by Hamel, B. B.
I glance over in his direction and am a little surprised to see him chatting with that same big-titty groupie I just shot down. Go ahead, man, get at it.
“He looks happy enough,” I say.
Chase chuckles. “Been a while since he chatted up a girl, yeah?”
“A real long while,” I agree. “Was starting to think he’d never get it back.”
“Maybe he’s going to chill out.”
I laugh a little bit at the thought. “Nathan, relaxing? I doubt it.”
“You never know.”
“Stranger things, I guess.” I shrug and turn away as a few girls come over. Chase steps up to deal with them and I’m craning my neck, searching for Grace one more time.
I don’t know why I suddenly crave her approval so badly. That show was fucking sick, I felt in the zone the whole time, we made almost no mistakes at all, everything was flowing. The crowd was into it best of all, loud and on their feet. The Thalia is an old opera house, with a balcony above a central seating space, but even the balcony was standing. I felt like we were on fire.
I feel fucking pathetic, like I need her approval or something. I really don’t. I’ve never needed anyone’s approval. The screaming crowds are approval enough for me.
Grace though… she’s different. I want her to think I’m amazing. It’s fucking pathetic.
I do a lap, but don’t spot her. As I’m heading toward a seat in the corner, fending off fans and groupies alike, Karl materializes in my peripheral, heading straight toward me.
“Bad news,” he says, his face grim as I turn toward him.
“What happened?” My heart spikes, beating fast.
“Your little friend at Pitchfork works face,” he grunts. “She posted the interview already.”
My mind’s working double-time. “Are you kidding? We saw her, what, a few hours ago?”
“And she probably started working the second she left.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You’d better go read.”
I frown at him for a second. “And Grace?”
He shakes his head. “Just go read it.”
I walk away from him as fast as I can, pulling my phone from my pocket as I sneak out the back of the venue.
* * *
It’s not what she says but the way she says it. Grace Carter is practically a groupie, worshipping at the altar of Joss Myers, rock star extraordinaire. She stares up at him like he’s a saint and she’s basking in the glow of his holiness.
I want to puke the whole time I’m around her.
The thing is, the relationship is so one-sided it’s almost disgusting. I don’t know how she can’t see it. Joss described her as an “intern,” and barely paid any attention to her as the interview went on. He was too busy talking about his new album, which is admittedly pretty fantastic.
But none of this is gospel truth, of course. I’m not really a reporter. I’m just relaying the impressions I got. To me, at the time, it felt like Joss couldn’t care less about his young little pretty wife, and Grace was willing to wash his feet.
This is the problem with celebrity marriages. There’s a power imbalance inherent in it. Grace, the young intern, seduced by the rock star. I almost feel bad for her, if it wasn’t so obvious.
Anyway, here’s what I got. Read it for yourself, and draw whatever conclusions you want. As for me, I’ll be staying far, far away from this so-called “romance.”
At least the new album is rocking.
Jesus fucking shit.
It’s a hatchet job. As I ride the elevator upstairs, I don’t know why Fanny would do this. I try her cell but of course she doesn’t answer. I’m too shocked to leave her an angry message, which is probably for the best. I’d just make it worse.
I keep reading, going through it for a second time. It’s the most unprofessional, absurd piece of shit I’ve ever seen. I mean, Pitchfork runs some iffy crap but this… this is a hatchet piece, plain and simple.
And she edited the interview. She cut out most of it, and what she did print is all chopped around and changed. We said most of the sentences, but not in the order she presented.
Which is a huge fucking mistake. I know Karl made her sign something before going forward, and I know he’s not stupid enough to give her full control. There’s no way he’ll allow her to print anything like this.
I call Karl as I’m on my way to Grace’s room.
“Get it pulled,” I say when he answers on the second ring.
“Already on it.”
“And fucking get her fired. What the fuck, Karl? Why would Fanny do this?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I don’t think she’s long for this industry.”
“Fucking shit. I’m so fucking pissed right now. It’s a goddamn hatchet job.”
“It’s coming down. Just breathe.”
“Get it done.”
I hang up and take Karl’s advice for once in my life. I take a deep breath.
And then I knock on Grace’s door.
She answers after a short wait. Her eyes are red and puffy, and clearly she’s been crying.
“Grace,” I say softly.
“Save it.” She stands there, staring out at me. “You read the interview? Or whatever the hell that was.”
“That was insane,” I say to her. “Fanny lost her mind. Honestly, Grace, that never, ever happens. The article’s coming down and she’s going to get fired.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Grace says. Her eyes are sad, not angry, which only pisses me off even more. “It’s all over the internet. My phone’s ringing off the hook again. My parents are worried.”
“It’ll be okay. We’ll fix this.”
“She made me look like some… some… pathetic groupie.”
“She made me look like a self-absorbed egomaniacal bastard preying on you.”
“You’re famous, Joss. This is going to slide off you like water. If anything, you’ll sell more albums, since she went out of her way to say how good the new record is.” Grace shakes her head. “I’m not built for this. I never wanted anything like this.”
“Grace, we’ll fix it, I’m so—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She blinks and I can tell she’s fighting tears again. I want to step toward her, touch her, kiss her, tell her it’ll be fine and really mean it. But she’s flinching away from me like I’m about to smack her and it’s tearing me into pieces.
“I think I have to be done,” she says softly. “I don’t know. I think I have to walk away.” She shakes her head.
“Grace…”
“I’m sorry, Joss. This is a lot. I have to think.”
“I’ll fix it.”
She smiles sadly. “I’m sure you think you will.”
Without another word, she shuts the door.
I’m left standing there, my guts on the floor.
21
Grace
I wake up the next morning and it’s almost like everything’s been a dream.
Meeting Joss, marrying him in Vegas, running away with him on this tour. Fucking him, wanting him. Hating him.
I groan, rubbing my eyes. It’s six in the morning. I probably slept for a few hours, and I know sleep isn’t coming back anytime soon. I reach for my phone, but stop myself.
I turned it off for a reason. The world thinks I’m a weak, abused little girl. They think Joss is forcing me into this, keeping me prisoner.
Truth is, he’s not. I know I can leave at any time. I know I can divorce him at will. Joss isn’t a monster.
I’m here because I want to be here. Or at least I used to.
Now though, I don’t know what I want. It’s been hard, really hard. Trying to understand how Joss feels, trying to understand what I feel, that’s difficult enough without the outside world making comments and assumptions.
Anything good that was starting to build between us feels flimsy and stupid now that the harsh light of reality is shining.
Fanny rip
ped me apart. She made me look stupid in that interview. It’s down now, went down late last night, but that doesn’t matter. It’s still everywhere, snippets pulled from the main source and shared all over Twitter and Facebook. The new story is all about Fanny in the mainstream press, but everyone else is talking about me and Joss still.
People think what Fanny wrote is probably still true. Even if it’s not, and she took stuff out of context, her basic point remains: Joss is a famous rock star, and I’m a nobody. We can’t possibly have anything real, not with a crazy power imbalance like that.
And honestly, I’m starting to think they’re right.
I climb out of bed, groaning. I don’t know why I’m letting these voices in. I head into the bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into some clean clothes. Bought for me thanks to Joss, of course.
I leave my room. I need a break, need to get out of there. I’m relieved to find the hallway empty. I head down into the lobby and walk into the little continental breakfast area. I grab some coffee and as I’m about to sit alone at a corner table, I spot Landon sitting alone.
He looks up at me and grins. He waves me over. I stand there for a second, thinking about running away, but I let out a breath and go over to him. I don’t want to be a total bitch.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I answer, and frown when I get a better look at him. “Did you go to sleep yet?”
“Nope.” He grins and holds up his coffee cup. I get a whiff of vodka and make a face. “Keep me company. It’s pathetic, drinking alone in the morning.”
“Maybe you should stop drinking and go to sleep.”
“What’s the point of that?”
I sigh and sit down across from him. “I don’t know. So you’re functional tonight for the show.”
“I’ll be functional, don’t you worry.” He eyes me a little and sips his vodka. “You look like shit.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Funny, coming from you.”
“Right? True, though.”
“I know. I didn’t sleep well.”
He nods. “I saw the article. Or whatever the fuck that was.”
I glance away from him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. You don’t have to. I’m just saying, I have some idea of what you’re going through.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Really? How?”
“You’re getting fame-fucked. We all go through it.”
“Fame… fucked?”
“Yep. Fame-fucked.”
“I don’t want to ask, but I guess I’m going to. What is that?”
“It’s when fame unrolls its big, fat, long, thick, hard fucking cock and fucks you with it. Right in the eye, or wherever you don’t particularly enjoy getting fucked.”
I shake my head, grinning a little despite feeling like my world is crashing all around me. “Really subtle metaphor.”
“Thanks.”
“But I don’t think that’s it. I mean, some woman wrote an insane article that made me look like this pathetic loser, and now the whole internet is talking about how I’m getting abused or I’m some stupid star fucker or something. It’s horrible.”
He nods sagely. “You’re right. It’s horrible.” He pauses, drinks. “But we all go through it.”
“It’s not the same. You’re part of the band… you’re getting the benefits.”
“True,” he admits. “It’s funny, though. Sometimes I think it’s worse, being part of the band.”
“Why?”
He shrugs a little, grinning like a moron. “I’m just the drummer. What do I know?”
I drum my fingers on the tabletop, watching him. He grins back at me. “Is that it?” I ask.
“Something like that. People think drummers are a certain way… and we are, I guess, but still. It’s frustrating. Early on, I didn’t understand it.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Just some articles about how wild I am, how crazy I can get. Little shits writing in blogs about us, you know, the serious fans that go way too far.” He sighs softly, looking wistfully over my shoulder. “I had no clue what I was getting myself into back then, when that first record dropped and we blew up. That tour was insane. Everyone wanted a piece of us… and I gave everyone what they wanted.”
“I heard some things,” I admit cautiously. “I mean, I really am a fan. I read stuff online.”
He focuses on me again. “A lot of it’s true, and I’m not much better now. I mean, look at me.” He shrugs a little, drinks. “Thing is, you have to make a decision. When you’re in this circus, you have to decide if it’s worth it. If it’s worth all the effort and the bullshit. For me, I wasn’t sure. A few articles came out, trashing my drumming, calling me out for being sloppy and out of time.” His hand tightens on his mug. “Nathan sat me down and said something I’ll never forget.”
He trails off, and I prompt him. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘We’re not doing this for reviews or fans or even for fucking fun. We’re doing it because we love to make music. So man up, you bitch.’”
I laugh softly. “Beautiful.”
“Did the trick, though.”
“I don’t make music, though. I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“You’re here because you married that asshole Joss. And you married him for a reason.”
“I don’t know what that reason is.”
“Sure, you do. You’re just not admitting it to yourself.” His eyebrow quirks at me, and he drinks again, this time tipping the mug up in the air. “Anyway, you have to figure out what you want.” He stands up and stretches, his joints creaking.
“Thanks for talking to me.”
“Anytime.” He yawns. “Might as well get some sleep before tonight’s show. Don’t wanna suck and disappoint you.” He grins at me and winks.
I laugh a little, playing with my own mug of actual coffee. “What if I don’t know?” I ask him quickly. “I mean, what if I don’t know what I want… or what he wants?”
Landon watches me for a second and makes a thoughtful face. “Well… that’s tricky. At the end of the day, though, what will you regret more? Staying or leaving? All that noise out there, it’s just noise and opinion and bullshit. They’ll forget it. But you have to live with your choice forever.” He yawns again. “Shit, I must be hammered. I’m getting philosophical.”
“Thanks, Landon.”
“Yep. Night, night, Grace.”
“Goodnight.”
He saunters away and out of the dining area. I’m left sitting at the table, staring at his empty mug. I can still smell the vodka, strong like paint thinner.
He’s right. I bet they all went through something like this, the fame-fuck. Now it’s my turn and I have to decide if I’ll let it break me or if whatever’s happening here between Joss and I is worth pursuing to the end.
I have to decide if I’ll regret leaving, or if I can weather the storm.
I get up, full of indecision, and I start walking. I don’t know where I’m headed. I drink down the rest of my mug and drop it off on a counter as I’m passing by. I think about leaving the hotel, but instead decide to go upstairs.
I ride the elevator, staring at myself in the mirror. Is this the person I am now?
I get off on our floor. I head toward my room, but walk past. I knock on Joss’s door, body still roiling, mind a mess.
He answers almost as if he were waiting for me. He looks about as tired as I do, except also perfect.
“Morning,” I say.
He runs a hand through his thick hair. “Morning, Grace?”
“Let me in.” It’s not a question.
He steps aside. I realize he’s not wearing a shirt.
Actually, he’s only wearing his boxer briefs.
The door shuts behind me. I turn around and face him as he walks in my direction. Tattoos, lean muscle, tan skin, sultry eyes. He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me, and suddenly I kn
ow what I want.
I want to be devoured, swallowed up. I want to be eaten whole and destroyed.
I walk to him. He doesn’t flinch when I press myself tight against his body and kiss him.
I let out a soft moan as his tongue works its way into my mouth. I kiss him full and deep, body quivering against his. I’m so angry and upset and broken but I need this and I hate myself for it.
He pulls my shirt off, unhooks my bra. I let it drop to the floor. He unbuttons my jeans and I let him tug them down off my skin.
I push myself against him, driving him backwards. We run into the wall and he kisses me hard. I slam myself tight against his body, and I can feel his cock already hard in his boxer briefs.
He grabs my hips and turns me. He bites my lip and I groan as he pins my hands above my head. I love it, love how he crushes me.
“Asshole,” I whisper. “This is why you keep me around, right? To fuck me?”
“Because I’m the one with all the power,” he says softly.
“You’re not?”
“Not even a little bit.” His eyes are intense, desiring, but also… pleading.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do you.”
He kisses me again, dropping one hand from my wrists. I bite his lip back, biting harder. He grunts as his hand slips under my panties. I know I’m dripping wet as he slides two fingers deep inside of me. I gasp, surprised, as he pulls back to rub my clit. Pleasure blooms along my skin and I bite his shoulder.
I want to hit him, choke him, slap him. I want to hurt him.
And I want him to hurt me. Control me.
He works his fingers on my pussy, rubbing my clit, fucking me deep. I groan when he releases my other wrist and slides his hand to my throat. He squeezes, but gently. A thrill runs through me as I reach up and grab onto his hair, pulling his head back.
He grunts, eyes sharp.
He turns me, pushes me away. I tumble back onto the bed. He grabs my hips, pulling me as I scramble away. I groan as I grip the sheets, letting him spin me onto my stomach.
“I know why you’re here,” he says. He slowly slides my panties down my skin. “I know what you want from me.”
