One Night With a Rock Star Read online

  Old Barn Press

  Saugus, CA 91350

  www.chanakeefer.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9892197-0-9

  Copyright © 2013 Old Barn Press

  Printed in the United States of America

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital photocopy, recording, or any other without the prior permission of the author.

  All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author.

  All Scripture quotations unless indicated otherwise are taken from the New International Version of the Holy Bible. Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Cover Concept: Mark Keefer

  Cover Design and Interior layout: PearCreative.ca

  In Memory of Lester & Esther Gilstrap

  Once upon a time you helped a little boy

  believe in love that lasts forever.

  He grew up.

  Now I get to live that kind of love with him.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The journey of One Night With a Rock Star has been long, challenging and transforming. The biggest kudos need to go to my very forgiving, encouraging husband, Mark, and our amazing kids, Micah, McKenna, Sky and Madeline for putting up with this transformation and even cheering me on. Those countless times dinner was late or I was up and gone early to write, you remained understanding and even proud of my efforts. Some of my most precious memories will remain reading the latest draft aloud while surrounded by my precious family.

  Mom and Dad, thank you for providing a solid family foundation and room to roam for that freckled tomboy of yesteryear. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid. We’re doing our best to pass on the tradition to your grandkids.

  The challenges of this author’s journey brought a huge benefit—new friendships with those who have traveled this road before me. I owe a debt of gratitude to this generous crew who continues to encourage when I want to scream in frustration over the many hats today’s author wears. Staci Stallings, Sarah Smith, Dana Pratola, Mikayla Kayne, Shelley Hitz, Paul Rega and members of CrossReads, Kickstart, GNFA, and ACFW. You are all amazing. When I grow up, I want to be like you.

  Cheers for my super-creative hubby, Mark and Yvonne Parks of PearCreative.ca for the rockin’ cover design. Interior formatting? Again, let’s hear it for PearCreative.ca!

  Special shout-out to Nadine Brandes for superlative editing. It was such fun working with you! (the exclamation is okay because it’s dialogue ;)

  Again I have to acknowledge the generous office space provided by my favorite Starbucks. Still shocked you guys don’t charge me rent. You’ve become a favorite happy place—a chai at hand as I romp in my imaginary world. Heavy sigh.

  Friday Night Pizza/Movie Crew—You’re all nuts and I love ya for it. Your laughter, music, and friendship help to make our house a very fun home.

  To the members of Real Life Church, our amazing Life Group, and fellow members of RLC’s Prayer Team, you are the salt of the earth.

  Delirious, U2, Sting, Cold Play, S.C.C, Foo Fighters, Fleming and John, Mutemath, Switchfoot, John Michael Talbot, Dan and Leland, Brian Welch, POD, and so many others, thanks for providing uncomplaining accompaniment and inspiration no matter how early or late.

  M.M.F., it was fun to pay homage to our youthful years. The situations are fictitious but the best friend is remarkably familiar.

  Special thanks to Pete Greig for his excellent book, Red Moon Rising, the catalyst to my prayer obsession that bubbled over into writing. This is just one of the results of that addiction.

  Thank you to Mark Fortier and Bob Shatto for allowing me to be a part of ATeam (Abstinence Through Education And Mentoring). Think I would have exploded without the opportunity to speak to teens about this crucial subject. Karen Kropf of Positively Waiting and Racheal Yard of Throne of Grace—you are a joy and inspiration. Lives are saved and transformed through your passionate commitment.

  To the wonderful readers who encourage with comments of feeling drawn closer to God through my writing, I’m honored beyond belief. That’s truly a dream come true.

  Finally, thank you God for making the impossible reality. You were and are the best part of this journey, providing the inspiration, perseverance, kick in the pants, hugs when I fall, and anything else needed to see this through. I’m plum crazy about You.

  Chana Keefer

  PROLOGUE

  As I walk toward the elaborate, new-brick home, a sense of gloom descends. Throughout my childhood this property was abandoned and ignored, but I had reveled in that fact since it meant no one took notice of the frequent visits of a certain freckled tomboy with big dreams.

  The wholesome, earthy scent of a southern breeze over dry grass recalls laughter and carefree joy when time moved at a crawl and life was viewed through the rosy haze of endless possibilities.

  I have permission from the new owners to look around, but the bright, sparkling windows seem like unblinking eyes. Petra and I round one last corner of the model home, past another ornamental rose bush, and there it is… my old friend. How could life have marched by leaving it untouched? It was ancient when I first stumbled beneath its eaves so many years ago and ancient it remains.

  Petra’s long, ebony limbs glow in the red-gold light of dawn. The silence is broken only by the crunch of our feet on dry grass and the tinkle of her beaded earrings. I’m grateful for the presence of my fourteen-year-old companion, though she’s been warned I might not be the best company today.

  “Whaddaya think?” I ask.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  I peek at her face to discover real admiration. There was a time this was my private haven, the place I came to rest, to think, to lick my wounds. That’s something I could use right now.

  A mourning dove’s call, like a voice from the past, breaks the silence, drawing me deeper into youthful memories.

  As we enter the wide opening of the sun-bleached wooden beams, the musty aroma takes me through a portal where the past twenty years no longer exist. The little door at the bottom of the stairs is still askew, squeaking its familiar protest at being disturbed. Petra climbs the stairs ahead of me with her customary grace. Her sense of self-assurance is rare for her tender years. I didn’t possess it at her age. In fact, I don’t possess it now.

  As we climb, ever mindful to sweep a hand over our heads in case of webs, a growing sense of sadness consumes me. Why is it that happy memories bring pain?

  I look to the right as I reach the top of the stairs, to the spot where the upper level drops off to the ground below and opens to the sky above, the place I’d spent so many hours dreaming on my own. Memories wash over me of the day it became our spot; echoes of a dog’s excited bark mix with the teasing laughter of my favorite voice in the world, as eyes look into mine, sparking feelings I’ve never imagined.

  “Hey look! It’s still there!” Petra breaks my reverie as she moves toward the pile of hay in the center of the floor. I’ve told her bits and pieces of my story through the years so, for her, this is a visit to a historic site.

  I was twenty that spring, a child masquerading in the body of an adult. The world was simple then. Little did I know how complicated it would soon become.

  For years I’d wanted to leave this place. My upbringing had been ordinary, just a small Texas town with Friday night football, rodeos in the summer, and no secrets any time. It took me y
ears to realize just how extraordinary that was. Most of my friends were content to stay and build their lives here. Not me. Big things happened elsewhere. I would see the world, do something important and earth shaking. My horizons were unlimited.

  What would I have told the younger me who, twenty years ago, sat on this very spot gazing at these fields, unaware of the gathering storm?

  Today, my body reminds me time doesn’t stand still. I wince as I shift on the hard floor where I was once able to relax for hours while Petra’s lithe form reclines with ease. Even in these humble surroundings she moves with the grace of an African princess. Small wonder her father and I have been approached several times to allow her to model. For now, she’s more interested in sports than glamour so that decision can be postponed. How far she’s come from the underfed, determined waif we met twelve years ago.

  “So tell me everything.” Petra’s melodic voice interrupts my reminiscence.

  “Ya sure I won’t bore you?”

  “It can’t be that boring. It led ya to me.”

  “True.” I return the dazzling smile, then pause to collect my thoughts.

  I used to wonder what stories these bleached wooden beams could tell. Today they resound with my memories, the story of a young life perched on the edge of a precipice, wings outstretched for that first breathtaking leap to either fall or fly.

  “The day I met him, I had just had the worst week of my life… so far.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  I strolled into the dorm that spring afternoon, wind-tossed and refreshed from an impromptu visit to my parents’ ranch. The week had been a nightmare. Monday—failing grade on a feature story. Tuesday—fired from a modeling job because I refused to wear the strings they called a “swimsuit.” Wednesday—met with my agent to explain why I had ticked off a client, then forgot an important story assignment scheduled for the same afternoon. Thursday—endured a royal chewing out from my favorite journalism instructor due to aforementioned missed assignment.

  The lecture from Dr. Morgan, my disgruntled professor, still pounded in my ears. “It’s just plain sloppy! I never would’ve expected this kind of negligence from you, Esther!”

  That made two of us. I was juggling a lot in my life. Sometimes it was insane trying to blend the worlds of journalism student and mediocre print model but, since the occasional paycheck paid my way through school, the juggling was essential. Now, due to modesty (I honestly hadn’t been able to tell which string went where) I’d lost two full days of modeling fees.

  Friday started with a bang as I flunked a pop quiz in Biology from the lecture I’d been too distracted to listen to on Wednesday.

  Ugh! Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d just stayed in bed… all week.

  I haven’t mentioned the worst part, the thing that had cast the dark cloud over my life. That very night, Sky, my favorite music icon and, admittedly, big crush since junior high, was in concert downtown and all my efforts to acquire tickets had been thwarted. I tried to be mature, to assure myself it wasn’t the end of the world, that someday when I was a famous news anchor they’d beg me to attend, perhaps grant an exclusive interview, but still my dark mood persisted, the perfect ending to the perfect week.

  As soon as classes were over that day I had skipped town to indulge in my favorite fix—barn therapy—as effective as chocolate minus the guilt. After a couple hours, I was resigned to my concert-less weekend and drove back to campus, determined to get my crazy life back under control.

  Alas, it was not meant to be.

  As soon as I entered the hallway to the dorm room I shared with my best friend Marti, she flew toward me. He cornflower blue eyes were wild with excitement and her hair a futuristic array of hot rollers as she pulled me into the room shouting, “Where’ve you been? I’ve been tryin’ to find you fer hours!”

  I started to answer, but she cut me off, “Shoo! You smell like a cow. You better get cleaned up quick or you’re gonna blow it!” Her Texas drawl became more pronounced when she was excited. At the moment, she was channeling Daisy Duke. This must be big.

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  She strode to my closet door, yanked it open and pointed at the poster inside. Sky’s two-dimensional image stared at me with piercing, gray-blue eyes. My mouth became the Sahara desert and the world stopped turning when she said, “Of course, if ya don’t wanna go… ”

  I think I screamed, fainted for a split-second, then set a new record for showering and drying hair. Marti filled me in on details from our friend and former dorm mate, Andrea, who had secured a spot as a dancer on the North American leg of Sky’s tour. Just that morning she had stopped by and she and Marti had hatched a plan for how we could get past backstage security. To help us pass as dancers, she’d provided a couple dresses that had been retired due to wear and tear. Marti’s finesse with needle and thread had mended any noticeable flaws.

  I asked her about Andrea as I dug for a pair of panty hose without runs.

  “If ya mean was she glowin’ ‘cause she’d been rubbin’ shoulders with a god—no.” Marti tossed an egg-shaped stocking container at me. “She didn’t have a lot of time to chat.”

  But I wanted details! What was Sky really like? Did she ever talk to him? I smiled to myself as I recalled the rapture of watching him on a recent HBO special. Tall, with the lean-muscled body of a dancer, dark blond hair tousled as if he had just applied hair gel in a speeding convertible, and eyes—ah!—the eyes of a lion imprisoned in the body of a housecat.

  “Could Andrea get in trouble for this?” I tried to apply make-up with shaking hands as Marti worked to tame my thick curls.

  “I don’t plan to get caught, but if anyone gets curious we’ll bring out our student press passes and play amateur journalists.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “Look, you know any chance of gettin’ to be backstage is worth the risk, right?”

  “But this is crazy!”

  “So be crazy! Stop thinkin’ and hurry up!”

  Yes, our dancer friend Andrea was taking a risk but the article about dance auditions for Sky’s tour had been my discovery and she had been looking for a way to repay the favor.

  The black velvet dress on my bed looked tiny. I prayed it would fit as I shimmied and tugged it into place, grateful not to hear any rips. As Marti zipped the back, she gave a low whistle. The clinging velvet was snug at the waist and hips and flowed to a full skirt that draped lower in the back following the lines of the V at my shoulders. I couldn’t resist the urge to spin like a little girl and watch the skirt flare. Marti’s dress of peacock blue emphasized her tiny waist and blue eyes. We stood, side-by-side, facing our own reflection.

  “We clean up pretty good, huh?” Marti struck a dramatic pose.

  “Actually, I still feel like a kid playing dress-up in your attic,” I said.

  “You’re a knockout in that dress.”

  “I’m a big fat liar in someone else’s dress.”

  Marti took me by the shoulders. “Look Esther, ya don’t drink, ya hardly date, ya study while the rest of us are partyin’. Your one weakness is him. So, I’m hereby commandin’ you to stoop to some harmless deception to have some fun.”

  “And I’m supposed to be grateful, right?”

  “Indebted for life.” She glanced at the clock. “We gotta git!”

  I grabbed my backpack off the bed wishing I had something a bit more attractive to go with the dress. “Wait! Shouldn’t we take along something to write on? We’re journalists, remember?”

  “Oh! Right!” She grabbed a writing pad and I snatched up the small notebook serving as my journal. “Now come on!”

  We took my car since Marti’s sat stubbornly on “E.” I felt a bit calmer behind the wheel. At least I could feel in control of something. Besides, I knew the Dallas area since my forays into the modeling world had forced me to learn my way around. Many a nerve-wracking hour had been spent navigating warehouse districts armed with a city m
ap and a messy scrawl of directions. If the police had any idea how many illegal u-turns I had executed in my short career they would put me away for life.

  “Let’s set the mood,” Marti said as we pulled out of the dorm parking lot. She put a cassette tape labeled, “Best of Sky” in the deck and the familiar strains of Sky’s “Soulfull” filled the little car.

  “Over the hills to new horizons

  I fly free.

  Leave behind everything that binds me… ”

  I took a deep breath, relaxing with the flow of Sky’s music, though the velvet cinching my waist was very binding.

  “Probably drugs.” Marti stated, blowing my reverie. “I’m sure he can fly very free with a little pharmaceutical intervention.”

  “Do ya mind? I’m havin’ a moment here.”

  “Really, Hon.” She was serious. “What about that Wade guy in Political Science? He’s really cute and you turned him down.”

  “I told you,” I said with a hint of exasperation. “I’d rather not date at all than go out with someone I’m not absolutely crazy about.”

  She tossed her shoulder-length chestnut curls and rolled her eyes as I continued. “I see the other girls tryin’ on guys like they’re shoppin’ for a new pair of shoes. I’m just not any good at that.”

  “And,” she countered, “you always go for what ya can’t have.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “You had a crush on Elvis and a guy who was a senior when we were ten. I rest my case.”

  I started to protest but she was too quick.

  “But then you bought Sky’s first album.” She feigned a swoon, “and I haven’t heard about anyone else since.”

  Ah, the moment I’d first heard Sky had turned my twelve-year-old world upside down. I’d gotten off the school bus that afternoon devastated by remarks from boys ridiculing my chicken legs and frizzy hair. How could I blame them? Arms, legs and feet were sprouting at an alarming rate and the new braces had only added insult to injury. I’d retreated to my bedroom to cry and try to lose myself in a book while my a.m. radio piped out the week’s top forty.