Decked with Holly

Normally, I would be fine with some female attention—more than fine with it, actually. I’m usually too busy for relationships and while I’ve been able to meet all sorts of attractive girls, the hard part is always juggling schedules. Half of them are in the music business or actors or comedians or somehow involved with the celebrity scene. And that comes with photo shoots, filming on location, interviews, product endorsement obligations, and studio time laying down tracks. It also doesn’t help that girls always see me with two other rock stars, both of whom seem to do better with them.

Especially Tim, and he isn’t even interested in girls.

And even though there are tons of girls who would love to be seen with the band, none of us want to date our fans. They have a tendency to squeal at decibels that cause permanent damage to dogs’ hearing. And while we do love and appreciate our fans, we still have to be careful to avoid some of the crazies who follow us on Twitter and constantly request that we friend them on Facebook. The three of us jokingly checked out one of Tim’s fan sites once and we swore never to do it again. It was disturbing to see his life laid out like that: his every move documented and photographed, from landing in LAX to drinking coffee to having business meetings.

The hardest part is that you can never tell just by looking who is among the crazies.

I usually try to give people the benefit of the doubt.

So when I spotted the girl wearing our ReadySet shirt in a sea of formally attired diners, my first impulse was to laugh. She was a mess, and not just because she was the most underdressed person in the place. Her disheveled light brown hair framed a face that might not have been unattractive if she hadn’t been sandwiched between two girls who were undeniably hot: tan, toned, and displaying their assets nicely in tight, stretchy little dresses. Frankly, The Mess resembled a grungy pigeon trying to blend in with two peacocks. She was also scrutinizing me with an intensity that quickly turned my amusement into unease.

Chris and Tim usually get the lion’s share of attention when the three of us go out, so I had assumed it would be easy for me to fly under the radar on my own. Apparently, I stood out more than I thought if I already had three pairs of female eyes trained on me. In a different situation I might have enjoyed the ego boost. But I was in no position to be discovered during a business meeting on my relaxing cruise getaway.

If I was identified, it would be good-bye vacation, hello screaming fans.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Shifting in my seat so that the girls could only see my back, I tried to focus on cruise owner Jeff Ridgley and his daughter, Cynthia, both of whom were working way too hard to impress me. Mr. Ridgley kept saying stuff like, “You can always expect impeccable service like this on Famous cruises,” and “I hope you like your suite! It’s rather ‘sweet,’ don’t you think?” before chuckling at his own pun.

Hilarious.

Meanwhile Cynthia Ridgley, who looked to be fourteen years old under the pounds of makeup she had slathered on, kept leaning toward me as if hoping to inspire pounding lust through a glimpse of her developing figure.

Again, not so much.

I felt like an idiot, sitting there and smiling at the kid while trying my best not to lead her on. It might have been a while since I’d last been in a relationship, but I still had my standards. Young girls with stars in their eyes and hero worship written all over their faces were to be given a wide berth whenever possible.

So I did my best to keep the conversation focused on the cruise contract. Of course, we would have our manager and lawyer go over it before we signed anything, but there were plenty of times when it was best to hash out the details yourself.

“I discussed the matter with the guys,” I told Mr. Ridgley and he froze with a piece of lamb halfway to his mouth. “They’re very interested.”

He let out a quick sigh of relief and put the fork down on his plate with the meat still speared on the prongs.

“That’s great! Famous wants to promote our new celebrity line in February, right in time for Valentine’s Day. We were thinking something like ‘Fall in Love with the Single Men from ReadySet!’ What do you think?”

“Well, we’re not all single. Tim is in a relationship, and Chris and I aren’t looking to be set up on blind dates, here.”

Mr. Ridgley just waved his hand at that. “None of you are married. That’s all that counts. And since no one knows who Mr. Goff is involved with, well . . .”

“That’s Tim’s business,” I said coolly. “Not mine, not yours, and not anybody else’s.”

“Of course.” Mr. Ridgley backpedaled wildly. “I just mean, well, who knows what will happen to relationships two months from now. Isn’t that right, Cynthia!”

She smiled coyly and then said in a voice that was clearly meant to be husky but just sounded hoarse, “You can never predict or plan for true love.”

“Quite right!” her father chuckled. “That promo is still subject to change, of course. ‘Cruise into Love with ReadySet’ might be a better sales pitch.”

Just listening to all of this crap had me feeling stressed all over again. This was supposed to be my vacation, and between dealing with the Ridgleys and worrying that any second The Mess might jump up, point at me, and start shrieking, I felt about as relaxed as the captain of the Titanic when it hit the iceberg.

I needed to get out of that dining room. Fast.

But business came first.

“As long as the band’s privacy is respected, we shouldn’t have a problem.”

Mr. Ridgley beamed. “Excellent.” He promptly continued munching on his lamb while Cynthia peppered me with questions about the upcoming album. I answered the ones I could and merely smiled when she touched upon something confidential. In Hollywood, you learn pretty quickly that the best way to keep a secret is to keep your mouth shut.

I kept wondering if The Mess had identified me, but I controlled the urge to check until dessert. I leaned back casually and glanced over. The Mess appeared to be too preoccupied with stabbing ferociously at her slice of pie to notice me.

Strange.

I finished my chocolate cake and made mindless small talk just long enough so that I wouldn’t seem overly eager to leave. Normally, I was good at acting casual. That’s the image of myself I personally branded: the rumpled but unflappable rock star.

Too bad it wasn’t even close to the truth.

I made my escape from the dining room and headed straight for the tackiest-looking gift shop on the ship. At least three girls had been staring at me over the meal and I found that fact more than a little disconcerting. I wasn’t ready to lose my newfound anonymity. So after only a few minutes of deliberation, I bought a tacky Hawaiian-print shirt with enormous palm trees on it and a baseball cap with Mexico scrawled across the brim. I forked over some cash before slipping back into the dressing room so that I could wear my disguise out of the shop. The outfit would probably be enough to throw even superfans like The Mess off my scent.

After all, no one would suspect a rock star to be dressed like a geeky tourist.

I could finally relax. And there was no better place to do that than in my luxury suite, something I took advantage of by sinking into one of the plush sofa chairs and propping my feet up on the nearby coffee table. Damn, but it was nice to have the place to myself. The cramped living arrangements on the tour bus get old. Fast. But I wasn’t going to have any trouble adjusting to traveling in a deluxe suite. It’s one of the perks of being a celebrity: Every now and then you get to really kick back in style. Which in this case meant an enormous bedroom, a spacious bathroom, a “living” area, a walk-in closet, and a wet bar. And attached was my personal verandah, which offered a spectacular view of the ocean from the privacy of my room.

Oh, yeah, I could definitely get used to having all this space to myself.

I was about to lazily flip through the catalog of activities to do in the various ports of call, when my iPad started ringing.

Tim. The guy couldn’t go fifteen hours without checking in to make sure everything with the band was going smoothly. Most of the time I appreciated his compulsive need to be on top of everything. But it also made it hard for anyone to so much as breathe around him.

Still, I answered the call, knowing that if I didn’t pick up he would only call me again fifteen minutes later. And fifteen minutes after that, too.

“Dude, you really need to get a life,” I told him, by way of greeting.

“‘Dude’?” he echoed. “I leave you alone for less than a day and you already sound like an idiot.”

I grinned and lifted the iPad to give him a good look at my room. “Yeah, well, at least I’m relaxing in style.”

Tim whistled. “Nice room! Wait, is that a balcony out there? Holy shit, you’ve got a suite?”

“Yep.”

“I hope the band isn’t paying for this thing.”

“It happens to be comped. They really want us to perform for the cruise line, and I don’t see any downsides to the deal from where I’m sitting.”

“Which would be a master bedroom, I see.”

“Of course.”

“Well, don’t enjoy yourself too much. I expect to hear those new songs you promised when I get back from Portland.”

My stomach clenched. It was easy to talk a lot of game in LA, but it was going to be significantly harder to actually produce the damn things.

“What is that?” I made loud, crackling noises and waved the iPad around a little. “We seem to be going through a tunnel. I mean . . . rough seas. I’ll call you back later, Tim.”

“Very funny . . . I mean it, Dominic: I want to see what you write. And if at any point you need my help, just call, okay?”

I stopped moving the iPad. “Got it. Now get a life.”

He grinned back at me. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Nice outfit. You look like a demented fisherman.”

And with that he disconnected . . . leaving me to pace the empty room as I tried to think lyrical thoughts. Tim’s stupid work ethic is infectious; that’s why Chris and I push ourselves so hard when the three of us are together. Apparently, it could still get me moving in a guilt-inspired frenzy on a cruise ship moving toward Mexico. I hadn’t thought any more about songwriting since I had opened my big mouth about it the day before.

I wanted to get all of my responsibilities out of the way so that nothing would be hanging over my head when we finally docked near the sandy beaches of Puerto Vallarta. That gave me a window of two days at sea to hunker down in my suite, order room service, sit out on the verandah, and write.

A shower to wake me up and I’d be good to go.

Well, then a game of solitaire.

And then my guitar would need to be tuned since I hadn’t played it in months, if not years. I was never all that good at playing it and since I could never tolerate being second-rate, I had dedicated myself to the piano and drums instead.

Unfortunately, you can’t write a song on drums, and I couldn’t exactly pack a baby grand into my suitcase.

I was still plucking at the guitar two hours later, no closer to musical genius than I had been when Tim had called me. My eyes kept wanting to close and I fought the urge to just call it a night. Clearly, my shower hadn’t worked. I needed coffee, stat. So clad only in my boxers, because it was my suite and I could wear whatever I wanted, I called room service to request more towels and two extra hot cups of coffee.

Then ditching the guitar, I pulled out my drumsticks from my backpack and started experimenting with rhythms outside on the verandah railing. The familiar feel of them in my hands, the consistency of the beats, allowed me to believe that if I just mainlined enough caffeine eventually the words would come.

But the muse didn’t appear willing to join me.

At least, not in the form I expected.