamper himself, and work out. No ring on his finger. And blue eyes at that. On paper, he fit my mental checklist to a T.
Even if he was strapped up to his balls in wires.
Hmm. Scratch that. If he were financially secure, he wouldn’t need the compensation provided to participants in clinical trials for boner research. Never mind.
Thanh came back in and sat next to me.
I stifled a yawn and stretched my arms. “Don’t get me wrong. This is all very exciting, but could you please slip some arsenic in my coffee?”
He punched buttons on the complex machine monitoring the erectile event in the other room. “Why are you still working here, Eden? Weren’t you supposed to start grad school this year?”
“I was.” I sketched a small circle in the margin of the paper on the table.
“You need to start applying soon for next year. Are you waiting till you’ve saved enough money?”
“No, I’ve saved enough.” I drew a flower around the circle and shaded it in. I’d already had this conversation with my parents.
“If you want to do much more than what you’re doing now, you need to get your PhD.”
I sighed and turned in my chair to face him. “Thanh, you’ve got your PhD, and you’re doing the same thing as me.”
When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Yes, but it has always been my lifelong dream to help men maintain a medically induced long-lasting erection.”
I looked at my hands, thinking. “Thanh, I’m not sure this is what I want to do with my life. I’ve lost that loving feeling.”
“Well, then, you’re in the right place.”
“Top secret.”
“You can’t tell me?”
“No, I mean you’d already know if you read your e-mails.”
“I do read the e-mails.” That was partly true. I skimmed and deleted them unless they pertained to my own work. I didn’t care about corporate policy changes, congratulations to the sales division, farewells to employees leaving after six wonderful years, tickets to be pawned, baby pictures, or the company chili cook-off.
He reached into a drawer and brought out a small vial containing a clear yellow liquid. When he removed the stopper, a sweet aroma filled the room, like jasmine.
“What’s that?”
He handed it to me. “Put some on, right here.” He touched my wrist.
I tipped it onto my finger and dabbed both my wrists. Then I waited. “What’s it supposed to do?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you feel any different?”
I ran an internal assessment. “Uh, nope. Should I?”
“Do me a favor. Walk into that room.”
“With the test subject?” It was bad enough that poor guy’s schwanz was hooked up to monitors, but he didn’t need to know exactly who was observing changes in his penile turgidity. Thanh shooed me on through the door, so I went in.
The erotica continued to run, but the guy’s eyes were now on me. I thought, Is that a sensor monitoring you, or are you just happy to see me?