Love Song: A Stage Dive Novella

by Kylie Scott

“Thanks, Ziggy,” she said, dismissing the bodyguard before her gaze flicked over me with obvious disinterest. “You’ve got sixty seconds. Talk.”

  “And who the hell might you be?” I asked, not so politely, refusing to be cowed.

  At this, she smiled. “I’m Martha, Adam’s manager, and you?”

  “Jill. Adam’s ex. But I’m sure the bodyguard already told you that.”

  The speculative look in her eyes increased some hundred-fold. “So, what do you want, Adam’s ex?”

  “To talk to Adam about something he sent me recently.”

  She raised her chin. “The check. I didn’t know he’d done that.”

  “You know everything he does?”

  “Basically,” she said, tone blasé. “You have to understand, rock stars are all big, whiny babies who need someone running their lives, or everything goes to hell in a handbasket. For Adam, I am that someone. Next question. If the check is real, and you are who you say you are, why not just take the money and run?”

  I sighed. “I thought about it. That album has been the bane of my existence ever since it came out. I can’t go anywhere without hearing the damn thing. Bars, gas stations, the grocery store…it’s like I’m being musically stalked.”

  “The songs aren’t exactly complimentary toward you,” she allowed.

  At this, I rolled my eyes. A terrible habit, but I couldn’t help myself. If someone said something breathtakingly obvious, my first impulse was always the silent and deadly, duh. “I’m not getting into that with you. It’s private. Well, it should be private. Though it would be fair to say that Adam’s version of our relationship and mine differ significantly. But the fact is, he’s been working on making it in the music business since long before I met him. It was his dream, and he worked hard and saw it through. Kudos to him. If he’d just sent me his share of the rent and so on for the period we lived together, then I wouldn’t be here right now. Because this check…it’s too much. Way too much.”

  “Seven digits is impressive. But he can afford it, if that’s your concern.”

  “I’m sure he can, but that’s not the point.”

  “You’ve never given any interviews about him. Never sold any photos from when you were together. I’d have been alerted to it if you had.”

  “And?”

  Her gaze scanned my body, up and down. “Are you pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “Do you hope to get pregnant?”

  “Good Lord. Get your mind out of my uterus. I just want to talk to him about the check.”

  For a long moment, the manager chick, Martha, just stared at me. Then she said, “Interesting. Come with me.”

  Then she was off, striding in those elegant towering high heels. I bet she could sprint in those suckers. It was like the whole world was her runway and she had places to be.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, not quite jogging to keep up. Short legs sucked sometimes.

  “You want to talk to Adam?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “Yes or no, Jill? I don’t have time to screw around.”

  “Yes, I want to talk to him,” I said, brows drawn down. “I need to talk to him.”

  The various dressing rooms and storerooms and who knew what else gave way to larger hallways. Props, lights, and all sorts of things sat in neat piles here and there. Plenty of people moved to and fro, and more just hung around. Out through a pair of big double doors, and we were in a tunnel with a couple of security guards waiting alongside a large, shiny black Mercedes Benz SUV.

  Martha opened the car’s back door. Once more, her cell sat in her hand, her gaze glued to the screen. “Get in.”

  I hesitated. Of course, I did. Because where I came from, being lured into vehicles by relative strangers was generally believed to be a bad thing. And this woman didn’t even have the decency to first offer me candy or a kitten.

  “I repeat, I do not have time to screw around. In a little less than two minutes’ time, Adam will be rushed straight through the backstage area and out here to the car,” said Martha, sounding vaguely bored. “Your choices are either getting in said vehicle, or having Bon return you to the audience area. Which will it be?”

  The security dude gave me a glance. Pretty sure those bulges beneath his suit coat weren’t from carrying an excess of chewing gum or Kleenex. Nope. Bon was packing. How insane this whole world was.

  “Truth is, I shouldn’t even be doing this,” she continued. “But you’ve ever so slightly woken my cold dead heart. Turns out, I happen to know what it’s like to be in your position. Someone wrote an album about me once, too. Not what you’d call a pleasant experience.”

  Huh. Though, in Martha’s case, I’d hazard a guess that any lyrics about grinding a guy’s heart beneath five-inch heels would be deadly accurate.

  She tapped her foot against the concrete. “So?”

  “Where will Adam be going?” I asked, stalling.

  “Straight home, if I have anything to say about it. But I can’t guarantee that.” Her eyebrows bent with the merest hint of a frown. “Sometimes he can struggle to unwind after a show.”

  Interesting. I resisted the urge to smile at the irony. I’d had trouble getting Adam off the couch. And now it seemed the new woman in his life had trouble keeping him there.

  In all honesty, the whole situation was kind of doing my head in. Adam’s new life could officially be labeled: crazy town. Bodyguards and luxury cars and this terrifying woman running everything. Back when I knew him, all of a year ago, he’d owned exactly one pair of socks, and they both had holes in them. Not so sexy. You can guess what he got for Christmas that year. He spent his days writing songs or jamming with friends at various bars around town. Sometimes, he’d manage to get paid for a gig or land some delivery work at a pizza place. Do a few shifts behind the bar at a local club. But that was about as far as his behaving like a responsible adult went. He’d couch surfed for years, living with various friends and acquaintances, until he and I hooked up. Now this was his life.

  Mind blown.

  “You can talk to him on the drive to wherever he goes, then Mac will take you wherever you want,” said Martha. “In a couple of days, Adam’s on a plane to start the European leg of his tour. Trust me when I say this is the only opportunity you’re going to get to talk to him face-to-face in the foreseeable future. Do you want it or not?”

  Oh, man. I really shouldn’t have, but I climbed into the SUV, sliding across the black leather seat to the far side. The interior was pristine with that new-car smell. In days gone by, he’d borrowed my crappy old hatchback to get places. Wedging guitar cases and amps into the small vehicle with amazing skill. Now this. How far the boy had come.

  The large handsome dark-skinned man sitting in the driver’s seat gave me a smile in the rearview mirror. “Miss.”

  “Hello.” My smile wobbled, the most likely cause being my lack of confidence. Which was crazy. Adam Dillon had never intimidated me a day in his life. As beautiful and talented as he might be, it was hard to be unsettled by someone who constantly forgot to put the toilet seat down. It had to be this situation—the concert, the limousine, the security. I’d be fine in a minute. Give me a chance to catch my breath and I’d be…

  And there he was, a towel perched hoodlike on his head, and a bottle of Gatorade attached to his lips. One bodyguard in front, and another bringing up the rear. Martha marched beside him, her mouth moving with what I assumed was an endless stream of information. Occasionally, Adam nodded in reply. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a tee. The shirt was bathed in sweat, clinging to his skin. Guess it got hot under those spotlights. And he had more room to strut around than on the tiny stages at the little gigs he’d done when he was with me.

  But that wasn’t all. While he’d looked like a quintessential rock god on the stage, as he drew nearer, I could see that his face was pale, and there were bruises beneath his eyes. To put it mildly, he looked like shit. And yet, all I could do was stare.
>
  It was probably just the shock of seeing him again after so long. I mean, I’d seen him. Hell. I could hardly avoid him on billboards and the internet and all the rest. Sometimes with beautiful women draped over him, and sometimes without. Wasn’t that just fucking delightful? But experiencing him again in the flesh seemed like something else entirely. Something I apparently hadn’t been quite as prepared for as I’d hoped.

  A woman dashed up behind the group, waving a piece of paper and a pen. And she was gorgeous, dammit. A statuesque redhead with ample cleavage spilling out of her barely tied-on top. She shrieked Adam’s name in what I guessed to be some sort of groupie come hither mating call. Glass would have shattered at the high pitch she managed, though Adam didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge her existence. The rear security dude stopped her progress, and that was that.

  Where were these hordes of fans a short year ago when he was playing to half-empty clubs and selling CDs from the trunk of my car? He was the same guy playing the same music back then. Better music, actually. More honest. Less me-being-a-bitch-centric, which I was bound to appreciate.

  “To the club, Mac,” said Adam, climbing into the vehicle, obviously not having seen me. There he was, rock ‘n’ roll’s newest darling and my ex-boyfriend.

  Martha all but growled. “Straight home, Mac. I mean it!”

  “You’re not my real mother,” grumbled the rock star.

  “I’m not your mother at all, you idiot. Now enough with the partying. Go home and get some rest, Adam. Or else.” She turned to go, then paused. “By the way, there’s a problem with the parking level access gates at the apartment building so you’ll need to go through the front door.”

  Mac just nodded.

  “And there’s one other potential issue on the horizon tonight,” Martha continued. “But for that one, you’re on your own. Enjoy.”

  Adam opened his mouth to say something, but then he followed her pointed gaze and spied me hiding in the corner. He stopped cold. The man totally froze. Bambi in headlights had nothing on him. His brows rose, and his eyes went as wide as the moon. “Jill?”

  “Hi.” My one-syllable greeting seemed a bit of an underwhelming start to our so-we-meet-again-my-nemesis moment. “Hey,” I added.

  Notice my amazing conversational skills at play. To think I rehearsed this meeting multiple times in the mirror.

  “What the fuck?” He turned back to Martha, who helpfully shut the door in his face with a sly sort of smile. You’d almost think she was enjoying herself. Bon the bodyguard climbed into the front passenger seat, and we were moving.

  “Seatbelts, please,” said Mac.

  Both Adam and I did as told while giving each other wary looks. Now I’d known it would be difficult to get near him. He had a posse of people around him these days for protection and other purposes. And I’d known it would be awkward as all hell to talk to him again after all this time. However, I’d had no idea it would be this bad. My heart stuttered, and my brain stalled. I’d thought I was over him. I mean, I was. I definitely completely had to be. Yet even reeking of sweat and clearly exhausted, he continued to play havoc with my hormones.

  This was awful. A terrible mistake. I should have just texted him maybe. Or taken the money and never gone near him again. Much safer for my heart and soul.

  “It’s really you,” he said, a line forming between his brows. About as much as he committed to being curious about anything outside of music. One small line. “What are you doing here?”

  “You sent me that check,” I said, tone terse.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, it’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

  He just shrugged, pushing back the towel half covering his face. “Figured you helped support me while I was coming up. Plus, you were sort of the inspiration for some of the songs, so…”

  “Sort of?” I just blinked. “Which ones?”

  “What?” He blinked back at me. There was always something boyish in his gaze that got to me. Something pure, almost. He loved what he loved, and as far as he was concerned, it just was that straightforward and simple. Not that any of that mattered anymore. Right now, he just seemed tired and confused.

  “Which songs was I sort of the inspiration for?” I asked, pushing onward.

  He took a long pull on the bottle of Gatorade. “You know.”

  “No, I don’t, actually. Though I’d very much like to.”

  Nothing from him.

  “I’m a little perplexed, Adam. You see, I thought you’d written the whole damn album about how abhorrent I was. All about what an utter backstabbing, Satan-worshipping hussy I turned out to be. I mean, you basically told the entire world I was the worst of the worst. But apparently, it was only some of the songs. What a relief. Phew.” I blew out a breath. “So, which ones?”

  “Jill—”

  “How about Hard Little Heart? Did I inspire that one?”

  “Um.”

  I tapped a finger against my lips. “‘She’s solid rotten to the core, guaranteed to make your heart sore.’ Those are the lyrics, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And Devil in the Woman?”

  “I kind of take inspiration from everywhere,” he blurted out, sounding all sorts of soundbite and desperate. The idiot.

  I cocked my head. “That’s strange. I could have sworn in that interview for Music Monthly that you’d only ever been in one serious relationship in your life, and it was the basis for almost all of your recent music.”

  “You’ve been following me online?”

  “Focus.”

  “Right,” he said. “Well, I meant what I said. Almost all of the music.”

  Mac gave us an amused glance in the rearview mirror. Beside him, Bon shifted in his seat slightly, all the better to watch me out of the corner of his eye. That the bodyguard considered me a threat was kind of cool. A huge bolster to my wounded ego.

  “What about Better Off Gone?” I asked. “I like that one. It’s sort of bluesy. I mean, the woman you’re singing about obviously ruined your whole existence for all of space and time, but still…nice tune.”

  His gaze skipped about the interior of the vehicle. “Um, yeah, I don’t really remember. Look, about the money—”

  “Unless of course when you were talking about the songs being written about the most important and meaningful relationship you’d ever been in, the love of your life that broke your heart into a million tiny little razor-edged pieces, you didn’t in fact mean me. Was that it?”

  He scowled, appearing truly put out. “You know I meant you.”

  “Wow. Now we’re getting somewhere. Okay,” I said through gritted teeth. “Is this the same relationship where you sprinkled your assorted crap throughout the entire apartment like an indie-rock trash fairy, contributed to household finances solely in the form of cold leftover pepperoni pizza, and missed my birthday dinner because someone invited you to jam at the last minute?”

  “I already apologized for that. And you like pizza!”

  Bon turned a chuckle into a cough in the front seat. Very professionally done.

  I just groaned. “Tell me you’ve achieved some small modicum of personal growth involving some healthy self-realization in the last year. Please.”

  Streetlights and nighttime traffic flowed by outside as we made our way through Portland’s downtown area. I’d heard he had an apartment nearby in the Pearl District. If you wanted hip clothes, restaurants, or just the best bookshop in the entire world, it was the place to be. Not that I could afford it, usually.

  And all the while, Adam just sat there, watching me with his dark eyes. “You’re still angry, huh?”

  “Still angry? No, I was coasting along just fine with simmering resentment until your check arrived, resulting in this conversation and your half-assed denials. Now I’m furious.”

  “Miss Schwartz,” said Bon from the front of the vehicle. “While I realize that my client has given you a certain cause for anger.
I’d ask that you not assault him while we’re in a moving vehicle. It’s dangerous for everyone involved.”

  “I’m not going to hit him,” I answered, outraged. “I’m a pacifist.”

  He just nodded toward the two clenched fists sitting in my lap.

  “Oh. We’re just talking. Civilly. Sort of.” Slowly, I stretched out my fingers, rubbing them against the legs of my black skinny jeans. “I’m a very nice person once you get to know me.”

  “Of course you are, miss.”

  “I’ve never hit anyone in my life.” I frowned. “Where was I?”

  “Didn’t we already have this fight when you threw me out?” asked Adam, shoving a frustrated hand through his long hair. Which was seriously long, by the way. Nearing Rapunzel status. It didn’t look as if he’d cut it in forever.

  I thought his question over, tapping a finger thoughtfully against my lips. “No. That was a different one. You’ve fucked up in multiple and unforeseen ways since then. It’s mind-blowing, really.”

  He just sighed.

  “You’d mentioned that Adam failed to pick up his shit, never paid for anything, and missed your birthday dinner,” supplied Mac in a cheerful tone. “Not much of a surprise that you kicked him out, if you ask me. He was asking for it.”

  Adam slumped back in the seat with a groan. “Remind me why I pay you again, Mac?”

  “You pay me to drive,” answered the chauffeur. “My opinions, however, are my own and thrown in for free. You’re welcome.”

  “Great.”

  “Honest to God, I gave him so many chances, Mac. You wouldn’t believe it.” I took a deep breath and refocused on the cause of all of my aggravation. “And here’s the bit that gets me. If I really was this great love of your life, Adam, the one that rocked you to your core, worthy of writing all of these horrendous yet strangely catchy tunes about, then why did you never tell me you loved me?”

  At that, he froze in terror once more. If we hadn’t been speeding down a busy street, he might have made a move for the door, thrown himself out, and taken his chances with the oncoming traffic. The man looked that desperate.

  “You’ve told every music journalist on the planet, it seems. Screamed it from the stage in every other song. Heck, the word even made the title of Lovestricken. But you never told me, not even once.” My eyes started to itch for some weird reason. Let’s not question why. “Why is that exactly?”