Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  The phone goes quiet for a moment and you think he’s hung up. Then you hear Crispin’s low laughter, which quickly turns hysterical. “We were! Right you are! We were having fun!”

  An immense sadness wells up in your chest. You’ve been through so much with Crispin, and you really hoped this time would be different.

  “I’m sorry, love.” Crispin is back on the line. “What were you saying, something very serious, wasn’t it?”

  You don’t bother to respond, but instead lower the phone from your ear and look at the display, the words “Crispin Hershey” lit up in white against the dark screen. You have an overwhelming feeling this will be the last time you see his name there. In the black glass background, you catch your own reflection.

  “Hello?” Crispin’s voice is far away now, remarkably tiny at this distance. “Honey?” He says something else too muffled to make out then, “I think she hung up.”

  You pause for a long moment before you hit End and turn off the phone. The air suddenly seems very close, very still. You turn the slim cellphone facedown and set it on the counter in front of you and stare at it, your eyes unfocused.

  “Honey?” Freddie emerges from his room as if on cue. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” You suck in a huge rush of air and stand up straight, smiling as convincingly as you can manage. “I’m fine.” But as you say it, an embarrassing sob escapes your throat and before you know it you are gasping for air, tears streaming down your face.

  “Honey!” Freddie immediately wraps you into a strong embrace. “Honey! What happened?”

  “It’s just”—you can’t even speak; your body is wracked with sobs. You lean into Freddie’s solid chest and take in his comforting scent even as you soak his shirt with your tears.

  “It’s okay,” he tells you, crooning soothingly as you cry. “I am here, whatever it is, I am here and it is going to be just fine.”

  Freddie strokes your back, running his strong hand in circles across your shoulders. Finally, your sobs begin to subside. “That’s better,” he tells you, “that’s better.”

  He places one finger under your chin and tips your head up to look into your eyes. You know your makeup must be horribly smeared, mascara running down your blotchy cheeks. Freddie uses one thumb to gently brush a tear from below your eye. “You know you are beautiful when you are crying?” he asks.

  You drop your eyes and sniffle. “Thanks.” You smile.

  Thank God for this man, who has the ability to be such an instant comfort. You reach for a tissue and dab at your face. “Sorry,” you tell him, as the tissue comes away stained with makeup. “What a mess.”

  You look up at him, into his beautiful dark brown eyes, handsomely ringed by crinkles only years of smiles can produce. He holds your gaze for a long moment and for a single dizzying second you are certain he is going to kiss you.

  Instead, he gently reaches for an errant eyelash and removes it from your cheek. “Just an eyelash,” he says quietly.

  “Oh good.” You let out the breath you only now realize you have been holding. “That’s good.” You turn from him quickly to hide the blush that has risen to your cheeks. “I’m just going to run to the bathroom.”

  You use your uninjured hand to splash cold water over your face and shake your head to clear it. What on earth are you thinking?

  * * *

  An hour and a half of Margot’s magic and a glass of champagne later, you’re ready for the club—or as ready as you can be despite a pounding headache and fatigue that has hit you like a ton of bricks. Thank goodness the appearance is only a one-hour gig. All you can think about is the sweet oblivion of the downy hotel bed when you finish.

  Sasha helps you into your five-inch Louboutins, which you could never have managed with just one hand. He’s blissfully oblivious to the latest Crispin fiasco and you plan to keep it that way until you have time to mentally process it yourself.

  “You look killer,” Sasha says, rising after he finishes fastening the second shoe.

  You turn to glance at your reflection and your mood begins to lift. Your leather pants are topped by a structured, midriff-baring corset. Your high ponytail swings so that the end just touches the top of your cleavage. Margot has managed to repair your smoky eyes, disguising some of the damage with extra-thick lashes, making your huge eyes look even larger. Your glossy lip pops with a subtle hint of color, making your still slightly reddened face look a bit paler in contrast.

  “Hey Freddie,” you ask before you walk out the door. “Would you mind leaving me one more of those pills? Just in case I can’t sleep?”

  Sasha is quick to respond for him. “Not on your life, Henrietta.” He juts his chin accusingly in Freddie’s direction. “What was it that you gave her anyway? Some kind of black market Ambien knock-off?”

  Freddie turns slowly to face Sasha. “I would never give Honey some kind of knock-off. What are you insinuating?”

  “Simmer down, you two,” you tell them. “I’m sorry I even asked. Just forget it.” You decide to drop it, not interested in causing any more friction. “Okay, I’m ready to roll.”

  “Good night Freddie,” says Sasha, cutting his eyes menacingly in Freddie’s direction. To his credit, Freddie laughs it off, which elicits a grin from Sasha, too.

  You feel instantly happier, glad these two friends you hold so dear are over their little scuffle.

  “I may see you down there,” Freddie says as you walk out the door. “It has been too long since I had a night at a club and a little fun at a casino. Plus I hear DJ Jett puts on the best show in town.”

  “Really?” You smile, “I’ll look for you. That is, if I don’t run out of there right at the hour mark. You know how these appearances can be.”

  Sasha sighs in mock-empathy. “Yes, yes, the life of a pop superstar. It really is too taxing.”

  You laugh and walk out the door on Sasha’s arm.

  “One hour and I’m out, for sure” Sasha says. “You’ve seen one DJ, you’ve seen them all. I want to catch Carlie’s show.”

  “You mean Carlton?” Sasha’s told you all about his high-school classmate turned Vegas dancer.

  “She’s Carlie here, Honey,” Sasha tells you.

  The club is dark and smoky, pulsing with dancing bodies, blaring music, and strobing lasers cutting through the smoky darkness. A pair of promoters leads you to the DJ booth, where you plan to say a quick hello to the crowd, help the DJ play a few tracks, sign autographs, and then make your exit.

  The DJ is a star in his own right. Now known as DJ Jett, Jett Johnston is former tween heartthrob who played a starring role on one of your favorite shows, a family sitcom called The Silversmiths. Though sunglasses hide the eyes you remember as being a remarkable shade of the lightest blue, his hair is spiked in the same style you remember, and his gorgeous, chiseled features are unmistakable. “Hi, Jett, I’m Honey,” you reach out to shake his hand. Your hand trembles slightly and you realize you are seriously and surprisingly starstruck.

  Luckily, Jett doesn’t seem to notice. He lowers his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose, and fixes you with a piercing gaze. “Alright, alright!” he enthuses, leaning in close so he can be heard over the music. He smells like a mix of cologne, cigarettes, and alcohol. One deep breath and you know you’ll be instantly intoxicated. “My sidekick for the night!” He runs his eyes from your face to your feet then back up again. “Honey Noble,” he purrs in a very sexy Australian accent. “Welcome to the Max.”

  Jett authoritatively guides your good hand to one of the turntables in front of you. He slides a lever to lower the music and raises his hands in the air. “Ladies and gents of Las Vegas!” he announces, eliciting a cheer from the crowd. “May I present your very special guest DJ,” he pauses dramatically and you can almost hear the silent drumroll. “She floats like a butterfly, but she stings like a bee! The one, the only, the incredibly sexy goddess of pop, Honey Noble!”

  The crowd goes wild, almost drowning out y
our words, “I’m so glad to be here in Vegas with you tonight! Let’s have some fun!”

  “They love you!” Jett enthuses as he dials the music back up to full volume. He lowers his sunglasses to give you a wink. “But who wouldn’t?”

  You have to smile. Sometimes the events you dread the most turn out to be the most fun. Your headache has miraculously disappeared and you feel the beat of the music saturating your body. Before you know it you’re dancing along with the crowd to Jett’s tracks. Club guests who no doubt paid a hefty fee for a VIP visit to the DJ booth are brought up one by one to get a CD or photograph signed. The hour passes in what feels like minutes.

  Sasha climbs up to the booth the minute your hour is up, looking sweaty and anxious to leave. “You ready?” he asks.

  “Has it been an hour already?” Jett yells over the music, then leans in so that only you can hear him. “I’d love for you to keep me company, if you want to stay, that is.”

  “Actually, this has been really fun. I wouldn’t mind hanging out a little longer.” A second wind has filled you with new energy, and your time in the DJ booth has proved the perfect distraction.

  Sasha falls backs into a swoon against the booth’s metal rails. “Honey, you agreed to an hour,” he reminds you. “And I promised Carlie I would be there tonight. I’ve got to freshen up and catch a cab.” He surveys the crowd, jumping in unison to Jett’s beat. “And now I have a pounding headache. I cannot imagine why.”

  “You go ahead,” you offer. “I’ll be fine. Freddie’s here somewhere I think.”

  Sasha crosses his long arms, “Do you really think I am going to leave you in the middle of a Las Vegas nightclub by yourself? You must think I’ve lost my mind.”

  Jett glances over casually, one hand still on the turntable. “She wouldn’t be all by herself.”

  “I’m sorry?” asks Sasha, affronted. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced?”

  “Sasha, this is Jett. You remember him—from The Silversmiths. We used to watch it all the time when we were kids.”

  Sasha cuts his eyes at Jett suspiciously, but a glint of recognition grows in his eyes. “DJ Jett is actually Jett Johnston?” he asks slowly.

  “In the flesh,” Jett lowers his sunglasses to give Sasha a better look.

  “Well, you have certainly grown up,” says Sasha, looking Jett up and down and instantly warming to his effortless charm.

  Jett laughs, “Yeah, well, it happens.”

  Sasha leans on the booth’s metal railing. “I loved that show—The Silversmiths—that episode where your dad remarries? Totally broke my heart.”

  “Yeah, the good old days. One sec.” Jett holds up a finger and returns to his turntable, sets a new disc spinning, and returns his attention to Sasha, who continues to eat it up. “Anyway, I really don’t mind walking Honey to her room after I’m finished here. I’m only on for another hour then I’ll bring her straight back.”

  Sasha looks at you for approval. “It’s fine, Sash,” you assure him. “I’m a big girl.”

  “I mean, I’m not a bodyguard like you,” Jett tells Sasha. It’s impossible to tell whether Jett is serious or teasing, but it works, and Sasha doesn’t bother to correct him. “But I can keep her safe in these mean hallways and elevator shafts. I know my way around the Max. And”—Jett flexes one impressive bicep—“I’ve been working out.”

  “Well,” Sasha swoons, “who am I to argue with that? If it’s okay with Honey, I guess it’s okay with me.”

  “It’s fine,” you repeat. “I’ll check in with you when I come up.”

  “You’d better,” says Sasha. “Later, Jett Johnston,” he waggles his fingers at you both before descending the stairs and disappearing into the crowd.

  Jett turns to you and leans in closely once again. “You look like you could use a drink.” He reaches under the table and magically produces a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He gives it a vigorous shake and pulls the cork from the bottle, causing a frothy spray to eject from the bottle all over the crowd below, who cheer and scream for more. He laughs and turns to you—“Your turn”—then tips the bottle into your mouth. You take several long draws, the bubbly sweetness tracking delightfully down your parched throat.

  Jett covers the mouth of the bottle with his thumb and gives it few more hard shakes then sprays the remaining contents into the crowd, who respond with a raucous cheer. “Don’t worry,” he says. “There’s more where this came from.”

  “None for you?” you ask. You can already feel the alcohol hitting your bloodstream, the slight buzz just below the surface.

  “Nah, I don’t touch the stuff.” Jett reaches for a bottle of water and takes a long swig. “Be right back.” He jumps down the booth’s little staircase in one swift movement. Immediately the crowd is upon him, both women and men screaming his name, snapping selfies, pulling at his shirt, and running their hands over his chest. He weaves his way through to the bar and after a few moments he returns with a tall glass filled with a liquid that fades from a deep gold to white from the top to the bottom of the glass.

  He holds it well above his head as he navigates back to the booth. “The bartender invented this in your honor.” He hands you the icy glass. “It’s been his best seller all weekend. Would have been a shame for you to miss out on trying it.”

  Jett lowers the music and picks up the mic. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he shouts to the crowd. “To our honored guest for the evening, Honey Noble. Honey, thank you for DJ-ing with me tonight. We cannot wait to see your show tomorrow!” He lifts the empty champagne bottle and clinks it with your glass, “To Honey!”

  “To Honey!” the crowd echoes, and you take a sip of the sweet liquid. You can taste a hint of ginger, a minty flavor, and a subtle but definite touch of honey. The main ingredient, however, is clearly vodka. It’s actually pretty good.

  “It’s delicious!” you tell Jett.

  “Glad you like it. Here,” he hands you an unopened bottle of water. “There’s a ton of vodka in that drink. I watched him pour it. You’re going to need this water.”

  You are impressed. For a moment you were convinced Jett was doing his best to get you intoxicated. “Thanks,” you tell him.

  A half hour later, Jett turns the music to autoplay. “That’s it for me,” he tells you. “Just need to tidy up.” He begins coiling wires and cables and packing them into a crate at the back of the booth.

  “Can I help you?” you ask.

  “No, I’ve got it. It’ll only take minute.”

  Jett piles the headphones on top of the crate’s contents. “Follow me,” he tells you, and leads you back down the stairs taking a sharp left at the bottom and through a curtain to a concealed doorway leading into a utilitarian service hallway. The silence in the hallway is an almost deafening contrast to the noise of the club.

  “This is my backstage,” Jett explains. “Pretty glamorous, huh?”

  “Looks a lot like my backstage,” you laugh.

  Jett leads you to an elevator and presses the button. “I just have to dump this stuff in my room.”

  Jett’s room, as it turns out, is more like an apartment. The enormous suite has been decorated in warm browns and grays. The walls are covered with posters of what you guess are Jett’s favorite recording artists. Stacked crates of records tower against one wall. Jett adds tonight’s crate to the pile.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes. “It’s a bit of mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “This is nice,” you tell him, running a finger along a shelf lined with an assortment of miscellaneous knickknacks ranging from bobble heads to shot glasses to something that looks like an Emmy. “What is all of this?”

  “Just stuff I’ve picked up along the way. Some of it is memorabilia from my old show. See this one?” he lifts a bobble head with a mane of long, dark, curly hair. “Recognize her? You said you were a fan of the show.” He shakes the doll gently to set its head bobbling back and forth.

  “Ha!” you excl
aim as you realize. “Is that Stacey Silversmith?”

  “You got it,” he tells you.

  “Doesn’t she want her doll back?” you tease.

  “Oh, don’t worry, she has several of her own. She sent me this one Christmas with a note saying she hopes it will continue to annoy me as much as she did.” He laughs at the memory. “She really was the sister I never had. Endlessly pestering and very moody.”

  “Are you still in touch?” you ask

  “Yeah, all the time. We all still talk. I know it sounds clichéd but we really were like a family, and that didn’t end even when the show’s run ended.” He pauses for a moment lost in thought, his eyes, an otherworldly translucent blue, aglow with his memories. “Anyway, that was then and this is most definitely now.” He focuses his full attention on you, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks.

  “What happened to your hand?” he asks, noticing the bandage you’ve artfully covered with fingerless gloves.

  “Oh it’s nothing,” you tell him. You’d almost forgotten all about it. “A stupid accident with a broken vase. A few stitches.”

  “I thought that was a fashion accessory but I noticed you favoring it.”

  “Unfortunately more of a fashion disaster,” you grimace.

  “Bummer,” he says. “So, what now?” he asks.

  You bite your lip and think for a second. It’s a good question. You know you should go back to your room, but you are still buzzing with energy—whether from the club, the alcohol, or meeting this new guy who you think kind of seems to like you, you don’t know.

  “We could hang here, if you want,” Jett offers. “Or we could venture down to the casino. I could show you the ropes. You don’t look like much of a gambler.”

  “Yeah,” you agree. “I’m not.” But you do feel ready to take a gamble and you’re intrigued by DJ Jett. Maybe you should just stay and get to know him better. Plus, he’s proved an excellent distraction and you really don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now.

  Still, you promised Sasha you would go back to the hotel room after the club. You know he’ll worry if you’re not there when he returns—and you could use a night of rest. And, what are the chances you’ll even ever see Jett again after this stop in Vegas? There’s probably no point in starting something that can’t be finished.