“So,” said
Nick, “you wanna have a jam session?
Show me some of your stuff?”
I’d been
prepared to be asked at some point, but that didn’t make me any less
nervous. “Sure, I’d love to!” I replied
brightly, trying to hide my nerves. Get over it, I scolded myself on the way
to get my ukulele from the front hall.
If I couldn’t perform for him now, how did I expect to be able to open
for him every night?
I followed
Nick into a spare bedroom, which he’d converted into his home office and own
personal music studio. All of his
instruments were set up there – a shiny drumset in one corner, a pair of
guitars and an amplifier in another, and a big keyboard with lots of buttons
set up along one wall. Taking up the
opposite wall was a large, wrap-around desk, which held a desktop computer and
two different laptops. I could see some
kind of music software up on one, a video game paused on another.
“You play
anything?” Nick asked, noticing my interest in his equipment. “I mean, besides the ukulele?”
“Piano,” I
replied, realizing he meant instruments and not video games. “A little guitar, but I’m not very good. It’s tougher to master than the ukulele – a
lot more chords, and my fingers don’t stretch to make them as easily.”
He
chuckled. “Yeah, I hear ya. I’m gettin’ better on guitar. Been tryin’ to learn our songs so I can play
more on tour.”
“Really? Are you going to play this tour? That’d be great!” I enthused.
He
shrugged. “We’ll see.” Then, without my having to ask, he strode
across the room and picked up his acoustic guitar. He looked down at the strings, the tip of his
tongue poking between his teeth while he concentrated on getting his fingers in
the right position, and then he started to strum.
It took me
a minute, but I recognized the chord progression. “Quit Playing Games.” Without really thinking, I started to hum the
familiar intro. “Da, DA…na…da-na-NA…na…da-na-NA…na…na…na…”
Nick looked
over at me and grinned, still strumming.
I faltered. “No, come on,” he
urged, as he played the progression again, leading into the first verse. “You know the words, don’t ya?”
My
confidence boosted, I grinned back and joined in with the lyrics Brian usually
sang. “Even in my heart… I see… you’re not being true to me. Deep within my soul… I feel… nothing’s like
it used to be. Sometimes I wish I could…
turn back time… impossible as it may seem, but I wish I could… so bad… baby…
Quit playing games with my heart…”
“Quit playing
games with my heart,” Nick sang under me, watching his fingers move over the guitar
strings.
“With my heart…”
“Before you tear
us apart…”
“My heart…”
“Quit playing
games with my heart…”
“I should have known from the start…”
“Before
you got in my heart…”
“From my heart…”
“Quit
tearin’ us apart…”
“My heart…”
“Quit
playing games with my heart…”
Nick’s
voice crescendoed into the second verse, the one he was used to singing. “I live
my life… the way… to keep you comin’ back to me. Everything I do… is for you… so what is it
that you can’t see?” I stared at
him, mesmerized by the pure sound of his voice over the acoustic guitar. “Sometimes
I wish I could… turn back time… impossible as it may seem, but I wish I could…
so bad… baby… You better quit playing games with my heart…”
This time,
we traded, and I jumped in with the back-up vocals while he sang lead on the
chorus. I thought we actually sounded
pretty good, until we hit the bridge, and his fingers stumbled over the key
change. “Shit,” he said, as he hit the
wrong chord. “I always mess up on this
part… hang on…” He played around, trying
to get the right combination of strings, but finally he gave up and sat the
guitar down on his lap. “Ah well… the
first part sounded good, anyway.”
I
beamed. My heart was beating fast with
the surge of adrenaline that had shot through me, but my nerves were gone. “Once you get the rest of it down, you should
totally play it that way at your shows,” I told him.
“Thanks,”
he said, with a quick flicker of a smile, then put his guitar down and looked
at me. “Now your turn.”
***
After
spending the afternoon with Nick, singing my original songs for him and playing
on his keyboard, I felt a lot more comfortable around him. Still, I was surprised when he asked me out
to dinner that night.
Of course,
I said yes. I knew no one in Los
Angeles, except for the remaining American
Idol contestants, but they would be busy with rehearsals all weekend, so it
wasn’t like I had anyone else to make plans with. “Do you mind if I freshen up first?” I asked
Nick. I’d been wearing the same clothes
since I got up at the crack of dawn that morning, well over twelve hours ago
when you took into account the time change, and I was starting to feel pretty
gross. If I was going out on the town
with a Backstreet Boy, I wanted to look my best.
Nick
offered me his guest room, and I lugged one of my suitcases in with me. My careful packing went out the window, as I
rifled through it, looking for the perfect outfit to change into. I’m not usually what I’d call
“high-maintenance” – you really can’t be when you’re a nurse – but I am pretty
girly. Maybe it’s because my everyday
outfit consists of scrubs and a ponytail that I look forward to any excuse to
dress up. Besides performing, my
favorite part of being on American Idol
was having my own stylist!
I traded my
jeans, top, and flip-flops for a spring dress with a bold, vintage, floral
pattern and a pair of peep-toe pumps.
Then I finger-combed my hair and touched up my makeup, applying a fresh
coat of my favorite red lipstick. “You
look nice,” Nick told me when I emerged, his eyes panning down my body and back
up again.
“You too,”
I returned the compliment with a smile.
He had also changed – still a jeans/t-shirt combo, but the new pants and
dark shirt were stylishly fitted, showing off his trim body. “You know, I totally admire you for losing
all that weight and keeping it off for, what, two years?”
“Almost.” He flashed a crooked smile. “It wasn’t easy.”
“No, I
know! Losing weight is tough, and
sticking to it’s even harder.” I knew
this from experience. I wasn’t fat, but
my metabolism had caught on to the fact that I was pushing thirty, and I’d
found myself having to watch my figure more carefully than I ever had
before. I had managed to lose fifteen
pounds after my Idol audition,
wanting to look my best on the show, and since my elimination, five of them had
already piled back on. Too many nights
curled up on my couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s were starting to catch
up to me. I hoped a hectic tour schedule
would whip me back into shape, but I feared it would have the opposite effect –
sitting on a bus all day and eating on the road didn’t exactly go hand-in-hand
with a healthy diet and exercise. “I’m
counting on you to keep me on track on the tour,” I added.
He
grinned. “You got it. You can do the same for me. The other fellas eat whatever they want and
never gain a pound; it ain’t easy trying to diet with them around.”
I shook my
head. “No, I bet not. I deal with the same thing at work. You’d think nurses would be pretty
health-conscious, but you’d be surprised at some of our bad habits.”
He shrugged. “No one’s perfect. You can know something’s bad for you and
still do it.”
It sounded
like he was speaking from experience. I
nodded in agreement. “Very true.”
“So… you
ready?”
“Yep. All this talk of dieting is just making me
hungrier,” I confessed, and he laughed.
“Me too.”
We left the
condo and were already on the road in his black Mercedes Benz before I realized
I’d left all of my luggage in his entryway.
We’d walked right past it on the way out, and he hadn’t mentioned it. Now he’d have to stop back at the condo
before driving me to my hotel later that night.
Unless he’d planned it that way… I pushed Jessica’s text from earlier out of
my mind, telling myself I was overthinking things.
Just like
that afternoon: why did I have to assume
there was something he wasn’t telling me?
He had been perfectly nice all day, a gracious host, and he’d let me
play his keyboard and complimented my music.
We’d made small talk most of the afternoon, neither of us getting too
personal, but that was to be expected.
I’d only just met the guy! Maybe
he was just more reserved than I’d expected him to be, and he needed time to
warm up to me. A lot of celebrities were
private people, and I didn’t blame them one bit.
“So,” said
Nick, snapping me out of my wandering thoughts.
“Dinner. What are you hungry
for?”
I
shrugged. I hated being the one to make
a decision about where we went out to eat, especially when I wasn’t familiar
with the area. “I don’t really know. Anything sounds good; I’m not picky. What do you feel like?”
“Steak.”
I
laughed. “That was quick. Why’d you ask me?”
“Just being
a gentleman.”
“Aw… well,
I appreciate your chivalry. A steakhouse
would be great.”
“You sure?”
“Why
wouldn’t I be? Who doesn’t like steak?”
“Um…
vegetarians?”
I laughed
again. “Well, I’m not a vegetarian,
trust me. Like I said, I’m not
picky. Take me wherever they have the
best steaks around here.”
His head bobbed in an obedient nod. “You
got it, lady.”
***
After all
our talk about dieting, it amused me to watch Nick eat every last bite of the
large steak he’d ordered and knock back two pints of beer at dinner. I wasn’t going to comment, but as he heaped
butter and sour cream onto his baked potato, he said, “Some days, you just
gotta live it up, you know? Life’s too
short,” and I agreed. I cleaned my plate
as well and didn’t feel guilty about it.
The prices
at the steakhouse he’d chosen were outrageous, but when our waiter brought the
check, Nick covered the whole thing.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, my wallet in hand, but Nick shook
his head, refusing to let me pay my portion.
“Chivalry,
remember?” he said with a grin I couldn’t resist. “You can make it up to me later.”
I didn’t
ask what he meant by that, but insisted on leaving the tip. After the bill was taken care of, we walked
outside. It had cooled down considerably
now that it was getting dark, and I enjoyed the fresh air as we stood waiting
for the valet to return with Nick’s car.
It was such a pleasant night that I wasn’t ready for it to end, so when
Nick said, “You wanna check out a club or something?” I was game.
He took me
to the Key Club in Hollywood, which turned out not to be the kind of club I was
picturing, with loud, pulsing, techno music and flashing, colored strobe
lights, but a three-story building with a restaurant on the top floor, a live
music hall on the main level, and a laidback basement lounge. A heavy metal band played over our heads as
we sat down at a table tucked in a corner of the lounge. I looked around while Nick went to the bar to
get us drinks. “I like this place,” I
said, when he returned.
He
nodded. “It’s pretty chill. I had a birthday party here last year.” He took a sip of his drink. “I didn’t really feel like a dance club
tonight, so I hope this is okay.”
“It’s
definitely okay,” I said, laughing.
“Trust me, I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Yeah?” He furrowed his perfectly-manscaped eyebrows
at me. “I don’t buy that. I bet you can dance.”
I shook my
head. “Not really. Not unless it’s choreographed. I can’t do freestyle.”
“But anyone
can do freestyle,” he persisted. “That’s
why it’s called ‘freestyle.’ You just do
whatever.”
“I think
that’s my problem,” I said with a shrug.
“I overthink it. I’m too
self-conscious.”
“Aw, you
gotta get over that! I bet if I get a
few more drinks in you, I can get you to dance.” He flashed a cocky smile, wiggling his brows.
I
suppressed a smile of my own and said in a sing-song voice, “I don’t think so…”
“Heh. We’ll see.”
He pushed my glass closer to me.
“Drink up.”
Raising my
eyebrows, I took a long, slow sip and licked my lips when I was done. “Mm… nope.
Still don’t wanna dance.”
“I said a
few drinks, not one sip. You’ll get
there,” he replied with confidence, tipping back his own glass. When he had swallowed, he said, “So you can’t
do freestyle, but you can do choreography?”
I
shrugged. “I guess. I took dance classes as a kid, so I have a
little background in learning choreography.”
“What
kind?”
“When I was
little? Jazz and tap, till I was nine.”
“Why’d you stop?”
I couldn’t
imagine he actually cared; he was just keeping the conversation going with
something we had in common. I wasn’t
ready to tell him about my mom, though, so I just said, “Eh, it got to be
pretty expensive, all the costumes and tap shoes and whatnot, and I wasn’t that
serious about it.”
He
nodded. “I hear ya. Man, my mom shelled out way too much money on
that kind of crap for me when I was doing auditions and talent shows and all of
that, trying to break into the biz.
Performing ain’t cheap.”
“I’ll drink
to that,” I agreed, raising my glass.
“Here’s to getting our big break.”
We clinked
glasses and downed the rest of our drinks.
Mine went straight to my head, and I could feel a buzz kicking in. I was more than happy to let Nick buy me
another.
***
It was late
when we finally stumbled out onto the dark sidewalk, our laughter ringing into
the night.
Nick pulled
out his keys to give to the valet attendant, but I grabbed his wrist. “I don’t think you should be driving home
like this.”
“Ah, I’m
not really drunk,” he argued, twisting his arm out of my grip. “Just got a good buzz goin’ on.”
“Nick,” I
persisted. “Didn’t you get a DUI
once? Don’t risk that again… especially
with me in your car.”
He scowled,
his head flopping down. “Yeah, you’re
right,” he admitted grudgingly, stuffing the keys back into his pocket. “Fuck!”
“It’s
okay,” I said quickly, alarmed. “Can’t
we just take a cab?”
“Yeah,
yeah… alright…”
He wasn’t
pleased, but he conceded to leaving his car behind for the night, and we hailed
a taxi. Nick perked up once we were on
the road. The cab driver had the radio
playing softly, and Nick kept urging him to “Turn it up! Louder!”
With Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” blasting into the backseat, he turned to me
and said, “I love this jam. If we’d been
in a club that played this kind of music, I’d so have you dancing to this one.”
“You think?”
He fixed me with a penetrating stare. “I
know.”
“That so?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely. Listen to this beat… how could you not dance
to it? I’m sittin’ in the back of a cab,
and I wanna dance.” He started bobbing
his head in time to the music, then full out bouncing in his seat, grooving
right, grooving left, grooving right into me.
“C’mon, dance with me!” he cajoled me, grabbing my shoulder and shaking
it. “C’mon! Stop
callin’, stop callin’, I don’t wanna think anymore; I left my head and my heart
on the dance floor…”
Once he
started singing in falsetto, I couldn’t resist.
I joined in, unable to keep from moving to the beat as I sang
along. “Stop callin’, stop callin’, I don’t wanna talk anymore; I left my head
and my heart on the dance floor…”
I’m sure
the cabbie found us annoying as hell, and people on the sidewalk and in the
cars around us were probably staring, but I was buzzed enough not to care. “See, this is freestylin’!” Nick exclaimed,
as we “danced” in the backseat.
“I think
there’s usually feet involved, but okay,” I replied, laughing.
He ignored
me, singing, “Sometimes I feel like I
live in Grand Central Station… Tonight I’m not takin’ no calls ‘cause I’ll be
dancin’… ‘Cause I’ll be dancin’… ‘Cause I’ll be dancin’… Tonight I’m not takin’
no calls ‘cause I’ll be dancin’…”
This was
the Nick Carter I’d expected – light-hearted, silly, and fun. He was as good as the booze at making me
relax and really let loose for the first time that day.
But by the
time the taxi made it through the Saturday night traffic and dropped us off in
front of the high-rise, my buzz was starting to wear off, and I was getting
sleepy. Nick’s silence told me he must
be feeling the same way. “Wow, no wonder
I’m exhausted,” I commented in the elevator, as I rode with him up to his condo
to get my luggage. I had pulled my cell
phone out of my purse to check the time.
“It’s after two a.m. back home, and I’ve been up since five yesterday.”
“Dang,” was
all Nick said. He had clearly run out of
steam, too.
I was feeling
gross again, and I couldn’t wait to check into my hotel, get out of my dress
and heels, and take a quick shower before going to bed. “I left my other suitcase in your guest
room,” I said when we entered the condo, already heading toward the room I’d
changed in earlier. I didn’t think twice
when he followed me in. “We should have
asked the cab driver to wait,” I added.
“Now I’ll have to get another one to go to my hotel.”
“You don’t
have to go tonight,” said Nick. “You can
stay here if you want.”
I turned to
look at him. “Really?” I had to admit, the offer was tempting – more
because I was ready to drop than because he was Nick Carter, but okay, there
was that, too.
“Sure. I know you’re tired. Then you won’t have to mess with your luggage
and another cab and trying to check in to your hotel in the middle of the
night.”
“Yeah, that
would be great, as long as you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I don’t
mind. I want you to stay.” He looked me right in the eye and lowered his
voice. “I need you to stay.”
As I sank
down onto the bed, I thought of Jess’s text again. Don’t
let him get u in his bed yet tonite or he’ll think ur a groupie! I looked up at Nick and wondered how I could
let him know I wasn’t interested without hurting his feelings. He was attractive, but I wasn’t the type of
girl who slept with guys I’d just met, and he hadn’t given me nearly enough to
drink to make me forget who I was.
“Nick…” I
started awkwardly, already shaking my head.
Nick turned
away. “It’s a good thing I’m drunk,” he
mumbled, his back to me, “or there’s no fucking way I’d be able to do
this.” And he pulled his t-shirt up and
over his head.
For the
first time in my life, I was afraid that I was about to be assaulted. I had never been in such a situation before,
but instinctively, I stood up, unsteady in my heels. My mind raced, trying to work out how I would
get past him if he came at me.
Slowly, he
turned around.
I stayed
rooted to the spot, frozen in fear. So
did he. He didn’t move toward me, but
just stood there, facing me, until my eyes swept over his body, taking it in a
little at a time. I noticed his abs
first, well-defined in the center of his torso.
Then the tattoos, the big collage covering his left shoulder and the sun
on his right, above the tribal band that encircled his upper arm.
And then I
saw something that made my breath catch in my throat: a circular lump, about the size of a quarter,
protruding from the right side of his chest, a few inches below his collarbone.
I stared,
my eyes narrowed in confusion, my fear forgotten. Only because I was a nurse did I know what
that was. I had seen it on patients, on
some of the sickest residents in the nursing home. I raised my eyes to meet Nick’s, questioning
him silently. When he didn’t offer up
any answers, I had to ask. “You have a
portacath? Why?”
He lowered
his eyes and raised a hand to his chest, his fingers running over the catheter
implanted underneath his skin. Then he
swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing in his neck, and licked his lips, as
if his mouth was too dry to speak.
Finally,
three words croaked from the back of his throat.
“Because
I’m sick.”
***