FanGirl Squeal (RockStars of Romance Book 1) (6 page)

When his band as settled back in their places, Cash began to
speak into the mic and the crowd hushed.

“You guys don’t even know how much I appreciate you! Like I
said earlier in the show, I live off the energy you give me. Normally, I know
exactly what I want to play, but something happened during my Meet & Greet
earlier. I met a young lady named Michaela.”

Cash focused on the little girl in the third row, sitting on
her father’s shoulders. She had cried when he hugged her. She reminded him so
much of how Brittany was when she was ten. He was having a hard time
understanding how someone so precious could be so sick.

Michaela was waving wildly at Cash and beaming from ear to
ear. Cash motioned for one of the security guards to get her and bring her up
on the stage. The crowed whistled and cheered as Michaela ran right up to Cash
with not a single hint of shyness.

“You guys,” Cash addressed the crowd. “This girl is ten and
told me she’s been listening to my music every day for the last four years! She
told me that she listens to one song on repeat while she’s getting her chemo so
I’m going to play that song for her. It’s a song that I haven’t played in
years, but I wrote it to help my mom get through a particularly bad time. It’s
called
Cry No More
.”

Cash waited until Michaela stopped jumping up and down
before kneeling down.

“What else do you want to hear?”

Michaela wasted no time in answering. “
Could You Be Loved
!”
she shouted.

Cash burst out laughing. “I was thinking about one of my
songs.”

“But you play it so good!”

Cash wondered when and where ten-year-old Michaela Patterson
had ever heard him cover Bob Marley’s
Could You Be Loved
. He’d only
played it a few times in concert and only once this tour.

“Alright, I’ll play it for you,” Cash agreed. He slid a
stool over to Michaela and sat her on it.

He walked over to his band and shrugged. “Could You and Cry
then we’re out of here, okay?”

Walking back to the center of the stage, Cash took a pick
out of his pocket and lined up his fingers on the second string. He went over
the opening riff in his head before he started playing.

The crowd was jamming to the classic reggae song, but even
as he was playing, Cash was thinking of what the music critics were going to
say. He’d caught a lot of flack before for covering Bob Marley songs because he
wasn’t a reggae artist. He’d also taken shit for covering Prince, Jimi Hendrix,
and D’Angelo. Seems like people didn’t like when the “culture appropriating
white boy” played songs by his favorite artists during his shows.

His fans loved it. They didn’t care so he tried not to care.
After a short break while he unstrapped his guitar and sat at his piano, he
began
Cry No More
.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as he played his mother’s
song.

Damn it
, Chase thought. His voice cracked because he
looked at Michaela, whose tiny hands were clasped together as she wistfully
gazed at him. As he started his solo, he closed his eyes and forgot that anyone
was watching him. His fingers flew over the white and black keys mindlessly as
he waited for the chords to take him to that place only music took him.

When the last chord reverberated throughout the
amphitheater, there was a stunned silence before the crowd broke out in
thunderous round of applause and began chanting Cash’s name. He opened his eyes
slowly and took a deep breath. He walked over to Michaela and gave her a hug.

“You got my number, right?” he asked in her ear.

“My dad put it in his phone.”

“You call me when you get back to Phoenix, okay?”

“So you can play at my funeral?”

Cash’s heart dropped to his stomach. He knelt down so he and
Michaela were face to face.

“Don’t say that. You’re not going to have a funeral, okay?
We’re gonna get you some better doctors and you’re going to beat this, okay?”

Michaela nodded and threw her arms around his neck. He
kissed her forehead and waited while security took her back to her parents. As
soon as he walked off stage, he leaned against a concrete pillar and let the
tears he’d been holding back flow. Jennifer quickly wrapped her son in her arms
and shielded his tears from everyone backstage.

“It’s okay, baby,” she said softly while she stroked his
hair. “It’s going to be okay.”

Cash was heartbroken. The culmination of Michaela’s
diagnosis and the end of his tour was the breaking point. He thought he was
going to break down while he was playing but he held it together.

His tour was over. The wedding that was supposed to happen
in six months was not going to happen now. And Cash didn’t write well when he had
so much weighing on his heart so who knew when he’d write another album. No
album meant no tour. And Cash had a hard time finding productive things to do
when he wasn’t on stage or in a relationship.

His mother patted Cash’s back. “Come on, Cash. We have to
get out of here,” she regretfully said. “I have to get you on that plane.”

As he wiped his face with a towel and placed his Sox cap
back on his head, Cash hated that she had slipped into manager mode when he
obviously needed his mother to just be his mom. Couldn’t she see that?

“Savannah!

Nicole’s hand on my shoulder shook me out of my trance. I
was sitting at my desk, heading resting in the palm of my hand, staring at my
laptop.

“Huh?”

“Troy’s on the phone. He wants to know if you’re still
coming by the shop to get your hair done.”

I fingered my tangle of curls and exhaled loudly. Troy had
been trying to snap me out of my Cash Myers post-tour funk for a week and I am just
not interested in hearing him go on and on and on while I was held captive in
his salon chair.

“No, I’ll get it done some other time. I can’t with Troy
right now.”

“Oh okay. Well, it’s after five. Do you mind if I split? I
have a night class this semester.”

“Girl, you don’t have to ask about that. Go to class. I’m
fine.”

Nicole peered over my shoulder at my computer screen. I had
about fifteen Chrome tabs open to articles about Cash and Victoria as well as
my desktop manager for my website. FanGirlSqueal.com has evolved into something
that I wasn’t even prepared for. It started out as just a little blog on the
Internet. Now it’s grown into an online entertainment magazine with over three
million subscribers. My site brings in enough advertising dollars to pay my
bills. Sometimes, I can’t believe.

I don’t update the site every day like I used to. Instead,
Nicole and I scrounge the Internet for entertainment news, new movie releases,
music releases, and anything that’s related to pop culture. Then we, well, I
write the content and we update the site weekly. We have artists features,
interviews, and every week I write an editorial piece of my choosing.

“Are you going to write up something about Cash and Victoria
breaking up? That’s new for you.”

“No, I don’t know what happened with them so I’m not going
to speculate on my site. From what I can see, aside from Cash’s tweet, no one
knows what happened. It’s all rumor.”

“Well, he did tweet that he’s single now,” Nicole reminded
me.

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “I linked to the tweet already, but I
don’t want to write about it. If they’re really done for good, I’m sure this is
hard on both of them. I’m not going to be one of those sites that make it worse.
That’s why I’m not going to mess up the good thing I have going by posting a
rumor. If Victoria’s people confirm that she’s sleeping with her co-star, I’ll
post it.”

Nicole patted my shoulder. “I know you’ll think of something
to write. Take a break. It will come to you.”

After Nicole left, I continued to study the articles.
Mainly, I was looking at the pictures. It’s been a couple of weeks since Vegas
and two days since Cash sent out a tweet that confirmed he was single once
again. My hearts breaks for the man. Three years down the drain. I hope he got
the ring back.

After the tweet, Cash has been quiet online, which is odd.
His Twitter and Instagram feeds are normally pretty active. Plus, he hasn’t
been photographed out in public since he arrived in New York. His Mustang has
been spotted zipping around the city, but the tinted windows made it difficult
for anyone to see his face.

Abby, Amy, and I have been discussing this situation for two
days. It sounded crazy when I told Troy that I was seriously concerned about
Cash. He laughed and called me psycho, but I am concerned. I have a right to
be. Since then, I’ve been struggling with what content to post. My readers know
I always have something to say about Cash, but right now, I’m drawing a blank.
I wanted to do a write up on Michaela and Cash because what he did at the
concert for her was so special, but Abby didn’t want me to. Understandably.

I decided to take Nicole’s advice and went upstairs to fix
dinner since it’s my turn. Troy and I alternate weeks with dinner and household
chores, but I’d rather just hire a cleaning service and a chef. I looked in the
fully stocked freezer trying to find something to thaw out for dinner. Finding
nothing that I had a taste for, I slumped onto a stool with a half-full bottle
of Chardonnay and began scrolling through the pictures of our Vegas weekend on
my phone. The picture of Michaela hugging Cash on stage made me tear up again.

Bubba Sparkxx’s
Miss New Booty
started to blare out
of my phone. Troy’s face appeared on the screen. I pushed the speaker button.

“Stop changing my ringtones!” I shouted. “What is wrong with
you?”

“Stop leaving your phone unlocked in public places. Guess
what, Banana.”

“What?”

“One of my clients gave me tickets to Trois Mec. Meet me
there in two hours.”

I almost fell of the stool. I’ve been trying to get into one
of Chef Ludo’s restaurants for at least six months. How in the world did Troy
talk his client into giving him tickets?

“Savannah,” Troy said in that antagonistic tone that I hate.

“What?”

“I know the website says casual, but please-”

I hung up before Troy could finish his sentence. I hate when
he acts like I haven’t lived in Los Angeles my entire adult life. I know how to
dress when I go out. He’s a damn good stylist and has impeccable fashion sense.
However, so do I. I haven’t been recognized as a top fashion blogger because of
my concert tees and flip-flops.

After a quick shower, I rubbed some coconut oil into my hair
and stared into my closet for something to wear. My closet intimidates me
sometimes. It’s where I keep my non-casual clothes and I’m a bit of a
shopaholic. I freelance for a couple of fashion blogs too so I’m always getting
sent clothes and samples. My clothes obsession is dangerously coming close to
being as bad as my shoe obsession.

Brandon calls me the black Carrie Bradshaw. There used to be
times when I’d spend my entire paycheck on Manolo Blahniks or Givenchy. I also
went through a moderately serious Louboutin phase. When I was in high school, I
had a sneaker fetish that evolved into stilettos, boots, sandals, and more
sneakers. My shoes are the first thing I choose when picking out an outfit.

For dinner, I chose a pair of Chanel thong sandals, a pair
of black Gucci shorts, and a cute little top. A few bangle bracelets, earrings,
and a spray of Cash completed the look that I know will meet Troy’s high
standards. He says I’m too pretty to spend as much time downplaying my looks as
I do. I don’t think I’m downplaying anything. I don’t wear make-up unless
someone else puts it on me. I don’t make a big fuss over my hair. When I think
of pretty, I think of Ashley.

Ashley with her flawless skin, eyes the color of espresso,
and curves for days has always been the pretty one. People say I look just like
her, but I don’t believe them. Maybe because, when I look into my identical
twin’s eyes, I see how ugly she can be. How condescending and snobby she is.
Ashley thinks and acts like she’s perfect, but when I look at my sister, I see
the lies she tells herself and it’s not cute. Good God, I hope I really don’t
look like her.

****

Troy met me at my car, which I parked on the street because I
refuse to pay valets ever since we caught one driving my Camaro down La Brea. I
don’t trust anyone with my car except me.

“Girl, you look gorg!” Troy offered up his own *fangirl
squeal*. “You are smokin’ hot, Banana. You must be trying to get a man!”

“Chef Ludo is married,” I replied but smiled from ear to
ear.

Forget diamonds, compliments are a girl’s best friend.

Trois Mec is a small and intimate restaurant with incredible
food that the chefs prepare right out in the open. It’s also super difficult to
get into. I can’t believe that after all of our shenanigans trying to get into
this restaurant, Troy’s client tipped him two tickets worth $150. Maybe I
should rethink my career choice.

“I looked at that article you wrote for Huffington Post,”
Troy announced after our waitress served our beer.

I heard him but I was trying to watch the chefs in action. I
love to watch men cook. Nothing is sexier than a man who knows his way around
the kitchen and will willingly feed me. I should start dating chefs.

“What?” I said to Troy when he tapped my hand to get my
attention.

He repeated his statement. I rolled my eyes. I know where
this is going and I don’t want to talk about it. Why must Troy push all of my
buttons all of the time?

“Why would you read my article? You don’t see me coming to
your salon and critiquing how you do hair.”

“Savannah, you’re still writing these depressing articles
about being left at the altar. You haven’t talked to Jacoby in two years. Why
are you still dwelling on that man?