Bad Boy Rock Star

By: Candy J. Starr



I wondered when she actually found time to breathe but her chatter helped me feel safer even thought I kept scanning the street for freaks.

"Yeah, it seems that way."

"No offence, love, but you don't really look like a manager. You don't look like you'd know the first thing about rock. In that get up you look like you should be going to the opera or the races or something. Next time, let me pick your outfit."

I hoped my smile looked sincere. Actually she didn't look too bad once you got over the bright green hair. She'd actually be pretty with the right grooming.

"See, told you the bus would turn up when I lit up a smoke." She took a last desperate drag of her cigarette.

I looked up to see the bus pulling up. I got on and swiped my card then took a seat and prepared to put in my headphones but she sat beside me and kept talking.

This was only the second time in my life I’d caught the bus and already I’d realized that no matter what, crazies will sit next to you and talk your ears off. I figured it was better to let her sit beside me. At least she didn’t smell or drool – and she had rescued me from that oaf.

"Name's Angie by the way. And you are Hannah. I heard you say that at the bar."

I nodded.

"Where you going?"

I told her.

"You live near me. Cool. If you are going to manage the guys, I have a few suggestions if you don't mind me telling you. To be honest, you don't look like you know much about managing a band and I reckon I'd be really tops at that kind of thing."

I listened to her because she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. And she was right, I knew nothing about managing a band but my motives were more like unmanaging them.





Chapter 3


The stupid garbage truck pulled me out of a very hot dream the next morning. It was all sexy and sweaty and – I refused to dream about Jack Colt. I refused to imagine his hands running down my body, sending divine shivers through me. I refused to think about his long fingers caressing my skin. I wouldn't even think about his mouth or tongue or the things they did to me in my dream. I would not think about Jack Colt in that way at all. Instead I’d think about nice things, like my boyfriend, Tom.

But the dream stuck to the edges of my brain and I kept getting flashes of stupid Jack Colt doing that thing he did with his hips. And the leather stretched tight around his thighs. The way he strutted around like he owned the place. Mr Jack Colt, if that indeed was his real name because it sounded pretty fake to me, thought he was a sex god but not in my book. I tried to bring up images of Tom instead but couldn’t picture him clearly. I could remember the clothes he wore and the aftershave he used but I could not remember the emotions he made me feel. It hadn’t been that long but already his face had faded in my mind like an old photo.

I sat up in bed then thought about going back to sleep. When I slept, I could pretend I had my old life back. I'd get up and put together a fabulous outfit then go to meet my friends for coffee. Often, someone would want to take my photo for the campus fashion blog. And that was all before the first lecture.

But the hard, rickety single bed that doubled as a couch gave me a backache and, every time I turned in my sleep, the bed creaked and woke me up. I'd not had a decent sleep since I'd moved in. I wasn't totally convinced this place didn't have some kind of bugs either, even though I'd gone through three bottles of bug spray when I first got here.

You could almost reach the kitchen from the bed. Well, if you could call it a kitchen, I suppose. A tiny bar fridge that hummed and rattled all night and smelt like maybe three years ago someone had spilled milk in it and never cleaned it out. There was a hotplate and a kind of sink with cold water. If I wanted hot water, I had to boil it on the hotplate. Someone had left some plates and saucepans on a shelf under the sink. As much as I hated the idea of using someone else's manky stuff, I couldn't afford to replace them.

I didn't cook anything here anyway. The whole place would reek if I tried cooking and the smell would get into my clothes, which filled most of the room. My regular clothes hung on a rack at the end of my bed that had already collapsed about three times since I'd been there, usually during the night, waking me up in fright. I'd packed the really good stuff away in boxes under my bed so it stayed decent. I had boxes of shoes and handbags stacked up around the room. It looked like a disorganised wardrobe, although the entire room would have fit inside my wardrobe back home. I'd tried not to think too much about how orderly things used to be. How everything was colour-coded and matched and hung correctly. When I left for uni, I'd thought I had it tough with just a single walk-in robe but this place, this place was a slum. Literally. A literal slum. These clothes were all I had to comfort me and I couldn't care for them in the way they needed to be cared for. It broke my heart.

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