My Rock Star Neighbor (New York Spark #4)

1. Nick

Chapter one

Nick

Our fans are still clapping as we, the four members of our pop band Orchard Folly, exit from our second encore.

“Nick! Nick Devlin!” Fans are screaming.

We absolutely killed it . I gulp down the water from the bottle that Amira, our band manager, hands me. I towel off. The lights are hot, and we were jamming out there.

This is it. This is the year.

We hurry single file down the darkened hallway to the small dressing room at the back. Inside, I grab another bottle of water. The musical strains of “New York, New York” fill the bar—the perfect song to end this first day of January.

“Nick! The way you sang that last note…” Amira high-fives me, her gold bangles cold against my arm.

“You almost made me cry. Way to go! The MusEn guy was definitely jibing along to the music.” She’s practically jumping up and down in her brightly colored tunic top, and then she hugs Kyla, our bass player, as if she can’t keep it inside.

My feeling of joy mirrors the expressions on my bandmates’ faces. We were in the zone. I hug José, our drummer, and as we separate, he pats me on the back. I look over at Sayo, our keyboard player, and she grins back at me.

The stage crew is breaking down the set and bringing our gear to the green room.

Amira suggests a photo of us together against the wall.

José, Kyla, and I stand in the back, arms around each other as the taller members of the band (José and I are both 6’2”, while Kyla is 5’9”), while Amira and Sayo stand in front of us in the center.

The photo could be a jeans ad, if it were selling worn, ripped jeans that are as comfortable as possible.

The light flashes. The mirrors on the other side reflect our glowing faces.

My ride-or-dies. It’s taken me a few years, but this group—the sound we have, the way we play off each other… This is it.

This is my family for life. If I can bring it home for us. So much is on me as the lead singer and songwriter.

We’re running out of time. Our latest single is climbing the charts on Spotify and YouTube—it’s so close after all these years, I can taste success.

But José said earlier he has to take on another job for income.

Sayo had nodded. But giving up our ambition to be musicians full-time will destroy a part of all of us—the part that believes that hard work, persistence, and talent can make dreams come true.

And for me, I’m determined to prove to my mom that I can make a living as a musician and don’t need to be in a white-walled cubicle tied to the clock, watching my soul wither away like the sand in an hourglass.

Sure, I got my accounting degree, along with my music degree, to appease my mom and I still do accounting side work for money as we wait to hit it big, but it is not my passion.

Our security guy enters and whispers to Amira.

“It’s mobbed outside, but that’s good since the MusEn guy is here,” Amira says to us and then asks Mr. Muscle if he has any friends in the neighborhood. “I don’t think you can handle this crowd alone.”

Our fans started calling him Mr. Muscle, and now we do too. He’s 6’5” and built like a bulldozer but with the softest heart.

“I called my friend, but he’s working at a bar tonight,” Mr. Muscle says.

“It’s okay,” I say. Many fans are familiar faces at this point. It’s not like we’re that big, and their loyalty is everything. “Make sure you cover Sayo.” She’s tiny, and I worry they can knock her down. Mr. Muscle and I exchange a look, and he nods.

Sayo huffs. “I’m not the one they’re mobbing.”

We pack up the rest of our things and pull on our coats.

We exit through the back door of the club, but it doesn’t make a difference. A crowd awaits, bigger than ever before. The screams that erupt are deafening, and women surround me.

I stop to sign autographs. A fan hands me a hand-drawn illustration of me.

I thank her, even as I tell her it’s way too flattering of an image, with wavy brown hair, chiseled cheekbones, deep-green eyes, and a perfect smile.

I actually have a slight chip in my front tooth from when I stupidly used my teeth to open a package of guitar picks in a crunch.

I hand out more signed postcards of our latest single.

But as the packed throng presses forward, Mr. Muscle steps in. “We have to move on. Thank you. Thank you.” He shields me from the hordes as we squeeze through.

They’re pushing too close.

“Get Sayo,” I say to Mr. Muscle.

Mr. Muscle moves to protect her.

Lights flash. I’m blinded. Where’s the van?

Someone grabs me and hugs me tight. “Babe. You were fabulous.” The heavy perfume scent is overwhelming.

I stare into the eyes of a woman I’ve never seen before—who has locked me in a crazy vise grip. I freeze. Way too close! My instinct is to break free—I must resist the urge to push her away.

“I’m sorry, but you need to release me,” I say firmly.

She leans in. No way. I move, but she gets way too close with that open mouth. But her focus on trying to kiss me gives me the chance to push her arms away, gently—or at least try to make it look as if it’s done gently in any video captured. I’m free . I turn away from her. There’s the van.

Mr. Muscle is back, sticking his body between us and trying to block her. “Get in the van.”

I make a break for it. I hop into the front passenger seat and check to see if everyone else is inside. Sayo is seated next to Kyla, who has her bass case on her lap, José crowded next to them.

I can’t see if that woman is still outside. The crowd seems to be dispersing. It’s cold and dark inside. I stick my hands into my coat pockets. Mr. Muscle jumps into the driver’s seat.

“That was crazy,” I say. “I remembered just in time to not push her away, because that wouldn’t look good on video if I were to push her or hurt her.”

“Are you okay?” Sayo asks. “I wouldn’t like being grabbed like that.”

“I can’t say I liked it either.” I shudder. “We may need more security. I’ll talk to Luca tomorrow.” Luca is one of my best friends and runs his own security company. “But it isn’t a bad thing that the crowd was huge. It means we’re getting more popular.”

The van pulls quickly away from the curb, or as quickly as it can in New York City.

We’re soon stopped at a red light, but at least we’re two blocks away.

The streets are mostly empty at this hour.

I turn my body so I can see my band members behind me.

I’m still wired from our concert. José pulls a beanie cap over his hair, nearly hiding his brown eyes.

I high-five Kyla, whose tall, lean frame is wrapped in her long red parka, her black curly hair spilling out over it.

She gets cold easily. We sang several songs together tonight, and I’m still in awe at how well our voices blend.

The light from outside makes the purple streaks in Sayo’s black hair glow red.

Amira is behind them, her head bent over, glued to her phone.

“The MusEn guy texted that he wants to meet us tomorrow afternoon,” Amira says. “This could be it. This could be our big break.”

“We can’t get our hopes up,” I say, although mine are rising. “We’ve been here before—with Vinyl five years ago—and it didn’t result in anything.”

“I have a good feeling about this,” Amira says.

“Plus, we’ve been making steady progress during those five years.

We’re now ten years into this. We have a solid fan base.

It’s not like the early days, when we first started and the only people in the bar where we were playing were the other bands performing. ”

“Way to bring us back down to earth,” I say.

“And our friends,” Sayo says.

“And your mom and dad,” I say. But not my mom.

A cab swerves right in front of us. I brace against the dashboard. Mr. Muscle honks.

Amira gasps. “That woman who tackled you—she’s saying she’s your girlfriend, and it’s blowing up on social media. She says she’s the Cara you dedicated ‘Goodbye Cara’ to.”

No way!

“Goodbye Cara” was a song about my ex-girlfriend, Christina. And goodbye was good riddance. This YouTube woman clearly doesn’t get double entendre.

“Look at this footage.” Amira leans forward to show me her phone. “It’s too intimate. You look like you’re whispering in her ear, and then you look like you’re arguing with Mr. Muscle that you don’t want to leave her.”

That’s some good editing. It does look like there’s something between us.

“The flashes blinded me. She grabbed me before I could even react. Can’t you simply deny it?”

“I will. I’ll put out a statement,” Amira says. “I’m sorry. I should have hired more security.”

“It’s not your fault. Nobody expected that, and our fans are usually respectful.” A slight chill sweeps through me. “That was crazy.”

“This video is done so well. And she got it up so quickly on her YouTube channel,” Amira says. “I think she planned this to get her subscribers up. She’s trying to take advantage of your YouTube popularity to increase her own.”

“Isn’t that good?” I ask. “We’ve got a clear motivation for what she’s doing, so it will make sense when we deny it.”

“It’s just that she’s so public and seems to have some skill at manipulating the media. I’m your band manager, not a social media guru.”

“You’ve done well so far,” I say.

“Let me call my cousin,” Kyla says. “She does social media for her company.” As our van weaves through the streets of lower Manhattan, Kyla talks to her cousin, who recommends putting out a bigger story to drown this one out.

“I have a very bad feeling about this,” Amira says.

So do I . She had someone there to photograph that “kiss.” She uploaded this video in less than half an hour.

I’d been na?ve again, trusting our fans, thinking I shouldn’t hire more security and interact behind a barrier.

But I was torn. Our core supporters waiting out in the cold did deserve our attention.

“I’m sure it will die down,” I say to reassure Amira. Don’t give in to the doubts.