Helen’s memory invaded his weary mind, everything about it offering solace and respite from the present. The gentle yet intelligent way she’d talked with him, how she’d listened to him, soothed his battered soul. Everything about her did. Her throaty laugh and folksy Minnesota upswing. The freckles dotting her nose and arms like miniature constellations of stars.
He’d never forget those eyes. Forest fire eyes. Inquisitive and catlike, golden with sparks of jungle green, they glinted with brilliant mischief. Danced, like lush leaves in the warm heart of summer. Looked at him with such sweetness.
Helen hadn’t seen him as a sex object past his prime. Nor had she seen the entertainment product: Brian Shepherd© Aries Records, LLC. She’d seen him as a person. A man.
Or so he thought.
Hurt and panic stormed the gates. Brian tried to shut down. He hit the reset button, seeking his numbed-out mode. Emptying himself out and filling the cavity with the blankness he needed to cope worked, so he did it.
Except now, a torch blazed in the cave. A certain brunette held it, someone who inspired in him a raft of giddy fantasies of things he assumed he’d forsaken. Picnics on the ocean. Laughter and kisses on the couch. Movies and conversation and drives up the coast. He’d give back all of his platinum records to experience a taste of normalcy. Of genuine human affection.
Too bad he couldn’t trust the woman who’d awoken that side of him from torpor.
Teagan dabbed a damp sponge triangle on his face. Surfer Lad fumbled with a boom mic. Another reporter, a voluptuous woman in a suit, stalked up to Surfer Lad, and they argued.
Brian tensed, bunching his shoulders as the kerfuffle escalated to raised voices. What was wrong with these journalists?
He fixed his posture. Like the reporters, Helen was a wild card he couldn’t predict or control. But his persona he could control. He’d put on a damn good interview. Act polite and professional, as expected, showcase his likeable, relatable, down-to-earth reputation for any label executives or television producers who might be watching. He’d embody his image with as much authenticity as he could muster until he drew his final breath. His goal in the moment was to remain on brand, and he could accomplish it.
A rotten urge spiked his blood. He clenched a fist. What would it feel like to trash the room? Upend chairs. Break cameras and stomp on mobile phones. Wreck the entire sodding place like the tantrum-prone manboy of a rock star he wasn’t. He saw, though, why they melted down. To feel alive. To counteract the ennui. The freak-outs amounted to resistance. Refusal to pay the price of celebrity, rejection of the bum deal.
Tears nipped his ducts, and he screwed his lids shut, sucked in air, and opened them once the threat passed.
“Sneezing is bad luck.” Teagan tapped his nose and finished up her makeup application.
“I’ve never heard that wives’ tale,” Jonnie said. “Do I need a touch up, love?”
“Nah. You’re good. You could pass for thirty-two. You a vamp, with your whole eternal youth vibe? Drink the blood of groupies, only the ones on their periods get backstage?” She threw her makeup kit in a patch-covered backpack.
Following an odd beat of silence that Brian lacked the energy to analyze, Jonnie laughed and shook his head. “No, but I do avoid the sun, and I use quality moisturizer. You get points for creativity though. You come up with that on the fly, sweetheart?”
Teagan flicked her eyes from one man to the other, handing each a pink business card.
She advertised herself with a multitude of artsy titles from graphic designer to jewelry maker and looked to be on every social media platform in existence. Everyone was hustling, trying to get famous. No. Not everyone. Not Helen.
“Yeah. I have a screenplay I’m seeking representation for, so keep me in mind next time you mingle with film industry people. Can I pitch?”
Jonnie shrugged as he flipped the card over and looked to Brian. The others deferred to him when matters veered into business territory, a protocol which fed him a dose of pride.
“Sure.” Brian widened his legs. Like a good dancing monkey, he reviewed the interview statement from Aries.
The crew arranged their cameras in a circle. A trio of dead black eyes stared Brian down. Cords lay across the floor, writhing as the reporters pushed their mounted camcorders. Someone said “test, test” into a clip on microphone, and the device emitted an obnoxious electronic whine.
“In the midst of a zombie apocalypse, a campus Republican and a radical feminist activist fight to destroy the undead—and their growing feeling for each other. Yeah. That’s it.” Grinning, Teagan whipped out her mobile and tapped.
“I’d go with radical feminist or activist. You don’t need both to convey her values and how they conflict with those of the opposing lead.” Brian stuck a finger in his ear and rubbed out the lingering pain left by the static squeal. These interviewers couldn’t quite get their technological shite together, and it set his teeth on edge.
“Thanks, man.” Teagan dashed off.
Surfer Lad and a female reporter set up three folding chairs.
The third, the brunette whose pinstripe suit was tailored to hug every curve on her lush figure, strode over.
“Christine Durlinger, Currently Amplified magazine.” She extended her hand to Brian. Christine’s firm, confident handshake matched the attractive and successful woman.
“Brian Shepherd, good afternoon.” His voice came out authoritative, booming, and he escaped to the respite of his own sense of power.
Currently Amplified threatened to usurp Rolling Stone as the music magazine, and the publication’s finger caught the scene’s pulse. Brian squared his shoulders, locking her molten chocolate eyes and shoring up perspective. Fyre still sold out most shows, sold millions of records. This. Was. Him. He forced thoughts of Helen from his mind, forced himself to stay on task.
“Better now.” Christine leaned down, offering him a peek of ample
