One Night With a Rock Star Read online

  Suddenly, a lovely guitar and piano melody drew me from the depths of Middle Earth, as a soothing male voice began to read my thoughts.

  Young heart

  Don’t cry

  The pain will pass

  Take heart

  You’ll fly

  As far as you dare…

  I held my breath and I drank in every word, hot tears running down my cheeks. The music had pulled out feelings I couldn’t express and lifted my mood with its beauty. I purchased Sky’s debut album, Idlewise, with my carefully hoarded allowance, memorized every word of every song, and proudly watched it climb in sales to become the debut album of the year.

  The first time I saw Sky on television had been equally momentous. Marti and I were in the middle of a sleepover, discussing boys and eating popcorn while The Tonight Show played on TV. When Johnny Carson listed Sky in the evening’s line-up, I screamed and dumped my popcorn all over Marti. That night, when he answered Johnny’s questions with his gorgeous British accent as fans screamed marriage proposals from the balcony, I knew Sky had ruined me for mere mortals.

  “It’s safe, right?” Marti’s strange statement broke my reminiscence.

  “Huh?”

  “Ya know, the thrill of love without the pain. That’s what you’re doing.”

  “No more psyche classes for you… ”

  “Really, Esther. Mr. Perfect doesn’t exist. Someday you gotta quit playin’ it safe.”

  “What? Like you? Cry my eyes out over some jerk?”

  I bit my tongue, but it was too late. When I was still in training bras, Marti, with her big blue eyes and teasing smile, had been a boy magnet. Oh how I envied her—until the tears. And college had been more of the same. Fly high on love, then crash. She folded her arms and stared out the window.

  But I hated when she lectured and made me feel like an inexperienced kid. What aggravated me more was that Dad had said basically the same thing.

  I could hear him ruining my favorite breakfast of biscuits and gravy as he critiqued my non-existent social life. “Give the poor boys a chance. There’s only been one perfect man, Esther, and HE never married.”

  So I wanted perfection. I could dream, couldn’t I?

  Luckily, Marti never held a grudge for long and besides, the sight of Sky’s name in huge letters on the convention center marquis along with “Tonight!” made the blood pound in my ears. Somewhere, close by, was Sky. THE Sky. This was really happening.

  Marti and I squealed in unison.

  But the moment of truth—the backstage entrance—loomed. Suddenly the butterflies in my stomach became pterodactyls. “So do ya think they’ll slap on the handcuffs before or after the concert?”

  “Look,” said Marti as she saw me beginning to waver, “I’ll do the talkin’. You just work on keepin’ those ‘deer caught in the headlights’ eyes of yours outa sight or we’ll be dead, got it?”

  I gulped and nodded.

  We followed Andrea’s directions to a lanky, graceful group in comfortable, sloppy clothes just entering the arena.

  “Look at them! We don’t fit in a bit.” I hissed as we drew close to the dancers.

  Marti dug a warning nail into my arm.

  Andrea, her shiny black hair pulled into a ponytail, moved back to intercept us. Shoving a parcel into Marti’s hands she spoke in a low voice. “This should help. It’s backstage passes from two days ago but if you wear them backwards no one should notice.” She grinned as she moved back in line. “By the way, I never saw you before in my life.”

  Soon, we faced the burly security guard. Marti, always good under fire, asked if he could PLEASE tell us how to get to the nearest ladies’ room. He grinned, gave the information, she batted her eyelashes and—we were in! I blinked in the sudden dimness, senses accosted by the sound of clangs and shouts, the smell of sweat, machine oil and dust, and the tension of traffic during rush hour.

  “What now?” Marti chewed a nail, her large eyes wider than ever. “Andrea said once we’re inside we’re on our own.”

  “Well, we’re journalists, right? There’s our answer if someone asks. If we stay out of the way, we should be okay.”

  “Do ya always talk like Dr. Seuss when you’re nervous?” Marti giggled.

  “Like I’m the only one who’s nervous.” I swatted at the hand in her mouth.

  “Okay.” She lowered her voice as we dodged a muscular worker pushing a huge black crate on wheels. “The more we can blend in the better, so let’s hang around the people backstage, ask a few questions, look like we belong… ”

  “That’s nuts,” I said as I tried to keep a calm smile plastered on my face. “The last thing I wanna do is draw attention.” Already, I felt like a criminal caught in a searchlight, striped suit and all.

  I wanted to hide and she wanted to mingle so, rather than a public disagreement, we decided to part ways to test our theories of remaining inconspicuous.

  The women’s restroom was a safe haven, but 30 minutes was all I could take of that.

  I glanced in the mirror. Yep, there they were, my “deer caught in the headlights” eyes. My hair looked good, coaxed into obedience and tousled as if it just happened to fall that way. The dress accented curves I tended to cover with sweatshirts and jeans while the wide V-neckline exposed an unfamiliar feature: cleavage. My eyebrows were arched and my nose turned up on the end giving me a look Mom said always made me appear I was ready to ask a question. The braces had been off for a couple years; that helped. But in spite of the pretty dress, I still felt like the tomboy whose body had forgotten to look female until I was sixteen.

  “God,” I whispered, “What am I doing here?” I considered running back to the safety of the dorm, but if I lost my nerve now, I would regret it for the rest of my life.

  So, with a deep breath I plunged out of the ladies’ room and into the fray.

  I made my way through the efficient chaos, dodging several long poles as I navigated an ongoing maze of cords and tried to keep a calm expression plastered on my face. Mom had always taught me, if there’s ever a question of etiquette, wait a moment and observe the actions of someone who seems to be in the know. Although the present course of action was much more important than the choice of a salad fork, I paused to get my bearings and observe.

  One man in particular caught my eye. He radiated importance as he bustled through the groups of stage managers, technicians, musicians and countless others who had a vital function in this crazy dance. He was dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a “Sky” crew t-shirt but, with clipboard in hand and headset attached to his ear. I doubted anyone would dare question his authority.

  He stopped for a quick word with a technician, then flipped back a curtain and entered the darkened hallway beyond. Curious, I made my way toward the curtain. Perhaps if my approach was convincing, I could find a hidden alcove to pass the hours until show time.

  I brought the journal out of my backpack and did my best impersonation of the busy man as I made my way toward the curtain. I nearly froze as a voice said, “Hey, dancers aren’t allowed back there.” But I flipped back the curtain with fake confidence then scurried to a shadowy corner behind a tall, potted plant, fully expecting to be pursued.

  It seemed an eternity had passed before my pounding heart slowed and I found the courage to venture from my hiding place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stole my way down the dim hallway until a corridor opened on either side. My dilemma of which way to turn was decided when Busy Clipboard Guy came down the hall on my right. I ducked to the left, thankfully not attracting his attention. At the end of the hall I found a small room with a few tables, chairs, and a couple of vending machines. I slid into a chair, tossed my bag on the floor and leaned back in relief.

  My heart pounded a tribal beat that certainly could be heard for miles. It had worked! I was backstage for HIS concert and, so far, had eluded capture. One of the knots in my stomach began to unwind. Placing my face in my hands, I started whisp
ering the words of an old hymn, grabbing for confidence like a child stroking a lucky rabbit’s foot.

  “When peace like a river attendeth my way.

  When sorrows like sea-billows roll.

  Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,

  ‘It is well, it is well…”

  I pulled my hands away to discover a dirty freckled face only inches from my own. “Aaaa!” I yelped.

  “Ha! Gotcha!” The boy laughed as he pushed a flop of blond hair off his forehead with grimy hands that left a smudge behind. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Esther. Who are you?” I clutched my shaking hands in my lap.

  “I’m Jeremiah and I’m bored. Do you want to play?”

  “Actually… um… ”

  “I’m eight,” he announced. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.” The age I’d acquired less than a week before still sounded strange to me.

  “You don’t look that old,” Jeremiah stated as if telling an octogenarian he didn’t look a day over seventy-nine.

  “Is that good?”

  “Definitely! I’m tired of old people.” He plopped down in one of the plastic chairs and pulled an apple out of his pocket. Now that the panic had ebbed, I detected a British clip in his voice. “I’m hiding from old Wally because every time he sees me he tells me to ‘stay out of the way.’” He swept a commanding arm in imitation of this formidable person. “Who’re you hiding from?”

  “What makes you think I’m hiding?” I replied with a nervous laugh.

  “Well,” he leaned his head to one side, “every other grown-up is rushing around and acting important and you’re not, so I thought perhaps you were tired of them too.”

  “It is pretty busy out there. I guess I am hiding.”

  “You’re lucky I found you because I know some wizard hideouts,” he boasted. “Apple?” he produced another from his pocket.

  “Thanks.” In my relief at having found a friend, I reached for the proffered fruit and took a bite, not even caring what else had been in that pocket.

  As we munched, Jeremiah offered to show me around. “But you must promise to remain unseen. You see I’m spy number O-Seventeen and I have to save the world. If I’m caught behind enemy lines…” He drew a finger across his throat.

  Jeremiah’s delight when I agreed to his terms was infectious. Actually, his spy game suited my own purposes to a T.

  He hopped to his feet and hid just inside the doorframe, motioning for me to stay behind him. Thus we made our way down the hall, Jeremiah diving and rolling around corners, speaking into his microscopic “communicator,” dodging prying eyes and bullets alike with finesse as I followed with as much stealth as the dress and heels allowed.

  Jeremiah possessed amazing timing as well as the instincts of a cat. At one door, I heard voices on the other side as he deposited me in an unoccupied room across the hall then slipped, crawling, through the other door. When he emerged, breathless, thirty heart-pounding seconds later, he grabbed my hand. “Retreat!”

  I heard a noise behind us. Uh oh. The game became deadly serious. We dashed around corners until blocked by a set of locked double doors. Our pursuant was closing in.

  I pulled a hairpin from my hair and inserted it into the lock. It clicked. Jeremiah’s eyes glowed with admiration. “Brilliant!”

  I grabbed the knob—no go. But… that always worked for Nancy Drew. Half of the hairpin fell into my hand as our eyes locked in panic and we stifled gasps of laughter. The sound of footsteps was closer than ever.

  I grabbed Jeremiah’s hand, pulling him around the nearest corner where I yanked off my heels and, panic-stricken, raced toward an open door. What appeared to be a large storage room full of props, lights, costumes, and countless other items opened before us. We wove as fast as we could up, around, over, and through the disorganized array, until we paused in a small niche behind a mound of boxes with flower arrangements poking out the top. For several excruciating moments, we listened. All was silent. Finally, we stood, me looking over the top as Jeremiah peeked around the side. Nothing.

  We collapsed against the wall snorting with laughter, then replayed every close call with delight.

  “I was able to obtain supplies, sir,” Jeremiah pulled canned soft drinks and apples out of the pockets of his cargo-style pants. We crept out of hiding and found seats at a fifties-style soda fountain crammed between stacked sofas and a couple streetlights.

  “Who was that chasing us? “

  “I can’t be sure, but I think Jerky-eye saw me.”

  “Jerky-eye?” Images of Frankenstein filled my mind.

  “Perhaps you’ll meet him. He’s not bad—for an add-ult.” Jeremiah emphasized the word with distaste.

  “You know, if this Jerky-eye was looking for you, I’ll bet someone’s worried. Is there anybody you should check in with, just to let them know you’re okay?”

  “Not today!” Jeremiah’s eyes sparkled. “The nanny Father hired had to leave. I’m celebrating!”

  “Your father is here?”

  “Oh yes. I travel with Father. Usually it’s fun, but when it gets close to show time I know to stay out of the way!” He flourished the half-eaten apple. “Last week I found a tiny ladder that went way up into the lights. Father was furious when he found out, but it was worth it.”

  I tried to convince Jeremiah to let people know he was okay, but he refused to retrace our steps unless I went with him.

  We decided to return to “base camp”—the vending room—since I had run off without my backpack at the beginning of the game. We made our way, Jeremiah’s SWAT team maneuvers calling the shots, to our original meeting place where we fell into the chairs.

  My backpack was still in the room although I could’ve sworn I had left it on the floor rather than the tabletop.

  Jeremiah dug deep into his pocket. “I bought some excellent candy today. Would you like to try it?” He held out a fluorescent green and orange bag with a cartoon picture of a boy with smoke curling from his ears and tears pouring from blood-shot eyes.

  “That looks… very tempting,” I replied, “but I prefer not to eat things that fry my brain.”

  “You’ll like it! Honest!”

  Right. I had brothers. I could smell a rat. “Promise you’re not trying to kill me?”

  “Father tried it. Jerky-eye did too.”

  So it was the double-dog-dare. I glared at his too-innocent expression. “Where did you hide the bodies?” I took the radioactive-looking blob from his hand and placed it on my tongue.

  As suspected, the substance was a great deal less than pleasant as it popped and sizzled while the acidic flavor brought tears to my eyes. I raced for the receptacle next to the vending machines and spit. Then, accompanied by Jeremiah’s maniacal laughter, I turned to slurp from the water fountain, rinsing and spitting with relish, knowing this action would further entertain my eight-year-old tormentor. When I turned, adding a fake gag for good measure, we were no longer alone.

  How does a deer feel upon impact with a Mack truck? I no longer had to wonder.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Why is it most of the defining moments in life give no warning? One would think, after years of idolizing the man, my instincts would have sensed his approach—but no. I faced the object of countless daydreams with water dribbling down my chin. A young woman with flawlessly coifed blonde hair stood at his side, her clothing tasteful, her sculpted brows lifted in appraisal.

  I was in the same room with Sky, the man who had been my ideal since pre-pubescence. The heat rose in my cheeks as my stupid spitting performance replayed over and over in my mind.

  “Did you see that, Jerky-eye?” Jeremiah choked out between giggles.

  “Another victim, eh?” Sky quipped in tantalizing English tones as he grabbed Jeremiah and swung him high into the air. He turned to me with the giggling eight-year-old flopped over his shoulder.

  I’ve seen the movies where the music swells when the lovers’ eyes meet
and I had, of course, always heard a romantic soundtrack in my daydreams of locking eyes with Sky. I definitely heard something—but it wasn’t music.

  A ringing in my ears grew to the noise of a freight train as my vision narrowed to a dark tunnel.

  The feeling was all-too-familiar.

  Hot flash.

  Cold sweat.

  Dry mouth.

  I plopped into the nearest cheap plastic chair.

  I had experienced this twice in my lifetime and neither had ended well.

  Third grade. Felt ill. Raised my hand to be excused. Stood up and spewed my lunch.

  High school track meet. Hadn’t eaten. Sweltering day. Last 100 yards of last lap, learned the meaning of heat stroke. Fainted AND puked.

  Vomiting, fainting—not a good first impression with the man of my dreams.

  Cross-eyed and hunched over in my chair, I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. The nicest Italian shoes in the world came into focus, right next to my discount heels. Instead of his touch rendering me fully unconscious (which any woman would claim the right), it somehow brought me back to a reasonable level of completely undone.

  “And who’s this, Miah?”

  Jeremiah, from under Sky’s arm said, “Jerky-eye, this is Esther. Esther, meet Jerkey-eye. How’s that?”

  “That’ll do. Esther, Chloe.” I stood up and reached a clammy hand toward the calm woman who returned my greeting in a hurried manner then stepped away to converse over her headset, with an ever so subtle swipe of a hand on her skirt.

  “Now,” Sky swung the boy to the floor and squatted down to look him in the eye, “Go with Chloe and find your father. He’s been scouring the catwalks for you.”

  “Oh all right,” said Jeremiah with a grimace. “Hey Esther! I’ll come right back after. Wait for me?”