Hating the Rich Bastard

by Hamel, B. B.

  “Boys, I don’t know if you all know this, but people love sex,” Karl says.

  “We know,” Landon answers. “Right, Chase?”

  I glare at him. “Fuck off.”

  “Fact is,” Karl goes on, speaking louder, “people believe shit like this because they think it’s funny. Even though TMI is a fucking shit-stained rag, people are talking anyway.”

  “What can I do about it?” I ask him. “I didn’t do any of that shit with that girl, I was never even alone with her, I mean, except for when she blew me or maybe we fucked, I don’t—”

  “Stop,” Karl says, wincing. “I get it. I know you’re not into pissing and spanking and baby roleplaying or whatever she claimed. You just need to lie low, let this blow over. We’ll finish the tour like nothing bad happened.”

  I glance at Nathan and he’s frowning. Clearly, he doesn’t like this strategy.

  “We can’t just sit back and let the fucking shit fly,” Landon says, probably taking the words right from Nathan’s mouth.

  “That’s exactly what you’ll fucking do,” Karl growls.

  “I agree with Landon,” Nathan says. “I don’t like this silence stuff. We should stand up for him as a band.”

  I nod at Nathan, actually a little touched.

  “If Karl says we stay silent, we stay silent.” Joss looks around at the group. “What good can come from fighting this girl?”

  “It’ll show she’s a fucking liar at least,” Landon pushes.

  “And if we do that,” Karl cuts in, “we make people start to take her seriously.”

  Everyone goes a little quiet. I look around at the guys, not sure what I even want.

  Part of me wants to fight. A big fucking part. I’m so angry I can barely breathe and I want to tear that bullshit website to pieces.

  I don’t even fully blame Ashley. To a lot of people, rock stars and movie stars are basically not really people anymore. I’ve given up my privacy, so I’m fair game.

  I can understand that viewpoint, but it fucking sucks anyway.

  Still, TMI should know better. Ashley’s just some girl trying to get a payday and a little time in the sun. TMI should know better than to print bullshit claims.

  On the other hand, I think Karl’s right about one thing. If we answer her publicly, it might make more people start to take her seriously.

  “Nobody really believes that shit,” Nathan says. “I mean, come on.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Joss says. “I’ve been reading the comments all day and following it on Twitter.”

  I perk up. “And? Our fans know it’s bullshit… right?”

  He looks away from me. “We should listen to Karl.”

  We’re all silent for a second. I stare at him, not sure what to believe.

  If my own fans think what that girl said is true, anyone could believe her. Anyone could believe that I like to dress up as a big baby and get spanked. That I like to watch her pee. Even if that stuff were true, it’s nobody’s goddamn business what I’m into.

  I’m a person. I deserve some fucking privacy.

  “We stay silent,” Karl says.

  “Fuck that,” Landon pushes back. “People are stupid. If we just tell the truth, find people to back us up, we can squash this.”

  “No,” Joss says. “We can’t.”

  “We can’t just sit in silence, it’s fucking—”

  They start arguing like that, Karl trying to talk over them but Landon getting more and more pissed. I sit there silently, letting them bicker, before finally standing up.

  “Fuck this,” I say loudly. “I can’t take this bullshit right now. You guys fight and figure it out. I’m getting out of here.”

  I head to the door. “Hold up, Chase, wait.” Joss stands, ready to come after me.

  I give him a look. “Fuck off, man.”

  He stands there for a second but withers under my gaze. I turn away and leave the bus, stepping out into the absurdly hot Arizona evening.

  I just start walking. I don’t know where I’m going, but it doesn’t matter. I have to get away from that bus.

  This is so fucked. I can’t believe our own fans are buying into that bullshit gossip. I always thought they cared about us, but obviously not.

  We’re just rock stars. We’re not actual people.

  I pull out my phone, almost desperate. I don’t know what for, though. It’s full of calls, texts, emails, all about that article. I scroll through it, dismissing notification after notification, until one catches my eye.

  It’s an email from a name I haven’t seen in a long time, sent to my personal account.

  Hey, Chase, I saw you guys were playing a show tonight in Phoenix. It’s been a while, if you have some extra time, we should meet up. It’d be cool to hang out, talk about old times, whatever, lol. Anyway. Here’s my number, text me if you want. Delia.

  I stop in my tracks. I haven’t seen Delia in a long time, although I’ve thought about her a lot. We were friends when we were kids, really close actually… we always had this weird tension, but I don’t know, we were kids, so we never acted on it.

  Then we both went to different schools, and she moved to Phoenix full-time, and Slide started taking off, and we just drifted apart. I’ve always felt bad about it, always wanted to reach out, I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to seem like a dick.

  But here she is, popping back in my life right when I need a real distraction.

  I paste her number into a text. Delia, it’s Chase. You busy?

  She responds almost right away. Hey! Not at all!

  Let’s hang.

  I feel like my world is crashing down, but a plan suddenly occurs to me. It’s stupid… probably crazy… but it worked once before.

  Well, not exactly. It worked out in the end, at least.

  I slowly start walking again, a smile on my lips. I haven’t seen Delia in a long time.

  I wonder if she’s as gorgeous as I remember.

  2

  Delia

  I’m nervous as I walk down the Phoenix sidewalk, trying to will myself not to sweat.

  I’ve been in Phoenix for years now, ever since college. I came out here for school but ended up dropping out.

  In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best move. I don’t regret it exactly, but things definitely didn’t pan out for me the way I expected.

  Nervous tingles run down my hands. I haven’t seen Chase since high school.

  Well, I’ve seen him. He’s all over the place now. Slide is huge, especially after this last album. He’s on TV, in all the music magazines, basically anywhere I want to be, there’s Chase.

  Reminding me about the one that got away and ended up with my dream.

  I sigh and clench my jaw. Cut that shit out, Delia. This isn’t a pity party, you’re just meeting a friend for a drink.

  The bar Chase told me to meet him in is just up the street. I slow down and find some shade, leaning up against a wall for a second. I’m wearing some short denim high-waisted shorts, a short white t-shirt that shows just a hint of midriff, and a long flowery vest thing. My hair’s down right now, even though I wish I could pull it back in this heat.

  I hesitate. I put it off. I should just walk in there, smile, and hug my old friend. I don’t know why I feel this way.

  Yes, I do. Chase is a freaking rock star now.

  My old friend is long gone. The goofy, kind guy I was super close with back in high school is now this international rocker. I bet he’s been with hundreds of girls, thousands of girls. I’m probably just some plain boring loser from his past.

  This is probably a charity thing for him.

  I sigh and push off the wall. Not a freaking pity party, I remind myself, and hurry to the bar.

  It’s a place called Funky Parrot. I’ve been here before with friends, actually played a couple gigs here. It’s a hipster joint, but a nicer one, for the upscale hipsters with trust funds and finance jobs. I step inside and immediately exhale as the cool AC
blasts me in the face.

  I nod at the bartender, this guy named Shredder. I’ve never asked where he got the nickname, although I suspect the Ninja Turtles tattoo on his arm has something to do with it.

  I step further into the room, looking around for Chase. It doesn’t take me long to find him, since pretty much everyone keeps glancing in his direction.

  Chase Lewis. My old high school friend, current rock god. He’s sitting alone in a booth in the back, ignoring all the people around him, sipping what looks like a glass of whisky on the rocks. I slowly walk toward him, taking him in.

  He’s gorgeous. I mean, I knew that already. I’ve seen pictures. I have eyes. He’s always been really handsome and I know he’s aged really well.

  But seeing him in person again just hammers it home. Chase is absolutely stupid handsome. He’s attractive in a way no bass player has any right to be. He should be a front man for some band, and he probably would be if he weren’t playing with one of the best front men in the game.

  Chase doesn’t see me right away. I manage to get right up to the table before he glances in my direction. At first, he looks bored and resigned, but immediately perks up.

  “Holy shit,” he says, and a grin breaks across his face. “Delia. Holy shit.”

  “Hi, Chase.”

  I can’t help but smile. His delight is infection and seems utterly genuine. Actually, I know it’s genuine. I know Chase really well, even if the years have changed him. He’s a fundamentally good person, at the very core of his self. He can be incredibly earnest, although that’s probably been toned down ever since he got famous.

  Still, I know that smile. It’s not fake, not at all.

  He stands up and pulls me into a hug. It’s weird how familiar it feels, even though he’s like four inches taller than the last time we did this.

  “You got tall,” I say. “Hard to notice that on TV.”

  He grins. “Hit a growth spurt the first week of college. Crazy, right?”

  “Crazy,” I echo. “Chase Lewis. Mr. Big Rock Star.”

  He winces. “God, don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what, rocker boy?” I grin and knock his arm.

  “Ugh, okay, okay. I get it. I’m famous now.” He grins even bigger. “You’ve been following my career closely, I take it?”

  “Yeah, right.” I laugh and slip into the booth as he sits down on the other side.

  That’s mostly a lie though. I’ve been following Slide since the start. It’s hard not to, since they’re so popular, but I also really like their music.

  Helps that I know Chase personally, too.

  “You guys are way overplayed,” I say to him.

  He laughs, nodding his head. “Can’t deny that.”

  “I mean, I think I heard that one song, what’s it called? The new single?”

  “Breathless,” he says, grinning.

  “That’s it. I heard it like three times a day when it first came out.”

  “Blame that on our manager. The guy knows how to make a single blow up.”

  “Helps when it’s actually pretty catchy.”

  “True. Wish I could take credit for that, but that one was all Joss.”

  “Huh. That’s kinda cool.”

  He leans toward me, a little smile on his face. “It’s really good to see you, Delia.”

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  All those old feelings come flooding back. I really wanted to try and keep it together, treat this just like meeting up with any other friend, but it’s impossible.

  I always wondered with Chase. Even before he got famous, I wondered. We were so close back then, and there was always that spark, that flirtation, but we just never… went for it.

  We never took that step.

  I don’t know why, looking back. I guess we were young and awkward and didn’t know how to turn a friendship into something potentially more. Or maybe we were afraid of ruining a friendship.

  I don’t know. But those feelings are still there apparently, still buried inside of me.

  Looking at Chase is waking them all up, slowly but surely.

  “What have you been up to out here?” he asks me.

  “Oh, you know, the usual.” I shrug a little bit. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch someone taking a picture.

  He doesn’t even flinch. “What’s the usual?”

  “Hanging out with friends, working, you know.” Another cellphone, another picture. I flinch a little.

  He sighs. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Comes with the territory.”

  “I guess you’re used to it.”

  He shrugs but doesn’t smile. “You never really get used to it, honestly. You just… learn to ignore it.”

  “Huh.” I look over at the people staring back at us. I want to yell at them, tell them to fuck off.

  “Don’t worry about them,” he says, pulling me back with that smile. “I want to hear more about you.”

  So I give him the overview. I dropped out of school after playing a bunch of gigs in the area and was signed to an indie label. I started my first album and eventually put it out a couple years later to basically no response from the world.

  The label dropped me not long later and I’ve been grinding it out ever since. I do the usual singer-songwriter stuff, acoustic guitar and piano mostly. I play local although I’ve toured around the southwest. I work as a waitress to make ends meet, and although losing the label was a disappointment, I’m having a great time. Things are going good.

  That’s what I tell him, at least. I don’t tell him about the string of near misses, the talent scouts that leave too early, the label guys that are into my music but just not enough to sign me, the radio stations that love my stuff but aren’t interested in playing a self-recorded demo on the air, the gigs that went great, the gigs that went like shit.

  I don’t tell him about how the grind is making me hate music, which is the real tragedy in all of this.

  I don’t tell him, because I don’t want him to pity me. Chase lives the life that I want, or at least a version of it. I don’t want his level of fame, not at all, but I do want to make music that people actually listen to. I want to be a real musician, actively recording, actively touring, instead of whatever I am right now.

  This thing right between. Not quite professional, but not an amateur, either. Just barely there, nearly making it, but never really getting to the next level.

  I don’t bother telling him any of that. I’d rather just see him smile and laugh.

  “Sounds like you’ve been working hard,” he says. “You gotta send me something.”

  “Sure, I will,” I say, although I don’t mean it. I doubt he really wants to hear anything.

  “Seriously.” He leans toward me, his pretty green eyes locked on mine. “I’m not bullshitting you. Send me something.”

  “Okay,” I say, a little breathless. My heart’s beating fast in my chest.

  He grins. “I always knew you’d do something cool,” he says. “I was jealous of you, you know.”

  “Really?” I laugh stupidly. “Well, look at you now.”

  “Yeah, I got lucky. You were always the talented one. I mean, you’re front man, you’re lead guitar, you’re everything. I just play bass.”

  I smile stupidly. It’s weird getting complimented by a real rock star, even if it’s just Chase.

  “Okay, you’re right,” I say. “I am pretty awesome.”

  He laughs and I can feel my tension slowly draining.

  He’s still Chase, the same Chase I’ve always liked. He’s the other Chase too, the rock star. But that doesn’t matter.

  He finishes his drink suddenly and stands. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

  I blink, surprised. “Okay, sure.”

  “Know anywhere decent?”

  I hesitate then nod. “Yeah. Come on.”

  I stand up and he follows me back through the room. More people take pictures, this time much bolder. Chase gives them a g
rin and a wave, almost bashful. We step back out into the evening heat and I lead him down the block, away from the expensive hipster place and toward a real bar.

  It’s a small, hole-in-the-wall place with a fading sign and a broken window covered with cardboard.

  “Are we about to get stabbed?” he asks me.

  “Probably,” I say, grinning at him. “So be cool, okay, rock star?”

  “I’ll try.”

  The place is called Artie’s, and going inside is like moving from one world into a completely new one.

  The AC blasts us. I love that feeling. Nothing better in Phoenix than going inside.

  Once we acclimate to the low light, though, I catch Chase looking around.

  “What… the hell?”

  I grin at him. “Cool, right?”

  We’re surrounded by pictures. At first, they look like really poorly shot black and white things, the sort of stuff you’d find at a garage sale in someone’s shoebox. But then you start to notice details.

  Jimmy Page, grinning madly, a beer in his hand. B. B. King leaning over the bar, head down. Phil Collins, flipping off the camera. Joey Ramone, yelling at someone with a mad grin.

  And more. Basically, every single famous musician that has ever lived has a photo on this bar.

  “Wow,” Chase says softly. “This is like… wow. What is this place?”

  “Artie’s,” I say as we head over to the bar. We sit down side by side and the bartender, this older man named Ulysses, takes our drink orders.

  Nobody stares at Chase. The place is somewhat crowded, but nobody raises a phone. Nobody even bats an eye.

  Chase isn’t the most famous person to come into this place. Hell, he’s not even in the top ten.

  “I get it,” he says, grinning at me when Ulysses returns with our drinks. More whisky for Chase, and a gin and tonic for me.

  “I thought you’d like it,” I say innocently.

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Delia, you always were good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “Making me feel comfortable.”

  I laugh and sip my drink. “Not everything’s about you, Chase.”