Page 5 of My Rock Star Neighbor
How does he know these feelings?He’s a frickin’ rock star.Okay, he’s not mega-famous yet, but he’s getting there.He has a fan club.His YouTube channel comments are filled with comments like: “I love you,” “Your music helps me to get up in the morning,” “You got me through a dark place,” and “Your voice is all I need.”And as far as I’ve seen at concerts, he’s incredibly grateful to them all.He takes the time to chat with them but yet maintains a cautious distance.
At least he’s never had someone he dated tell him—I shake my head.I will not repeat what my ex said about my kissing ability.He also broke off our relationship abruptly.And that’s the second time that’s happened.While I was thinking that we were growing closer, getting to know each other’s inner quirks and foibles in the short time we’d been dating, my last two boyfriends were plotting how to tell me that it wasn’t working for them.I sigh.It wasn’t like I’d thought it was perfect, but I’d been willing to give it a chance.Both times.
I add eyes to my miniature dog.It’s done.I crawl back into bed and count sheep.It doesn’t work.It’s the music from next door, yes, but I’m also excited about this possible story.If I can prove corruption at the highest levels of the New York City government—that a commissioner or deputy commissioner of a city government agency is taking bribes—that will be huge.It can even affect the mayor and the upcoming elections.A front-page story about bribery will prove that I should be promoted and assigned officially to the city politics beat.Right now, I’m listed as a reporter on published articles, but I’m not assigned to any beat, so I can be given any local story to cover.I want the beat listed after my name: Madeline Hughes, Reporter—City Politics atThe Intelligencer.
It’s between Sarah (or Nemesis, as I prefer to call her) and me.There is no way I want to be left covering parades while she is interviewing the mayor about the latest headline news.Not when I’ve worked so hard and she’s coasting on connections.Not that I don’t love a good parade.And not that the world doesn’t need more feel-good stories.But I became a reporter to fight corruption—to make sure the bad guys don’t win.
I turn again and pull my cover over my head.Now I’m hot.
Nick’s voice is still in my ears.I hate to ask him to stop when he’s deep in his music magic.
But I do not function on six hours of sleep.It’s almost midnight.I’m meeting my source at seven a.m.to confirm that he was asked for a kickback in exchange for contractor work at a public housing development.I’m so lucky that I met that mom, Tasha, at the library event today.As soon as she found out I was a reporter, she said that the senior leadership at the Infrastructure Department might be corrupt.This could be a huge break.
The Infrastructure Department is responsible for overseeing the city infrastructure, such as its public housing, led by Commissioner Johnson, who has a pristine reputation.But then, could it be one of the three deputy commissioners who serve under him?They are each assigned specific public housing developments.They’re also responsible for licensing for commercial establishments and doing safety inspections, among many other things.That’s another area ripe for bribery.I need to be on my toes later.
Now, Nick has moved to the fire escape.And he must have plugged his headphones into his amp, but he’s still singing.Softly.
It’s no use.I’m wide awake.Maybe if Nick talks it out, he’ll feel better, and he can go to sleep.He must be exhausted too.
I get out of bed, stick on a bra, slip my feet into my big bunny slippers, and open the window that leads onto our shared fire escape.
Nick doesn’t turn around.He probably can’t hear me with those huge headphones.
I walk over gingerly.Bunny slippers were not a good choice for walking on these iron slats.It feels like parts of my feet slip right through the empty spaces.I stare straight at the back of his head because no way am I looking down through the slats to see how far up we are.
I reach him and gently tap him.
He whips around.“Are you serious?I’m using headphones.”
“I can still hear your voice as you sing.”
Nick huffs.“What about those ‘super comfortable’ earplugs I got you?”
“They’re not super comfortable.They’re instruments of torture.”
“Okay, okay.Let me write one more stanza.I’m almost done.”
“Fine.”I lean against the wall and wait.
He turns and looks at me.“Having you drill a hole in the back of my head is not helping.”
“I can’t imagine why not,” I say.“Access to the inner thoughts of Nick Devlin.”
Nick faces me as he takes his guitar off and writes down the last few notes and lyrics.Strands of his wavy brown hair fall over one eye as he concentrates, and I clench my hands involuntarily.His hair is the kind that makes me want to run my hands through it.
He closes his notebook with an exaggerated flourish, and his deep-green eyes meet mine.Sometimes I can’t believe he’s my neighbor and a regular guy, because he’s just so good-looking.It’s to my benefit that his music playing at all hours is so annoying, or I’d probably be more gooey eyed around him.
“But why such a sad song?”I ask.“I thought your concert went well.”
“I wrote a happier song earlier, but then I had to balance it out.”
“Wouldn’t want to be too happy.Then there’s nothing to write about,” I say.
“There’s some truth to that.And aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black, Ms.I-can’t-keep-covering-these-feel-good-stories,” he says.“What’s your lead?”
“Absolutely confidential?”I ask.
“I’m not talking to any reporters,” he says.“Except you.”
