by Arell Rivers
“Yeah, believe me, I wish you were my date tonight. I saw the video last week, and it’s fantastic. It shows off my leading lady’s banging body…repeatedly.”
“How banging?”
“Dude. The video is hot, but she was even hotter afterward.”
“And your mother wonders why you don’t want to settle down.”
“Ha, ha. I had Jayson tell her about the video.”
“Nice. You’re chicken-shit, too.” He pauses. “Oh wait, I get it. You bribed him with the decorating gig if he told your mom about the video. That’s low, Cole.”
I chuckle. “But effective.”
“I guess you earned a pass by putting in all that playtime with Mimi Barker. How’s that been?”
“Let’s say that I’m excited that tonight is my last publicity date with her. She’s rude and so self-centered that you wouldn’t believe it.” A cocktail napkin from the club we went to last night sits on top of the coffee table. “Last night, she berated a waitress for bringing her a dirty martini with three olives instead of two.”
“Seriously?”
“Dude. Instead of taking out the extra olive and putting it on the side, she made a huge scene. I had to restrain her. She was going to throw the drink on the poor waitress.”
“It’s a wonder she didn’t demand that the girl be fired.”
Crumpling up the napkin, I reply, “Believe me, she demanded that I tell the manager to fire her. I pointed out that she didn’t specify how many olives she wanted when she placed her order. Her response was that everyone on the planet knows how she takes her dirty martinis.” I toss it into the trash. Two points.
“She sounds like a real winner.”
“You don’t know the half of it. She thinks that the sun rises and sets on her ass. When I refused to fuck her, she went nuts. She says that no one turns her down—ever—and that she’s the best lay I’d ever have.”
“So why is she still going to the premiere with you?”
Walking into my bedroom, I respond, “Gruesome wouldn’t let me out of it. Plus, Mimi’s already posted about it on social media. It fulfills her three favorite things.” Even though he can’t see me over the phone, I raise my fingers. “One, red carpet. Two, paparazzi. Three, she’s never been rejected before, and she’s certain she’ll change my mind.”
“That’s because you’re just so irresistible. Good luck with her tonight.” His voice fades into laughter.
I strum my fingers on my leg waiting for him to stop laughing. “You wouldn’t think it were so funny if it were you.”
“Nope, I wouldn’t. Listen, it’s time for Suzanne’s surf lesson. I have to be there to make sure the surfer dude keeps it clean with my woman. I hope you have a good time at the premiere, and I’ll catch the video tonight.” He pauses. “And really, good luck with your date.”
Disconnecting over his laughter, I toss my phone onto the bed and consult the information that Rose gave me at the last meeting. The big “X’s” that I’ve put across all of my other dates with MooMoo make me smile. Just one more left. Too bad I have to share one of the most important nights of my life with her. But, I refuse to let even her bring me down. Tonight, everyone will see my first music video and I’m proud of it. Standing a bit taller, I grab a towel and hop into the shower.
Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed according to Rose’s specs. Black pants, a white button-down shirt, untucked, topped with my black leather jacket. I apply hair wax to my re-highlighted hair. Butterflies start to multiply in my stomach, even more than before I take the stage. Opening the backdoor, I step outside and pull out a cigarette to calm my nerves.
A couple of puffs later, a knock on the front door tells me it’s showtime. I stub out my butt and draw a deep breath. The butterflies seem to have flown away. Good.
Sunglasses and cell phone in hand, I make my way out to the street. A full-on stretch black limo is parked out front. I guess this is what Gruesome meant by “the works.” MooMoo will be pleased. Over my protest, the driver graciously opens my door.
I almost jump out of my skin as I’m greeted with, “Hello, loverboy.”
Taking a deep breath, I slip into the limo. MooMoo sidles over, wraps her arm into the crook of my own and rests her head against my shoulder. I feel her chewing gum. “Mimi, I didn’t know you were being picked up first.”
“Tonight is your premiere, so it’s only fair that you got extra time to primp.”
I quirk my eyebrow at her. Even though it’s my video premiere, I’m compelled to ask, “So, are you excited for tonight?”
She runs her fingers up and down the buttons on my shirt. “Oh yes, Cole. Red carpets always excite me.”
Anything with a camera excites her.
She leans back and gives me a wide-eyed look. “This is your first premiere. I’m honored to pop your cherry!”
Not a chance in hell. Time to redirect her thoughts. “Looks like Greta pulled out all the stops for it.”
“‘Prowling’ is Number One. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t have a video for it before now.”
“It was my first single off my first album. The label wanted to see how it would do before pouring money into a video. Makes business sense.”
“Whatever. At least you have one now. And with me on your arm tonight, it will get all the attention it needs. My peeps love Micole.”
This is our swan song. Thankfully. “Tonight’s our last date. My tour starts back up again in a couple of days.”
Leaning against me again, she sighs. “I know. We’ll have to make it one for the history books.”
“I’m sure it will stay in my memory forever.”
Giggling, she responds, “Tonight can be so much more memorable.” Her hot pink fingernails run over my chest again.
I place my hand over hers. “So,” I deposit her hand to her lap, “what do you think they’re going to say about Meghann not being here?”
She flicks her wrist so that her nails glance off my bicep. “They won’t say anything. Everyone knows that we’re an item now.” Her fingers return to my bicep and test the muscle. “I already explained this to you. I’m your girlfriend and that model was just a hired actress. Although, why you didn’t ask me to be in the video in the first place makes no sense to me.”
Funny, it makes perfect sense to me. “Meghann has a lot of acting experience.”
“Modeling. That’s different. I have as much experience as she does in front of the camera.” Her eyes double in size and a virtual light bulb goes off in her head. “Maybe I’ll talk with the director tonight about appearing in his next project. He’ll be there tonight, right?”
I shrug. “I believe so.”
“Of course he will! Why didn’t I think of this before? I have to show him what he’s been missing out on. I need you to introduce me to him as soon as we get out of this limo.” She disengages from me, pulls out a huge purse with some logo on it, and starts checking her makeup. “I’m so glad I put these hair extensions in for tonight. I think they make me look mysterious. What do you think?”
I don’t bother to check. “Sure.”
“My eyes are smoky.” She pulls out lipstick. “I’ll reapply this lip gloss to make sure my lips shine.”
“Okay.”
Taking a tissue, she blots her lips, then looks horror-stricken. “Oh no! I can’t kiss you without messing up my lips!”
The horror. “We wouldn’t want that to happen, Mimi. No worries.” The limo stops a few blocks away from the venue, causing me to look out the tinted window. “LA traffic sucks.”
My publicity date leans over my lap, pressing her ample tits against my thighs and peers out the window. Like she couldn’t have easily looked over from where she was sitting. When she returns to her seat, I remove her lingering hand from my upper thigh.
She says, “This isn’t traffic. This is all for your video.”
My skin tingles. “What?”
“Look again. We’re not being blocked by cars. We�
��re being blocked by people waiting to see us.”
I take a better look and realize she’s on the money. I exhale a long breath. “Wow. All for my music video?”
“And for Micole.” She sits up straighter and goes into drill sergeant mode. “Now, when we arrive, you need to get out of the limo first and then help me out. I guess since it is your video, you should pose for some photos before offering me your hand. Oh, that will be good, as the delay will build up the suspense of seeing us together.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. She does have more experience with red carpets than I do. “Okay,” I mutter.
“When we’re both out of the limo—finally, I’m being taken somewhere in style with you—we’ll start walking through the crowd, up to the red carpet. Make sure you stop and talk with your fans. I’m sure many of them will want to take photos with us.”
“I’ve done hundreds of meet and greets,” I grumble. “I know how to connect with my fans.”
She prattles on for the remainder of our stop-and-go ride. I nod here and there, but my attention is mostly on the crowd. Finally, we stop at the curb and the driver exits. When he opens my door, screams engulf the limo. Like being in an open-air concert.
Her voice pierces the din. “Are you ready to meet our adoring fans?”
I’m more than ready to leave you in the dust. Biting my tongue, I offer her a smile. She reaches out, caresses my dimple with her pink nail and plays with a strand of my expertly highlighted hair. Lowering her tone to what I presume is her sultry voice, she says, “Looking good, Cole.”
Shaking my head to clear it, I place one foot on the street. The screaming intensifies. Coming to my full six-feet outside the limo, I wave to the crowd. I take a step and smile, nearly blinded by all of the flashes going off. I do a full three-sixty and take in the sheer number of people who have come here to support me. Wow.
A whiney voice cuts through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. “Cole! Don’t forget me in here. Cole!”
Crap. Turning back, I offer my hand and draw my self-important PR date from the back of the limo. She steps onto the pavement and poses for the paps in her skin-tight, leopard-print dress. Some shout “Micole,” but many more of them yell, “Cole!”
Taking her hand, I head toward the entrance, but she pulls us back for more photos. As we work the crowd, I realize that she’s right. Just because I want to escape my “date,” doesn’t mean I should neglect my fans. I walk over to the pen and shake hands, kiss cheeks and autograph innumerable items from CD covers to shirts. By the time we make our way to the top of the red carpet, my cheeks hurt from smiling for so many photographs. It’s a good feeling.
We stop for more photos in front of the “Prowling” banner, which is flanked by large video screens so the fans who’ve gathered outside the theater can watch the video. Amazing.
Professionals snap their shots and television cameras are here, too. I recognize two reporters from entertainment shows. Rose arranged for them to be here and prepped me to talk with them. One of them waves us toward her.
“Here’s the man of the hour, Cole Manchester. And I see you’ve brought the lovely Mimi Barker with you. How excited are you about the ‘Prowling’ video?”
Clearing my throat, I marshal the talking points Rose coached me through, praying that I don’t sound like an ass. “I’m very excited. I saw the video last week, and I can’t wait to share it with the world.”
“How was it shooting with the world-famous Meghann Styles?”
“Meghann was extremely professional and patient with me on set, which was helpful since it was my first time.” I grin. “We had a lot of fun filming.”
“Yes, Cole, we’ve all seen the behind-the-scenes photos and it looks like the two of you were having a good time.” She looks over to my companion. “And how do you feel about your man sharing the screen with a supermodel, Mimi?”
MooMoo wraps her body around me. My body tenses, but I keep my face neutral—mustn’t show my true feelings.
“She was there for the shoot, but I’m the one here now.” She kisses me on the cheek. Taking the cue, the reporter laughs and bids us a good evening.
We take two steps and the next reporter swoops in. Our talk with him goes much the same, only this time my date manages to make it even more about her.
Once inside, the noise from the crowd disappears when the doors close. The overhead lights are dim, but a light show creates a club-like feel. The word “prowling” is projected onto one wall. I’m amazed Gruesome was able to arrange all of this hoopla over a four-minute music video. My music video. Words might be my thing, but I can’t find any big enough to describe this feeling.
MooMoo motions a server over and grabs two glasses of champagne. Handing me one, she warns, “Don’t forget your promise.”
As if. Looking around, I spy the Charles Van amidst the crew. “There’s the director over there,” I tell her, motioning toward him with my flute.
“Oooh, great. Introduce me!”
If this means I get to pawn my date off on him, I’m all for this introduction. He’s a big boy. And who knows, he might even want to bank off her social media presence. We walk over, but instead of waiting for him to finish his conversation, she practically hits the guy on the shoulder.
“Hi, I’m Mimi Barker,” she says, fluttering her fake lashes furiously, “but I’m sure you already knew that.”
Charles gives me a wry smile, and replies, “It’s a pleasure, Mimi.”
“I need to be in your next video.”
Rolling my eyes, I leave her to the poor, unsuspecting guy. Better him than me. From across the room, my manager Russell nods at me and I walk over to him.
“Excited for tonight, Cole?”
“Very much so. How much longer?”
“We need to go over to the screening room. You, of course, were the last to arrive, so we should be getting started shortly.”
While we’re talking, Rose comes over holding a clipboard. “Hi, Russell. Hi, Cole. Sorry to interrupt.” She glances at me briefly before returning her attention to her clipboard. Ever efficient. “I just wanted to offer my congratulations on walking your first red carpet. You did very well with the reporters.”
“Thanks, Rose. I didn’t see you out there.”
“Then I was doing my job perfectly.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose as her lips rise. Her whole face transforms when she smiles. An odd sense of déjà-vu steals over me.
But there’s no time for me to interpret the strange sensation. “As I’m sure you’re aware,” she continues, “‘Micole’ has been a huge hit with the media. Your social media exploded and your Q Score jumped up nicely.”
“Lucky me.”
For a split second, I swear her eyes twinkle, but then she recovers her professional self. “See, Mimi wasn’t as bad as you had feared.” Easy for her to say. “Oh, I put together your itinerary for the stops during this leg of your tour, including some private tours, so please make sure to check your inbox. Now, I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your evening.” She disappears and Russell hands me another flute filled with champagne.
A short while later, Jon stands up and directs everyone to the screening room. I take a couple of steps alone, but Gruesome catches my eye. She looks at me, pointedly shifts her gaze to my empty left side and then me once again with her death stare. She wants me to find MooMoo. The next leg of my tour can’t come soon enough.
Glancing around, I spot my erstwhile date still chatting up the director. I approach and put my hands on her shoulders. “The video is about to start. Can I steal you away?”
Charles locks eyes with me. In one silent glance, he communicates his distaste and I share my agreement. I give him a one-sided smile that hopefully works for an apology.
MooMoo looks up at me and nods. As I’m escorting her toward the screening room, she gushes, “I’ve been cast in his next video! Isn’t that awesome! He said that he knows I’m a huge talent, and can’t wait to wor
k with me.”
“Wow. I’m happy for you.” And surprised. “When do you start shooting?”
“He said that he doesn’t have anything coming up right away, but I’ll be the first person he thinks of when something comes in.”
Ah, so he gave her the whole “don’t call me, I’ll call you” routine. Gotta hand it to him—he’s slick.
We take our cushy seats in the front row of the theater. Jon walks to the front and greets everyone. “Platinum Records welcomes you to the premiere for Cole Manchester’s ‘Prowling’ video. ‘Prowling’ has been Number One for the past six weeks, and we’re confident that this video will keep the song there for a long time to come. So, without further ado, we present ‘Prowling.’”
The lights dim and my song fills the air.
Not even the woman attached to my side can dull this moment for me.
MY PHONE RINGS, waking me from a deep sleep on my tour bus. After six weeks of being back on the road, I’m fully adjusted to my late night schedule. A quick glance at the clock shows it’s only five-fifteen in the morning—I went to bed all of two hours ago after finishing my concert and after-party backroom action in Indianapolis. Who would call me at this ungodly hour?
I glance at the screen and groan. “Rose Morgan” is identified as the perpetrator. She can go to voice mail. Hitting “decline,” I toss my cell on the bed and am immediately lulled back to sleep by the MPB’s rhythmic movements.
The phone rings again. Really? Thank God, it was my turn to get the bedroom. Otherwise, she probably would have awakened the whole bus by now. “Decline.” I bury it under my pillow.
The fucking thing rings a third time. Swiping the screen to accept the call, I grumble, “Do you know what time it is, Rose?”
The culprit chirps, “Good morning! Do you know what day it is?”
In a sleep-laden voice, I reply, “What is this, twenty questions? I’m sleeping. Get yourself a calendar.”
She laughs. Despite the fact that I’m still more than half-asleep, the melodious sound registers deep within me, and I rouse more toward wakefulness. “I know exactly what day and time it is.”
