Decked with Holly

I had nearly given up on ever getting a real vacation, and yet there I was on the balcony . . . relaxing.

I was almost afraid to classify it as unwinding in case that would somehow tempt fate to smack me upside the head again. But the source of most of my latest aggravation looked utterly absorbed. She wrinkled her brow in concentration as she erased something before starting again. Holly’s single-minded focus on her art, the amount of satisfaction she took in getting it the way she wanted, it made me try to remember the last time I had played music without some specific end goal in mind.

I kept drawing a blank.

Even when I was toying with a work in progress with the guys, the pressure of a deadline was always looming right outside the tour bus. The very air felt electrified—as if even the oxygen particles knew we were fighting for a career that couldn’t last.

And that scared all three of us shitless.

I had no backup plan and I wasn’t qualified for anything else.... Even worse: I didn’t want to do anything else.

So it felt good to fool around on the guitar. Especially since if it sounded crappy there was no one besides Holly, who apparently thought yowling and singing were the same thing, around to judge.

No deadlines. No pressure to nail it the first time around. Just music.

So I kept plucking and strumming until the pads of my fingers couldn’t take it anymore. Then I swapped out the guitar for my drumsticks and began tapping on the railing, the small outdoor table, and the glass sliding door. Anything I wanted to use was fair game. Best of all, Holly never complained that I was messing with her concentration or passive-aggressively glared to shut me up.

Instead, Holly’s gaze kept flickering between me and her sketch pad. Anyone else I would’ve suspected of flirting . . . but this was Holly Disaster. No game of sneaking sidelong glances from her.

She was drawing me. Normally, I would ask her to stop. I’m just not a big fan of being artistically rendered. Photo shoots are hard enough to get through—mainly because I’m powdered to “reduce shine” and then yelled at to look “more relaxed.” It’s not easy trying to appear laid-back under lights that literally scorch.

Still, I doubted anyone was going to see whatever Holly created so I just enjoyed my music. I didn’t even notice how late it was becoming until Holly stood up, stretched, and disappeared inside the room. Moments later I heard her talking on the phone.

“Yeah, I’m just not feeling up to a big family dinner.” Long pause. “No, Grandpa, this has nothing to do with last night. Of course, Aunt Jessica didn’t mean anything by it. I just haven’t found my sea legs yet.”

That was the understatement of the century.

“I’m going to call it a night. Have fun at bingo and I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be fine! Allison and Claire are taking great care of me. Go enjoy yourself!”

Apparently, her grandpa wasn’t thrilled with her little disappearing act. Then again, I didn’t relish the idea of going out in public and slipping into the rock star façade tonight any more than she did.

“It’s your birthday trip, Grandpa.” She winced. “You see me enough as it is. We dock in Cabo tomorrow; I’m sure I’ll be up for dinner then. Yeah, I love you too.”

A quick good-bye later and she was calling up room service to order two cheeseburgers, fries, and sodas. So much for not having an appetite while seasick. Either that or she had noticed the veritable pharmacy of anti-seasickness pills I had purchased for her.

Holly handed me one of the plates, settled back into her chair, and the two of us enjoyed the meal in companionable silence. Neither one of us wanted to mess up the good thing we had going so we kept things casual as we ate our food and began preparing for bed.

Maybe it was lame for me to be exhausted at nine at night. Elementary school kids stay up later than that on a regular basis. Then again, they don’t have to launch fake relationships with total strangers either.

For once, I had no interest in pushing myself just a little bit harder for a little bit longer. I crashed hard . . . waking up early again to the sound of running water in the shower the next morning. Sharing my space with a girl was going to take some getting used to, but at least she had curbed her desire to sing under the spray.

For now.

She hardly made any noise at all, which was a vast improvement on the day before.

Maybe having a temporary female roommate wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Since Holly clearly thought I was asleep, I saw no reason to disabuse her of the notion. Which is why I heard her rustling through yesterday’s purchases before she murmured, “Hello, drugs! Good to see you again!” Then she started popping seasickness pills.

As far as a dependence on medications go, it could have been significantly worse.

“I am not going to vomit,” Holly promised herself. “Not again. Not for me.”

I fervently hoped she was right.

More shuffling followed and then silence except for the quiet scratching of a pencil on paper. Considering the amount of time she spent drawing, either it was her passion or I was so irritating she had turned to her one stress release outlet for constant emotional support. It had me wondering whether she was any good at it. Plenty of people want to be rock stars or artists but the lifestyle demands more than talent: It takes persistence, dedication, and a small amount of luck. Since most people talk about how they are in the process of creating their grand something-or-other without producing a thing, I tend to doubt ability until it’s been substantiated.

Holly definitely committed a lot of time to it and I found myself wondering if I could check out the final product. That only seemed fair since she was drawing me. And if she had talent then I might be able to hook her up as an intern with some people in Hollywood.

It would be a nice way to show the public that our brief romance had ended on amiable terms.

Sitting up in bed, I squinted at her. “You’re not drawing my good side.”

“That’s because you don’t have one.”

I grinned. “According to People I have a ‘charming boyishness’ that girls can’t resist.”

“So do five-year-olds,” Holly pointed out. “Then again, they also enjoy banging on things and have an aversion to sharing.” She cocked her head to the side and pretended to study me. “Hm . . . I see the makings of a made-for-TV-movie here: Rock star swaps bodies with a kindergartener. Think Timothy Goff would be willing to play the lead?”

It was the reminder of a potential movie deal that brought the seriousness of our situation crashing back. I hadn’t heard anything about the blowback of our fake relationship hitting the press. Hopefully, our excessive PDA session on the Lido deck the day before had put to rest the rumors that I was an abusive scumbag. Then again, the gossip sites aren’t exactly known for being overly concerned with the rumors that they spread.

Especially during a slow news week.

Maybe, if I was lucky, a starlet would be photographed crawling into her car without underwear. That might distract people from discussing my nonstory. Although, given my luck, it would probably take the split of one of Hollywood’s most stable couples or maybe another major political sex scandal.

“We’re going to be in Cabo today,” I reminded her as I headed straight for the shower. Not that Holly seemed to care. When I emerged, she was sitting out on the balcony, nodding along to the music piping through her headphones and adding some extra shading to her sketch.

Her art was good. Really good, actually. I could definitely see a band using it for their album cover. It had a neat mix of realism and hyperrealism that fused into a sea of curlicues and swirls that exploded on the edges. I would’ve shown it to Tim and Chris if it hadn’t been for one very important detail:

I looked awful.

Okay, maybe awful was an exaggeration. She hadn’t made me bald or added a beer-gut or a handlebar mustache. But Holly had me fingering the guitar with a fierce scowl on my face, as if I expected it to mutiny at any moment.

Not exactly the laid-back image I presented to the public.

“I wasn’t glaring yesterday.”

Holly jumped in her seat, knocking the headphones off her ears. “What the—oh, you scared me.” She whacked me in the chest with her sketch pad. “Stop creeping up on me!”

“What is this?” I was determined to stay on subject. “Why’d you draw me like . . . that?”

She laughed. “Aw, does the rock star feel self-conscious without his ‘charming boyish’ smile. Poor baby.”

Damn, she was annoying.

I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t look like that yesterday.”

Holly shrugged. “Not most of the time. Every now and then . . . let’s just say, I nailed it.”

“Well, find someone else to draw.”

She made a big show of looking around her. “You know, I would except . . . oh, wait. We’re all alone. In hiding.”

I couldn’t wait to get off the damn ship . . . in LA.