Date With A Rockstar (3 page)

“You do want to kiss him, don't you?” The guy chuckles a little.

I can't speak. What lie do I tell to make him stop asking me this question? The camera wheels closer. Please leave me alone. Another hiccup hits me. I try to swallow and say something, but I gag instead. Shit. I jump up and spots float in front of my face. “I'm going to be sick,” I try to mumble as I snatch up my bag and bury my face in it as I run to the door.

“Down the hall to the right!” the interviewer yells as the door closes behind me. I bang into the bathroom and barely make it into one of the stalls. My stomach empties and tears plop down into the mess. It takes a minute for the disaster my interview just became to sink in. I flush away the evidence of my failure and sit back on my heels in front of the disgusting toilet. I ruined my one chance. After all that waiting in line, I blow it in front of the camera. Minutes pass as I weep in disbelief. I suck. I dig in my bag for breath mints or some reminder of my real life. The stale crust of my vitamin spread sandwich makes me feel worse. Nice reminder.

There's a knock on the door. “Hey, are you all right in there?” Oh, great. They've sent someone to make sure I'm not dying.

“Yeah, I'll just be another minute.”

The door opens and I see sneakers coming toward me from where I'm crouched by the toilet. “Do you want me to get you a glass of water?”

Wow, nice intern.
“No, I'll be okay. I'm sorry I wasted everyone's time. I'll be out of here shortly.” I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and swallow repeatedly to try and make the tears stop. I push the stall door open and smack Jeremy Bane.

My whole world freezes.

Jeremy Bane is in the bathroom. Jeremy Bane just asked if he could get me water. He's standing next to me. He heard me puke, and wow, he's just as pretty as the documentary said he was. Even better in person.
But I just puked. I need to just rewind this section of my life and clean up. His hand brushes my arm.

Holy crap, Jeremy Bane is in the ladies room because of me.

Dizziness hits me hard and the spots turn into a black wave. I stagger forward and his hand grips my arm to keep me from toppling over. My backpack drops to the floor and my stuff scatters.

“Whoa, you don't look so good.” The blackness fringing my vision recedes when his hand touches me. I straighten up and cover my mouth in case I have puke breath or saliva on my face.

“You're fine,” he says, taking in my self-conscious gestures. He's wearing a worn black T-shirt and jeans. We're standing so close together, and I look like shit, and I just threw up. My brain is malfunctioning.

“Thanks for catching me.” I motion to the porcelain edge of the sink that I would've cracked my head on if he hadn't been standing in the way. We both crouch down and start picking up my things. I'm mortified when he hands me the crust from my vitamin spread sandwich that I ate in line days ago.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

“I, uh, wanted to make sure you were okay.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes and glances at me. Whoa. The perfect angle of his cheek leads down to full lips. He blinks once and long lashes brush that gorgeous cheek. Dazzle effect. That's what the scientists named the hypnotic effect of his presence in the documentary I watched.

I shuffle my feet together and bite my lip. What do I say? We're both wearing black T-shirts. I'm crouching next to Jeremy Bane. I smell his shampoo. He's so close. I could just grab him. “Why would you check on me after I messed up my audition?”

“Who said you messed up? I liked everything you said.”

“Really?” I pick my head up a few inches and watch him through the veil of my hair. The lines on his forehead show concern and he has a small, reassuring smile. He sweeps more of my stuff toward me and the open backpack. His long fingers are inches from me.

“Yeah. I'm glad my music means so much to someone.”

If he only knew how much I counted on his songs to take me away after I found out I had Fluxem. “Well, this is only the beginning of the auditions. If you're watching them all, I'm sure you'll get to hear plenty of compliments.”

“Eh, I hate all the gushing. It sounds so fake.”

Right. Check. Don't sound fake. Should I ask about his music now? I want all the details that weren't in the specials. There has to be more. I'm about to ask a non-stop stream of questions, but I force my thoughts to slow. I need to win him over. Prize money first, indulging inner fangirl last.

I pick up my sports bottle and quickly slide it out of sight. It's then I notice the Metal Society's tiny piece of soon-to-be jewelry in his hand. How the hell did I forget that was in my bag? It's about the diameter of a golf ball and a fingernail thick. Small enough to slip under all the other junk I have with me. Jeremy turns it over in his hand. I've already scraped away enough of the black paint to reveal the gold. I freeze. I need an excuse. No way can I afford to get busted. Plus, if the authorities confiscate it, I'll owe the Society.

Jeremy flips the small chunk of metal over in his hand and raises his eyebrows. My illegal scratch-work covers the front. A crime punishable by a very heavy fine. How could I have forgotten to return it? I was so focused on the line and the audition. I clench my teeth, waiting for Jeremy's inevitable accusations.

I raise my head enough to meet his questioning stare.
Please don't turn me in.
The design on the piece
is one of my best, and if I can get it back, the Society will make a lot of money from its sale. I might even get a small commission. I hold my breath, tabulating the fines and debt I'll incur if Jeremy follows the law. I don't want to have to beg him. He runs his thumb over the piece.

Then, without a word, he hands the evidence back. I slide it to the bottom of my bag. He continues to stare at me, but I can't meet his eyes.

“Here, I'll lead you back.” He offers me his hand. His long fingers wrap around mine as he pulls me to my feet. Prickles shoot up my arm. There's seeing him on TV and then there's this. He's not putting on a performance. He's just helping me up, and the gesture is so real and so sweet. The prickles hit the center of my chest and whoosh to my head. He lets go of my hand and opens the bathroom door for me. A bodyguard nods at us as we step out. “This way,” Jeremy says.

He walks a few paces, but I don't follow. “I can't answer any more questions on camera. At least, not right now.”

“Oh, I didn't mean that I was taking you back to be interviewed. There's another waiting room that's more comfortable.”

Good. I'll go anywhere as long as I don't have to be on camera again. I follow him down the hall, sneaking a glance over my shoulder at the guard following us.

“That's my friend, Derek,” Jeremy says.

“Hey.” I turn slightly and wave at the big military guy. How weird to be constantly shadowed. Does Jeremy like being famous? He opens the door at the end of the hall for me and I check out the new room. There are sandwiches arranged on platters. Fresh fruit. Holy crap, they have fresh fruit! I mean, I know people have fruit at home, but since Mom and I have been saving all our money for the cure, I haven't really
had fresh produce for years. For a moment I forget even Jeremy and take a few quick steps toward the buffet. When I turn back to thank him, he's smiling at me.

The smile. His famous crooked smile. I melt.

“I'll talk to you later.” He waves and softly closes the door.

There's no one else in the room. A camera sits in the corner, but I'm pretty sure it's off. I slam a strawberry in my mouth. The queasiness is gone. I grab a piece of watermelon, savoring the sweetness. Is this where the winners go?

I gorge on all the fruit and collapse into a fluffy armchair. Is this what it's like to be rich? I imagine Jeremy in the bathroom again. Play over every detail. The shine of his brown eyes, the one wave in his auburn hair. Up close he seems younger than I expected. Kinder. I concentrate on the way his hand felt on my arm, willing the sensation to exist again. This time, when he catches me, I lean into him and we kiss.

I'm still happily daydreaming when the door opens and the competition strolls in.

I STRAIGHTEN UP from my slouch in the armchair. The girl steps into the room and swivels her head back and forth. She's a shark. Her black hair, sleek and dry, shows zero signs of suffering in line for days. Her subtle makeup highlights perfect features. With her light tan skin and slightly slanted eyes, she's gorgeous. Ugh. I feel like crap. I can't control the other girls Jeremy has picked to compete against me and I don't know how to stand out against someone like this. If I want to win, I need that control.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi.” She looks me over. “Why didn't you change your clothes before the interview?”

I clench my teeth. I could lie and say my backpack isn't waterproof. But why frigging bother? I dealt with enough of these girls in school.

“Do you know anything about why we're here or what's going to happen next?” Maybe she has something useful to offer. I swear I see sharp eyeteeth as she opens her mouth to answer.

“We wait.” She brushes her nails along her arm, straightening the tiny hairs. “They keep us around the rest of the day and if they don't find too many of us that are cute enough for TV,” she pauses and flicks imaginary dirt in my direction, “we move on. Not until
they're done interviewing the rest of the first group, though. So we may still be cut.”

“Oh.” I drop my head. I'm so frustrated and so sick of being contagious. I cannot spend another year watching Mom work herself to death for me.

I move back to the buffet table and pile a bowl high with tiny squares of a yellow fruit I've never seen before. The tart flavor bursts over my tongue and I'm suddenly glad I waited in line all those days. This is worth it. I met Jeremy and I got fruit.

“My name is Monet,” I tell the girl.

“Jasmine.” She walks over to me and picks through the fruit medley. She must be wealthy. Probably has a solar hair dryer. Her white frosted fingernail spears a raspberry, and she turns to face me. “So, why do you think they picked you? Do you have a special talent or something?”

I don't like what she's implying. “Nope,” I say cheerfully. “I did throw up, though.”

“So they felt bad for you.” She wrinkles her pert nose and glances around the room like I'm not worth her full attention.

“I think Jeremy did.”

“What? You think he was actually watching you?” She laughs. “Don't believe the rumors.”

I could tell her I met him in the bathroom, but I don't want to give anything away. After our exchange, she sits down on the opposite side of the room and doesn't say anything. I almost wish another girl would show up, just so that I could ask what she thinks our chances are.

Every hour that passes by on my watch is a victory. I'm invigorated by all the food I keep nibbling. When I'm sure Jasmine isn't paying attention, I stash a few berries in my pocket for later. At five p.m. an official-looking older man comes in with more paperwork. The stripes in his suit emphasize his tall lines.

“Okay, you two are in for tomorrow.” He takes a clipboard out from under his arm and flips through the pages.

“Do you mean we're going to be on the show for sure?” My hands tremble. Say yes.

He shrugs. “Guess it depends on what the producers do tomorrow.”

Damn. I shrug like I expected that response. I've seen a lot of reality shows and I get how they work, but this initial casting phase isn't usually aired. Jasmine stares at the man. His hair is the fake kind of gray guys use when they're trying to appear more distinguished. She doesn't say anything, but the skin around her eyes tightens.

He hands us each a paper to sign. “General consent forms.” He doesn't give us time to read. “For now, I don't want you to say anything to anyone about the proceedings you've been through today. If you give an interview to reporters you will be instantly disqualified. If you tell your parents, and they leak information about the contestants to reporters, you will be disqualified. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” we both say simultaneously. He waits for each of us to make eye contact with him. I feel awkward looking at him. I think he wants us to be uncomfortable.

“Good.” He shifts his gaze back to the paperwork. “Now, we've been getting a positive response from this scheme, more than we originally hoped, so the broadcast is expanding. Remember, what you're hearing now is confidential. Starting tomorrow, this waiting room will be filmed as more girls are selected. I can't guarantee that you're going to be part of the show just yet. The producers will be checking over the potential contestants and making sure we have the right mix of girls.” He stops to scratch his head and check a piece of paper sitting on the stack. I try to
read upside down, but he moves it before I can. “We're planning dates for each of you in various locations—that is, if you're selected, so you'll need to sign these forms.”

He hands us a new set and my legs start bouncing uncontrollably. “In your case, Monet, you'll need to take these home for your mother to sign and then bring them back tomorrow. I expect you girls to be here at seven a.m.” I guess that means Jasmine is eighteen.

“Do you have any dress suggestions for us?” Jasmine asks.

“No, we want you to be yourselves. But I'll say this: keep your breasts and ass covered. This is for network TV, and nudity won't win you any air time.” He gives her an awkwardly long stare and I have to turn away.

“Will we be provided with a personal stylist?” Jasmine sounds so composed as she asks questions. Like she professionally dates rockstars on TV all the time. Part of me wants to punch her, hard.

“Do your own damn hair.” The wrinkles on his face draw in as he scowls.