The Pop Star Next Door Read online

  The Pop Star Next Door

  Aleah Barley

  Edited by Laura Hamilton

  Cover Design © 2014 Sprinkles on Top Studio

  Copyright © 2014 Aleah Barley

  [email protected]

  ISBN: 978-1500260095

  All rights reserved. This book contains material under Federal and International Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for brief passages quoted for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. On the other hand, if any of you have ever fallen out of a tree then I’m sure you can relate.

  Fonts used under license, including Nymphette by Lauren Thompson the Font Nymph, Habibi by Sorkin Type Co., and Jenna Sue by Jenna Sue Design.

  Other books by the author:

  Leaving Las Vegas

  Too Hot to Handle

  Tempting the Ringmaster

  Dead Set

  Dead Sexy

  For my every day inspirations—you know who you are.

  The Pop Star Next Door

  Chapter One

  The best part about being a pop singing sensation? The private planes. Anna had been on every form of transportation known to man, planes, trains, automobiles, and even the outsized tour bus she’d ridden around in while building her career.

  Private planes rocked her world.

  She relaxed back into the aircraft’s comfy seat while her makeup artist redid her manicure.

  “What do you think of the new gold polish?” Maria grabbed Anna’s thumb and swiped the short brush across her nail. “It’s a nice color. Men like it. You go out, this polish is going to attract a man’s attention from across the room.” She painted while she talked, moving on to the rest of Anna’s nails. “Not that you need nail polish to get a man’s attention. You just need to walk into a room. If I had your looks, I’d be able to get any guy in Hollywood.”

  “They’re not interested in looks. They just want a ticket to the Grammy’s.” Anna turned her head slightly, staring out one of the plane’s small windows. They were only a few hundred feet off the ground, landing in Boston after a long European tour. A quick stop to refuel and it was straight on to Los Angeles.

  “Nothing like a little quid pro quo.” Maria started painting the nails on Anna’s other hand. “You can offer the quid, and they can give you the ‘pro quo.’ How long has it been since you had a man in your bed?”

  Anna didn’t answer the question. She didn’t need to. She was famous. Every aspect of her life was carefully watched and documented. If she went on a date, it would be online within the hour. Her agent would have a heart attack.

  So would her ex-husband.

  “Sweetheart,” Maria clucked. “You need a man.”

  “Like heck.” Anna bit back a smile. The last thing that she needed was a boyfriend. If she wanted someone demanding, self-absorbed, and cranky in her life then she’d start interviewing new drummers. “I need to concentrate on my career.”

  After years as the top performer in the tween market, she was aging out. Another few years and she’d be twenty-five, too old to perform for kids anymore. If she didn’t start making the transition now, she’d be just another washed up former superstar.

  Not that anyone else saw it that way. Her producer? Her agent? They all wanted her to keep doing the same old thing, singing the same songs to the same packed stadiums.

  “I don’t have the time for that kind of trouble,” Anna said. “Actors are all the same—“

  “Who said anything about actors?” Maria’s laughter was brisk, salty. “I’m talking about a good time. A cowboy. Oooh! How about a plumber? Someone who really knows how to lay pipe.”

  “Where am I going to meet one of those in LA?” The ground was getting closer now. Anna braced herself carefully against the back of the seat, counting down--three, two, one.

  The small jet landed roughly, the wheels hitting the tarmac with a rough bump. In the back of the plane, she could hear shouts of surprise as the other passengers woke up: two guitarists, a bass player, a keyboardist, three sound technicians, a wardrobe assistant, and half a dozen other hangers-on. There was a long-legged woman stretched out on the floor, she was either a music journalist or sleeping with one of the guitarists. Anna was never quite sure who had hitched a ride on her plane.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Anna’s publicist tripped over a guitar bag and stumbled into a half conscious musician. She tried to push Maria out of the way. “You don’t have time to get your nails done.”

  “Uh huh.” Tanya was in charge of scheduling while Anna was on tour, but the tour was over. She wanted to stretch her legs. “Is there a coffee shop out there?”

  “Someone will make you coffee. A soy raspberry mocha.”

  “No one has to make it.” Anna swung her arms. What day was it? They’d started traveling on Sunday night, she knew that much, but now the sun was high overhead. “I can buy my own coffee.”

  “And get swarmed by fans? This is why we have an onboard espresso machine.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, I do.” Tanya sniffed. “We’ve got a tight schedule. You’ve got to start signing those CDs. You’ve got two phone interviews, and Darryl wants to talk to you. Then it’s straight into wardrobe. It’s full hair and makeup for our descent into LA.”

  “I’m wearing makeup,” Anna said.

  “Maybe you’re wearing enough makeup for some hellhole in Europe—“

  “Rome,” Maria offered. “Birthplace of civilization.”

  “It might as well be a third world country.” Tanya’s cell phone was in her hands. Her fingers were moving a mile a minute, texting and emailing with every recording executive and journalist in the western hemisphere. “No one’s supposed to know when we’re arriving, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be photographers; lots of photographers. We’re going straight to the dressmaker’s for a fitting. Your lawyer’s going to meet us there—”

  “My lawyer?” Anna glanced up from watching her friends and employees—mostly employees—walk off the plane into the sunlight.

  After years spent with a retinue of handlers, Anna was used to being treated like she had the IQ of a pineapple.

  That didn’t mean she liked it.

  The air in the plane was cold… recirculated.

  All she wanted was a short walk outside, a chance to buy her own damn coffee.

  “Why am I meeting with a lawyer?” She demanded.

  “For the house sale.” Tanya’s gaze was fixed on her phone’s small screen. Every few seconds there was a new beep. “Darryl wants to meet you after the fitting. He says—“

  “The house sale?” Maybe a pineapple was generous. They must think she had the IQ of a jellybean. “I’m not selling my house. I love my house.” Anna owned a big airy mansion in Hollywood Hills, complete with a king-sized bed and a view of the ocean. She’d just finished renovating the pool house. “Why would I sell my house?”

  “Not your house,” Tanya let out a low sigh. “Your grandfather’s house, in Massachusetts.”

  Anna felt like she’d been punched in the gut. As a kid, she’d spent every summer at her grandfather’s house, helping Papa Billy weed the garden when she should have been practicing her scales. She’d been convinced that she’d fall out of practice, her voice would get rusty, and she’d never be able to sing again.

  That hadn’t happened.

&nb
sp; Instead, she’d been discovered by one of her mother’s many one-night stands, and she hadn’t been back to Papa Billy’s since.

  She’d thrown her heart into her work, and in exchange, she’d gotten everything she ever wanted. The money, the fame, the obligatory early marriage to a vapid film star, followed by a hurried divorce four months later.

  Papa Billy had visited of course. He’d brought her fresh flowers from his garden—lilies and asters—but he’d never told her he was sick.

  Anna had been shocked when the hospital had called three weeks earlier to tell her that her grandfather’s condition had relapsed. They didn’t know how much time he had left.

  What condition? She was traveling overseas, and by the time her assistant could charter a plane back to the states, the hospital had already called a second time.

  Papa Billy had died while she was traipsing across Europe. She hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.

  Anna had gone numb. She’d been on autopilot, completing her six-month concert tour of Europe, a different city every night. The work had been constant, non-stop, and mind numbing. It had swallowed her grief whole. She hadn’t forgotten about Papa Billy—she could never forget about Papa Billy—but she’d never thought about what was going to happen to his house.

  Her stomach churned.

  Of course, she’d sell the house. She already had a fortified mansion in the Malibu hills with twelve-foot fences and a state of the art security system. The last thing she needed was a three-bedroom craftsman in Massachusetts.

  Selling the house made sense, even if she’d had some great times at Papa Billy’s; sleeping late into the afternoon, playing games with the other kids in the neighborhood, and dancing barefoot on the porch to Frank Sinatra music on long summer nights with the pale moon hanging low overhead and the fireflies shining in the grass.

  Selling the place was logical, rational… and just thinking about it made her sick to her stomach.

  “Don’t worry,” Tanya continued, her voice even. “I took care of everything. The lawyers are paying the taxes. The realtor’s going to come in next week and clean the place out. It’ll all be done in no time. You just need to sign some paperwork to get the ball moving.” Her fingers never stopped moving. The woman was talking about Papa Billy’s house, his possessions, the sum total of a man’s life, and she wasn’t even giving it her full attention. “You won’t have to think about a thing.”

  That was the problem.

  Anna never thought about anything; not her music, not her career, not even the clothes she wore. Leaving Rome she’d worn a pink designer sundress picked out by her wardrobe assistant, now she was supposed to put on a new outfit chosen by her publicist.

  Papa Billy had always told her to stand on her own two feet. ‘You’re a smart kid, Anna Banana. You can do whatever the hell you want.’

  Light from the open door made Anna’s vision blur. Her head spun. She couldn’t breathe.

  At the moment, all she wanted was some fresh air. She stumbled forward, grabbing her purse before heading out the airplane’s door, down the stairs, and onto the tarmac. All around her, people were shouting and calling her name, but she was already digging in her purse for her wallet.

  For the right price, a taxi would take her anywhere, even to Papa Billy’s house two hours from the Boston airport. Mill City was a small factory town without a factory—not since the silverware industry had left the region twenty years earlier—it wasn’t exactly a garden spot, but the journey would give her some quiet time alone to think.

  Once she got there she’d know what to do.

  Right?

  H

  Her grandfather’s house was exactly the same as Anna remembered it, with its weathered gray paint, lavender window treatments, and oversized flowerbeds full of lilies, roses, and weeds.

  Anna remembered the weeds. She remembered long summer days; sweat pouring down her brow, dirt grinding against her knees. The realtor’s sign on the front lawn was a more recent addition.

  Paying the taxi driver who’d driven her from the airport, she got out and stomped across the yard. She grasped the brightly colored sign, giving it a quick yank. Nothing happened. She pulled again, but someone had pounded the thing deep into the ground. She tried pushing it to one side, her purse swinging awkwardly.

  The sign didn’t move.

  She didn’t know what she was doing.

  She just knew that something had broken inside her when Tanya had said that the house was being sold. Her life was a mess. She had no control. And, now a complete stranger was supposed to go through Papa Billy’s things? Someone who might get rid of his Sinatra records or put his collection of battered fedoras in the trash.

  Anna gave the yard sign one last shot, kicking out wildly then wincing when her foot connected with a wooden post.

  Maybe she’d keep the house as a place in the country to go between tours and relax. It wasn’t far from New York. She could vacation in Mill City and still be close enough to go to the city and lay some tracks in the studio on the weekends.

  The weeds would be someone else’s problem. What was the point of being a pop princess if she had to pull her own weeds? Or—worse—mow the lawn. She’d hire someone else to work in the garden, a kid, like the blonde urchin in the yard next door.

  Anna inspected the child closely.

  A blonde haired moppet staring up at the sky.

  After a moment, he turned to look at her. Inspect her. His eyes were big, blue, widely spaced above an upturned nose and stubborn chin. The chin was stuck out, determined. In someone else, its appearance might have elicited some kind of maternal instinct, but Anna had never understood children. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them; she just didn’t have much experience with them. Even though most of her fans were between the ages of ten and twenty.

  The few times she’d worked with younger children they’d been loud, erratic, and prone to missing their cues.

  “My kite is stuck in a tree,” the child called out. When Anna didn’t respond immediately, he stomped over to stand beside her. His chubby knees quivered, his hands balled into fists, his voice was loud and demanding, “My kite is stuck.”

  Anna nodded slowly, afraid that if she said anything then Darryl would hear. With the business of Papa Billy’s house finished, her agent was moving on to more important things: Money, contracts, record distribution, and concert tours. Europe had been good for her, broadening her fan base. Now she needed to show people at home that she still had what it took to be a star. He had a couple of possible concert dates lined up and a number of different movie openings and parties he wanted her to attend.

  She’d already agreed to perform at a charity event at the end of the month, but after that her schedule was clear except for recording sessions. Maybe he could find her some guest spots on television shows.

  Anything to keep her face out there in front of the fickle public.

  The child’s gaze was steady, expectant. His blue eyes were piercing and intelligent. A robot stared out from the kid’s shirt.

  “Have you tried tugging on the string?”

  “I can’t do that.” The boy’s voice was a slow drawl, like he was talking to a moron. “If you tug on the string, then the kite will break.”

  The kid seemed extremely logical, given that he didn’t even come up to Anna’s waist. Anna raised an eyebrow, questioning. “How old are you?”

  “Six. How old are you?”

  “It’s not polite to ask a lady her age.”

  “Who said you’re a lady?”

  The kid had a point.

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  “You’re going to have to climb the tree to get the kite,” the kid explained, clearly tired of waiting for Anna to come up with a solution. “I can’t do it, and Dad’s making dinner.”

  Anna had never climbed a tree in her life. She’d taken ballet and fencing lessons, she’d sung for kings, queens, and twenty-eight individual little princesses with fancy ba
ll gowns, painted lips and pigtails.

  Trees were beyond her.

  Even when she’d visited Papa Billy, so many years earlier she’d been a city kid at heart; a girl from Los Angeles who was more interested in great malls than the great outdoors. The only trees in Los Angeles were tall, skinny palm trees with thatched heads inhabited by hyperactive rats. Besides, climbing trees was a good way to get hurt, and if she was hurt then she wouldn’t be able to practice, she wouldn’t be able to work, and she wouldn’t be able to sing.

  On the other hand… Climbing trees wasn’t rocket science. It wasn’t like breaking in a new drummer on an eighteen-hour flight from Los Angeles to the Netherlands.

  If Anna could do that then she could do anything.

  “Where’s the tree?” She blinked in surprise when the kid pointed to the twisted holly tree in front of her grandfather’s house, the same tree that the boy next door had climbed ten years earlier to try and sneak in Anna’s window. He’d lived right next door, and he’d had the prettiest mouth she’d ever seen.

  He hadn’t been the first boy she’d kissed, but he’d been the first boy who knew what he was doing.

  What had his name been?

  He’d been older than her, she remembered that much. The last summer she’d spent in Mill City, he’d been seventeen years old, a recent high school graduate, the prom king, worrying about his future at a school where he wouldn’t be the captain of the football team. His lashes had been brown, just a few shades darker than his hair, the longest that she’d ever seen.

  Every girl in town had wanted him, and Papa Billy had forbidden Anna from talking to him. His little girl was too young and too innocent to spend her time with a boy like that, a good for nothing seducer.

  He’d tasted like chocolate ice cream.

  “Well?” The little kid interrupted her thoughts with a single well-placed syllable.

  Anna rolled her eyes. Okay, she’d been daydreaming about a dark haired boy with strong shoulders who was probably married to someone who cooked breakfast on a stove every morning instead of ordering it from room service. That didn’t give the kid the right to be sarcastic.