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

by Erika Vanzin

  Iris looks at me surprised, opens her mouth a couple of times, trying to find the words, but then closes it. She peeks inside the bag and then looks up in disbelief. “You went to the grocery store for me?” she asks, like it’s a heroic gesture.

  I swear I don’t understand this girl. I invite her out to dinner, and she practically freaks out and shuts me out. I show up at her house with groceries, and she almost starts crying with gratitude.

  “Well, I don’t know...I mean, not knowing what you like, I just bought some random stuff,” I admit nervously.

  Suddenly, I’m afraid she hates everything I put in that bag, but she surprises me and takes me by the hand, guiding me to the fridge. The shock of touching her skin is so thrilling I almost smile like a goofy kid in his first crush. When she opens the fridge, I see completely empty shelves, aside from half a lemon, and some off-brand of ketchup that’s been out of production for five years.

  “You practically saved my life,” she says with a half-smile, then blushes, embarrassed. Her reaction makes me realize something I haven’t considered. Maybe she thinks I’m mooching off of her. When she made coffee yesterday, I noticed she hesitated before doubling the grounds she put in the filter. I got the impression she normally used half that amount. When I offered her a drink at the club, I saw her covertly counting the money inside her wallet, grimacing with concern. I recognize those signals—in my family, there were many times we struggled to make ends meet. Even with the Jailbirds, when we were nobodies, we’d split a coffee in fourths. I wouldn’t want her to take my intrusion the wrong way, reading a message I don’t want to send.

  “I’m glad I did something good,” I smile as she closes the fridge and approaches the bag.

  She peeks into it and smiles as she starts pulling out what’s inside, studying everything. I watch her, gripping my hands on the kitchen counter to keep myself from moving her hair away from her face to see it more clearly.

  “I love these cookies,” she smiles as she pulls out the package and puts it on a shelf. “And how did you know I like Froot Loops?” she wonders out loud.

  I point to one of the two windows where there’s an empty box of cereal in which she stores paint brushes.

  “Oh.” She smiles awkwardly. Maybe she didn’t expect me to notice so much about her apartment since we’ve been busy with other things. She doesn’t know that everything about her attracts my attention, like a kid in a playground.

  “Santa Claus cupcakes and bagels in a reindeer bag?” She looks at me amusedly.

  “You know everything is Christmas themed right now. It’s impossible to find normal packaging. Even the mayonnaise looks festive. I know because I bought it without looking at the label, thinking it was ketchup. Who the hell puts mayonnaise in a red container?”

  Iris bursts out laughing as she puts the blueberry jam and a can of crab and potato soup on the shelf. “You’ve also thought of coffee. You’re my hero. I finished it. I love this! Cream cheese on bagels always drives me crazy. But when you order it in coffee shops, you get those tiny packages that only give you a thin layer of cheese. I like to slather it all over that hot bagel!”

  “Me too. Have you tried the veggie cream cheese?”

  Iris shakes her head.

  “Then I’ll bring it next time I see you!”

  “Gnocchi and pesto?” she asks with a puzzled expression then an amused smile. “I understand you’re a rock star, but do you really have someone who cooks Italian at home? It wouldn’t even cross my mind of buying something like this.”

  I laugh at her confusion. “First of all, when I’m home, I do the cooking. I’ve been living alone long enough to know how to cook a fair number of dishes and not starve,” I say, feeling proud when I see she looks pleasantly surprised. “Second, I don’t usually cook Italian. It’s a dish my mother always made on Sundays for lunch—the ‘Sunday meal’—and every time I cook it, it reminds me of when I was a child.” I can’t hide the bit of melancholy in my voice.

  Looking at her face, I think she understands how I feel. She smiles. “Does your mother have Italian roots?”

  She’s intrigued, there’s no malice in her question, and I’m a little bewildered because I usually never get to talk about my family. “No, absolutely nothing can connect her to Italy. I don’t think she’s ever left her home town, actually, so no travels to the other side of the globe. She fell in love with her neighbor, they got married and lived two houses away from where they grew up.” I say this with a bit of hesitation, biting my lower lip to force me to stop. Even Damian doesn’t know this story.

  Luckily, she is smart enough to understand that the topic makes me uncomfortable and finds a way to lighten it without interrupting the conversation. “So no Italian origins, but I hope you know how to cook it because I don’t even know where to start.”

  I take the packet of gnocchi in one hand and the pesto sauce in the other. “Now? I was hoping you’d say yes, but I thought you’d already eaten.”

  “Why not? Do you have anything against gnocchi at two in the afternoon?” she asks me with a raised eyebrow, and I wonder how long she’s gone without eating. This girl didn’t even see the shadow of a lunch.

  “Absolutely not. Tell me where I can find a deep pot,” I reply, despite still being full from the salmon and avocado I ate for lunch.

  She points to a lower cabinet, and I pull out the pot, fill it with water, and put it on the stove.

  “Do you have salt?” I ask her, and she looks insecure about what to do.

  “Isn’t there salt in the sauce already?” she asks, handing me the jar.

  I smile with the bravado of someone about to show off their heavy artillery in front of a woman. And for once, surprisingly, I’m still dressed. It’s pleasant surprise I’ve never experienced before. “It’s used to salt the water for the gnocchi, so they get more flavor.”

  She looks at me like I’m a Michelin-starred chef.

  “Don’t make that face. It’s not like I’m sending the Space Shuttle into orbit,” I protest when her admiring eyes embarrass me.

  She passes me salt and takes one of the two cups of coffee I brought her “This isn’t black coffee, is it?” she asks before sipping it.

  I smile at her while I pull out a sauce pan and dump the pesto in, too runny for my taste, and start to thicken it by lighting the low heat under the pot “To be honest, they’re both the same. I asked your friend to give me two of what you like.”

  I look at her furtively while I take the cup of coffee and sip some of it. It’s surprisingly good.

  “Did you regret it?” she studies me to see my reaction.

  “It’s good. I like the vanilla taste, even if it’s not my favorite,” I admit honestly. I’m not one to keep quiet about what I really like to make people happy. It isn’t fair to them.

  “And what do you really like?”

  “The caramel macchiato, even though your friend looked at me horrified when I ordered it and told me that the best she could do was an organic latte with a splash of caramel. So, I opted for what you get.”

  Iris bursts out laughing, one of those belly laughs that makes her throw her head back and turn my whole world upside down. “Emily hates coffee chains where all drinks are the same. It’s a miracle she let you order, and hasn’t kicked you out of the cafè.”

  I smile at her and finish my coffee. “I probably intimidated her with my fame.” I pose like the rock star I am not, just to see her smile.

  “Emily? No, trust me. You may be a god who fell to the earth, but you will never have that effect on her. That’s why I like to go to concerts with her. She won’t squeal for anyone.”

  Her explanation gives me a pretty clear idea of what their friendship is like—they’re perfect for each other.

  “What are you doing now?” she asks when I put the gnocchi in the boiling water after salting it.


  “I cook the gnocchi. You have to leave them in until they float.”

  “No timer?” she asks, scandalized.

  I laugh at her horrified face and shake my head. “No. But trust me, it’s simple. I didn’t understand it at first either, but then I saw my mother do it dozens of times, and I learned.”

  She nods, frowning and observing the water starting to boil again. “It’s true! They’re floating!” she exclaims, like a little girl who sees snow for the first time.

  I laugh again, her naivety making her look even younger. “See? It’s not that complicated.”

  “You’re a chef, as well as a decent drummer,” she teases me.

  “Decent, you say?” I raise an eyebrow in defiance, though the sly smile doesn’t leave my face.

  I drain the gnocchi and add them to the pan with the pesto and stir, then I put them on the two plates she pulled out.

  “Come on, you’re good! I’ll give you that.”

  “Wait till you taste the pesto gnocchi. You will be ecstatic at my skills.”

  She smiles as she pulls a bottle of wine from a kitchen shelf. “I don’t know if red wine goes with pesto gnocchi, but I have nothing but water to drink. I think Emily brought me this bottle. I never buy wine.”

  I nod and set up the bar table in the middle of the room, rummaging through the drawers to look for things like it’s my house. It’s weird how she lets me do it, and I don’t feel particularly embarrassed. It’s like we’ve been doing this routine for years, and haven’t only known each other for a handful of days. This is what scares me the most: with her, everything is so natural and simple I’m afraid it’s just a beautiful fantasy that will hurt when I wake up.

  “I confess that I never understood the wine-food pairings. Usually, when I go out, I’m lazy. The restaurants I go to have someone who chooses wines as a job, so I let them do everything,” I candidly admit.

  “You’re right. After all, you can’t be an expert on anything. For example, I like photography and music. It’s not like I start taking a cooking class just because I have to feed myself.” She shrugs and sits next to me as I open the bottle of wine and pour it.

  I look around and focus on the black-and-white photos of New York City that I’ve already noticed hanging on the walls. People walking, others dancing, a piano in Central Park, and children playing around it while an elderly gentleman is sitting on the bench, are all life shots of a city full of electricity, life, movement.

  “Did you take them?”

  “Yes, I’ve been living in Manhattan since I was born, and the camera is something I’ve always had with me.” Her explanation is as simple as it is intriguing. I would like to ask her more about her, her family, her friends, but I know that these questions would lead to questions about me that I’m not yet ready to deal with.

  “They’re gorgeous. Have you ever thought about selling photos for a living? Someone would pay a lot of money for those. They’re stunning. I’m not just saying that.”

  I see her blanch and cough and realize I’m staring at her. She regains some composure and sips her wine to cover an embarrassed smile. “Not really. To do that you have to be connected with art galleries. I tried to go to the most famous ones, but they just said: ‘We’ll let you know’ and then disappeared. I needed a job that paid the bills. I can’t count on the slim chance that someone will walk into a gallery and buy my shots.”

  “It’s a shame because these photos should be shared with the world.”

  Iris smiles, and I feel something melt inside me, like a teenager in love. “Have you always wanted to be a musician? Or do you have any other passions from when you were a kid?”

  “As a child, I wanted to be a lawyer.”

  “Really?”

  I smile at the memory as I sip to wash down a bite. “One day, an insurance lawyer came to our house to ask my father for something. I remember he parked his shiny black car in front of the house. I was maybe seven or eight years old, I didn’t know what kind of car it was, but I clearly remember thinking it was expensive. Our family never had much money, and for a while, I believed being a lawyer was the way to buy things for my family, not just a car.”

  “Then you started playing and discovered your calling?”

  “No, my mother told me I would have to memorize a lot of laws to be a lawyer, and I wouldn’t see a courtroom or the real money before I was thirty. My passion for that profession died there.”

  Iris laughs. “Can’t say you’re not honest.”

  I smile, scared at how easy it is to talk about my family with her. A dangerous subject that I’m dealing with too lightly. “Then I found out I’m good on drums, and I make more money than a lawyer,” I joke.

  “But you didn’t buy the luxury car! Or did you?” she asks, puzzled.

  “No, living in New York, I don’t even think about buying my own car. Do you know any New Yorkers who have one?”

  “I actually know several who don’t even have a driver’s license.”

  “See?”

  “But from what you tell me, you haven’t always lived in New York... did you have one before?”

  This is the question I was hoping wouldn’t come. Iris is brilliant. She doesn’t miss a detail. “I started this job so young that I didn’t need it.” I’m so comfortable with her, I don’t feel the same nervousness I normally do when giving answers about my past to strangers. “You, on the other hand, had some childhood dreams? What did you want to do be when you grew up?”

  Iris smiles and shakes her head. “A ballerina. I started in dance class, but I found out very quickly that God gave me the coordination and grace of a person with two left feet. My dreams of glory and joining Juilliard were shattered at an early age,” she says with humor, and I laugh with her.

  What’s so great about this girl is that she’s down to earth and grounded and, at the same time, she knows how to laugh at herself. For a moment, it almost crossed my mind to tell her about my past. Stupid idea, since it would not only be my story, but my friends’ whose trust I could never betray.

  For the first time in my adult life, I find myself spending an afternoon in complete harmony with a woman, with clothes on and stomach in a turmoil of excitement. It’s not so much her clothes I want to strip off in these moments, but rather the protective layers she carries around her heart. Sharing glimpses of my life, I find that she opens up about hers, and I treasure this information like gold. Minute by minute, I find myself lost in a maze of emotions from which I no longer want to escape.

  I’ve pulled a box of photos out of the closet that I had put aside when the reality of life required all my attention. Thomas is flipping through them, taking an infinite time between photos, and I’m watching him with my heart in my throat, fearing his judgment. In this moment, my passion for photography doesn’t disgust me like it usually does when I work as a paparazzo, and the feeling is so pleasant I can’t stop smiling. Snuggled up on my bed, he analyzes every composition, questions me, marvels, makes me feel like the center of his attention, of his world, and I find it difficult to get used to it.

  “Wow, this one of the Romeo and Juliet statue in Central Park is amazing. How the hell did you find a moment when there were no snow prints on the ground? Did you cover them?”

  His expression is so incredulous it makes me laugh. “No, actually, this picture was taken at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning in December, after a snowstorm. It was dawn and the snow had stopped falling for less than half an hour. An hour later, the prints were already there. There wasn’t much light, but a tripod and long exposure can work wonders.”

  He’s about to say something, but we are interrupted by a knocking on the door. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asks, intrigued.

  I cover my face with my hands and curse. Wrapped in this bubble of happiness this afternoon, I completely spaced out on my plans f
or the evening. “I forgot about dinner with Emily and Albert.”

  Thomas pulls his phone out of his pocket. His eyes go wide. “It’s already eight o’clock.”

  Emily knocks again violently.

  “I’d better go open before the neighbors call the police.”

  He giggles behind me as I get out of bed and catch up with Dexter, who’s already in front of the door. When I open it, I find Emily with a huge pizza in her hands and Albert right behind her with two bottles of wine, one tequila, and six beers. I raise a perplexed eyebrow. I wasn’t going to get drunk tonight.

  “Finally!” my friend yells as she enters. “Were you getting off staring at a picture of Thomas? Oh! I see you have the real deal right here.” She admires Thomas, who is fastening his shoes sitting on my bed.

  “Emily!” I scold her, certain my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

  “Look, it’s not my fault you take a lifetime to open the door. One can only imagine what’s going on behind closed doors.”

  “Emily, stop it!” I try to sound stern, but it comes out shrill and desperate.

  Meanwhile, behind me, Thomas laughs, and I don’t dare look him in the face, at least until he encircles my waist with his arms and kisses me on the cheek.

  “So, you like to masturbate to my photos. Do you use the ones you find online or the posters they sell on the record company’s website?” he teases me as Albert looks at us disgusted and goes to put the drinks in the fridge.

  “I don’t do that!” I say more embarrassed than indignant.

  “Look, there’s nothing wrong with it.” Emily sides with him, laughing.

  “I’m going now before I discover any more secrets that might shock me.” He kisses me on the nose.

  “You have no idea how many there are,” mumbles Albert, annoyed while Emily punches his side and he grunts. Thomas doesn’t seem to notice his comment, but my heart jumps in my throat.

  “Hey, you can stay for dinner,” Emily proposes with a smile from ear to ear.

  “Thank you, but I leave you to the evening you have planned. I’ve already had the pleasure of her company all afternoon.” He turns to me and says softly, “Look...I know it didn’t go very well with the dinner invitation, but there is this Christmas event at the Met...I don’t need you to give me an answer now...I mean, but I’d love it if you came with me.”