Pop Star

Book 2: Pick Your Own Plot Bedventure

by Meredith Michelle

Genres: Coming of Age; Women's Fiction; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

CHOOSE HOW FAR YOU WANT TO GO . . . You are Honey Noble, this month’s Rock N Roll Magazine cover star, with a platinum debut album and swarms of devoted “Honey Bees.” Life has never been sweeter—or crazier, as you juggle a cross-country tour (traveling on your luxury Airstream tour bus), a clothing line, fabulous endorsements, and a relationship with gorgeous former boy-bander, Crispin Hershey. But rumors are swirling about Crispin’s flirtation with pop’s bad girl, Trixie Sheer. And life on tour is opening up all kinds of intriguing possibilities for you, too . . . Do you snoop into Crispin’s phone to discover the truth about Trixie? Will a night in Vegas lead to a quickie wedding, a gambling debt, or a rehab stint? Should you enjoy a fling with a sizzling backup dancer or reconnect with Han Lee, your Korean pop star ex—or is your soul mate someone closer to home? Every choice has a juicy consequence, and the potential for steamy fun, fulfillment, tabloid scandal . . . or even a fatal misstep. The choice is yours . . .

Release date: May 30, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 232

Sample

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.

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

“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.” Sasha 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.

You wrap your hair quickly into a messy bun. “Do you think we should start in the waterfall?” you ask Sasha, referring to the costume you wear right before your change into the peacock.

“No,” answers Sasha. “That’s easy.”

The waterfall is a relatively simple, one-piece costume with a flowy skirt and a simple closure. One zip and it’s off.

“I think part of the problem is that we keep getting in each other’s way attaching the train at the same time the headpiece goes on. There’s no room to work around it once that peacock is attached,” Sasha says. “It would work better to have someone doing the headpiece at the same time the waterfall is coming off.”

“Okay, let’s try that.” You quickly strip off your leggings and baggy black tee, tossing them on the stool behind you. Then you peel off your panties and reach around to undo your bra. The costume has all the support you need built right into it, so there’s no need for extra undergarments.

The door to the trailer flies open as you stand there in your naked glory. “Hey!” you shout, pulling the closest garment you can find, a sheer, sparkly skirt, across your bare torso.

“My, my, my, what have I stumbled into?”

You quickly let your guard—and the skirt—down as the door closes behind the gorgeous, chiseled body, and equally perfect face of your MIA boyfriend, Crispin Hershey. Instant, enormous relief surges through you. Somehow you are still surprised by just how beautiful he is. In a form-fitting white T-shirt, distressed jeans, and black boots, he looks more like a movie star than a rock god. The sight of him makes you melt, and that accent . . . every time you hear it your stomach feels like you’ve just veered over the highest drop of the best roller coaster in the world.

Crispin takes in the scene. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” He cuts his eyes dramatically at Sasha.

“Actually,” you explain, taking a playful step in Crispin’s direction, “we were just working on timing. It can be a little tricky backstage.”

“Yes,” Sasha agrees, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Timing. Something you seem to have a small problem with.”

“The only problem I have,” answers Crispin, playing along, “is that I never seem to have enough time. But when I find a spare moment”—Crispin steps toward you, leaving only the smallest distance between your naked body and his—“how”—he takes another step, pulling you to him, wrapping his strong forearm around your bare waist—“can I possibly”—now his face is inches from yours, and you can smell the heady scent of his cologne and feel the rough scrape of the fly of his jeans against your bare stomach as he presses you to him—“resist this?” Crispin kisses you, pushing you back into the rack of costumes and making your head swim. You laugh around the swirl of Crispin’s tongue as you feel the scratch of the tulle and sequins against your bare back and buttocks.

“Don’t mind me,” Sasha calls from as far away as he can get in the cramped trailer, bringing you back to your senses.

You open your eyes, bite your lip, and look into Crispin’s hypnotizing, amber eyes. “I’d better . . .”

Crispin silences you with another kiss then looks over his shoulder at Sasha. “You’re welcome to join us,” he teases.

“Puh-lease,” Sasha crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. “You, Mr. Hershey, are most definitely not my type.”

“All right, boys, that’s enough.” You disentangle yourself from the jumble of costumes and give Crispin another long kiss. “I am so happy you’re here! But that’s going to have to tide you over until after the show. I have a ton of prep work to do.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Crispin says. “I fly all the way from LA and now you don’t have time for me.” He plunges a mock dagger into his heart and falls dramatically into the rack of costumes.

“Stop wrecking my wardrobe!” You giggle, pulling Crispin out of a frothy skirt.

“That’s nothing compared to what I plan to do to you later,” Crispin growls into your neck. His eyes twinkle with mischief.

“You’re welcome to stay,” you tell him. “Maybe you can help. We could use a third set of hands.”

Crispin wraps his arms around you tighter, pulling you close. “I think one set of hands is more than enough.” He gives your backside a squeeze.

“You really do have a one-track mind,” Sasha tells him. “But if you can refocus long enough to help us figure out this costume conundrum, I agree you are welcome to stay.”

“No, no, not my forte,” Crispin answers, giving you another kiss before pulling away. “I’ll leave you to it.” He walks toward the door, adjusting his waistband slightly. “Catch you after the show, baby.” He looks at you hungrily and slips out.

“Oh my god, I feel so much better!” you exhale. The weight of worry you’ve been carrying is entirely lifted. You feel as if you’ve just drunk a glass of champagne, bubbly and light.

“I’m so glad,” says Sasha, dryly, “but now I have a mess to clean up and we’re running late. We still have got to figure out this costume change.”

Sasha bends to lift the clipped edge of the peacock’s feathered train and as he does he lets out a gasp. “Well, what have we here?” He spins to display the cell phone he’s retrieved from under the rack of costumes.

You extend your hand to take it. “I can give it to him later.”

“Not so fast!” Sasha swipes a finger across the dark screen and arches an eyebrow. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”

“Sasha, that’s private.” You reach for the phone but he pulls it away. “Besides, I’m sure it’s fingerprint protected.”

Sasha glances at the screen. “Not even password protected. He really is as dumb as he looks.”

“Sasha, be nice.”

“I’m sorry, you know I cannot help myself. Come on, let’s just take a quick peek at what Mr. Crispin has been up to during his absence. Then your mind will be fully at ease.”

You pause to think about it, but not for long. “No, I wouldn’t want him—or anyone—snooping around in my phone. A relationship has to be built on trust. And I trust Crispin. You saw how he was just now. He’s here, just like he said he would be. Everything is fine.”

“Seems like Mr. Hershey came in here with a little too much pent-up energy, if you ask me.”

Now that you think about it, he did seem a little frantic. Still, you haven’t seen each other in weeks, so his extra enthusiasm only makes sense. You do trust him, but a niggling worry eats at the corners of your mind. You realize it’s not him you don’t trust, it’s that manipulative Trixie.

Sasha is like a dog with a bone. “Would it really hurt to look? Once you see there are no suspicious texts or photos, it will just confirm what you already know.”

There is some truth to that, but at the same time, you know you’ll feel guilty once you spy, and it’s a slippery slope. Next will you feel the need to start checking his pockets for questionable receipts?

Sasha waggles the phone in front of you, his finger poised over the message icon. “You know you want to look.”

What should you do?

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick, innocent peek.” you say.

“That’s my girl!” Sasha swipes his finger across the screen.

You slip your shirt back on and pull it over your knees as you both hunker down, cross-legged on the floor. “Hold on,” you tell him, popping up for a second to lock the trailer door. Feeling a little criminal, you sit back down and lean in, your forehead almost touching Sasha’s as you hover over the illuminated screen.

Sasha presses the green message icon and quickly scrolls through the lengthy list of texts. He hits the second text in the series, apparently an exchange between you and Crispin. “What is he doing calling you Henry?” Sasha asks.

“He thought it was cute,” you shrug.

“I thought that was just our thing.” Sasha drops his eyes to his lap, clearly stung by Crispin’s use of your childhood nickname. Crispin is the only person you’ve trusted with the truth of your given name, “Henrietta,” and your related nickname, “Henry,” since you became a successful pop star. Your agent, your manager, and your PR team have done everything in their power to hide the offensive moniker from the media. Even Sasha has taken to calling you “Henry” only in private, and then only in moments of affection or frustration—though he’s barely known you by any other name since the time you were children.

“Sasha, are you seriously going to pout about this?” you ask.

Sasha scrolls freely through texts between you and Crispin, most of which are single words from you trying to elicit a response from Crispin during his absence. Finally Sasha sighs and looks up.

“How can I stay mad at someone so pathetic,” he turns the screen to show you the recurrent green bubbles containing the single word Hello? from you to Crispin. “I’m sorry, but that is just rude.”

“He gets busy,” you explain.

“I bet he was gettin’ busy,” Sasha smirks, gazing intently into the phone. “This is interesting,” he announces, scrolling slowly through a new set of texts. “Very interesting indeed . . .”

“What?” you reach for the phone but Sasha pulls it back.

“Not so fast. I need to be sure these are fit for public consumption—oh my!”

“Sasha, give me that,” you lunge for the phone again, not sure whether he’s just teasing you or truly reading something horrendous.

“Just . . . give me a second . . .” Sasha rises slowly to his feet as he reads, holding the phone inches from his face. “No you did not!”

“Sasha!” You leap and make a grab for the phone, but instead of releasing it Sasha pulls it away and simultaneously loses his grip, flinging the phone backward as he does. For a slow-motion moment you watch the phone fly through the air and then, impossibly, plunge with a sickening plunk in the huge, cylindrical vase in the corner. It is slowly swallowed by filthy water left by the vase’s deceased contents, disposed of just this morning.

Sasha watches the phone bubble and gurgle as it submerges to the bottom of the vase. “I could not have done that if I’d tried,” he observes wryly.

You run to the vase to retrieve the sodden phone. “Oh no! No, no, no, no!” Water immediately runs from every crevice, much more water than you would ever have imagined the thin device could possibly hold.

“Sasha, get me something!”

“Oh, all right,” Sasha answers, nonchalantly walking to the tiny powder room and retrieving a hand towel.

“Hurry up!”

“It’s not the end of the world, Henrietta.” Sasha holds out a hand for the phone. “Let me see it.”

You hand over the phone, which is still leaking an alarming volume of water, and watch as Sasha shakes it hard then uses the corner of the little towel to dab at its screen.

“Sasha, what are you doing? You’re going to make it worse! Use the whole towel—you have to get it completely dry!”

“I know what I am doing, Henry, there’s an art to this.”

Watching Sasha, you have a sneaking suspicion there’s at least an artifice, if not an art, to what he is trying to accomplish.

He gives the phone a few more ineffectual pats and then tries to power it on. “Hmmmm,” is all he says.

“What?” you ask.

“Be patient.” He pushes and holds two buttons on the phone, then counts slowly to twenty. “Hmmmm.”

“It’s not working is it?”

“Not yet, but these things can take time,” he shakes the phone up and down vigorously, causing more droplets of water to fly into the air.

“Rice!” you announce, remembering something you read about how to dry out a phone that had been dropped in water. “We need rice!”

“I can call for takeout, but I don’t really think this is the time—”

“Sasha, this isn’t funny! We have to get his phone fixed! How a. . .