The name AJ Colthurst may not have any meaning to the public eye, but it should, as I’m the daughter of two famous celebrities. Like any superstar, they crave privacy; so much of it, they built a house in the middle of nowhere for us children. As we grew older, we discovered the lies they built as a fort to protect us from the media, ended up causing emotional damage along the way.
I carry a portion of the guilt on my shoulders; the other part I discovered is the separation of my parents. Their unorthodox ways may have driven me bonkers, but knowing they are no longer together is unacceptable.
That’s why I decided to rattle their cage by reminding at least one of my parents of the past and the reason they belong together. They need to remember why their love is so perfect and why they have to fight to keep it alive. Even if it means I have to dredge up some of my own painful memories along the way.
Back in the early eighties, I set myself to succeed in the financial world. The first step had been moving to New York City to become a stockbroker, but things didn’t work out the way I had hoped. Instead, I ended up making movies and by the end of the decade, Gabe Colt had become a famous name. The downside to my career of choice: the paparazzi. In order to protect my family and our privacy, I maintained my family away from the circus. It had been for their own good; a decision we had made before we started our family.
“I can’t be sharing rooms with her,” a soft female voice spoke after Tara handed out the room keys.
Instead of checking who I’d be rooming with, I leaned forward and spotted a petite blonde pointing toward a tall brunette whose hair was bigger than the flower pot behind her.
“Abigail,” Tara addressed her. “We have a contract. You and Lara will share, and if you break the contract, you’ll have to pay for any production delays.”
Abigail Ritz and Lara Stevens had worked together in several teenage movies. Everyone who followed the basic news channels were aware of their feud. They fought for the same guy years ago, Lara’s fiancé at that moment. He had been Abigail’s boyfriend first. Some entrepreneur who liked to have beautiful celebrities on his arm.
Abigail Ritz was more famous in the early eighties, but just as the women fought for the same guy, they also fought for roles. If they worked in the same movie, the fights became public domain. Lara was tall with dark, long hair and deep, blue eyes while Abigail was petite and curvy with green eyes and blonde hair.
After Tara had wrapped up the meeting, I went to speak with Abigail. “Everything okay?” I extended my hand. “Gabe Colt.”
“Yes, of course.” She smoothed her hair before extending her hand. “Nice to meet you, Gabe.”
For artistic purposes, I had shortened my name from Gabriel James Colthurst to just Gabe Colt. A name I wanted to change legally but haven’t had the time.
From the corner of my eye I spotted someone approaching us, then I heard his voice.
“Colt,” he called out. I turned around and found a man about an inch shorter than me, long, brown hair that matched Lara’s length and volume, and a bandana tied around his forehead. He wore leather pants, leather jacket, and a pair of industrial boots with chains around them—weird. “Christian Ainsley Decker, your new roommate.”
Tara had to be kidding me, the Rock God was Christian Decker and I was rooming with him. The idea of suggesting to switch became appealing. I could get to know little Abby while he could exchange hair product secrets with Lara.
“It’s my lucky day,” Decker muttered. “I’m rooming with Mr. Hot Shot, would you mind switching rooms, darling?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Abby. “You and I can get to know one another as I make you reach places no other man has taken you before.”
Abby giggled and tried to compose her posture.
“I’ll see the two of you around.” Abigail scurried away.
In the end, it didn’t matter who I roomed with; I had a schedule to meet and my daily routine to follow. The most damage he could do was play his music too loud. My college roommate had cranked his heavy metal all the way up when he wanted to study. The only difference between back then and now would be that I could complain to the creator instead of the fan.
Decker’s band, Dreadful Souls, emulated the genre of heavy metal of which I wasn’t a fan. His band played that shit as he screamed nonsense lyrics. Or they played cheesy ballads that had women dropping their panties and throwing them at him during their concerts. My roommate made me go with him to one of their concerts since I owed him one.
We headed to the elevator rolling our luggage behind us when he spoke.
“I think it’s fifty-fifty.”
His intent to answer something I hadn’t asked didn’t make sense and I chose to ignore him because the less we talked, the less I had to deal with his personality. Not that I knew anything about this long haired freak.
Born on the mystical day of October 30th in the not so mystical lands of Mexico City, Claudia grew up with a childhood that resembled a caffeine-injected soap opera. Seventeen years ago she ventured to the lands of her techie husband—a.k.a. the U.S.—with their offspring to start a new adventure.
She now lives in Colorado working as a CFO for a small IT company, managing her household filled with three confused dogs, said nerd husband, two daughters wrought with fandoms and a son who thinks he’s the boss of the house. To survive she works continually to find purpose for the voices flitting through her head, plus she consumes high quantities of chocolate to keep the last threads of sanity intact.