her backpack and boosted it onto her shoulder.
“Hey kiddo, look on the bright side. Maybe you had a brush with a future star.”
With a forced smile, Libby left the office.
# # #
Heart pumping music blared through the studio. Giant fans created wind-blown effects for the action shots.
“Peter, lower your chin. Good!” James the photographer yeled over the music. James moved constantly to catch every angle possible. Photo shoots tended to go long and today was no exception.
The bright lights burned down as flashes popped. Peter always got a kick out of al the primping for the shoots and the goofy way photographers posed them for the perfect look.
“Adam, this way. Hold your concentration! Remember, you are a serious rocker.”
Adam and Peter broke into laughter. “You can’t say stuff like that if you want us to concentrate,” Adam replied and pushed his fingers through his mop of curly hair.
The guys walked around the set and laughed to shake off pent-up energy.
“You guys are kiling me.” The photographer lowered his camera while the hairstylist came to fix Adams hair.
“Ya know, it’s hard to be a serious rocker, when you travel with your mom and she’s always nagging you to brush your teeth and pick up your clothes,” Peter added.
James couldn’t resist laughing. “Okay, this is the last set.
Let’s pul it together for a few more minutes. Remember, this is for Rolling Stone, it’s worth the effort.”
Peter couldn’t get over the fact that Jamieson would grace the cover of the legendary magazine. Their popularity shot through the roof this past year. They were living the dream.
“Okay guys, I want you to think brooding rocker, think Kurt Cobain, or Jim Morrison.” James raised the camera to his eye.
The brothers, always consummate professionals, fel back into place doing their best to folow direction even though they were slap happy after three wardrobe and set changes.
“You do realize they both died of drug overdoses,” Garrett added.
“Yeah, and you should be very sad about their wasted talent.
Now show it to me on your faces,” the photographer said with a pointed look.
The threesome switched gears and slid easily into character.
Peter thought about his dream to be a career musician, not just part of a boy band with the shelf life of a Twinkie. He intended to spend his life creating music, and to move people with his lyrics and harmonies. Jamieson had been fortunate with great reviews and success beyond his dreams, but this was a fickle industry and he refused to be a flash in the pan. He wanted to have a lifelong career like Springsteen or Bon Jovi. Their careers had legs and so would his. Giving a serious expression wasn’t so hard after al.
Twenty minutes later the primping and posing ended and they headed off set.
“Guys, grab some lunch while we go over details for the rest of the day,” their middle-aged manager, Waly instructed.
A few minutes later, with their plates piled high, they gathered around a large table in a meeting room at the studio. A good number of their entourage joined them: publicist, make up, hair, security, manager and more.
“We have another busy day ahead of us,” Waly said scratching his balding head. He opened a binder filed with tour information. “The CD signing at Virgin Records begins in one hour.
We’l bring you in through the side fire exit.”
“That’s good,” Adam interrupted. “We’l know where to get out when the fire starts. Cause we’re so hot!”
“You are such an idiot.” Peter said.
“Security is already in place, so hopefuly we won’t have any problems like in Miami. Roger has been working with store management. You have two hours to get the crowd through the signing. We can’t go long because you have a live interview with WABC-TV at four. Sound check folows that. Oh yeah, tonight we’ve got a kid from Make-A-Wish who wil shadow you until after the concert. Anybody want to take lead on that?”
“Boy or girl?” Garrett asked, wiping mustard off his fingers and onto Adam’s sleeve.
“Don’t you have respect for anything?” Adam shook his head, wiped at the smear of mustard with a napkin and tossed it into Garrett’s glass of soda.
“Let’s see.” Waly ignored them and looked over his notes.
“It’s a twelve-year-old boy, his name is Jacob.”
“Nah, I’l pass, but when you get an eighteen-year-old girl, she’s al mine,” Garrett added.
“I’l take him.” Peter signaled, his mouth stuffed with a bite of sandwich. He grabbed his Mountain Dew, took a long drag and swalowed. “What’s he got?” Seeing kids