Lucky Girl (Dear Rockstar #2)

Lucky Girl (Dear Rockstar #2) Page 11

“You really want me to go with you?” I turned in Dale’s arms, looking up at him.

“I’m tired of being apart.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “I can’t stand one more goodbye.”

“But…” That sad look in his eyes broke my heart. “My job…”

It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I’d finally started feeling what it was like to have my own life, a new sense of autonomy. I’d finally been able to contribute to the rent—well, really, I just used my money to grocery shop for the week. John refused to take my money so I snuck it in that way.

“Just think about it.” Dale kissed me softly on the lips.

“You won’t need to think about it.” Greg stood, picking his leather briefcase up off the floor. I watched as he set it flat on the table and opened the gold tabs. “Because you’re not going. No girls on tour. Here’s your copy of Billboard.”

I couldn’t resist. I ran over to pick it up, and there it was, right at the top.

I Will Always Come For You - Black Diamond

“I’ve got to run. I’m late for my next appointment.” Greg snapped his briefcase closed. “Would you two please, please stay out of trouble?”

Greg was looking at Dale, not me, so I dared to stick my tongue out. But I pulled it quickly back in when the manager glanced over at John.

“Please? We’ve got a few months until the tour. Just keep them under wraps until then, eh, John?”

“I’ll do my best.” John shrugged one shoulder in response.

He left and we all stood there looking at each other, grinning like idiots.

“Number one.” Dale whispered.

“Look!” I took the paper over to show him. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“That’s one dream come true.” John smiled too, coming over to give Dale a hug. “I’m so proud of you, son.”

That brought tears to my eyes. I think even Dale’s eyes were a little shiny when they let go. John saw me tearing up and leaned over to kiss my cheek as they started to fall.

“You’re a good girl, Sara. You didn’t do anything wrong. And whatever dirt they decide to dig up, it doesn’t reflect on you. You understand?”

I nodded, even though I didn’t quite believe him. It was going to reflect on all of us and I dreaded it. I didn’t want anyone else to be hurt by it, least of all Dale and John. They were the only two men I’d ever felt I could really trust.

“Oh crap!” I glanced at the clock on the microwave. “I’m going to be late for work!”

Dale sighed as I ran over and grabbed my car keys out of the dish on the table by the door—thankfully I’d only been carrying a small clutch at the wedding with some tissue and a little bit of cash in it. John had taken his car to the wedding, so my keys where right where they should have been.

I ran back to give Dale another kiss, full on the lips. He folded me in, his mouth reminding me of our night together, our homecoming. I wanted him so much in that moment I couldn’t think of anything else.

“Sure you don’t want to call in?” he breathed when we parted. I stared at those sweet, pouty lips, my tummy doing slow flips as I remembered his mouth on me. Everywhere.

“I can’t.” I groaned, pulling myself reluctantly away. “I’ll be home around five.”

“Spaghetti for dinner,” John called.

“Yum!” I opened the door, glancing back over my shoulder. Dale was looking after me with longing eyes. “Number one!”

Then he smiled. It was slow to start, but then he was grinning, the light back in his eyes.

That was how I left him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Everybody tells artists that art school is a waste of time. For most artists, that seems to hold true. If you’re truly an artist, you’ll do it because you’re compelled to do it, not because it’s your “major.” If you’re not, it will end up as either a job or a hobby. Most artists are hacks. They sell out for the money and work in advertising where corporate executives dictate their lives, forcing them to draw happy families in front of brand new cars. The artists who end up practicing art as a hobby are usually happier but far poorer. Those are the artists you see airbrushing t-shirts at the local fair.

I went to art school because I wasn’t good at anything else except drawing, but everybody was right. It was a waste of time in that it didn’t prepare me to go out into the world and make a living as an artist. Art school didn’t guarantee me a job or even make me more attractive to potential employers. What it did do, no one ever could have told me and I never would have expected. Art school didn’t teach me how to draw—art school taught me how to see.

“I don’t know how you do it.” Josh had a way of sneaking up on me, quiet as a cat.

“Do what?” He’d startled me and I had jumped, smearing some of my India ink on my board. Frowning, I worked to make my mistake look like it was meant to be there.

“Customers bring this in, and you make that?” Josh picked up the picture I’d been working from—a little girl, just a toddler, holding onto a cat’s tail. The cat glanced back at her with that haughty look only cats can give, like, ‘Would you mind?’

I studied my drawing. Silkscreen printing t-shirts was very lucrative. Josh’s father had a booming business making team bowling shirts for all the local leagues for years. It was Josh who urged him to expand into making t-shirts. According to Josh, his father doubled his profits the first year, and quadrupled them the second. At first they printed mostly slogans like “Where’s the Beef?”—copyright be damned—but people began to ask for images. Basic ones were easy, the outline of a cat or dog for the local humane society for example, but when the demand for original artwork began, Josh put an ad in the local paper for a designer.

And I got the job.

“It’s like magic.” Josh shook his head, looking incredulous.

People who didn’t know how to draw said that a lot, as if it was some impossible feat, but it really wasn’t. I heard, “I can only draw stick figures” a lot. What they didn’t realize is they just stopped drawing at stick figures when they were about six or seven and academia pushed them into focusing more on letters and numbers. I didn’t stop at stick figures. I just kept drawing. While everyone else was learning their times tables, I was drawing, learning as I went.

“It’s not magic.” I smiled, putting down my brush so I could stretch. I got lost sometimes when I was drawing, forgetting everything, including things like time, or basic needs like eating or peeing. My bladder ached and my stomach growled.

“So I hear the prodigal son returned?” Josh pulled up another tall swivel seat to my station. “I saw you two in the paper!”

It was almost six—quitting time. His father, Dave—his name silkscreened on the left breast pocket of his blue t-shirt, along with the name of his team, Oddballs, in the center—had given his son the keys and left for his league night, bowling bag in hand.

Josh had been out sick for a week and we hadn’t talked in a while. Dave started asking me to do a lot more in Josh’s absence, including answering the phones and taking orders. He even started teaching me how to silkscreen. But I was glad Josh was back, because trying to keep up with my projects and do Josh’s job was getting to be taxing!

“Yes. He’s home. Some fans crashed my friend’s wedding. It was a total bummer. We barely got out alive, I swear.” I shivered, remembering the gaggle of girls chasing us down. What did they think would happen if they caught us? What did they want, exactly?

That was you, not so long ago.

Well yes. I’d been an obsessed fan once too. I told myself I wouldn’t have chased Tyler Vincent down like a dog after a rabbit, but the truth was I probably would have. There was something about that state of mind, when fans worked themselves up into a frenzy. The star became an object, not a flesh and blood person. They became something to want, to covet, to own or possess. Dale was right—I think they would have torn the flesh off him just to have a piece. Fans, when they got into a group like that, weren’t in their right mind.

“I’m surprised they haven’t been hounding this place for more pictures of you.” Josh glanced out the window into the parking lot. The building was in a strip mall and there were always people coming and going.

“Maybe they won’t find me.” That was my best hope. The thought of being trailed by paparazzi made me very nervous. Dale said they did it all the time in L.A. Thankfully, the one time he’d taken me out there, we never had a problem. He’s been careful about where we went just for that reason. Of course, back then, no one even knew we were together. I was the invisible girlfriend.

“So he’s home for how long now?”

“Til the end of the summer.” I slid off my stool, taking my brush over to the sink.

I didn’t advertise my relationship with Dale—in fact, I hardly ever talked about him to anyone. His manager and publicist had impressed that upon me emphatically. But Dale had come in to pick me up from work once and Josh had been there, so he knew we were dating.

I had gone to high school with Josh—he reminded me that we’d been in the same freshman English class, although I only vaguely remembered it. He was a jock and ran with a whole other crowd. I knew the rumors about him and Holly Larson—that she had a baby and gave it up for adoption. It was probably true, since Holly had gone to Iselin Academy with us. But they weren’t together anymore.

Josh said a football injury his senior year kept him from playing college ball. That’s why he decided to hold off on college and work with his dad at the print shop.

“Well that’s good news for you, huh?” Josh followed me over to the sink, watching as I squeezed the brush with my fingers under the tap until the water ran clear. “What’s next for Mr. Rock Star now that the album’s out? I hear that song everywhere I go.”

“It’s just hit Billboard’s number one.” I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice as I headed back to my station to clean up. I was glad Josh was around to answer phones and take orders so I could finish this design. Dave was making t-shirts in the morning. The toddler on the t-shirt was turning eighteen and her mother had ordered t-shirts for everyone to wear at her graduation party as a gag.

“Wow, I had no idea.” Josh took a seat on the stool again, watching as I cleaned up my station. “The big time!”

“He’s going on tour at the end of August.” I fished my purse out from under my drawing table. “Opening for Dark Wing.”

“Wow!” Josh said again. It was impressive—Dark Wing was huge, a classic rock band still going after their early 1970’s debut. “For how long?”

“Too long.” I sighed, slinging my purse over my shoulder and leaning my elbow on the desk. “But he wants me to go out on tour with him.”

“What about your job here?” Josh didn’t look very happy at the prospect of my leaving and I didn’t blame him. When he hired me he said he’d gone through three designers already who had either quit or he had to fire. You’d think there would be more starving artists out there willing to draw for six bucks an hour but apparently not.