Oreos for Breakfast: Chapter 34

Oreos For Breakfast: Chapter 34
By the Paperbag Princess and Pumpkin Coach

17.

How the hell was I ever supposed to leave this hotel room again? I couldn't go out there, stand in front of all my fans, smiling and thanking them for their support. I felt like I was going to pass out or throw up or something…

17.

I fuckin' hated that number.

Better than 18, I suppose. Or 25 or 50. Hell, the CD hadn't even cracked the top 50 in the UK, I guess I should be happy, right?

My stomach lurched again and I ran into the bathroom, falling on the floor by the toilet and willing myself to be sick. If I was sick then I could bow out of the performance today. I was going to suck anyway. Hell, I was sick. It wasn't like I was lying. I'd had a cold all week, I could barely breathe. And they wanted me to go out there and perform. Shit.

And tomorrow it was back to LA and chat shows, as Rachel called them.

I laid down on the floor, trying to steady my breathing as I thought about her. Again. Rachel standing in front of me, naked, those purple streaks in her pretty hair, freaking out about being on Jay Leno and not thinking she was good enough. She was so good enough. I was the poser now. I didn't deserve anything. I'd have to go back to Backstreet with my tail between my legs and…

There was a knock on the door and I closed my eyes and held my breath. If I was very, very quiet, maybe they'd go away.

They knocked again. No such luck. Damn.

"Coming!"

I pulled myself up and splashed cold water on my face, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. It was all red and blotchy. Fuck. I guess I had been crying. I didn't even notice.

Ken arched an eyebrow when he saw my face, but didn't say anything. Good. I didn't have anything to say.

"Can we go out the back? I feel like crap, I don't want to be nice." And I can't face the fans. Not now.

He shrugged, pulling out his phone and calling Ron to tell him the change of plans. I found my shoes and slumped into a chair to put them on. I don't know why we were bothering. All the publicity I'd been doing for the last few months was for nothing, the album only made it to 17. I only had the Backstreet fans, no one else. And even some of them had deserted me. Fucking fickle fans.

The TV erupted into noise and I looked up, freezing in place.

Justin Timberlake was standing in the middle of a closed off Times Square talking about his fucking album. They hadn't needed to close Times Square for me last week. But then again, I wasn't supposed to be changing the fabric of the music industry, as Rachel would say.

There she was again. No matter how hard I tried, everything came back to her.

She would be laughing at me right now. 17? She'd be thrilled with 17. The highest their album ever got was 9. She'd be telling me to get over it and join the real world.

But, then again, they were 37 this week, and that damn thing had been out for what… more than a year now. Still in the top 40. I'd be lucky if I was still in the top 40 next week. I had one week, and we all knew it. The strategy was to break big and then watch the fucker fall. The fans would buy it and then… nothing.

Ken snapped off the TV and looked over at me. "Fucking punkass," he snarled, and I just shook my head.

"He's going to change the world. I never said I was going to do that."

"17 is really good for a new artist, Nick. Because that's what you are, remember?"

Yeah, that's what we keep saying. I wish I believed it.

"Hey, senorita."

"Don't even call me that. Have I mentioned that's a stupid song?"

"Whatever, babe. Where are you?"

"Idaho." There was a reason I'd picked up when I realized it was Justin. My hotel room here in the middle of potato country was getting pretty dull. "You?"

"LA. I'm going to Europe next week."

"Why are you calling me in the middle of the night, curly?'

"Why do you call me that? Have you not noticed that I've shaved off most of my hair?"

I sat cross-legged on my bed, zapping through channels on the TV. "You're a traitor to the curls, man. JC and I consider it our mission in life to remind you that once you suffered like us."

"Why do you think I shaved them off? I've seen JC in the morning. He's scary."

I giggled. "Very true. I might be worse."

"That I'd like to see," he flirted, and I smiled at the phone.

Flirting with Justin freaking Timberlake. Idaho was becoming more interesting. "Planning on catching the red-eye to Nampa, baby?"

"Say the word, Rachel."

I snickered. "No. Why are you calling me?"

He sang to me. "You're a good girl and that's what makes me trust ya…
Late at night, I talk to you…"

"You are a dork."

"Hey, there are a lot of girls out there who would die to hear me sing to them. They're telling me Justified is going into the charts at number one. That's a little better than seventeen, isn't it?"

Nick's album had gone in at seventeen. That was great. The highest we'd ever gotten was nine.

But Backstreet had been going into the charts at number one for years now. Going in at seventeen meant there was nowhere to go but down.

"It's amazing what a lot of promo dollars can buy."

"Ooooh…" Justin said, laughing. "Bitter much?"

"Why would I be bitter?"

"Because my album is better than your ex-boyfriend's?"

"Album sales have little to do with artistic merit. Don't forget, you're talking to someone who barely breaks the top 40."

"You were 37 last week, months after your album was released. You're doing okay, Rachel."

"Why are you paying attention to my chart position, curly?"

"I have to keep an eye on the competition, baby. Market research and all that."

"I doubt we're suddenly going to leap back into the top ten. You don't need to worry about us."

"How's rewriting the album going?"

He remembered that discussion?

"It's… fine." We'd gotten used to a real studio, so recording on Jeremy's four-track was getting old. But our best album had been recorded in my living room, so we were getting somewhere.

"Just fine?"

"Some days are better than others. It's tough recording on a tour bus using a four-track."

"What's a four-track?"

He'd better be joking.

"Some of us didn't grow up in recording studios. Our last album was done in my living room."

"It was not!" he said, shocked, and I laughed.

"You're checking out my chart position but haven't read any of my press? Yes, we did it in my living room in about a month on rented equipment."

"A month? What, did you have to get the stuff back to the rental place?"

"Yeah," I admitted. Two months would have bankrupted us. "And we work quick. Which is good, because we need to get it to the label by December 22nd to get a bonus."

"Didn't you already give it to the label? You were working on an album this summer, right? You weren't just hanging out at the studio stalking me or something?"

"Don't flatter yourself. No, we were working, but we didn't hand in the final project yet. They've heard a couple of songs, and they're excited about one as a single, but I hate it."

It was a trite girl annoyed with her boyfriend song. Britney would probably make it a huge hit. I just sounded whiney on it. And I'd written it.

Besides, I didn't want to re-live the final days of my relationship with Nick. Once was enough, thanks.

"One single, that's a start."

"That one will be a single over my dead body. No, we're starting over."

"How big is the bonus you'll get in December? Do you still get it if the label hates the album?"

I laughed. We'd asked that question already. Saffron was already having fits over the fact that we took back what we'd already given them. "We do. We might have to fight for it, but our lawyers say we'll win."

"Then why don't you hand in the crappy album and just get the bonus?"

"Because as soon as we present it to the label, it's over. If they want to release it, they can. And we don't want to be Duran Duran and have a crappy third album."

"Isn't their third album Seven and the Ragged Tiger?"

"Were you even born yet when that was released? Don't answer that question. Yes, it was Seven, but it was all coke-induced paranoia and half of it sucks. Rio is far superior. And then they did the live album and descended into splinter groups and kicking out the guitarist and I kicked Jeremy out once already and that didn't work. We want a good album!"

Justin laughed. "Okay, you crazy Duranie. Do you know that JC was totally obsessed with Duran Duran for a while there, all because of James?"

"Duran is totally underrated. I'll send you a cd."

"It's okay, JC made me listen to plenty."

"He didn't convince you of the genius that is Duran Duran?"

"I might be more receptive to your tutelage."

Smiling, I laid back on my bed. "James will probably be happy to know that."

"What, that I'm not attracted to JC? I doubt that's news to him."

"Do you ever read any of the fan fiction out there, Justin? There's an entire genre devoted to you and JC. They call it Joshtin fic."

He laughed. "Reading my press?"

"That's hardly your press, baby. And sometimes it gets boring in hotel rooms and I love to torture James."

"Shouldn't you be writing songs or something?"

"Shouldn't you be out conquering the world or something?"

"Tomorrow. Early night tonight. I'm supposed to be getting my beauty rest."

"But you called me instead?"

"I'm resting. And you're the beauty."

I snickered. "Good try, curly. Did you call me for a reason?"

"I wanted to know a little more about what we talked about at my album release party."

"We just talked about re-recording my album."

I could just see his eye roll through the phone. "The other thing."

"What other thing?" I said innocently.

"The thing how you might be interested if we didn't end up in the press."

"Don't photographers follow you everywhere now? You seem to be in every magazine or newspaper I pick up."

"Not everywhere… I doubt they'd follow me to Idaho, for example."

"Like you have a day to blow to come to freaking Idaho."

"I can make a day."

Really? I sorta figured my flirting was a moot point. I really didn't want to end up in the press as Justin's new girlfriend. I'd had enough press about dating a boybander, I didn't want to go through it again.

"Are you serious?" I nearly chocked on my water.

"Depends. Are you, senorita?"

"Told you not to call me that. You know it's just sex, right?"

He laughed. "Anyone ever tell you you're the perfect girl, Rachel?"

A few people, yes.

"Just making sure we're on the same page, curly."

"Stop calling me that." Was I actually annoying him or was he still teasing? I'd go with the teasing.

"Is it a deal breaker?"

"Do we have a deal?"

"Are we ever going to be in the same state again?"

He sighed. "Maybe. I don't know. I have no idea what my schedule is for the rest of the year."

"Give me your email address. I'll send you my schedule and you figure it out." I could let him do the work. If he really wanted this to happen then… maybe it would.

"Is that an invitation for me to just show up on your doorstep someday?"

"You might want to call ahead to be sure I have a doorstep. I share the bus with my band and tour manager and bodyguard. And Frank doesn't like you."

"Frank? Backstreet's Frank?" His voice went up an octave making me laugh.

"I got him in the divorce. He always liked me better anyway."

"You over Nick Carter is not a difficult choice to make."

"True," I agreed. "What's your email?"

He rattled it off to me and I scribbled it on the pad next to the phone. "Now I can send you embarrassing fan fic, too."

"Great. Am I going to regret this?"

"Probably, yes." But not before I'd had some fun. This would be fun, right?

Disclaimer | Sudden Silence Website
Feedback to Authors | Tragical Fiction (home)

Subscribe to receive an email when this site is updated!

Powered by groups.yahoo.com