Page 6 of Undercover Star
Josh shrugged out of his jacket and pulled the top over his head. "Does he really need that much security? It's not as if he's the Prime Minister."
"Let me tell you something, mate. The Prime Minister is only in danger of being assassinated. Matisse, and stars like him, are in danger of being ripped apart by the very fans who profess to love them. Now. We're parked here because Matisse loves those crazy fans of his and always makes sure they get to see him when they come out to any of his official appearances. Rather than just pull up to the curb and walk five yards, we'll walk from here." He pointed down the street. "Around the corner, along the front of the building," he described the path they were going to follow. "The pavement is roped off. We keep between Matisse and the fans. Watch for anyone throwing something more substantial than a pair of knickers. Rigger takes point. You'll be behind him. I'll take the rear. Matisse knows better than to stop, but he'll slow down at times, so be prepared for that. Anything happens, we converge, cage him in, and get him into the building on the double. Clear?"
Josh nodded, clear about what he was supposed to do, but no wiser about the reasons for it all.
When Matisse climbed from the limo, Josh goggled. He'd seen him only moments earlier, in a long-sleeved tee, leather trousers, and boots, looking... normal. Now there were a myriad of bangles on one wrist and a wide, black leather cuff on the other. He had a raft of rings on fingers formerly bare and had tied his long hair back with a thick leather thong whose ends draped over his shoulders. With those few small additions, the whole outfit screamed attitude. Except for Matisse's eyes. Whatever he and his stylist had done made the dark blue eyes look soft, vulnerable.
Soulful.
And where hadthatthought come from?
"Yes, it's makeup. You can stop staring now."
Josh shook off the haze and smiled. "You look...." He sought for the right word. "Badass," he finished, lamely.
"Lynn's good at her job." Matisse checked his reflection in the limo's tinted windows. "Let's do this or we'll be late."
The noise hit them full force the moment they rounded the corner, reminding Josh of the football matches Paul used to drag him to. Chants, shouts, and laughter washed up the façade of the building. Then the crowd caught sight of Matisse and the screaming started. Fans pushed against the barriers, hands stretched into their space, and, yes, there were the missiles Oats had warned him about. Cards, flowers, trinkets, and underwear landed like oversized snowflakes around them.
Matisse, to Josh's right and just in front of him, beamed and waved at the fans, mouthingThank youandGreat to See You, not even making an attempt to use his voice.
Then they slipped through the doors and inside the wide, open foyer, and the insanity was over.
"That wasn't so bad. You okay?" Oats inspected Matisse from head to foot as if searching for damage, while Matisse yanked the cord out of his hair.
"I'm good."
"Do we do this again on the way out?"
"No. The building's got underground parking. The limo's waiting there." Rigger turned to Matisse. "Let's get you up to your appointment. You need anything? Water, coffee, food?"
Matisse waved him off. "Water will do."
"He's a good kid," Rigger told Josh while they watched Matisse in the studio, bantering with the DJ. "He works damned hard."
As the day wore on, Josh started to believe the statement.
They escaped almost unnoticed from the radio station—something Josh attributed to Matisse walking to the front door on his way in. Nobody had seen the car he'd arrived in. Nobody had noted the number plate. So when the limo pulled out of the underground car park, they only attracted moderate attention.
Matisse said little. He praised Lynn's efforts, scrubbed his face clean of makeup and removed the bracelets and earrings, but he made no attempt to change back into the clothes he'd worn to the coffee shop.
The limo took them to a dance studio in North London. A big empty space of sprung wooden floors and mirrored walls, where a group of dancers waited for Matisse. Josh had never watched dancers practice. It was fascinating to begin with. Matisse knew how to move andlike honey down your arsecrackwas a damned good way to describe it. After two hours, with no end in sight, the fascination wore thin.
"Here." Oats thrust a mug of coffee under his nose. "I think they've almost got it now."
"How can you tell?"
"I've been with Matisse for years. I know what he looks like when work is going well."
"Tantrums when it's not?"
"Frustration," Oats corrected. "He wants stuff to work. When it doesn't, he grumbles. Then he starts swearing. Then he takes time out and locks himself into one of the smaller practice rooms for an hour."
"To practice?"
"Sometimes. Or he writes music. Some of his most successful songs were written here, in between working on dance routines. The songs always kick ass, but they're not his favourites."
"You know him well."
