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Danny stared, his eyes roaming from her head all the way down to her feet and back again. She looked every inch the rock star: faded blue jeans that fit her perfectly, a cropped leather jacket over a shirt made of a slinky material with silver threads that glinted when she moved, and funky black boots with silver chains around the ankles.
Heather’s hand closed over the top of his, her fingers stiff and claw-like. Her smile was thin and looked forced, and he knew she’d seen him staring at Lauren. He flushed, the knot in his stomach winding tighter.
On stage, Martin shook Lauren’s hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek before inviting her to sit down on the small loveseat opposite his host’s chair.
“Lauren, thank you so much for spending time with us tonight.”
“My pleasure, Martin.” She settled in, crossing one leg over the other.
Danny leaned forward slightly, drawn in by her warm, inviting voice—it had a natural, sexy quality that didn’t stray into a breathy stereotype. It made him feel the tiniest bit drunk.
Lauren pushed a little of her hair over her shoulder as she waited for Martin to get to the questions. Despite bitching to Augie about doing the interview alone, she was eager for the chance to start talking about the new project. And she could still feel that reckless sensation swirling around, tempting her to do something unexpected.
“So, I’ll get the first question out of the way. When can we expect to hear the first single from your new album?”
“Whoa!” Lauren said. “Slow your roll, Martin! We’re just getting started. We have a very iterative way of working. You never quite know where a great spark will come from. Or how long it takes to get there.” She winced internally as the thought of her mostly empty notebook jabbed her, a tiny knife in the ribs.
“Fair enough. Let me ask you this, then. Many bands live together while they’re recording, but The Kingmakers don’t. Why is that?” He leaned back in his chair and smiled again, an unspoken invitation for Lauren to join the conversation.
“Oh, we’ve done that—the live-together-while-you-work thing. In the beginning we had to—was a matter of money. There were times the five of us crammed into a single bedroom apartment. But we’ve learned over the years that we need a central space to be together, be creative, put in those long hours that you need—and that we all need a little space to call our own.”
She paused and chuckled. “What I’m trying to politely say is that sometimes we get on each other’s nerves. We’ve learned that what works for us is living close, but not together.”
“Fascinating,” Martin said. “The Kingmakers have been around for a long time, and you’ve got a devoted fan base. But there’s a whole new generation that’s starting to learn about you and your music. Let’s do a little bit of history so they can get to know you better. When did you know you wanted to be a rock star?” He laced his fingers together and hooked them over his knee.
Lauren pursed her lips and thought about her answer for a moment. “I don’t know if I started out wanting to be a star. Well, okay, maybe a little. I did want to be Heart’s Ann and Nancy Wilson all rolled into one. But fame or no fame, I wanted to make a living performing. I always loved singing. Our family joke is that I started to repeat lyrics before I said ‘mommy’ or ‘daddy.’ But even when I was very little, really all I wanted to do was sing and play music.”
“So, part of your DNA.” Martin steepled his fingers and nodded, encouraging Lauren to continue.
“I guess. Everyone has their own dream. Be a doctor, cop, astronaut, hairdresser, TV show host…” She gestured at Martin and was rewarded by a ripple of laughter from the audience. “Honestly, there’s nothing else I could have done in this life that would have made me as happy as music does.”
Martin went on to ask her about who influenced her career. Lauren said not only Heart, but also named Stevie Nicks, Aerosmith, and a few others. He quizzed her on her first impressions of the other band members, and what her biggest revelations were about life on the road during the band’s early years—and how those had changed as they gained experience.
“Thank you so much for sharing all that, Lauren.” Martin changed his focus from her to the camera. “We’re going to take a quick break, but we’ll be right back with more from Lauren Stone. Don’t go away!”
A sign over the set blinked to life, the word “commercial” lit up in big yellow letters. An army of assistants swarmed the stage, fussing with both Lauren and Martin. She shifted restlessly under their attention, and they disappeared as quickly as they’d materialized. The lights flashed, signaling the show was going back on the air, and the murmur from the audience faded. Martin beamed at the camera again.
“Welcome back. We’re here tonight with Lauren Stone of The Kingmakers. So, Lauren, tell me, do you have any regrets? Things you’d do over, do differently, if you had a second chance?”
The smile on Lauren’s face faded as she gave Martin a measured look. He was dancing around the question, but she knew what he wanted. No matter how much time went by, her cocaine problem always came up. It pissed her off. She raised her chin defiantly.
“Of all the things to discuss, you want to beat that dead horse again?” Her voice held a bullwhip sting.
“That whole time in your life is quite important—”
She heard the wariness in his tone.
“—No, the music’s important. Our charitable work is important. Our future as a band is important. Dredging up the past cloaked in discussing ‘regrets’ is just a backhanded way for you to ask—”
“—About the cocaine?” Martin pressed the issue.
Her anger flared, and she felt her whole expression harden. She leaned forward as if she was going to get up and leave. Fear darted through Martin’s eyes.
She didn’t like talking about her addiction. She never had.
And he knew it.
Some artists who’d struggled with the same demons shared their whole story. A way to process what had happened to them, what they’d gone through. A way to maybe—maybe—prevent others from making the same mistakes. But for Lauren, sharing those stories dredged up painful reminders of her own failures.
