Bad Boy Rock Star (22 page)

Had Jack said that?
Had he really? It made sense now. I gagged from the bile rising in my throat. Something hard and heavy pressed against my chest. I had to get out of this bathroom before I fainted. I had to get away.

I pushed the door open and marched down the corridor.
Jack grabbed my arm as I walked passed.

"Hannah," he called.
"Hannah, let me explain –"

I shook him off.
I'd heard enough of his lies. Tears prickled at my eyes but I scrunched my face to stop them falling. I wouldn't cry and I wouldn't turn back. I'd just keep walking. I had nothing. I was a joke.
You have to be stronger than anyone.
But why did I have to be strong? What was there to be strong for?

"Have you boned her yet?" Those words rang in my ears.
No, but he came damn close. And would've shared every last detail with Spud. The two of them laughing over how Jack had fooled me. All the caring words, all the soft touches were part of his game.

Even Angie, without the band to sweeten the deal, would she still be my friend?
It'd never been me, not with anyone. It'd been what I had, money, the band.

"Five minutes to airtime.
Get ready."

As I strode through the studio
car park, I could hear him calling to me.

"Hannah, come back."
His footsteps advanced on me and then they stopped.

"Jack, it's time to go on," Eric called.
"Hurry up."

He'd go back.
He'd disappear into the building because the one thing he cared about in this life was his band. More than he cared about me, more than he cared about himself, even. He'd get on that stage and play and forget that he even knew me or that he'd destroyed my life. I kept walking through the car park. I'd walk to the train station and go home and pack my bags. Then where? The beach house was no good any more. I couldn't stay with Angie and I had nowhere else to go. But I'd been left with nothing before and had survived. I'd survive again. I'd go somewhere else and get a job. Work in a bar or something. And I'd never see bloody Jack Colt again.

I got to the train station with a couple of minutes to spare before the next train.
I paced the platform, torn between wanting to go back and punch Jack Colt in the face and wanting to get far, far away. I couldn't go back. If he tried to explain, if he sweet-talked me, would I handle it? Would I believe his words because I wanted to? Far better to put as much distance as possible between me and Jack Colt.

My phone beeped.
Bloody Jack Colt. He had nothing to say that I wanted to hear. You can't just say sorry about something like that. When had he made the deal anyway? Right at the beginning after that first gig? Or when I'd been drunk and vomiting? That would explain the kiss on the forehead. Or was it later?

Then it hit me.
That day we'd made the video, how he'd changed from snarly to nice, and had taken me drinking. How he'd saved my life. Or had he? Maybe that was a trick too.

When I looked at the display
, though, it wasn't Jack. It was Dad. I gulped back my tears. Of course, it wasn't Jack. He'd be on camera right now. He'd be working his magic and turning on that charm. Breaking more hearts but none of them broken more than mine. When he was on, he'd have forgotten he ever knew a girl called Hannah.

Up there, with the cameras on him, Jack would sparkle.
They'd be sensational. Every girl, every woman, would want a piece of Jack Colt. This one appearance could make all his dreams come true.

"Have found a way to save the business, come to Thailand at once."
That's what Dad's message said.

My tears fell heavily now.
I could barely see to type out my reply. I'd be there. I'd be there on the next plane. Then Jack and Spud could laugh over me all they wanted. I wouldn't know. I'd be on a tropical beach sipping a cocktail out of a pineapple. I tried to smile but my mouth wouldn't go up at the corners. A woman sitting on a bench nearby pulled her child closer to her.

I pressed "send" on my reply as the train pulled into the station.
The cameras would be swinging to Jack at this very moment. By the time I got home, he'd be off stage and on such a high. He might look for me but probably not, and then he'd go out drinking with the others and they could laugh about the way he'd played me big time. Stupid Hannah, too dumb to notice. A bit of pretty talk and few kisses, that's all it'd taken. Too easy. He might even pick up another chick, like that one he’d had at the flat, and take her home. I was well out of t
here.

The train doors opened.
As I stepped into the carriage, someone grabbed me. I struggled. Another reporter?

I’d had enough of bloody reporters just looking for someone else’s misery to splash all over their front pages. 

"Fuck off, mate. No photos."

I swung around, prepared to hit him.  I’d knock his camera to the ground
before any more photos of me could appear on their front pages.  As my fist connected with his face, I realised it wasn’t a reporter.

It was Jack Colt.

###

Candy J. Starr used to be a band manager until she realised that the band she managed was so lacking in charisma that they actually sucked the charisma out of any room they played. “Screw you,” she said, leaving them to wallow in obscurity – totally forgetting that they owed her big bucks for video equipment hire.

Candy has filmed and interviewed some big names in the rock business, and a lot of small ones. She’s seen the dirty little secrets that go on in the back rooms of band venues. She’s seen the ugly side of rock and the very pretty one.

But, of course, everything she writes is fiction.

candyjstarr.wordpress.com

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Rock Star vs. Millionaire

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