C2 Derek kane

Derek Kane was currently the hottest thing going in rock. And not just because his band had three singles currently in the top 20, with ‘If There’s A Next Time’ poised to hit number one in the next week or two.

No. He was also the most gorgeous guy to front a rock band since Jim Morrison.

Six feet tall… black hair… chiseled face… cheekbones to die for.

Most rockers outside of Death Metal are scrawny little dudes with pasty bird chests and no muscles. Not Derek. He looked more like an underwear model, with a muscled chest, incredibly strong arms, and abs you could scrub laundry on. Broad shoulders, muscular legs, and an ass that made you want to tear off his pants. Some women at his concerts occasionally did.

He also had the most intense, gorgeous green eyes you’ve ever seen. Like emerald ocean water warmed by the sun.

Of course, not many people knew that, because he never let himself be photographed without sunglasses on. Never performed without them. Every candid shot in every gossip rag always had him with his trademark Maui Jims wrapped around his face, his beautiful eyes hidden from the world.

I only knew what they looked like because I had met him four years ago. Back before he was a Rock God.

I had known him for exactly two weeks.

The last time I saw him, we’d spent the night together. I’d told him I loved him… and then I got in my car and drove away, tears streaming down my face.

I never saw or heard from him again.

But it’s not what you think.

However, walking away from him that day was probably the single worst mistake of my life.

Now I was afraid I was going to make an even bigger one.

I stared at the editor. My smile was still in place, but it was more like a waxworks expression, it was so fake.

“Um… what is it that you want, exactly? Because I’m not doing some kiss-and-tell piece.”

Glen waved his hands as though to ward off bad mojo. “Oh, no no no no no. Nothing like that.”

“…what, then?”

“Well, as you know, Kane is notoriously averse to the press.”

Actually, I did know that. Just because I hadn’t talked to him since our final day together didn’t mean I hadn’t been keeping tabs on him.

‘Notoriously averse to the press’ was kind of like saying ‘The Pope isn’t tremendously fond of gay marriage.’

Derek hated the press. Hated them. With a vengeance bordering on lunacy. He’d go on shows to perform, no problem – Letterman, Conan, Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel. He’d go on Ellen and banter with her.

But what he would not do was talk to the press. Not Rolling Stone, not Spin, not The New York Times, not the Anytown USA Herald. He hadn’t for years.

Which had the curious effect of making them slobber over him all the more. Like semi-popular girls spurned by the Prom Queen, they gossiped and backstabbed and gushed over him – sometimes in the same article – hoping that they, maybe, just maybe, might get to be BFFs with him in his first print interview in two years.

It really was like high school, in the most shallow and disgusting of ways.

Omigawd, did you see what he’s WEARING?! He’s SO over. Totes. Omigawd, did you hear, he just had another hit! It’s the worst song E-VER. Do you think he’d come to my party?

“…and what does that have to do with me?” I asked. I wasn’t trying to be bitchy, but I have to admit, my stress over the situation was beginning to leak out around the edges.

“We think he’ll talk to you.”

There it was. My stomach knotted up seventeen times over.

“I don’t think he will,” I said with a forced smile.

“Actually, we know he will.”

My forced smile faded. “How do you know that?”

“We’ve been trying to get him to talk to us for the last six months. Actually, we’ve been trying for longer than that, but it didn’t become a priority until they started charting in a big way. We must have tried thirty times. At first we just did general inquiries through their manager – ‘could we talk to you while you’re playing Madison Square?’ ‘Let me check with Derek.’ And then he’d email back, ‘No.’ We started throwing out names – our best guys. People who have interviewed everybody – Madonna, Springsteen, Obama, for God’s sake. ‘No.’ We lined up authors who agreed to do a one-off for us – Bret Easton Ellis, David Mamet, people it would be a fucking honor for Kane to even be in the same room with. ‘No.’ Same damn thing every time – ‘No, no, no, no, no.’ And then I meet Shanna at a party, and in passing I mention I can’t get Derek Kane to give us a fucking interview… and she tells me about you.

“On a complete whim – in fact, and I’m not proud to admit this, but I was pissed off and a little bit drunk when I sent the email – I gave the manager your name.”

He let the silence build up the suspense.

I was about to puke – not because I didn’t know what was coming, but because I did.

“‘Yes.’ No preconditions, no rules, no bullshit… just one word: yes.” Glen threw his hands up in the air. “So you’re it, kid. This is the Call. You’re moving up to the big leagues. Congratulations.”

My hands shook as I clenched them in my lap. “Thank you, but… no.”