Interview with the Rock Star

by Rylee Swann

But I can’t even do that tonight. Can’t even lose myself for a few minutes.

  And it’s all Kace’s fault.

  “I’m such a bitch,” I mutter to the ceiling.

  I didn’t use to be that way. And I don’t want to be that way now.

  Pruny from the bath, I push myself from the tub and towel off, pulling on a fluffy robe that envelopes me in comfort. Moving to the mirror, I stare at my reflection.

  If he was behind me right now, would I let him push the robe from my shoulders? Would I be able to say no, send him away?

  Gah. I’ve got to get him out of my head. I need to focus on my life… the safe, secure life I’ve created for myself.

  I’ve got a good job, wonderful friends. I have enough money to enjoy life.

  I make a fake crying face at myself. “Is one little orgasm asking too much?”

  By the time Phyllis is there, I’ve pulled myself together and am wearing holey sweats and a Life Is a Beach t-shirt, my hair in the messiest of messy buns on top of my head.

  She shoots me a look, Chinese boxes in hand. “Good thing that camera only goes one way.”

  I pout and sink onto the couch. “I didn’t want to glam up for him.”

  She snorts. “Well, mission accomplished.”

  We eat in comfortable silence, but I can practically hear the clock ticking each second away.

  Phyllis didn’t have to hook up my laptop this time, I hadn’t touched it all day.

  So when the clock hit eights fifty-nine, she jumps to point the remote.

  Then there he is.

  “He’s on time,” Phyllis points out. “And damn does he look good.”

  My vagina squeezes in agreement. Traitor.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kace

  She’s on the other side somewhere, I know it. I can almost feel her watching me.

  “Hey, all. Welcome back to my second night of clarity. I’m in Atlanta tonight, feeling good. Not because we had a successful test performance tonight. Not because I get to sing to a whole bunch of people tomorrow. I’m excited because I got a message from her.”

  I wish I could see her. Wish I knew if she’d just smiled, or frowned, or even rolled her eyes. But I can’t see her, and I can’t let that stop me.

  Presley sent me a great question. I look down at the paper, even though I’ve committed it to memory. “She asks, ‘I wonder… what would you say to the tens of millions of children who might be tempted to try drugs?’”

  I take a deep breath. I thought I’d know exactly what to say. I’d even written a few things out, bullet points I think they’re called. But the words don’t feel right. The statistics, the rote sayings. I crumple the paper in my hands and drop it to the floor.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed before I look into the camera again.

  “Doing drugs is like inviting a demon into your home, but in this case, your home is your body. Hell, you don’t even invite it, you snort or shoot or inhale it, practically forcing it to take up residence. But once it gets inside, it never, ever, ever, wants to leave.”

  Goosebumps raise on my arms, looking like little fingers on my skin. For a moment, I think the demon might be trying to claw its way out.

  “This demon is sinister. It whispers in your ear, telling you everything it knows you want to hear. Just one more. You can quit anytime you like. Come on, you deserve it. It won’t hurt anybody.”

  My fingers begin to tremble, and I tighten my hands into fights. Yes, the demon wants me again.

  “The demon is like a lover. At first, it’s all kisses and smiles. Then the nagging begins. The whispers start to get louder and louder until they’re shouts in your ears. You try to fight it, but it starts beating at you, physically and emotionally. It becomes vicious. Its claws come out. And all you want to do is shut it the fuck up.”

  I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

  “You’ll steal from people you love to shut it up. You’ll risk going to prison to shut it up. You’ll do anything, go anywhere, be someone you don’t recognize to shut it up.”

  I stare straight into the camera.

  “And you know what? It never shuts up. It’s either whispering or screaming, but it’s always there… nag, nag, nagging, wanting to be fed.”

  In the corner of the room, I see Stephen lean forward. When I look in his direction, tears are streaming down his face. I quickly look away. I need to finish this.

  “I got lucky, kids. I had enough money to pay for rehab seven times. That’s over half a million dollars I spent on trying to get the demon out of my head. Out of my body. The demon I’d invited in. The demon that came damn near close to killing me. That caused me to lose everything. For what…? I can’t even answer it to this day.”

  I stare into the camera again.

  “Kids, don’t invite the demon in. Go rock climbing or swimming. Sit around a campfire and laugh with your friends. Kiss. Make love. Hold someone’s hand. Create memories. Memories you can actually remember. That’s the real high.”

  Emotion clogs my throat, and I clear it, then take a sip of water.

  “Keep possession of your soul. Don’t give it away.”

  I scrub my hands over my face, giving myself a minute to pull my shit together.

  “Thank you for that question, Presley. Send me another and I’ll answer it tomorrow night.”

  And she does.

  I wonder… Why do radio stations play new songs to death?

  I actually have no idea but manage to get a morning show host on the line to provide a little input.

  Then she sends me another, and another, and before I know it, an entire month has passed.

  More questions come, and I realize I’m smiling more as I give each of them some thought. Smile as I prepare for my nightly “date.”

  Some questions are snarky: I wonder… How does it feel to get kicked in the balls?

  Some are unanswerable: I wonder… Did Adam and Eve have navels?

  Some delve into my life: I wonder… How do you write songs?

  How do you play the guitar?

  How do you know if your voice goes off pitch?

  Have you ever lip synched, and if so, did you feel guilty afterwards?

  It got to where I could almost read Presley’s mood by the type of question she asked. Back in the day, I’d been good at gauging her mood the moment I saw her, but this took that instinct to another level.

  When she’s sad: I wonder… if we make the same mistakes in our next lifetime.

  When she’s mad: I wonder… how much it hurts to punch your own self in the face.

  That answer wasn’t pleasant, and I had a bruised cheekbone as proof for the next week.

  I wonder… it is scary to release a new album for everyone judge?

  That answer had been easy. “Yes.”

  I wonder… where is your dream concert location?

  “The moon.”

  I wonder… are you really clean after taking a bath?

  “Hell no, that water is nasty.”

  On and on, day after day… I become closer to her even when I’m very far away.

  Once, I almost miss a show because traffic had kept me away from my computer. So, I go straight to the store and buy an iPad I now keep with me constantly.

  The show has become popular, with more and more people viewing it every evening. It’s gotten to the point where fans bring it up, asking if I’d proven it to her yet.

  My answer is always the same. “Not yet, but I will.”

  Christmas passes, as does New Years. January fades away to February.

  As Valentine’s Day approaches, I begin to think that the day of love will be our breakthrough day. But on February fourteenth, my phone stays silent. No badass notification sounds to alert me of an email to my private email address.

  My noon, I don’t think much of it. By three in the afternoon, I become worried. By six, I’m nearly frantic. By showtime, I’m nearly out of my mind.

  “Presley…
are you there?” I ask the second the show goes live. “Are you okay?”

  Of course, my screen doesn’t answer, and I want to throw my iPad across the room.

  Has she given up on me?

  Is she hurt?

  Is she on a date?

  I still don’t have her phone number or address. I knew she’d give it to me when she was ready. But even after so many months of doing this, she’s offered nothing more than that single question each day.

  What am I doing? Am I insane? How did I ever think this stupid idea would ever work?

  Because I’m on the very edge of jumping off into hell, I force myself to take a deep breath. I’m pacing floor, and I make myself sit down.

  Since I don’t know what to do with my hands, I pick up my guitar and begin to strum the strings. It calms me down, and I look back at the camera again.

  “Presley, I hope you’re okay. I hope that more than anything. And I hope you haven’t given up on me yet. I hope you’ll still let me prove it to you.”

  I begin to sing, unsure of where the words are coming from, but they feel right as they leave my mouth…

  I’m alone with nothing to lose

  Except my heart, my deepest pain

  I throw it out, my truth, my lies

  But those bullets have no aim

  I don’t know where to look

  I speak but the words fall into the void

  My world cracking open to consume them

  Spiraling down into that dark place

  But I won’t stop

  I won’t fall

  I did that all before

  No, I won’t stop

  I won’t fall

  Because

  When nothing else matters

  It matters the most.

  As I begin to strum back through the chorus, tweaking a note and word here and there, my phone blares, playing the riff announcing an incoming email on my phone.

  I don’t jump. I don’t react at all.

  I simply, and without warning, begin to cry.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Presley

  My fingers tremble as I press send, my eyes on the screen in front of me.

  On him.

  I’m alone because it’s Valentine’s Day and Phyllis is on a date, although it might be a short one. Blind dates on the biggest dating night of the year have too much pressure on them from the start. I expect her to blast through my door at any moment, bottle of wine in one hand, ready to share a funny story.

  Last night, I lay in my bed, thinking of all the reasons why this whole thing happening between Kace and me is stupid. While the show seemed to be helping Kace, it was tearing me down question by question.

  And the jury of public opinion has been brutal. My life has become an open book with people thinking they have a right to tell me that I’m either a cold ass bitch for making him wait this long, or a stupid publicity seeking idiot for still sending him questions.

  There are hashtags trending #takehimback and hashtags trending #runlikehell.

  There are weekly “Has he proven it to her yet?” segments on the morning news shows, where the reporter goes back through my questions and his answers. “Will she or won’t she?” the reporter asks.

  Bottom line is… I’m just too afraid to trust him again.

  I’m afraid.

  It’s taken ten years to put my pieces back together. Is it wise or foolish to risk another break? Another shattering of my heart?

  I just don’t know.

  What I do know is that I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep watching his face look at me. It had gotten to be too much. Watching him without touching him.

  It’s cowardly to simply not send a question, but I don’t know what else to ask. I don’t know what to say. I hope my silence will say it for me.

  I hadn’t planned on watching the show tonight, but extreme need had me turning it on.

  I’m late logging in, and by that time, he’s pacing back and forth. He looks so panicky, so lost, that guilt hits me like a knife and I pick up my phone. I tell myself that I’m only going to email him so he’ll know I’m all right… and that I can’t do this anymore. It’s over.

  But I can’t send it. I type out the words and just stare at them, unable to send them across the country.

  I know where he is. He’s back home in Arizona. He has a week-long break from his tour, and he arrived there last night.

  As I watch, he stops pacing and grabs his guitar, sitting back down. His face is lined with worry and… what? Is this what it looks like when hope drains out of a person?

  He strums his guitar, then he begins to sing, and it feels like he’s making up words as he goes. I listen. Closing my eyes, I feel his raw voice penetrate me.

  I’ve never heard the words before, but they feel familiar at the same time. Tears stream down my face as his voice cracks and shreds during the chorus.

  But I won’t stop

  I won’t fall

  I did that all before

  No, I won’t stop

  I won’t fall

  Because

  When nothing else matters

  It matters the most.

  What am I doing?

  Am I really that ice cold bitch who enjoys watching him suffer? Am I planning on making him prove himself for the next ten years — an eye for an eye and all that?

  I won’t stop

  I won’t fall

  I find myself singing along with him, as he retests the words, reworks the chords. I remember watching him do this same thing many times. I was there when he scratched out “Lie With Me.”

  My heart is beating so hard in my throat, I can barely breathe or swallow as I open a new email.

  “Be brave,” I tell myself as I type in the words I need to say.

  With trembling fingers, I hit send. A few seconds later, the ringtone I remember from years ago blares out.

  Kace freezes, his thumb hovering over the strings.

  Then, he closes his eyes and begins to cry.

  These aren’t silent tears. These are great, wracking sobs that shake his entire body.

  I crawl from my sofa to my television and put my hands on his face.

  “Shhh…” I tell him, knowing he can’t hear me. “It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

  He’s still crying when a door bangs open behind him. I jump more than he does at the sudden noise.

  Two men rush inside.

  No… one of the men is practically dragging another man.

  I recognize them both.

  Stephen, Kace’s current manager. And James… my stomach churns just looking at him.

  What are they doing?

  “Tell him what you did,” Stephen says, shoving James in Kace’s direction.

  Kace puts down the guitar and stands, and all I can see is his body on the screen. I can’t see his face, but I see his hands clenching into fists as he faces his cousin after I don’t know how many years.

  “What’s going on?” Kace shouts.

  “Tell him,” Stephen says, his voice low and dangerous.

  “Fuck you,” James mutters and Stephen grabs him by the back of the neck and throws him on a couch.

  Stephen points a finger at him. “You tell him the truth or I’m calling the police and you can tell them the truth.”

  It’s hard to breathe. What’s going on? What truth?

  James mutters, “Fuck you,” again, but he sits up straighter. He’s farther away from the camera, and I watch him scrub his face with his hands.

  Kace moves closer to him, and I can see his entire profile now as he looks at Stephen, giving him a what the hell? look.

  Stephen pulls out his phone. “Okay, police it is.”

  “Wait, man. Just wait a second.” James scrubs his face harder and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He looks up at Kace. “Hey, cuz.”

  Kace’s hands tighten, but he doesn’t say a word.

  “Shit. Okay, here’s what went down, but you gotta know
I was doing it for your own good.” James stands, and Stephen shoves him back down. He scowls at the older man and turns to Kace again. “I did it for your reputation, man. That bitch had your balls in a noose, and I knew you’d regret getting tied down.”

  If it is at all possible, my heart hammers harder, and I wonder if it will explode. Behind me, a key rattles in my door, and I’m not surprised to see Phyllis come rushing in.

  “I’m here, girlfriend,” she shouts, a bottle of wine held over her head.

  “Shhh…”

  She holds out her phone. “I’ve been watching.” She falls to her knees beside me and puts a comforting arm around my shoulder.

  “What did you do, James?” Kace asks when the other man just sits there.

  “Fuck. I hired prostitutes and slipped you some drugs that night. It was mayo in the condoms.”

  I just stare at the screen.

  Beside me, Phyllis whispers, “Oh no.”

  Kace sinks into a chair, and his face falls into his hands. His entire body shutters, then he raises his head. His voice is stone cold when he asks, “Why?”

  James rolls his eyes, and I want to slap him. I want to claw at his face. I want to crawl through the screen and stab him with my fingernails until he’s blind.

  He shrugs, like it’s the simplest answer in the world. “Rock stars can’t get married, man.”

  And as I watch, Kace launches himself at his cousin.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kace

  My fist connecting with this bastard’s face is the most satisfying thing I’ve ever felt. Stephen even gives me time for a few good punches before pulling me off.

  I’m breathing hard and there’s blood on my hand and shirt, all over my damn couch.

  But I’m… free.

  I didn’t cheat on her. I didn’t do that.

  “Ten years!” I say, and there isn’t as much anger as I thought there should be in the situation. I’m mad, yes. But more than that, I’m just… free.

  Free from the guilt.

  I feel it lift off me in waves.

  “In addition to setting you up like that, your former manager embezzled from what I can tell so far, over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but there’s probably more. He fed your addiction by lacing the drugs he forced on you with opioids and other narcotics, ensuring that he could control you.”