Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 103008 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103008 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
And now I’m rambling, and, of course, she sees right through it. She doesn’t call me on it, though.
“Live performances are stressful for Harley. Everyone thinks because he came from a boy band that he lip-syncs and can’t actually sing. When he was with Eleven, they made sure the boys always sang live to squash any of those rumors. But the thing with that is any pitch problems, any words sung slightly off-key and the media has a field day. Harley tries to make sure every performance is perfect.”
I hate he has so much pressure on him. “That’s a lot to put on his own shoulders.”
Harley sits up. “You know I can hear you assholes, right?”
“Well, would you have told me that’s why you’re acting weird?” I ask.
“No.”
“Exactly. Any off behavior puts me on alert because you could become unpredictable and try to run off on me. Then you could get kidnapped by some rabid fan, dragged to their basement, and forced to sing and dance for food and water.”
“That’s really specific.”
“It could happen.”
“I’m not going to run off on you. Have I yet?”
“A fan hasn’t broken into your house again yet, doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”
“You think another one will try to get in?”
“Given the opportunity, hell yes, they would. Your fans are nuts.”
Jamie clears her throat. “They prefer to be called fanatics.”
Harley stands. “I’m fine. I just need this to go well.”
“What’s the worst that’ll happen if you fuck up a line or two?”
“The worst? How about the media agrees with my label that Eleven never should’ve broken up because we’re incompetent on our own?”
“That’s the worst? Being told you should go back to your multiplatinum-selling band?”
“I know you’re usually good with perspective, but this is one you’re not going to win. Performing is different than writing. One bad performance could mean the beginning of the end of your career.”
“How so?”
He holds up his fingers and counts as he goes. “Fergie singing the national anthem for the NBA. Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl.”
“So maybe stay away from performing at sporting events?”
“Robin Thicke’s ‘Blurred Lines,’ Ashlee Simpson’s SNL appearance. Britney Spears’s VMA performance,” he continues.
I lean in toward Jamie. “By the way, what’s a Fergie?”
Harley throws his hands up. “My point exactly.”
Jamie giggles. “In Brix’s defense, he didn’t know who you were. He’s not going to know the Black Eyed Peas.”
“Ooh, they sing that ‘Where Is the Love’ song. I know who you’re talking about now.”
Harley groans. “Can I … Can I please have the room for a bit? I need to get focused and out of my head.”
“Can I go watch some of the concert?” Jamie asks and bounces on her feet.
“Go for it. I don’t think I need you for anything until I go onstage.”
“Thanks.” She bounds out of the room.
He stares at me, waiting for me to leave.
“I’ll be right outside the door.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
I wait and watch as stagehands and roadies walk the corridors, all the while thinking of what Harley’s doing just a few feet away from me.
The urge that always happens when he gets in his head, like when he forces himself to write and pushes until the breaking point, makes me want to go in there and distract him or do something to make him forget.
Jamie reappears sometime later, interrupting my internal battle of going inside or staying where Harley told me to.
“He’ll be going on soon,” Jamie says. “Is he ready?”
I knock. “Ready, Pop Star?”
The door swings open. “Ready.”
He hands Jamie a bottle of water, hand sanitizer, and a mini packet of peanut M&M’s.
“Performance survival kit,” she says to me.
This time when Harley hits the stage, it’s completely different than this afternoon during rehearsals. This afternoon was quiet and professional. No smile, just polite civility and doing as he was told.
Right now, he’s in Harley Valentine mode, and he’s as charismatic as he always is in front of his fans.
The crowd screams for about five minutes when he leaves us in the wings. He gives the bass player a fist bump and then throws his arm around Jay’s shoulders. They stand there waiting for the audience noise to die down.
“I can’t be sure,” Harley says into his mic, “but I think that means they’re excited I’m here.”
Jay grins. “He thinks you guys are excited. He thinks. How about showing him how you really feel!” Jay steps away and waves his hand upward as if to say turn it up.
There’s another five minutes of screaming.
“They really are nuts,” I mutter.
“Harley’s fans?” a voice says beside me.
“Yeah. I don’t get it.” I mean, I do. He’s good-looking and talented and charming, but that’s all superficial. It’s not real. It’s not the reason why I like him.
The guy laughs. “Funny. Neither do I.” He’s maybe an inch or two shorter than me, muscular, and he has brown hair and honey-colored eyes. He gives me a once-over in the same way I’m doing to him. “I heard Harley has a new shadow.”