Cherry Cola Fantasy

Chapter 4: My Star

Ashton's house was in the middle of the desert. It was beautiful, appearing like the most eloquent of oasis. There was a pool with crystal-clear water that stretched across the length of a football field. It looked perfect for parties, including a small bar and grill area. The trim of his front door was carved from the most pristine, white marble. The doors themselves were a deep, navy. Each stroke of paint was clean. There wasn't a chip in sight. It was far different than that of the hotel Luke was staying at.

He dressed up for this occasion. He was wearing a tight, brown leather jacket. Underneath he had on a breezy, white shirt that caught with the hot air of the dusk winds. It was a summer's breeze that tickled the necks of the rattlesnakes and shook the tumbleweeds awake. His pants were a little too high. They hugged his hips and stayed in place with a large, black belt. He looked like an artist; somehow, he belonged here. Here—in a home like this.

Luke's car was the only thing that looked out of place. The mansion was surrounded by prestigious belongings. The perimeter: simply marble and miles of beautiful, tranquil land.

He knocked on the door; his rings made an unpleasant clicking sound. Luke expected a maid to answer the door, but to his surprise, Ashton was the one standing in the threshold.

"Hello, Luke. Nice jacket," Ashton shook his hand and flashed a smile. Luke felt uneasy.

"You know, you could just give me that money back. I could be on my way. We could—"

"Luke, that is nonsense! I want to hear you play," he said. Ashton's voice was powerful. Luke wondered if it could echo in the desert.

"Why are you so persistent? I could be terrible," Luke huffed. Ashton closed the door behind him and led Luke through the landing and to a large living room.

"You wouldn't have come all this way if you were a bad musician."

The living room wasn't much of a living room at all. It looked like a hall—of which, royalty would throw parties in. There was a giant tapestry of the record company's logo, plush carpet as far the room stretched, and a crystal chandelier dangling from a sturdy chain. The furniture was color, and spoke for the time. Shades of warm tones were Ashton's thing. He even had fine art in almost every corner of the room.

"Wow," Luke's mouth fell agape. He ran the pads of his fingers along the back of Ashton's expensive couch. He felt the lushness of the carpet like a wild jungle beneath his boots. It was beautiful. It was open, unlike the man himself. He remained a mystery to Luke.

Luke looked into the amber, snake eyes of the young producer. "So this is your secret?"

"Not a secret," he said, pouring himself a drink from some metal plate that was lying on the coffee table. "It's rather—I live in the deserts of Las Vegas. It's much different than Los Angeles; I would be noticed there."

Luke inhaled, hoping to impress this powerful man with his voice. Ashton was clearly successful. Luke didn't want to be one of his few failures.

"Where will I be singing for you?" The young man bounced on the balls of his feet. He could feel anxiety puddling in his stomach; he regretted asking the question so soon.

"In my studio," Ashton gestured for Luke to follow. He held his drink in his right hand, and led Luke down a row stairs. Ashton was wearing a burgundy, velvet button down that sunk into his black slacks. His hair was pristinely cut, and his facial hair was clean. Luke thought he looked powerful.

The power was almost alluring. It made Luke curious. It also frustrated him that Ashton was so rich, and he couldn't seem to hand over the small amount of money he'd promised Luke.

"If you're so rich, why can't you just pay me off?"

"You want to be famous, don't you?" Ashton replied without thinking.

Then there was the studio.

It was red, almost everywhere. The walls were a fiery, lipstick red. It made Luke feel as though he couldn't relax (not that he wanted to). Upon those red walls were neatly hung guitars as far as they could see. Beautiful electric blue and lightning yellow. There were models Luke had never even seen before. The blond had to bite down on his lip to keep from squealing. He wanted to touch them. They were so inviting, waiting for him to play them.

There was a drum kit, a sound booth, and a couple acoustic guitars. It was Luke's fantasy. He wanted to be in this room forever.

"Do you like it?" Ashton hummed. Luke looked at Ashton, nearly tripping over his flared pants.

"Ashton, it's —beautiful."

"She's my pride and joy. I've spent most of my days here. It's where everything just clicks, you know?" Ashton rolled his sleeves, and revealed his forearms. He sat down at the chair in front of the recording booth. "Now, go pick out one of those guitars over there."

Luke's heart swelled. He grew more anxious than ever. His fingers twitched for the neck of his beloved instrument.

"Electric or acoustic?" Luke looked over his shoulder.

"Whichever you want," Ashton's voice was more clear inside of the small room.

Luke gently traced over the light blue elections. He felt humbled in its presence. He was a homeless, broke, starving artist. She, the guitar, was a work of art.

"I wanna have sex with guitar so bad," Luke whispered awkwardly. He laughed a little when Ashton hummed in agreement.

He decided on a chestnut, acoustic in the corner. Plain and simple it sat against the stand. Luke thought it would fit him perfectly. It appeared simple, but Luke knew it had deep potential. He grabbed it, embracing the neck in his palm.

"Where should I—" Luke looked around for a place to sit, but was cut off by Ashton.

"That couch over there." He pointed to he small couch directly across from the recording booth. Luke sat slowly, placing the instrument across his lap. He listened, tuning it just right until he heard the sweet melody.

Inside of his pocket, he always carried a pick. He strummed downwards to test the sound again and again, then he cleared his throat.

"I'm ready whenever you are," Ashton assured.

It was weird, the whole situation. Luke was in a stranger's home, and he was performing for his lifesavings. But, when he sang for Ashton, he felt more secure than he had for years. The warm, red room was filled with his deep, melancholy voice. He was confident, singing whatever song he pleased. The sound of his voice was like honey that day. The distant man was comforting to sing for. He was quiet, an observer.

Luke played his best too. There wasn't a chord out of place or a pitch too high.

"Dream a little dream of me."

Luke finished, and he kept his eyes on his feet, waiting for Ashton's opinion.

"Your voice is like a star. I have never heard someone as eloquent as you, and I've heard Stevie live. You must be—you must be the male Stevie, my Luke. You're going to be a star. Where have you been all this time?"

"Lost," Luke answered. He looked into Ashton's passionate, amber eyes; to hear those words was all he ever longed for. He felt confident around Ashton, but his powerful words made Luke's knees weak. All he wanted to do was sing for him again and again.

"Not anymore. You will be a star. My star, Luke."

My star, Luke.