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Jody loves Jackson Gatlin. At his only UK rock concert, she’s right at the front. But when she's caught in the crush and carried back stage she has more than concussion to contend with. Throw in a menacing manager, a super-wired super-star, and a curly-wurly, and she finds herself taking home more than just a poster. It’s the accidental kidnapping of the decade. But what happens if you’ve a rock-god in your garage who doesn’t want to leave? Jody’s stuck between a rock-idol and a hard place!  

From the pen of C.J. Skuse, author of last year’s super cool debut Pretty Bad Things, comes a tale of rock star obsession gone nuts. Hilariously and sharply explores the fantasy and reality of celebrity obsession through a teenager’s eyes.  C. J. Skuse has been billed as the new Nick Hornby for teens.

Praise for PRETTY BAD THINGS:  

… this book could do what Catcher in the Rye has done for more than a generation of readers…Pretty Bad Things is something really special so expect it to be talked about in years to come. LOVEREADING.COM

…hip and anarchic…this is fresh and effortlessly readable.’ BOOKSELLER

… a pretty damn good read.’ DINAH HALL, THE TELEGRAPH

...I absolutely adored it. I think it's really REALLY excellent, the best YA thing I've read in ages…Fantastic story, wonderful writing…It's so good, I'd even recommend it to people I don't like. KEVIN BROOKS

It’s still there, the Curly Wurly, thrust out before him. I can’t move my arm. It’s locked like it’s turned to stone or something. ‘It’s okay, you can have it, take it,’ I insist, jabbing him in the cheek with it. The end I’m holding is limp in my iron fist, I’m squeezing it so tightly.

‘I’ll do what you want just … p-please, no drama,’ he says, like I’ve got a knife against his cheek, not a Curly Wurly.

He’s just staring at it. There’s a blur in my eye again. I blink it away and as I open my eyes from the blink, he’s there with his hands up in front of him. Not one person is looking our way, they’re all too worried about Pash or having breathing problems of their own to notice. Oh. My. God. He thinks it’s a weapon. Jackson thinks my Curly Wurly is a knife!

‘Oh, no, no it’s not…’

He turns towards the door and without another single sensible thought, I place my palm on his back and we start walking. I look behind me. No one is watching us. No one is watching us!

‘Where are we going?’ he says, stumbling through the door.

‘Uh…don’t speak,’ I say. And all the time we’re walking out of there into the cold night air, I try not to concentrate on the Mac side of my brain which is saying ‘What the hell are you doing? He thinks it’s a knife, he thinks your Curly Wurly is a KNIFE! Tell him it’s just a silver wrapper, tell him it’s just a misunderstanding, let him go, just let him go!

But I can’t let him go, I just can’t.

Keep going, keep going, keep going. Don’t look back. No one notice, please no one notice!

And anyway we’re out the door now. ‘Put your hands down,’ I tell him, and he does.

The door shuts quietly behind us, and we’re walking, across the silent coach car park, heading towards some tall metal gates. I look behind again. No one calls out. No one stops us. Two security guards are watching football on a small television screen inside a booth by the gates. We approach them and I slow my pace. Please don’t see us. We walk past them. My hearing is so messed up, I can’t even hear what they’re talking about. Please don’t see us. It’s like they’re speaking through a cardboard tube. But they don’t notice us and as we make it through the gates to the pavement on the main road, I rip my fleece from my waist and put it over Jackson’s head. He’s shaking. His walk is slow and his feet scuff on the ground like a kid in a strop. I steer him around bins and bollards and burger boxes until we arrive around the front of the Arena and cross the road. He mumbles something.

‘What?’

‘Where are you taking me?’ he mumbles again, somewhere under my fleece.

I don’t know what else to say to him. I rack my brain, trying to think of movies where people are being taken hostage. What do the bad guys say? I don’t want to tell him to shut the eff up. He is, after all, still my hero. I just want him with me, that’s all I know. That’s all I want at that moment. ‘Just keep moving,’ I say and he does, slowly.

There are fans milling around outside the Arena, and touts still trying to sell tickets for a gig that’s pretty much over. Some guys stand on the street selling tour posters and cheap-looking t-shirts with band logos on, and for a second I want to stop and buy one, but then I think I couldn’t possibly buy anything now that will compare with what I already have.

Reality check: OMFG!

But I choose to ignore it. Don’t think just do, don’t think just do. We walk past them all, through a sea of cans, bottles, flyers and fag ends, across the road towards Mac’s car. Right where he said he’d be — hazards on, under the lamp post. I just pray no one works out what’s going on. But I don’t know what’s happening, so I doubt anyone else will.

‘Just walk, I’ll guide you,’ I say. Mac is dozing in the driver’s seat, wrapped up in his coat. I knock on the window and he jumps and fumbles with the door before pulling the seat forward.

‘That was quick. Thought you’d be ages. Didn’t you get a t-shirt or something?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t they do an encore even? Stingy gits. Oh, are we giving someone a lift?’

I push Jackson inside first so he is sitting behind Mac’s seat and then get in next to him and shut the door.

‘Why aren’t you sitting in the front...’

‘Go Mac, before we get caught in the traffic.’

‘Hang on, where does your mate live?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way, please just drive.’

And he does. He puts his foot down and we are out of there like a speed skate. We bolt through the town, straight through every traffic light, increasing speed until the orange street lamps become blurs outside the windows. It starts raining hard. The wipers are on full pelt and they’re squeaking loudly. We get to a roundabout. Mac is looking at me in the rear view mirror with his serious face on. He adjusts the mirror to see the face of ‘my mate’ but Jackson still has my fleece over his head so he adjusts it back.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ Mac says as we make it to a big roundabout.

‘Are we on the motorway yet?’

‘Jody, tell me now. What have you done? Why’s she under your coat?’

‘Are we on the motorway yet?’ I say again more forcefully. He pauses, puts his foot down. We head along a slip road. He indicates. We hit the rumble strips. 

‘Yes, we’re on the motorway, alright?’

‘So you can’t turn back?’ I say.

‘No, Jody, for Christ’s sake…’

I pull the coat off Jackson’s head and he shakes his hair out. Mac adjusts the mirror and flicks on the reading light. ‘What the…’ He flicks the light off and on again. Then he flicks it off and doesn’t say another word.