Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  Also by Meredith Michelle

  Star Struck: A Pick Your Own Plot Bedventure

  Pop Star

  A Pick Your Own Plot Bedventure

  Meredith Michelle

  LYRICAL SHINE

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Pop Star

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL SHINE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Meredith Michelle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Lyrical Shine and Lyrical Shine logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: May 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3745-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-746-2

  ISBN-10: 1-60183-746-1

  Dedicated to my wonderful agent, Amy Tannenbaum, who took a chance on a new concept, who provided invaluable support and feedback, and with whom I have enjoyed sharing the adventure!

  Pop Star

  You are Honey Noble. Your perfect pout, poised over the lustrous sphere of a ruby red Blow Pop, wrapper partially peeled and dangling from its white cardboard stick, gleams in close-up from the cover of Rock ’N’ Roll magazine. THE BUZZ ABOUT HONEY! screams the headline. You have made it.

  Hugging the magazine to your chest, you do a little happy dance in the privacy of your tour bus. You fall back onto the supple leather bench and allow your eyes to gaze unfocused at the polished wood ceiling as you savor this moment.

  “What? Are you sleeping?” The door abruptly squeals open then slams shut as Sasha Fortier, your constant companion and the stabilizing force in the dizzying trajectory your life has taken, sashays across the little entryway. He pauses at your side, towering above you from his lanky height of six-two, then tilts his head to the side and slides a hand onto his hip. “Oh. My. God.” In one quick motion he slips the glossy magazine from beneath your folded arms. “Oh my god! Girrrrl. . . .” He draws the word out in a throaty growl, “This is beyond! Look at those lips! And I thought your first platinum was exciting! Do you know what this means?”

  You sit up and Sasha plops down beside you. “I know,” you tell him, “I seriously feel like I’m dreaming.”

  Sasha doesn’t miss a beat, instantly reaching around to deliver a quick pinch to your behind.

  “Ouch!” you squeal in surprise.

  “Well, you ain’t dreaming! I just wanted you to know for sure.”

  “Thanks” you laugh, “I think.”

  Sasha flips through the magazine until he finds the article. NOBILITY, is the title.

  “I haven’t even read it yet.” You give the precious magazine a little tug.

  “Well then, let me oblige,” Sasha clears his throat, pushes an imaginary pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose, and begins to read.

  Honey Noble is all legs, long jet-black hair, and huge green eyes as she strolls into the room. Taller in person than I expect, her supermodel stature dazzles even without the elevated stage and backdrop of eye-numbing pyrotechnics that are the hallmark of her live performances.

  Honey pauses to look over her shoulder and raises a finely arched eyebrow as she leads the way through the black-and-white tiled atrium of her newly completed home, set in a stunning and very private location in the Hollywood Hills. Her glam squad meets us in her enormous living room, a nod to old Hollywood glamour, decked out in a sophisticated mix of burnished antiques and low contemporary pieces in muted hues. An elegant baby grand piano gleams from the corner of the room, its cover open and sheet music perched at the ready.

  Professional lighting and photography gear also litter the room, which served as the location for today’s photo shoot. Fresh from being photographed, Honey is dressed in a red-carpet-ready gown with a glittering beaded bustier and body-con silhouette highlighting her tiny waist and her ample curves.

  She pauses momentarily to thank her costume designer and “best friend,” Sasha Fortier.

  “Awww, thanks,” Sasha looks up to bat his long eyelashes before he continues reading.

  “I’ve had a little guidance from my decorator,” says Honey, in response to my admiration of her to-die-for digs. She gently pushes her long, glossy black hair, set in retro-style waves that reach almost to her waist, behind one shoulder. “But I do a lot of the shopping myself. I love finding just the right piece. It’s one of my passions.”

  Often called one of the hardest-working performers in the industry, Honey is quickly amassing a mini empire built upon her many passions—her music tops an extensive list which encompasses fashion (she’s currently working on her Hive label, which includes shoes, jewelry, and a ready-to-wear lingerie line inspired by her tour costumes); romance (her on-again, off-again relationship with former Brit boy-bander and current white-hot solo artist, Crispin Hershey, is the constant fodder for tabloid headlines); and her fans, who affectionately call themselves The Honey Bees and swarm en masse outside of every Honey Noble concert, hoping for an audience with their queen.

  Honey is happy to oblige, and routinely takes time for backstage meet-and-greets, often pulling a handful of thrilled black-and-gold clad Bees from the audience at random. They leave with a hug from Honey, an autograph, and a story they’ll be buzzing about for years.

  “I wouldn’t be where I am today without my fans. They are the reason I perform. They mean everything to me,” Honey says as she glides through a pair of towering French doors to the shaded patio at the back of the house. The stone-and-wood structure overlooks a sparkling swimming pool surrounded by lush gardens and bordered by high walls overgrown with thick bougainvillea, a deceptively beautiful security feature. Atop the walls, not quite hidden by the foliage, perch a series of cameras that pan constantly, slowly scanning the property.

  Honey declines to comment on the status of her romance with recent Grammy winner, Crispin Hershey, telling me instead, “Right now I’m focused on my music.”

  Honey offers me the silver tray of blueberry scones, and gingerly selects one for herself, “I’m starving,” she says before taking a dainty bite of the pastry. “Dry,” she pronounces, and returns the scone to the tray, trailing bits of the pastry down her front as she does. She is disarmingly unabashed as she dips her manicured fingers into her décolletage to retrieve an errant scone crumb. “Oops,” she laughs, popping her finger into her mouth and drawing it slowly between her lips. She dries it on the linen napkin in front of her and looks up, huge, emerald eyes full of mischief. “Where were we?” she asks.

  This reporter has to clear his throat and take a sip of cold water before he can continue.”

  “You did not,” howls Sasha as he flips the magazine closed. “I bet that poor Clark Kent had to harness his Superman!”

  Sasha’s spot-on one-liner has you doubled over with laughter. “Those scones were crumbly,” you explain. “It was innocent. But he was kind of cute.”

  Sasha smirks and flips the magazine closed. “Something is not right with you.” He laughs.

  “A lot of things,” you agree, playfully straightening Sasha’s shirt collar.

  “Don’t think everyone who reads that article won’t notice your artful dodge, though.” Sas
ha is suddenly serious and looks you in the eye. “How long has it been since you’ve heard from Crispin anyway?”

  “No comment,” you respond, dropping your eyes back to the magazine.

  Sasha takes his hand and brushes away the thick veil of hair that has fallen over your face. “Seriously, is this fake? This hair does not look real. How can it possibly be so perfectly straight? You are not letting them stick extensions in there, are you? Those things will ruin your hair.”

  You’re grateful Sasha has taken the hint and changed the subject, despite his uncanny ability to read between the lines. But part of you does want to talk about Crispin, and Sasha is the perfect sounding board. Although he’s been by your side since long before you and Crispin met, Sasha was careful to keep a distance when you and Crispin were first together, giving you all the space you needed to cement your blossoming romance. And he has gracefully moved back in to keep you company now that Crispin’s comeback has him traveling nonstop.

  You disentangle his fingers from your hair and take his warm hand in yours. “Hands off the hair,” you tease.

  Sasha looks you in the eye and reads you like a book. “Stop trying to be evasive,” Sasha says. “Answer my question. How long?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  “Weeks? So, since the Grammys.”

  “It’s not a big deal. He’s been doing a ton of press since he won. And he’s still recording. He knows the tour schedule. I’m sure he’ll visit as soon as he gets a break.”

  “If it’s not a big deal, why do you seem so worried?”

  You hesitate to answer, but you know Sasha won’t let it go until you do. “It has to do with Trixie,” you mutter, halfway hoping he won’t hear you.

  But Sasha’s hearing is perfect, and he slams his hand hard onto the table, making the magazine—and you—jump. “What did that boy do? I swear I will kill him!”

  “Jeez, Sasha, chill. This is exactly why I didn’t say anything to you before. It’s not that bad.”

  “I am breathing, I am breathing,” Sasha inhales dramatically, pulling in a huge breath and then pushing it out in a long gust. “I am fine.” He sits up straight and smiles, the picture of perfect composure. “Go on.”

  You pause, not sure whether to continue. “I actually don’t think I should tell you the rest.”

  “Don’t wrinkle your nose like you smell something nasty. I have a right to protect the person I love most in this whole wide world.” Sasha lays his long fingers gently over yours. “I am calm, and I do not own a gun. Tell me. Now.”

  “Fine, but you have to promise to just listen.” You pause to see whether Sasha will say any more, but he remains silent, so you continue. “You know the last time Crispin and I broke up? How it was kind of part PR stunt and part trial to see what would happen if we did . . . you know . . . decide we should take some real time apart?”

  Sasha nods, his eyes focused on yours.

  “And we both did some, um, exploring I guess you would call it. You remember Han?”

  “How could I possibly forget?” Sasha asks.

  Discovered on Korea’s reality TV singing show, K-Pop, Han Lee was imported by legendary music producer, Colton Powers, and made over into an American media-ready heartthrob. Han was already a sensation in his native Korea and Powers put his massive PR machine into action to thrust Han to the U.S. media forefront. Often compared to a young (and Asian) Elvis Presley, Han’s provocative dance moves have made him almost as famous as have his brilliant rap lyrics. Even before you met, Han had dated a string of actresses and pop stars, but you were by far the most well-known.

  Not long after you started dating, Han’s shows began to sell out, and they have ever since. Sasha contends that having you on Han’s arm is what catapulted him into the stratosphere, bringing Han platinum-album success and making him the subject of tabloid stories week after week. He stops short of saying Han used you to get to the top, although you suspect that’s what he really thinks. You know the truth—Han’s incredible talent, undeniable sex appeal, and unwavering hard work made him a success. You also know it’s not worth arguing over, especially since Han is solidly in your past.

  You decide to let Sasha’s comment pass. “And you know Crispin was really in rehab—even though everyone thought he had vocal nodules.”

  “Mmmm hmmmm . . .” Sasha replies patiently.

  “Well, Trixie was at The Pines too. You know, recovering from ‘exhaustion.’”

  “Exhaustion. Riiiiiight. I heard about that.”

  The once-adorable star of the hit kids’ series, Showstoppers, Trixie veered wildly away from her squeaky-clean TV image to become an edgy adult pop star. More known for her onstage antics and racy selfies than her music, Trixie manages to stay in the public eye by using the “all PR is good PR” theory. Her most recent tabloid coverage revolved around her use of a bucket to relieve herself between sets and her penchant for growing premium-grade cannabis plants under lights in her tour bus. She’s always in the headlines for something scandalous and she’s always linked to someone more famous than she is.

  “Anyway, Crispin and Trixie kind of bonded. Apparently they were dealing with similar underlying issues.”

  Sasha purses his lips, “I can only imagine.”

  “It was just a fling.”

  “I knew it!” cries Sasha. “That bastard!”

  “We were on a break. They hooked up one time. And then it was over.”

  “According to Crispin,” Sasha says.

  “I believe him. He didn’t have to tell me.”

  “Your trust is admirable.”

  “Thank you. Even if you are being sarcastic. But here’s the real issue. They see each other from time to time at some kind of post-rehab support group. Supposedly they were assigned as each other’s recovery advocates. And I guess Trixie’s getting ‘exhausted’ again. She texted him the day after the Grammys. I know Crispin is probably just trying to help her, but I worry he could be getting sucked in.”

  “I bet he’s getting sucked one way or another.”

  “Sasha!”

  “I’m sorry, but what could he possibly see in her? There’s a reason the tabloids call her Trashy. As if the name Trixie isn’t already bad enough.”

  “Crispin is probably the most empathetic person I know. If someone needs him, he’s going to be there, no matter who it is.”

  Sasha purses his lips and stares straight ahead.

  “Thanks for trying to make me feel better about it,” you say.

  “I’m not doing you any favors by hiding the truth. Crispin is a player. Always has been, always will be. Just because he’s hot as hell doesn’t mean he gets carte blanche to flit in and out of your life as he pleases. And now that he’s got that Grammy, I guarantee his ego is going to be even bigger, if that’s possible.”

  “Did you just say Crispin is hot as hell?”

  Sasha halts for a moment, caught, then continues. “I’m just saying he has a very high opinion of himself. As does Trixie, obviously. You can’t tell me Crispin doesn’t eat that up.”

  “You are being so judgmental.”

  “Am I? Maybe you should listen to your own instincts if you aren’t going to listen to me. Maybe you’re finally realizing you deserve more, as I’ve told you a thousand times. Is it possible you’re just seeing things clearly in Crispin’s absence?”

  “No, that isn’t it.” You stop to think for a minute, trying to work out what exactly is making you feel so uneasy. “It’s not Crispin I don’t trust, it’s Trixie. There’s something about her. She has this innocence, this kind of adorable vulnerability.”

  “She has something all right.” Sasha agrees. “Probably herpes.”

  “Sasha!” you can’t help but laugh. “Seriously, though. I’m going to trust Crispin until he gives me a reason not to. I’m focusing on the positive”—you pick up the thick Rock ’N’ Roll magazine—“and I’m going to enjoy my time in the spotlight.”

  “As well you should”�
�Sasha smiles—“as well you should. And I’m going to enjoy it right along with you. But I am telling you I will kill that figgy-pudding-eating Brit with my bare hands if he breaks your heart.” He takes a dramatic breath. “At which time we shall revert to the pact.” Sasha nods reverently, referring to the promise you and he have made to each other to live together in a platonic partnership if you haven’t found the loves of your lives by the time you turn thirty-five.

  “Thanks, Sash.” You laugh and give his hands a squeeze. “You are the best.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Now come on, I think we better go figure out that peacock.”

  Besides being your best friend, Sasha has taken on the role of your personal stylist and costumier for the tour, something he was born to do. Not only does he help you choose every costume for your performances, he’s begun to design some of his own pieces and consults with you on your apparel line, providing invaluable advice.

  You flip the magazine open to the first page of your article one more time, let out a squeal, and then head for the door.

  Parked just a few steps from the tour bus, your wardrobe trailer is filled with endless racks of costume pieces and counters stacked with an eye-popping array of candy-colored wigs and extensions. Your carefully choreographed costume changes happen backstage, with Sasha there to help you slip quickly in and out of your clothing in the seconds you have between songs. It’s almost like a magic act, and it has to be seamless.

  One of your costumes, the show-stopping peacock piece, has an elaborate and incredibly heavy, feathered and sequined train that has to be hooked onto the bustle at the back of the costume’s corset. The full ensemble also requires a change of your stockings, your shoes, and your headpiece. Even with the help of two stagehands, the costume change is taking too long. Sasha is determined to get the timing right—and your manager, Freddie, is insistent that he does.