Paparazzi: A Rock and Love story (Roadies Series Book 2)

by Erika Vanzin

  *

  The garden in front of the entrance, with its perfectly cut grass and pruned trees with sinuous shapes, is surrounded by high brick walls. If I hadn’t taken two subway lines that I’m sure are in New York City, it would almost seem like I ended up in another state. The white clinic and its large windows that illuminate the hallways and rooms is as bright as ever. I set foot inside and the scent of vanilla barely disguises the smell of the floor disinfectant, reminding me that this is still a clinic despite looking like a luxury hotel. Even if she is always smiling when she sees me, the nurse behind the counter is not a bearer of good news. On the contrary, those who enter are here because they have no hope of getting out.

  I approach the counter, and Eleonor’s blonde bob turns to me. “Good morning, Iris! How are you today? Did you rest? You look tired.”

  Her sweetness always leaves me breathless. I admire the people who work here, the way they manage to keep a smile in a place with so much suffering and despair. “I’m fine, thank you, I just worked late. How are you? How are the kids?”

  At the mention of her children, the woman in her forties makes a grimace that makes me smile. “I just got back. I stayed home for two weeks because first Livy then Rita got bronchitis. I swear, I thought I was going crazy with those two rascals sick and locked in the house all day,” she whispers almost exasperatedly.

  I smile as I sign the visitor log. “I guess it’s less tiring to do the double shift in here.”

  “You have no idea how true that is.” She waves a hand in front of her face.

  I wave as I walk away toward the hallway that takes me to the room that has brought me here for the last five years, at least four days a week. Walking in, I find Liberty preparing the brush to comb my mother’s hair.

  “How is she?” I ask when she turns to me.

  The nurse in her thirties smiles at me and beckons me toward the window where my mother sits in the cream-colored armchair that mirrors the entire room’s color. She’s looking out the window with the same vacuous look I’ve seen for years. At first, I was floored by what I saw. I had no words when I first came to see her; then, over time, it became routine, and I began to have long conversations with her, even though I knew it was rare for her to answer me or even recognize my presence. I gave up trying to make her remember that I am her daughter a long time ago. She often doesn’t recognize me overnight, sometimes from one hour to the next. Now, the moments when she seems to regain some clarity of mind have become really sporadic. She hasn’t uttered my name for at least three years.

  “Today is a good day. She spoke a little bit when she woke up. Do you want to comb it yourself?”

  I nod and grab the brush she hands me before she leaves me alone with my mother, with her long coppery hair streaked with white. My mother isn’t old. She’s only fifty, has red hair the same shade as mine, and freckles on her nose that make her look younger. She also has green eyes like mine, but there isn’t a spark any more to light them up like when I was a child and she read me fairy tales before going to bed.

  “Hi, Mom, how are you? Today I have a little more time to be with you. I don’t have to work.” Or, I don’t want to go back to that apartment and torture myself again over the meaning of the email.

  “Guess what? I met a guy... He’s cute. He’s nice and also smart—very. The problem is, I told him a few lies, and when he finds out, I’m afraid he’ll get mad at me. Now, a friend of his wants an interview on my blog. You remember I told you I have a music blog, right? The thing is, she asked me after this guy and I met, and I don’t know why she asked. I’m afraid she’s just going to want to meet me to do her friend a favor, not because she really appreciates my work.” Or worse, because she discovered my lies and wants to tell me to stay away from Thomas, but I don’t want to tell my mother about it. I don’t want to say to her that I’m afraid Lilly contacted me to say that she will ruin my reputation here in New York. Or that she wants to get a restraining order against me. It would be the end of my career that, disgusting as it is, I need to help pay for this clinic.

  “I don’t know whether to agree to do that interview,” I continue while gently brushing her long hair, “but if I don’t, I risk missing an opportunity that could launch my blog like never before.”

  The reasoning becomes clear to me as soon as I say it out loud. If I don’t accept, they’ll continue with their lives while I’ll have missed an opportunity that won’t come around again. My guilt about lying to Thomas, and the fear of being discovered, haven’t allowed me to think clearly. Add to that my chronic refusal to ask for help, and I’ve totally lost sight of what’s important.

  I don’t know if Thomas did orchestrate this whole thing. But if I do the interview, I can ask Lilly directly and then tell Thomas not to get involved if that’s the case. Interviewing them means being noticed by the most prominent press outlets and, perhaps, using it as a resume when I submit articles as a freelance journalist. Until now, the big news organizations have always rejected my pitches, but getting an interview that others have been struggling to land for months could be a great calling card. After this interview, even A-list artists will be more willing to give me a chance. I could request press passes to the biggest events and write articles like a real journalist.

  In theory, what I have to do is obvious; but in reality, the fear of being crucified for lying to Thomas makes my stomach tighten in a vice.

  “Do you want me to read you a book?” I ask my mother when I realize I’ve been silent for a while, thinking about my problems instead of paying attention to the dearest person I have in the world.

  I get up, take her copy of The Great Gatsby from the nightstand, and settle into the other chair. I open to the bookmark, realizing I haven’t taken the time to read her something for a few days. I’m always too busy chasing temporary distractions and overlook what’s really important to me.

  “Did she fall asleep?” asks Liberty when she enters the room a few hours later.

  “She’s been dozing off for a few minutes. Do you want me to help you put her to bed?” I offer her my support, since I know from experience what a strenuous job it is to move a sleeping adult from an armchair to the bed.

  Liberty smiles at me but shakes her head. “No, leave her there. It doesn’t hurt her to sit a little instead of lying down. I’m still going to have to feed her in a while, and it’s best if she wakes up already sitting down.”

  My heart clenches thinking that she is the same woman who used to bring me to the beach, piggy-back ride me, and play with me in the water. Now she can’t even hold a fork in her hand or clean her mouth after eating.

  “Do you want to stay and feed her?” she asks when she sees the sadness taking over me.

  I nod and smile, watching the woman who gave birth to me dozing in front of me. “Yes, I’m in no hurry to get back to my job today.”

  Liberty smiles back at me, and her blue eyes light up. “You should consider your own life too. I don’t need to say it every time, do I? You can’t be alone looking after her for the rest of your life.”

  I know she’s just worried about me. My mother was one of her first patients, and she saw me grow up here, basically. But I don’t want to have this discussion, not today.

  “I come with too much baggage not to scare guys my age to death.”

  For a moment, my mind goes to the only person older than me who seems to have experienced even more than I have, and I wonder how he’d react if I told him about my mom. With Thomas, everything is a thrill, a rollercoaster ride, but only because reality hasn’t reached us yet. We’re in a bubble where only the two of us exist, without the lies and the mundane things of everyday life.

  What Thomas and I have isn’t real. It’s a fantasy built by decisions that were made based on false information. A beautiful movie, a love story that will end in tragedy. After the credits, the two actors will go their own ways
and never meet again. I wrote a script and put Thomas in the starring role without his knowledge. I’ve erased facts from the past about us. I’ve invented an Iris that doesn’t exist. I show him what he likes and hide what I don’t want him to see. He called paparazzi jackals outside the restaurant that night. I can’t imagine him forgiving me when he finds out I was one of them.

  News!

  Hi, Roadies!

  How are you today? I’m popping in to announce that I’ll be attending several concerts and events during the Christmas season, so don’t miss my Instagram posts to discover new bands.

  The juiciest news today, however, is that I’ve been contacted by the Red Velvet Curtains for an exclusive interview! You got that right. I have an opportunity to meet and interview the rising stars of rock face to face. Remember I told you they would make it big after winning that contest that took them on tour? Apparently, I was right! I can’t wait to be able to tell their story.

  Be kind and Rock’n’Roll,

  Iris

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  I stand for ten minutes in front of her apartment door before I decide to knock. In a normal relationship, I’d call before I showed up at her house in the middle of the afternoon, but she hasn’t given me her number yet. This might suggest she doesn’t particularly want to see me again, which should make me think twice about showing up at her door, but I couldn’t wait any longer. It’s been two days since I ended up in her bed, and I miss her so much I’m in physical agony. The guy in the apartment next door opens the door a few inches to scrutinize me from head to toe then he quickly closes it. He must think I’m a fool, and I certainly can’t deny it. I’d be thinking the same thing.

  I inhale deeply and raise my hand to knock when it suddenly opens, and I find myself facing Iris’s perplexed face. “How long have you been here?”

  “I just arrived,” I’m ashamed to lie to her.

  “Strange, Dexter’s been restless for ten minutes. He usually gets agitated when there’s someone in the hallway.”

  I forgot the nosy cat. “I don’t know...” my voice falters while she moves aside and lets me in.

  I look around, focusing on details I didn’t see the first time because I was too absorbed in the woman who lives here. It’s like stepping into an alternate universe, compared to the rest of the building. The apartment is tiny. To my right is a pastel blue kitchen and on the left, a small loft with a double wrought iron bed, separated by a low wooden railing and a bar-sized table with two stools, I suspect from a bar in the area. What strikes me, though, is how much personality this room has. The red brick walls contrast with the pastel blue of most of the furniture and the green plants crammed along the two large windows on the wall in front of me. The furniture is clearly salvaged from around the neighborhood. Still, it’s all decorated and painted with so much creativity the room feels like a DIY Pinterest page that’s one of a kind.

  “Why are you here?” She doesn’t sound disappointed, but I can’t see her face because her hairball cat is stuck between my legs and won’t let me go on if I don’t offer him a few scratches on the back. After a couple, he gets annoyed and walks away. I smile because clearly, he is the boss of this house.

  “If I tell you I wanted to see you, does it make me sound cheesy, mushy…basically, like a loser?”

  “You’re asking me? Don’t you have to keep the rock star facade up? Never show your tender side?” she teases with a laugh and motions to a cup of coffee she’s filling for me.

  I gladly accept and sit at the only table in this small apartment. “No, actually, my behavior is swinging dangerously between a boy in love and a crazy stalker. Which do you prefer?”

  “Boy in love? Aren’t you going a bit too fast?” She laughs amusedly.

  “Look, the way a rock star’s life works, seeing a person three times in a row is like a marriage proposal for a normal person. Don’t underestimate the speed of this business.”

  “Do you count the years in the same way you count a dog’s age?” She raises an eyebrow as she tries to hide an amused smile behind the cup.

  I grab her gently by the arm and pull her toward me, making her settle between my legs. The contact with her slender physique short-circuits my brain, and I have a hard time controlling my body’s reaction. Her smooth, soft skin makes me want to kiss her endlessly. I want to worship her body until I bring her to orgasm and then start over again and take her back to the peak. The scent of her coconut shower gel almost makes my head spin. It’s as sweet as the cookies my mother used to bake, and right now, I’d like to undress her and taste it. It’s hard to stay focused on a conversation when my erection wakes up in my pants.

  “Are you enjoying making fun of me?”

  “I’d say yes,” she admits with a candor that makes her look even sexier.

  “Okay, I wish I had a reply like something you’d read in those novels you love: super smart, sarcastic, and utterly captivating. But having you so close is confusing my brain. The blood flowing down to other parts of my body is not helping any.”

  She bursts out laughing and gently kisses me on the lips, sending me into even more confusion. “So…why are you here?”

  “I told you, I wanted to see you. After basking in the feeling of waking up with you, I can’t stay away anymore.” I look her straight in the eye and watch as embarrassment makes its way over her face. She’s adorable when she can’t hide her response to my directness. She’s used to being tough and sarcastic, but I’m starting to realize it’s a defense mechanism for protection.

  “You tell that to all the women you sleep with.” It’s a statement, but I can see she’s looking for reassurance.

  “I assure you, there’s never a second time with a woman. Nor do I go looking for a woman after having sex. And most of all, I don’t wake up next to her. I rarely even fall asleep next to a girl I’ve had sex with...let alone feed her demanding cat the next morning.” I smile seeing her blush. “I mean, I don’t know if you understand, but since you fell into my arms, I’ve been acting like a lunatic. Not even my friends recognize me.”

  Her face darkens for a moment before lowering her eyes and letting her hair fall on them. As if to protect herself from her surroundings, from me. “What if I’m not the person you imagine? What if you were acting like a fool for a woman who doesn’t actually exist?”

  I shrug and think about it for a while. If only she knew what I’m hiding. “Do you think I was born a famous rock star? Everyone has parts of themselves that aren’t visible to others, but that doesn’t mean that the part the person shows you isn’t real.”

  A smile spreads over her face, and her arms tighten around my neck in a hug. Her lips rest on the skin of my cheek and then move toward my lips and stun me with a kiss full of a feeling I can’t decipher. I wrap my arms around her narrow waist and plunge my face into the hollow of her shoulder, into her shampoo-scented hair. I inhale deeply and get her sweet smell into my brain and chest, responding to my body’s need to have her.

  I cover her pale skin with my lips, from her shoulder to behind her ear, savoring with my tongue what I’ve missed like air. She shudders under my touch, and when I stick my fingers under her shirt to undress her, she lifts her arms, leaving me breathless in front of her round breasts, which rest perfectly on the palms of my hands. I lower to kiss them, grabbing between my lips a pink nipple that reacts under the touch of my tongue. I can hear her moaning as she sinks her fingers into my hair, drawing me against her chest so I can’t escape. I lower my hands to her jeans and unbutton them, then tuck two fingers under the waistband, pulling them down with her panties.

  I kneel in front of her, grab her leg and put it over my shoulder. As I sink into her with my tongue and explore her intimate parts with my fingers, I look up and find her looking at me, her cascade of red hair hiding her slightly reddened cheeks, open lips, and gree
n eyes fixed on mine. She’s always beautiful enough to take your breath away, but when she comes whispering my name, dropping her head back, she’s almost a heavenly vision.

  I get up and smile at her. She reciprocates by fastening her arms behind my neck and kissing me as if she wants to steal my oxygen. Her tongue slips between my lips, stroking mine in a kiss laden with an eroticism that makes the erection hurt inside my pants. She seems to notice it. She lowers herself, kneeling in the same space that I occupied a few minutes ago with a mischievous smile. She unbuttons my pants and slides them, with my boxers, down to mid-thigh without ever taking her eyes off mine for a second. She’s so sexy and innocent when she kneels in front of me, I could die of desire right now. How the hell did I last two days without her?

  When she wraps her lips around my erection, grabbing it with her pale fingers at the base, I’m about to come like a kid for the first time. Her tongue moves sinuously, stimulating the spots that drive me crazy. Watching her head move to give me pleasure is an almost hypnotic dance, those lips slipping up and down my flesh, dictating a rhythm I can’t control. She accelerates, taking me to my limit, but then slows down to prolong the agony of so much pleasure it makes my legs tremble. I can’t resist. I close my eyes and lose myself in her soft lips, her tongue that caresses my erection, her throat I press against with every plunge. I can’t take it anymore, and Iris lets me come inside her, the feeling so intense I almost fall over and have to lean on the stool behind me. I never want this feeling to end. I wish I could lock myself in this apartment and make love to her every day of my life, losing myself in the emotions she stirs in me—like a junkie getting his fix. I can’t get enough of her. I want more of her, again and again, until I’m totally intoxicated.