LOW: A Rockstar Romance

by Lux,Vivian

  The shrill vibration of my phone rattled it right off the arm of the couch and onto the hardwood floor, where it lay buzzing like an angry bee.

  I paused my game and stuck my foot under it, tossing it expertly back up into my hand. Damn. The guys always called me a klutz. Of course no one was around to see me pull that off.

  "Yo!" I called into the phone, seconds before my voicemail picked up.

  "Twi-er-Low!" Keith sounded all echoey like he was calling me from the bathroom. "What are you doing?"

  "Trying to figure out why the fuck you're calling me," I grunted, flicking the game back on. Keith talked to Rane. There was a fucking order to these things that I liked just fine.

  "Stop your zombie game for two fucking seconds Low?" Yeah, he was definitely in the bathroom somewhere. I tried not to think about it.

  Cursing softly, I paused the game. "Where the hell are you calling me from? Are you taking a shit?"

  "No." I could practically hear his eyes rolling. "Grow the hell up."

  "No fucking way," I grinned. "Then who would get on your nerves?"

  "Mother of God," Keith complained. "And here I'm calling with good news."

  "Yeah? Whaddya got?" I sat up straighter.

  Keith sighed heavily, like giving the likes of me something that could be considered "good news" pained him immeasurably. I tried to stop myself from laughing and completely failed.

  "Good Day L.A. called," Keith said.

  I was instantly bored but still tried to be polite. "Yeah? They booking the band? Did I miss something? We aren't promoting again, are we?" I thought we were supposed to be taking a much-deserved break.

  "No," Keith said with barely disguised impatience. "You guys aren't promoting again. You're promoting."

  I paused the game, not sure I'd heard him correctly. "Me?"

  "Jesus tap-dancing Christ, Low. The fragrance? The ad?"

  I pulled my phone away from my ear and frowned into it. As if that would make what Keith was saying somehow make sense. "Good day LA wants to talk to me about the fucking perfume?"

  "Yes, Low," Keith echoed condescendingly. "They want to talk about the fucking perfume."

  Something fluttered through me. A strange, slippery terror. They wanted to talk to me? Me? "How the fuck am I supposed to do that?" I wondered out loud.

  The sound of a tap running drowned out the first part of Keith's sentence, which was probably good because I got the distinct impression he was swearing at me. "...the fucking program and be all pouty and mysterious. I dunno, charm the fucking pantyhose off of Maria Whatsherface and just do your fucking job."

  "Yeah okay," I said. Even though the game was paused, my fingers still tapped and flicked the controls, my knees bouncing out a frantic staccato beat. "Me. Sure."

  This is a fucking terrible idea.

  "So you're gonna be there? It's another early morning."

  I exhaled sharply into the receiver. "Why the hell not? I'm getting used to the crack of dawn."

  "Good. I'm going to email you some talking points."

  "You're fucking kidding me. Talking points? The fuck are those?"

  "Haven't you paid attention at the press junkets?"

  "Did you forget who you're talking to?"

  "Right, what am I saying. Of course you haven't"

  "I'm the fucking drummer, Keith." I felt like I should get that tattooed on my forehead. Seemed like people kept forgetting that fact.

  "I know. And you're also the face of the fragrance. So make words come out of your face on TV, so you make money for the band. Does that sound simple enough?"

  It was my own fault that Keith thought I was an idiot. At band meetings, I always played dumb for laughs. The stereotype of the dim-witted drummer was just too easy to play into, and it cracked the band up something fierce.

  But that didn't mean I wasn't pissed off right now. "It may be. It may also be too hard for my poor small brain to handle," I seethed. "I guess we'll find out together, huh?"

  Keith dropped the higher-than-thou act. "You're freaking me out, Low. Are you going to do it or do I have to cancel? Maybe I should send Rane."

  I was freaking out myself. But there was the small matter of not letting anyone down. This was my job. "Sorry, no. I'm fine. I'll be fine, Keith. Everyone can count on me."

  I hung up the phone and considered. Rane would know how to do this. Rane would tell me how to charm the fucking pantyhose off of Maria Whatsherface and not make a complete ass of myself on live television.

  But what if you don't need him?

  The thought floated in front of my brain, as fleeting and indistinct as the mist rising up from the waterfall where my father used to take us camping as kids. But the second I turned my attention to it, it solidified.

  They don't want Rane, they want you.

  They're asking for you.

  This is your thing.

  Yours.

  I looked down at my phone, still clutched in my hand in a death grip.

  My thumb moved on its own.

  Back to the text messages.

  Back to Zoe.

  The last picture, her fingertip pressed into her lip, dragging it down a little, the way my teeth would if I ever got the chance to kiss her again.

  Before I knew it, I was typing.

  Chapter 11

  Zoe

  Low: Will you watch and tell me how I do?

  I had to keep going back and re-reading the last text he'd sent me.

  He was the drummer in the biggest band in rock 'n' roll. He was the face of an ad campaign that was swiftly going viral. Saturday Night Live had already parodied it with an ad for a fake fragrance called Listless, and the accompanying sketch had over 6 million hits on YouTube. The ad itself was blowing up the Internet, with memes and homages to it already sprouting up all over. Not to mention the small factor that the stores couldn't keep the fragrance on the shelves.

  He was the hottest thing around....

  And he wanted me to watch him and tell him if I thought his interview went well.

  I did a giddy little shimmy as I read it again. Then I silently opened my bedroom door and padded through the sleeping house to turn on the TV.

  Good Day LA was a thing I knew existed but never paid attention to in the past. The occasional blooper or viral thingie on YouTube; that was the extent of my viewership.

  But now I, like so many other people around this vast city, was sitting back on my couch, coffee cup in hand, and watching the show unfold.

  I drummed my fingers impatiently on the couch cushion and it occurred to me that I had never seen him in the daylight. Sitting alone in my living room, I wondered if this counted as a date. He'd set a time, and I'd shown up. Yeah, we weren't face-to-face, but I was almost as nervous.

  At least for this kind of date, I didn't have to straighten my hair.

  I smiled at the fluffy segment about baby yoga. I cringed through my fingers at the fear-mongering segment about tarantula migrations. Then finally the anchor announced the moment I'd been waiting for.

  "And up next... If you can't be a rockstar, at least you now can smell like one. We've got Lowell Stowe, from Ruthless!"

  The camera cut to him sitting on a couch in a green room somewhere, leaning forward, his elbows on his jittering knees, his long fingers laced together. He looked up at the camera and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  No, that look was more than a suggestion. It was one of expectation.

  When it cut to commercial, I looked around and realized that sometime in the past thirty seconds I had slid to the floor. I was now barely two feet from the television.

  When the commercial was over, he was on set, sitting across from the anchors. He already had them laughing.

  And I was already smiling from ear to ear.

  "Here with us today is Lowell Stowe..."

  "Low," he interjected, reaching for his mug. Then he smiled and I felt my insides drop. The way he slid his tongue over his lower lip was so disarming that the f
emale anchor nearly dropped her pen.

  Holy shit, it was him. I reached for my phone, and just for good measure, I swiped to the pictures he had taken and held them up to compare. Same strangely warm eyes. Same lazy smile. Same dark hair, thick and glossy, that fell in a shock across his face when he leaned forward, forcing him to run his long fingers through it again and again.

  The guy on the TV was the guy who had texted me.

  Me.

  It was enough to make me forget that this entire sad year of failure ever happened. My shell was falling to pieces, all around me.

  I pressed the tips of my fingers to my lips and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. It was something charming, that was for sure. The female anchor was laughing very loudly and batting her eyelashes at him. He took another sip from his mug.

  And then the camera panned away and a car commercial blared in my face.

  It was over. I sat back on my heels, wondering why I felt so crestfallen.

  "You're up early."

  I nearly jumped a mile to hear my mother's voice over my shoulder. I had been so lost in what I was seeing that I hadn't even noticed her come down the stairs, much less enter the room. I scrambled up off of the floor and hit a bunch of buttons on the side of the TV at once, too addled to look for the remote. The picture on the screen turned hypercolor but did not go away.

  Why did I feel guilty? Like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar?

  "Just enjoying the quiet," I stammered, taking a deep, steadying breath and reaching for the remote. The show was back on, closing credits appearing over a shot of Low, walking off the set, waving to the ardently cheering crowd. I felt like standing and applauding myself.

  My mom shook her head. "I need more caffeine in my system before I can even begin to try to figure out what you're up to right now," she said, and turned to stagger, zombielike, into the kitchen.

  I sat back on the couch, clutching my ice-cold mug.

  Then my phone started to ring. I spilled my coffee across the couch, cursed, grabbed the throw blanket off the back, used it to mop up the spill and then answered my phone all in the space of about ten seconds. "Hello?" I said breathlessly, giving the coffee soaked blanket a sharp kick in the direction of the laundry room.

  "Did you watch?" he asked, by way of greeting.

  At the sound of his voice, low, slow, and sleepy, and even better, just for me, my whole body when into high alert. My palms began to sweat, sending my phone sliding down my cheek. I let out an impatient little squawk, grappling with my phone, which seemed to suddenly be coated with Teflon. When I finally jammed the thing back into my ear, he was laughing. "You okay over there?"

  "Yes, sorry," I breathed. "But, to answer your question, yes. Yes, I did watch." I sounded way more bitchy and sarcastic than I meant to be. This was the first time he and I had actually used the phone to talk to each other. I missed the breathing room that texting gave me to think over my replies. I was much better in print than I was in person.

  "I don't believe you," he teased.

  "Well, how the heck am I supposed to prove it to you?" I demanded, keeping my voice low. "I am sitting here, in my living room, with Good Day LA still on." I turned up the volume and held out the phone for him to hear the music.

  "Yeah, no, you could have just turned it on right now when I called," he said skeptically. He paused for a moment. "I know, tell me what I was wearing?"

  "Some sort of weird deconstructed tuxedo thing," I answered immediately. I should know, I had practically memorized the way it clung to his torso like a second skin. "I need to speak with whoever dressed you."

  He burst out laughing. "Aw man, I thought it looked cool." I could hear him lick his lips. This was a definite benefit to talking versus texting that I hadn't considered before. The ability to hear the little sexy sounds that he made. "I should hire you as a stylist."

  I laughed. "That would be a terrible thing to do for your career. You should see what I'm wearing now."

  "Oh yeah?" he said, rather quickly and more than a little bit sly. "What are you wearing right now? Tell me."

  I felt the flush gather across my cheeks. "Oh wow, that was smooth."

  I could hear the smile in his voice. "It was, wasn't it? How about this one," he said. "What are you wearing tonight?"

  "Tonight?" I was confused.

  "Tonight. You're saying the interview went well?"

  I hadn't heard a word of it. "Yes," I said. "It went great. You were wonderful."

  "I was hoping I could get you to say that."

  I blushed.

  "So you need to help me celebrate," he went on. "Tonight. You doing anything? Need to watch your brother?"

  "Uh," I stammered. Both my mom and Greg would be home as far as I knew. Leaving me with no reason to say no, except the lingering pieces of the shell that was bursting open by the minute. "Sure."

  "Great," said Low. "It's a date."

  A date. I was now going on a date with a rockstar.

  I hung up the phone, flung myself on the couch, stuffed a pillow in front of my face and screamed.

  Chapter 12

  Low

  I hung up the phone, feeling fucking triumphant.

  By all accounts, the interview had been fantastic. Both anchors congratulated me as soon as the cameras switched off, and I was fairly certain I had succeeded in Keith's goal for me. While I didn't know the exact state or location of her pantyhose, Maria Whatsherface at least looked completely charmed.

  And what was even better, Zoe had liked it too.

  I shook a few more hands, waved to the crowd that seemed to follow me everywhere these days, and headed back to the green room to get out of the tuxedo Zoe hated. Maybe I'd give it to her, let her burn it. She'd probably get a laugh out of that.

  Maybe I'd make her take it off of me first.

  My big, dumb grin was reflected back at me from across the dressing room. I sat down in the creaky chair and pushed it backward onto two legs.

  It was strangely pleasant to be alone after a show like this. If I'd ever been alone like this before, it was a long, long time ago.

  A long, long time ago, I was the one who'd noticed the flyer. It was hanging on the bulletin board at our elite private school, nearly covered by a reminder to order yearbooks, and sandwiched next to notices about soccer tryouts.

  A call for an audition, but this had nothing to do with school. A couple of musician brothers were looking to form a band across town somewhere. Up until that moment, I had never even considered being in a band, but as soon as I saw the flyer, I had never wanted anything more.

  It was something that could be mine. Everything I had was ours, everything I did was together, and to a skinny, fifteen-year-old kid with the world on his shoulders, that flyer looked like freedom. It looked like an escape.

  I looked over my shoulder, then furtively ripped it down and stuffed it in my backpack before anyone of the more talented kids could see it and become my competition.

  Pepper was the real musician in our little family. She spent hours down in our basement, practicing scales and arpeggios on the rickety old upright that we had inherited from my dad's mom, back when we still called her Grandma.

  That piano was so important to Pepper that my mother had allowed it to remain in the house even after she purged it of all other traces of our father's existence.

  Me? I'd only picked up the drum six months prior, brought them home from a garage sale as a way to annoy my mom.

  "I'm practicing!" I'd shout, banging away like an idiot any time she asked me to do some chores.

  She'd sigh one of her exhausted sighs, and just walk away. Life had already defeated my mom by that point. Long before her idiot teenaged son could attempt to finish the job.

  "I'm going to try out for this band," I said, slapping the flyer down at our kitchen table that night. "They're over in Kenmore. Can you drive me?"

  My mom looked up at me. The bags under her eyes were getting heavier now, puff
y and purple, like no amount of sleep would ever make her feel normal again. I heard her crying at night and put on my headphones to drown it out. Looking back, it was so clear the path she was headed down. But I was just a selfish teenager. It never occurred to me back then just how sad she'd become.

  "You know the drill," my mother sighed.

  I smacked my hand on the table. "Aw man, really? I gotta bring her?"

  The incessant basement piano playing stopped and I knew that Pepper was listening. Back then she didn't speak at all. But she always heard everything that was said around her.

  "That's our deal, Lowell. You bring your sister with you. To everything."

  Impotent rage heated my veins. "Why can't I ever do anything by myself? Why do I always have to drag Pepper to everything? She doesn't talk, Mom, do you know how weird that is? Do you know how awkward it is to always have to make excuses for her? 'Oh, here's my sister, she's gonna just sit in the corner and stare at you and not say anything.' Don't you know what that does to me?"

  My mother's eyes snapped and I instantly cut my tirade short, my cheeks burning. My mom didn't say anything. She didn't need to. I felt shitty enough for even saying it.

  "You have to look out for Piper," my mom said sadly, echoing a refrain I'd heard my whole life. "You're the only one she trusts."

  Only the slight tightening around her eyes betrayed how much it cost my mom to admit that her own daughter didn't trust her. And hadn't for years.

  The next night, we rolled up to the garage on Wallace Street. I helped Pepper unload her electronic keyboard and waved to my mom as she pulled away.

  The garage door rolled up and a cloud of cigarette and weed smoke rolled out like a fog. A raspy voice barked out from the interior, "Whaddya want?"

  "I'm, we're, here for the audition."

  "Drummer?"

  I gestured to my sister. "And keyboards."

  "We're not looking for keyboards. This is a rock band, not a fucking jazz trio."

  I looked back at Pepper. She was staring at the ground, two spots of color burning at the tips of her ears. Trying out had been my idea. My plan of escape. Something I could do that was all mine, without the burden of my twin dragging me down. I closed my eyes, picturing the ease of hanging out in this garage, shooting the shit with a bunch of guys my own age, free of the responsibility I'd had my whole life.