A Song for Lucy: A Rock Star BBW Romance Short

by Clare Cole

  I gasped slightly and felt a rush of warmth between my legs. "So what's stopping you?" I grinned. My legs felt like jelly and it seemed like I could have collapsed at that very moment, falling at his feet like some adoring fan. But I was stronger than that, riddled with all the insecurities that all of us women have, but smarter than the average bear.

  "Because," he smiled, almost breaking into a laugh, "that would be terribly unprofessional. Besides, we still have an interview to do and you've barely asked me a thing."

  He took a few steps back and positioned himself in front of my camera once again. This time, I didn't raise it. "I've got all the photos I need. I think I just might have caught the real you under that swagger."

  This time, he couldn't help but chuckle. "I guess you got me. Am I going to like what I see?"

  "I think so," I smiled. "You look warm and approachable in my shots, but don't worry. I managed to capture that streak of arrogance you're famous for. I wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation."

  He slowly walked towards me again. "Do you think I'm arrogant, Amy?"

  "I don't know you. Unlike some journalists, I don't make assumptions about people that easily. What do you think? Are you arrogant?"

  "I prefer confident. Or maybe ambitious. How about confidently ambitious?"

  We couldn't stop smiling at each other. "Confidently ambitious. I like that. I can identify with it."

  We made our way over to a leather sofa on the far side of the studio. Rick slipped off his jacket to reveal a tight, dark grey top that hugged at his muscular frame. I felt that weakness in my legs again, that churning in my stomach that only comes from being devastatingly attracted to someone. Keep it together, Amy. You still have an interview to do.

  "Where's your publicist?" I asked. "There's normally at least one person here to tell me what I can and can't ask."

  He shook his head. "Not for me. I've never been one for big entourages. Or small ones for that matter. You can ask me anything, Amy. I'm an open book."

  I set my recorder down on a low glass coffee table. "Okay, are Beautiful Losers splitting up?"

  "Shit, you don't mess about. No, we are not. Why would you ask?"

  "Well, the rumours have been flying for a while now and you're here to start the buzz about your solo project. Isn't that the first sign of tension in a band?"

  He sighed. "Sometimes, you just have to do your own thing. Beautiful Losers has always been dear to me and always will be. I'm the main songwriter, after all. But sometimes you need a break from sixty-thousand-seater stadiums. This album allows me to do something a little bit more intimate, stripped back. It's full of songs that simply wouldn't fit on one of the band's albums."

  "Are you hoping people see a different side of you? The one who isn't stepping off private jets, attending fashion shows and hanging out with supermodels?"

  He smiled and looked around, pretending there was someone else in the room. "Who, me? I am I that person? Yeah, I guess so. Plus, I'm older now. I turned thirty just over two months ago and you start to grow out of all of that shit."

  I relaxed back into the sofa, crossing my legs. This didn't feel like an interview. It felt like a conversation – a confessional, almost. "What is it you've grown out of? Are there any things you've regretted?"

  "No," Rick smiled, shaking his head and flicking dust off his black jeans. "Being in a band is like a microcosm of life. You get to travel the world, meet some incredible people, hang out in some amazing places. You get to go wild, absolutely ridiculously crazy at times, and live this exhausting dream. But the industry is full of assholes too, some real scumbags who you wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. The tricky bit is navigating between the good and the bad at such a young age and coming out of it unscathed. I've done more in ten years than most people will ever do in one. When you live at that pace, you have to slow down eventually. That's where I am now, with this album. I'm in a different frame of mind, both philosophically and intellectually."

  I paused for a moment. "Great answer."

  "I know," he grinned. "Want some more?"

  "Yes please," I giggled.

  "Okay, on one condition. You let me take you out to dinner tonight. There's a restaurant near my hotel that I've been going to for a few years. The owner will give us a nice, private table in the back where you can discover my deepest, darkest secrets. How does that sound?"

  I bit my lip. Was he asking me out? On a date? "Umm…"

  He leaned forward. "Don't think about it too long. You'll hurt my feelings, you know."

  I felt my face break out into the widest smile and the word I wanted to say simply fell from my lips without any further thought. "Yes."

  "Okay, you won't regret it. The food is wonderful. And if you start to hate my company, the head chef is a fairly good-looking dude. You're just his type, he'd love you."

  I closed my eyes and placed my hand over my mouth, trying to disguise my laughter. "We haven't even been out yet and already you’re setting me up with someone else."

  “Well, I hope that isn’t necessary. I’d like you all to myself. All I have to do now is use my inimitable charm and freakish powers of persuasion to get you to like me.”

  Little did he know it, but Rick didn’t even have to try. I was already his, falling faster than I could have imagined. It may not have seemed like it at the time, but that day was fateful.

  My life was about to change forever.

  Chapter Two

  "That is one seriously expensive bottle of wine."

  Rick poured the 2004 Chablis into my glass and smiled. "I know. Here's half the world losing their houses and living in cars and yet the cost of this bottle of wine equates to about five minutes of royalties for me. Don't think the ridiculousness of it doesn't go unnoticed."

  I was stunned at how private this restaurant was. Tiny and softly lit, the unmarked black door down a side alley from Rick's five-star hotel would be completely hidden from the wider world. In fact, even if you managed to stumble across it, the average person wouldn't get in. In order to come here, you have to be a "member" of sorts, and Rick was music royalty. There were no more than twenty tables in total, and I didn't recognise a single other person yet Rick had politely waved or shared a greeting with almost everyone.

  "Who are these people?" I whispered, leaning forward. "I feel a bit out of place."

  He sipped his wine. "Don't," he replied, raising his glass to mine. We chinked them together. "To new friendships."

  "I'll drink to that," I smiled.

  "And mind blowing sex, of course. That's all to come, obviously."

  "Don't be so sure of yourself," I snorted. "I'm a girl of class and breeding, you know."

  Rick leaned forward. "Don't doubt it for a minute. And if you must know, virtually everybody in here is either the CEO of a company, a movie or record producer, or a bestselling writer of some kind – whether it's songs or stories. See that dude over there?"

  He pointed at a dishevelled but good-looking man in his 50s, dressed completely in black, opposite an attractive blonde woman.

  "Would it shock you to know he's probably the richest guy in the room? He writes mainly science fiction books, but a couple of them have been made into big Hollywood films. The royalties he earns – the passive income – is phenomenal."

  "Is that the best part of your job? Earning money while you sleep, every time one of your albums is sold or a song is played on the radio?"

  Rick nodded. "Yup. Makes the lean periods when the creative juices aren't flowing a hell of a lot easier. But I'd love his life. He never has to work again, yet nobody even knows who he is. I'd love that level of anonymity, not having to worry about the fucking paparazzi all the time." He sat back in his chair. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to swear like that."

  "That's okay," I smiled. "Just mind your fucking language, okay?"

  "No problem, boss," he laughed. "Oh, here's our food. Brian! How are you, my friend?”

  A tall, portly man in chef's wh
ites laid the food down at our table. "All the better for seeing you, Mr Rockstar!" Rick stood and embraced him warmly. "And who is this beautiful young lady you've brought with you today? I hope it's purely to treat her to the food and not your atrocious one-liners."

  "This is Amy Reid. She is one of the best music journalists and photographers in London. And, yes, before you ask I'm doing everything I can to flatter her, break down her defences and get her to slowly succumb to my charms."

  I giggled as the chef kissed my hand gently. "Don't give into him too easily, my dear. Make him work for it. I'm Brian John, the head chef and owner. If you find this degenerate too much to take, give me a shout after service has finished."

  "I'll bear that in mind," I smiled.

  "Told you he'd have a thing for you," Rick interjected. "Brian here is a sucker for a sexy redhead."

  "Do you two go back a long way?" I asked the chef.

  "He's been coming here since his first big hit album, although I'm not supposed to tell anyone that. He was an insufferably arrogant prick back then, though thankfully he's now marginally better. It's lovely to see him dining with somebody else for once."

  We paused for a moment and I looked at Rick. I found it almost inconceivable that one of the biggest stars in the world often ate alone.

  "So, shall I tell you what you have in front of you? For you, Amy, you have pan fried scallops with ratatouille and a shallot purée. And for the world's worst joke teller, a braised cheek of beef with creamed celeriac in a red wine sauce. Who chose the wine?"

  I raised my hand.

  "See? I knew Mr Borrell was punching above his weight yet again. You expertly pair a classic Chablis with your scallops, yet our man of the world here is drinking a classic white wine with beef in a red wine sauce. What a dimwit. He never changes."

  Rick laughed. "Or you could argue I was being a gentleman by letting the lady pair a wine that went with her meal rather than my own."

  Brian turned to me and rolled his eyes. "If he says so. Anyway, I'm just kidding. Don't let the newspapers fool you. He's a great guy, this one. I'm not supposed to tell anyone that either, so keep it under your hat, okay?"

  "Will do," I grinned.

  "Enjoy your meal, you pair. It was lovely to meet you, Amy. And Rick, it's always a pleasure."

  They shook hands. "Say hi to Julia and the kids for me, okay?"

  As we started eating, the taste of impossibly fresh scallops began to melt in my mouth and I felt myself swooning at the flavours dancing over my tongue. "Oh my God, this is incredible. Just gorgeous."

  Rick looked up. "Brian is an amazing chef. He used to work in the music industry, you know. He was a private cook on yachts and stuff like that. Some rich rock star or band would hire him for three months and he'd go cruising around the Mediterranean with them, cooking their food every day. He's seen some crazy shit, that guy."

  "What about you? Have you seen any crazy stuff or have you been the one doing it?"

  Rick sipped his wine. "Christ, that really doesn't go with beef. Still nice, though. Like I said earlier, I've done my share of stupid stuff in the past. But I was never one for smashing up hotel rooms or driving Rolls-Royces into swimming pools if that's what you're thinking."

  "What about drugs and alcohol? Seems virtually everybody in music ends up fighting their battles with those at some point."

  He shook his head. "Not for me. I like a drink, but I hate to get drunk. And, yes, I had my moments with drugs when I was earlier but the novelty soon wore off. I didn't find they contributed anything to my creativity like some people seem to believe. I always thought that was bullshit, just an excuse to behave badly. It comes back to ambition again."

  "What do you mean?"

  He thought for a minute, then sighed. "Where I came from, there wasn't much in the way of opportunity. My mother was an alcoholic and my father was gone before I was eight years old. I grew up in a trailer where we couldn't even afford to have the heating on a lot of the time. I know that ambition can be hardwired into your DNA, but I don't always buy it. I used to escape into books and music. They were my way out of that life. I swore I would never end up in that position when I got older. Creativity sets you free, gives you the ability to forge a new life that you sometimes can't get working on a production line or stacking shelves."

  I was intrigued. "What do you mean? You never doubted you would do anything other than become a musician?"

  Rick nodded. "Don't misunderstand me, there's nothing wrong with those jobs. It's just that where I came from, that was the best people aspired to. You were expected to go and work in a factory or grocery store, nothing more than that. But I wanted a bigger life, a better life. I remember seeing a programme on the television when I was about twelve years old about Paris. I was blown away. These guys were speaking a different language, seemed to have such a different culture to me. Yet they were listening to the same music I was! David Bowie, INXS, Led Zeppelin, Radiohead. Anything and everything, the whole spectrum. It just made me realise there's a big world out there and I needed to explore it. Now everything is more compact. I can create music in my studio and have it online the same night, reaching people all over the world and earning me royalties immediately. It's mind blowing. Anyway, enough about me. What's your story, Amy Reid?"

  I finished my scallops and sat back, completely relaxed in Rick's company. I felt like I could tell him everything about me, and for some strange reason I wanted to. "Well, I've been working on the magazine for two-and-a-half years now. Before that I was just a photographer in the North of England. We had an okay upbringing, nothing too dramatic. My father was an engineer, my mother a housewife. I thought coming to London would be the thing that made my career go into the stratosphere and, while it's fantastic meeting people like you, that hasn't quite worked out as planned."

  "I wondered about that. How come you're photographing and interviewing me? Don't they have other people to do one of those jobs?"

  I shook my head. "Cutbacks, Rick. These are tough times. We used to commission photo shoots and writing jobs to freelancers, but the print market is badly in decline. I'm basically doing two jobs now for one salary and even that's pretty terrible. I'm thinking of going freelance and picking up work from the web – music blogs, that kind of thing."

  "Sounds a good move. Remember what I said about working on a production line or in a shop? When you're paid a fixed amount of money for your time, your income isn't scalable. Every time one of my songs gets played or bought, I get a royalty without having to do anything. Yet I only have so many hours in my day. If thousands or even millions of people worldwide by my stuff, I get paid more money without investing any more time. Make sense?"

  "I guess so. So what you're saying is working for someone and earning a salary will never make you rich?"

  "Exactly! That income cannot be scaled. The only exceptions to that are ridiculously well-paid athletes and CEOs. Everybody else is just running on the hamster wheel. You should use your skills to write books that can be sold again and again. Take photographs that pay you a royalty every time they’re published. Get the picture? You're not only scaling your income then, you're creating your pension. Your work will earn you money for the rest of your life and, because of copyright laws, your children's too."

  I looked at his sparkling blue eyes and felt my heart begin to beat faster again. "You're pretty business-savvy for a rock star."

  "Days and weeks sitting in a trailer as a kid reading textbooks, Amy. I used to get what the local library threw out."

  I started to think about the possibility of what Rick was suggesting. In just one day, he had made me start to imagine life beyond an employer – more importantly, an employer that was making me work twice as hard for a single salary and was laying people off left, right and centre. Would I be next? Then where would that leave me? I was already broke, on a final warning from my electricity company. If I didn't pay the bill that month, they would cut me off. I had grown tired of living like th
is. At twenty-nine, I still had a long career ahead of me but, nevertheless, I'd imagined it working out a bit better than this. In a time when everybody around me was losing their jobs, I had kept reminding myself that at least I had a job. But what good was that if I still couldn't afford to live? I needed more. I needed the life that Rick was talking about.

  "You're absolutely right," I said as Rick poured some more wine into my glass. "I need to get out before I'm pushed out."

  "That's the spirit."

  "What about you? Is doing this solo album your way of breaking out, too? Aren't your bandmates pissed off about it?"

  The corner of one side of Rick's mouth turned upwards in a sexy smile. "Are we off the record?"

  "Absolutely."

  "I really couldn't give a shit what they think. Those guys haven't contributed a single creative thing to the band in the last three years. They've been faxing in their performances on the last couple of tours and I'm the sole songwriter. If they resent what I'm doing, they can go to hell. They're all sitting in mansions screwing prostitutes and snorting coke off the backs of girls' asses because of the royalties I'm earning them. So if they don't like it, they can write their own material and see where that gets them."

  My jaw dropped. "Holy crap," I said, genuinely shocked. "I knew there were rumblings of discontent in the band, but I didn't realise it was that bad."

  "All good things, Amy. All good things." He raised his glass. "Here's to both of us. New beginnings, fresh opportunities."

  I smiled, momentarily thinking about what lay ahead. "You're a dangerous one, Rick Borrell. You get a girl thinking about doing all sorts of crazy things."

  "Such as?" He replied, leaning forward.

  I peered seductively over my glass at him. Shit, what was I doing? Was I actually flirting with him?

  "Quitting her job…"

  "And…"

  "Travelling the world," I giggled. He leaned forward and placed his hands softly on mine. Tiny bolts of electricity shot through me and I felt my nipples harden beneath my little black dress.