Wait for me, p.1
Wait For Me, page 1
Wait For Me
K.L. Grayson
Copyright © 2019 by K.L. Grayson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover Design: Sommer Stein Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Photography: Rafa G Catala
Editor: Jessica Royer Ocken
Proofer reader: Tiffany Martindale.
Contents
1. Nora
2. Nora
3. Nora
4. Grayson
5. Grayson
6. Nora
7. Nora
8. Grayson
9. Nora
10. Nora
11. Grayson
12. Nora
13. Nora
14. Grayson
15. Grayson
16. Nora
17. Grayson
18. Grayson
19. Nora
20. Grayson
21. Nora
22. Grayson
23. Grayson
24. Nora
25. Grayson
26. Grayson
27. Nora
28. Grayson
29. Nora
30. Nora
31. Grayson
32. Nora
33. Nora
34. Grayson
35. Nora
36. Grayson
Epilogue
Also by K.L. Grayson
Let’s keep in touch!
1
Nora
“What the hell was that?” My manager, Becky, grabs my jean jacket from the side of the stage where I tossed it during the middle of my last set and shoves it at me.
“It’s called a performance, and I did a damn good job, if I do say so myself.”
The crowd is screaming, sweat is running down my back, and I can barely breathe. If that isn’t a sign of a good show, I don’t know what is.
“Yeah, up until you decided to do a little strip tease. What were you thinking?”
Dramatic much? “It was hardly a strip tease.”
I was hot. And, yeah, okay, maybe I was being a little rebellious when I pulled the jacket off and threw it across the stage, revealing bare arms and a hint of cleavage, but who can blame me? For years, I’ve been Nora, teen sensation. But I’m no longer a teen. I’m twenty-two, almost twenty-three. I’m a woman, and I should be able to wear a dress and show some skin if that’s what I want to do. For years, I’ve played by the rules of the industry, the rules given to me by society, and I’m tired.
Tired of watching what I say, and every step I take, for fear that I’ll damage my reputation or inadvertently influence my young fans into acting or dressing the way I do. Being a clean-cut good girl is part of my job description—part of who I am.
Or, who I used to be.
Times have changed.
I have changed.
Twelve years ago, I was plucked from the stage of a county fair talent show. By the time my eleventh birthday rolled around, I had a multimillion-dollar contract and my own television show. Dear Diary, It’s Me, Nora! was about a young girl, her unsuspecting rise to fame, and the struggles that followed. The show blew up. In the blink of an eye, I became America’s sweetheart.
Everyone between the ages of eight and eighteen knew my name and had likely heard at least one of my songs. It was the greatest thing in the world…until I grew up.
People still expect me to braid my hair and wear Mary Janes. But I’m sick of looking and feeling like a child. I want dresses that show off my curves and heels that make me look sexy.
I want to look and feel like a woman.
Strong.
Beautiful.
Driven.
I want to go out on the weekends and have a glass of wine or two without worrying about paparazzi and what the next headline will be.
I’m ready to show the world I’m capable of more than singing pop songs. Unfortunately, it’s harder than you’d think.
A few weeks ago, during a performance at an awards show, I walked onstage in a leather romper, fishnet stockings, and stilettos, and I performed a song I’d written rather than one approved by my team. It wasn’t my normal upbeat tune; it was edgy, and dare I say suggestive? Gasp!
The only people privy to my plans were my band and the producer of the show, who was more than willing to help me step out of the box, so to speak.
He was thinking about ratings. I was thinking about breaking free of the invisible shackles around my ankles.
I knew it would cause an uproar. I didn’t expect it to start World War III. To say Becky was pissed is an understatement. The press went crazy. Pictures of me in that leather romper found their way to the covers of newspapers and rag mags across the country.
Sweet Nora Hayes isn’t so sweet anymore
From pop princess to crazy train, what happened to Nora Hayes?
I looked damn good. Sexy, even. And people didn’t know what to do with that. My music producer said I looked trashy. What a hypocrite. I gently reminded him that his wife, who happens to be in the same industry, performs in less clothing than that on any given night.
“Because that’s who she is,” he replied. “You’re not like that.”
Don’t they see? I want to be like that. I want men to look at me and lose their breath, and as much as I love my young fans, I want to appeal to an older, more mature audience. Needless to say, my publicist and manager were inundated with emails and letters from angry parents wondering what on Earth I was thinking. Kids asked to download the song parents deemed inappropriate, and department stores sold out of anything that resembled the leather romper.
I thought it was awesome.
America did not.
“It’s not a big deal.” I toss the jacket onto a nearby chair and grab a bottle of water from the cooler. I suck it down faster than I should as I listen to the crowd go crazy. They’re chanting my name in hopes I’ll come back on stage.
And I will, because that’s what I do.
“Do you hear that?” Becky asks.
Oh good, another lecture. I suppress my groan and lock eyes with one of my guitarists. He gives me an apologetic look and turns away. I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t want to hear her rattle on either.
“Those are your fans. Thousands of girls who have posters of you plastered to their walls. Parents who spent their hard-earned money so their kids could see you live—even after your stunt at the award show. And do you know what they want?”
“Of course I know what they want. I’ve been doing this same dog-and-pony show for years.”
Becky’s eyes widen. “This dog-and-pony show is who you are—”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be who I am anymore,” I yell.
I’m sick and tired of people thinking they can tell me how to act and dress and talk. What about what I want?
“No matter how badly you want it to be true, I’m not Nora Jo Mitchell. She’s a fictional character. I’m Eleanor “Nora” Hayes, and there’s so much more to me than this.”
Everyone backstage goes silent.
All eyes are on me as the crowd continues to chant.
Nor-a!
Nor-a!
Nor-a!
Becky shakes her head. “You’re nothing without your persona. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose your fancy record deal and your fans.” The look on her face is grim as she grabs the jacket and thrusts it back into my hands. “Cover yourself up and get out there.”
She’s crazy. This is crazy. It’s a freaking jacket, for crying out loud, and my arms are bare. It’s not like my boobs and ass are hanging out of my dress.
I look around at the other people in the room, but they all turn away. They’re either afraid of Becky’s wrath or they agree with her, and damn, if that doesn’t sting.
I grip the jacket in my hands and look at the stage. I get where she’s coming from, but this is my life too. Who worries about me and what I want? Who wonders if I’m happy with my life and the things in it?
No one, that’s who.
I’m about to step into the spotlight when a surge of confidence rushes through me. I drop the jacket to the floor and strut back onto the stage, determined to give the crowd what they want.
But this time on my own terms.
Cheers and cries fill the arena, drowning out Becky’s growl as she throws a fit from the wings. I tune her out, grab the mic, and toss a fist into the air.
“Do you want more, LA?”
My fans go wild. Girls’ screams pierce my ears as I shimmy across the stage and belt the lyrics to three more of their favorite songs before I end with one of my own.
I sing about a girl becoming a woman and finding her way in life as she yearns for the love of a good man. It’s slow and soulful, and by the time I finish, the place is lit by lighters and flashlights on phones.
Eat that, Becky.
Sweat drips down my forehead and between my breasts, and for the first time in years, I feel alive.
With a smile on my face, I say goodnight to the crowd and trot off stage. The crew immediately starts tearing down the set as my fans file out of the arena. I grab another bottle of water and chug it as I walk down a long corridor toward my dressing room. I’m desperate for sleep, but I know it won’
I’m stopped by a hand clamped around my elbow. “Change clothes and meet me in the green room. We need to talk about your behavior.”
I yank my arm out of Becky’s hold. “Stop talking to me like a child. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Tell that to the people who sign your paycheck.” Becky shakes her head in disgust and stomps off.
Once in my dressing room, I peel off the sequin dress and hang it on the clothes rack. I put on my favorite jeans, tug a cozy sweatshirt over my head, and slip my feet into my Chuck-Ts.
There. Much better.
My phone vibrates from its spot on the vanity, and I pick it up, smiling when I see a text from my brother.
Nick is six years older and my second-biggest supporter, the first being his wife, Jessa.
Nick: Break a leg.
A quick check shows he sent the text an hour into my show. I laugh I as I type out a reply.
Me: You’re supposed to tell me that before the show, not during.
Nick: So, did you break a leg?
Me: Nope.
Nick: Good girl. Talk to you soon.
I’m about to put my phone away when it vibrates with an incoming text from my boyfriend.
Todd and I have been together for a year. We met on the set of a made-for-TV movie and hit it off right away. He’s a few years older than me and was also a child sitcom star, so he gets where I’m coming from most of the time. He’s about the only thing in my life everyone approves of.
Todd: Hope you had a great show.
Me: I did. Becky and I got into a fight.
His reply is almost instant.
Todd: What happened? Can you come over? I’ll wait up and we can talk about it.
Me: I wish. Becky wants to talk. It’ll be late by the time I get out of here, and I don’t want to keep you up. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I miss you.
Todd: I miss you too. Text me when you get home, so I know you made it.
Me: Will do. XOXO
Home.
I haven’t had one of those since I was ten. The closest thing I’ve got to a home is my tour bus.
However, tonight’s show was in LA, which means I do get to go back to the empty house he’s referring to—the one I’ve yet to decorate. It’s as sterile now as it was the day I bought it.
Todd is such a homebody. He loves acting, but hates being in the public eye, so he often spends his evenings watching movies or with his family. Right now, he’s probably curled up on the couch watching Grey’s Anatomy without me.
I grab my purse, step into the hallway, and turn right toward the green room, but then I stop short.
Why am I doing this to myself? If I go in there, Becky is going to ride my ass and tell me all the reasons I can’t sing different music and wear form-fitting clothes. I won’t get a word in edgewise, and I’ll go home feeling like shit.
I’m tired of feeling like shit.
And I’m tired of doing what everyone expects me to do.
I do an about face and make a beeline for the back entrance. A few of the crew holler at me as I run past them, but I don’t stop. In fact, I laugh as I throw caution to the wind and shove open the back door, only to be stopped by my behemoth of a bodyguard.
The smile falls from my face. I should’ve known escaping wouldn’t be so easy. My eyes fall to my feet. Damn it, all I want is one night of spontaneity where I can run off and be with my boyfriend like other young women.
With a callused finger under my chin, Bo lifts my face. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Catching a cab?”
Bo frowns and looks at me.
Yeah, yeah, I get it.
Defeated, I turn to go find Becky, but Bo stops me.
“You can’t hail a cab; it isn’t safe. My car is in the garage. We can access it from the private elevator.”
My eyes widen. “You’re going to help me escape?”
“You aren’t in jail; this is your life.” Bo pulls his keys from his pocket. “I don’t work for them, Nora girl. I work for you. If you’re not happy; I’m not happy.”
“It’s not very adult of me to skip out on Becky. Some would say I’m being childish by running away.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m tired of no one listening to me. As far as I’m concerned, Becky and I can talk when I say we can, not after a show when I’m worn out.”
“And?”
“And I’m tired of feeling like a puppet. I want creative freedom. I want a life.”
“Then take it. Take back your life.”
“You’re right.”
Bo nods once. “I usually am.”
I march down the hall with purpose and barge into the green room. As soon as Becky looks up, my confidence starts to wane. Then I feel a nudge in my back. I glance at Bo, and he lifts a brow, giving an encouraging nod.
Shoulders squared, I step into the room. “We’re not talking tonight.”
“Yes, we are.” Becky kicks out a chair and motions for me to sit.
“Somewhere along the way you forgot that you work for me.”
Who am I, and where did I come from? This isn’t me. I don’t take control, and I sure as heck don’t get an attitude with anyone on my team. But it feels good and long overdue.
“I’ve had a long day. I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t want to talk right now.”
Becky’s face turns beet red. “Nora—”
“Goodnight, Becky. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we’ll schedule a time to sit down.”
“Good job,” Bo whispers. “Now let’s get you out of here.”
I turn and walk out of the room, ignoring Becky as she calls after me, and when Bo and I step off the elevator into the private parking area, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Damn, that felt good.”
Bo smiles and holds open the back door of his black SUV. I slide in.
“Thank you for helping me.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Bo says, climbing into the front seat. “I knew this day was coming.”
“You did?”
He nods. “You’re not a kid anymore.”
“Some people don’t want me to grow up.”
“It doesn’t matter what other people want. What matters is what you want. The only person who can take care of Nora, is Nora.”
“I’ll remember that.”
A rare smile stretches across Bo’s face. “Am I taking you to Todd’s house?”
“How did you know?”
“Wild guess.”
2
Nora
I startle awake to find Bo looking at me.
So much for my adrenaline high.
“When did I fall asleep?” I ask, working the kink out of my neck.
“Before we left the parking garage. I did a quick parameter sweep along the privacy fence while you were snoozing.”
“You left me here alone?” I tease, giving him a wry smile.
“Hell no.” He nods toward the back of the car. I turn to look out the back window and see another black SUV.
“Is that Sam?”
“Yup.”
“Will he tell Becky where I am?” Because the last thing I want is her coming after me.
Bo slides out of the front seat and opens the back door for me. “He better not, or I’ll break his jaw.”
“You would not,” I chide.
“Let’s hope you never have to see how cruel I can be.”
I smile up at Bo. He might be six foot four, weigh over two hundred pounds, and look like a walking brick wall, but he’s a giant teddy bear.
Bo has been with me since I turned sixteen, which means he’s been a part of my life for almost seven years. In some ways, he’s more of a father than my actual father, and I’m grateful to have someone look after me—even if he’s getting paid a pretty penny to do it.
