Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place
By Portia MacIntosh
Copyright © 2013 by Portia MacIntosh
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One: Out of the frying pan, into the crowd
Chapter Two: Tat for tit
Chapter Three: The wranglers new clothes
Chapter Four: Get inked or die trying
Chapter Five: I put a spell on you
Chapter Six: A man about a dog
Chapter Seven: The world’s oldest profession
Chapter Eight: I’m northern, not an alien
Chapter Nine: Hugh G Rection
Chapter Ten: Rascals, scoundrels, villains and knaves
Chapter Eleven: Is it because he's a Leo?
Chapter Twelve: Looking for Lola
Chapter Thirteen: Finding the sausage
Chapter Fourteen: Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
Chapter Fifteen: Is he a pig? He sure eats like one
Chapter One: Out of the frying pan, into the crowd
They say when you can’t find something the first thing you should do is look for it in the last place you remember seeing it. Well the last time I saw the thing I have misplaced, he was up on stage performing some of his greatest hits in front of 50,000 screaming fans. I am, of course, talking about super-famous rockstar Dylan King – best known for being the lead singer in The Burnouts, less known for being my best friend.
We first met when I was just starting out as a music journalist and he made it his mission to sleep with me. He pulled out all the stops to impress me, but the harder he tried the harder I resisted and I’m so glad that I did because I’d rather have him as a friend than a famous notch on my bedpost. There are downsides to being his best friend, though. Dylan is what you’d call a liability, and despite his fame and his ability to sell records, his record label know that he can be unpredictable and they’re constantly telling him to watch his behaviour – this is like telling a bull to ignore the colour red because Dylan only views their warnings as a challenge to see just how far he can push them, and one day he will push them too far. That’s where I come in. I’m a Dylan wrangler. I’m the only one who is always there in the background, regulating his rebellious behaviour and making sure he doesn’t take things too far. I’m the one who makes sure he is on time for sound checks, the one who makes sure he carries condoms and the one who always tries to make sure there is a little blood in his alcohol stream. The reality is that Dylan is almost always drunk, he has little respect for women and he thinks that he is God. Still, I love him to bits, and I’m happy to do all the things his tour manager is paid to do. It’s not that Claire doesn’t do her job well, it’s just that Dylan doesn’t listen to her.
Speaking of Claire, I spotted her in the press tent, so I wander over to see if she has any idea where Dylan is.
‘Hey Claire, how’s it going?’
‘Nicole, hello. Not bad, although your boy is drunk,’ she replies.
Why is it that he’s my boy when he does something wrong? I don’t get the credit or the big paycheques when his sell-out tours go well.
‘When isn’t he?’ I joke. ‘Have you seen him since he came off stage?’
‘Oh yes. It was immediately after he came off stage, actually. He asked me if I had heard of his band and then he tried to kiss me.’
I burst out laughing, although Claire isn’t amused. All these years she’s worked for him, and he still doesn’t recognise her when he’s smashed. Then again, when Dylan is smashed he is capable (or not capable in some cases) of anything.
‘Mikey is just doing an interview, why don’t you ask him?’ Claire suggests. ‘And when you do find Dylan, tell him I need a word.’
I decide to hang around and wait for Mikey, Dylan’s younger brother/band mate. Mikey is probably more talented than Dylan, but Dill has the balls needed to be a front-man. He's not quite as tall, dark or handsome as his brother - and he behaves himself - so he is often overshadowed by his older sibling. Mikey is happy, so long as he is strumming his guitar and writing incredible songs for Dylan to sing.
‘Yo, Mike,’ I call out as soon as he is done taking questions.
‘Hey, Nic. Did you enjoy the show?’
‘I did,’ I tell him – and I mean it. I watched it from down in the photo pit, that’s the best seat in the house. Well, the best standing position in the field, this is the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow after all – a one-off summer show situated in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere, with only the best of the best from the music biz invited to perform.
‘You haven’t seen Dylan, have you?’ I ask.
‘Nope. He ran off stage as soon as we finished our set and that was the last I saw of him.’
I noticed that he ran off pretty sharp-ish too. One minute he was thanking the audience for being the best crowd ever (like he always does) and the next he was gone. Just like that.
A worried look spreads across my friend’s face – he knows Dylan, he knows what he’s like – he knows that finding him might not be that easy.
‘No worries, dude. I’ll have a look around, he’ll be here somewhere.’
Mikey doesn’t seem very comforted by my words, but that’s about as much reassurance as I can fake right now. I know that Dylan gets distracted by things (usually girls) and wanders off, and when he does he can be a nightmare to find. I won’t panic yet though, not until I’ve looked everywhere.
I flash my pass so that I can search all the different backstage areas but Dylan is nowhere to be seen. Even more worryingly, no one but Claire can recall seeing him since he was on stage.
I run my hands through my long blonde hair and let out a sigh of exasperation, but then something catches my eye – a little door hidden behind a huge security bloke. That’s the door that goes out into the crowd. We drove straight into the backstage area, so there would be no need for Dylan to go through that door, in fact it would be quite stupid for Dylan to go through that door because he would be mobbed by adoring fans.
‘Excuse me, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Dylan King from The Burnouts since he came off stage have you?’ I ask – it can’t hurt to ask, can it?
‘Are you kidding?’ he asks, his tough-guy expression melting into a huge grin. ‘He signed my abs!’
The big security guy whips up his shirt and shows me his pen-marked stomach. The signature is all wiggly from where the pen has passed over the contours of his impressive eight pack, but it’s definitely Dylan’s autograph.
‘Awesome, you can cover that back up now,’ I tell him, a little freaked out by all the muscle and the fact he wanted Dylan to put a pen to it. ‘So where did he go?’
‘Out there,’ he tells me, gesturing towards the little door behind him with his thumb.
‘Into the crowd?’ I ask, unable to hide my fear.
‘Yeah.’ He laughs manically. ‘I told him not to.’
So let me get this straight, a very drunk Dylan King has ventured out into the 50,000-strong crowd. The man can’t even go to Starbucks without getting mobbed, why would he think this was a good idea? What’s even more worrying is that, if we say half of the crowd are female, that’s 25,000 girls he could potentially… get distracted by.
Oh Dylan, why do
you make my job so difficult? This isn’t even my job, I’m a journalist. That’s the real reason I’m here today, to cover the event, not to hand-hold the elusive Mr King. Somehow I always end up doing both.
It’s 6pm now. I’ll have a quick glance around the crowd for movement – any movement that looks like a rockstar being mobbed – and if I still haven’t found him… well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Chapter Two: Tat for tit
‘The fucker!’ Claire yells. ‘Fucker, fucker, fucker.’
‘I get it, he’s a fucker, but stating the obvious isn’t going to achieve anything.’
I may be used to Dylan’s bullshit, but Claire cannot tolerate it. I had to tell her though, I can’t be expected to find him all on my own. Oh, and she is paid to handle him, whereas I’m just his mug of a friend.
‘You know he’s supposed to be playing a show for the Magical Star Foundation tomorrow,’ Claire rants. ‘I thought the challenge was going to be getting him to sober up for a kids’ charity gig, not putting together a last-minute press release saying we found him dead in a ditch and therefore he cannot perform.’
‘Claire, relax. We’re not going to find him dead in a ditch, there are no ditches in this field.’
‘I will dig a ditch and kill him in it myself if he doesn’t turn up soon,’ she fumes.
I don’t point out to her that this would be counterproductive.
‘Listen to me, Claire, I know how Dylan operates. I’ll find him, don’t worry.’
‘You’d better,’ she warns me. ‘Because I’m sick of his shit. I won’t be covering for him, if he isn’t checked out of his room and on the tour bus by 6pm tomorrow then we are leaving without him. The label can deal with him as they see fit.’
‘Leave it with me. He’s probably with some girl – somewhere. I’ll find him and he will be on the bus at 6pm tomorrow. Take the night off, relax in the hotel spa, you’ve earned it.’
Has she bollocks earned it, but she wants Dylan’s head on a stick and she’ll only hold me back. Sometimes I feel like she wants him to get in trouble, even if it’s just so that he learns a lesson the hard way, but all that will do is get him dropped by his label, he’ll drink his fortune away and end up recording irritating car insurance ads for local radio. The final nail in his career’s coffin will be an appearance on Never Mind The Buzzcocks, in the line up of people who used to be someone.
‘Fine. But Nicole, if you do find him, please make sure he behaves tonight. Not too many girls, not too much drink, and if anyone at the hotel tries to offer him drugs, do be careful.’
I laugh, rather manically. Claire just stares at me, clearly not getting what is so funny.
‘You said doobie,’ I explain. ‘If they offer him drugs, doobie careful.’
Still nothing, not even a smile.
‘Here.’ She drops his backpack at my feet. ‘He’s your problem now.’
As Claire storms off I pull faces at her behind her back. She’s in the wrong line of work for someone who hates musicians so much, but maybe I’d be grumpy all the time if I had to deal with Dylan’s shit for a living.
I have a look through Dylan’s bag – not that I’m expecting to find a map that will lead me straight to him or anything, but you never know. As luck would have it, it’s not what is in his bag that gives me a clue, it’s what isn’t there – his phone.
Grabbing my own phone from my handbag, I call Dylan’s number and after several rings a girl answers.
‘Dylan King from The Burnout’s phone,’ she chirps with a giggle. I hate her already.
‘Hello, can I speak to Dylan, please?’
‘Who are you?’ she asks rather rudely.
‘I’m Nicole. Who are you?’
‘Nicole who?’
‘Nicole Wilde.’
The girl pauses for a moment before she replies, adopting a more serious tone to her voice.
‘Do you work for him?’
I tell her yes. She’s probably more likely to help me if she thinks I’m someone official.
‘Oh, ok.’ Her voice relaxes again. ‘Well we just had sex and he told me I’d get a signed CD. Is it your job to bring me it?’
Oh dear. I wish I could say that this was the first time something like this had happened but I’d be lying. Every now and then Dylan meets a girl with real integrity, a girl who won’t sleep with him just because he is Dylan King from The Burnouts – lucky for Dylan, these girls can usually be talked around with a signed album.
‘Is Dylan still there?’ I ask.
‘He’s gone to get champagne. So are you going to bring me my CD?’
‘Yes, just tell me where you are and I’ll bring it now.’
‘Awesome,’ she squeaks. ‘I’m at the Williamson Hotel, room 192.’
Luckily for me, The Williamson Hotel is where we’re staying – it’s the only hotel in this tiny town, which is situated somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Everyone who performed at the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow is staying here, so at least Dylan is exactly where I need him to be.
After a short taxi journey I arrive at the hotel. I had expected to find Dylan propping up the hotel bar, but he must have gone back up to see his special new friend for round two.
I knock on the door of room 192. An underwear-clad girl answers the door, completely unfazed by the fact that she is nearly naked and I am a complete stranger.
‘Are you Nicole with the CD?’ she asks me.
‘Are you the random girl with the Dylan?’ I ask in return.
She stares at me blankly, yep, she’s just Dylan’s type – nearly naked and entirely stupid.
‘Dylan never came back.’
‘Right,’ I reply. I’d pretend to be surprised to spare her feelings but I don’t think she’d even notice. ‘Well, can I have his phone, please?’
‘CD first,’ she insists.
Funnily enough I’m not in the habit of carrying around signed copies of any of The Burnouts’ albums, but I need that phone.
‘Sorry, we’re all out. It’s a busy time of year for him.’
‘Whatever,’ she replies. ‘No CD, no phone. Get me my CD or I’ll start forwarding photos.’
I cannot believe Barbie’s slutty brunette BFF is holding Dylan’s phone for ransom.
‘Ok, I’ll find you a CD,’ I promise her.
‘Awesome. Laters,’ she replies, slamming the door in my face.
‘Laters,’ I repeat to myself. I have no idea where I’m going to get one of Dylan’s CDs – let alone one he has signed. I suppose I’ll have to find the man himself for that, but I need the phone find him in the first place. It’s a catch 22 situation. Bloody rockstars.
Chapter Three: The wranglers new clothes
As I am heading back down to the hotel reception, I bump into Claire. The poor woman looks frazzled. Her short brown hair is all ruffled and unless she's been dragged through that ditch she was talking about earlier, I'd guess she's been tearing it out.
‘Here.’ She pushes a keycard into my hand. ‘The spare key for Dylan’s room, he’s your problem now.’
‘You already said that,’ I call after her, but she isn’t sticking around for a chat.
I place the keycard safely in my purse. I’m supposed to be sharing a room with Dylan tonight so I would have needed it anyway – not that I’ll be getting any sleep until I find him.
I hear girls screaming outside the hotel as more musicians are ushered in by security. As I look outside I see a lot of Dylan fans, but one in particular who is right at the front of the barrier could be the answer to my problems.
‘Excuse me, did Dylan sign that t-shirt today?’ I ask her.
‘He sure did,’ she tells me excitedly. ‘Not that long ago actually, he came out here and spoke to us. I’m his biggest fan.’
‘That’s great. How much for the t-shirt?’ I ask, cutting to the chase. If I can’t get the chick in room 192 a signed CD, maybe a t-shirt will do.
The fan gasps. ‘It’s n
ot for sale!’
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘I’m a friend of Dylan’s, I can get you something even cooler.’
‘Yeah, right,’ she says with a laugh. ‘If he’s your friend, why not get him to sign that dress you’re wearing?’
‘Like I’d let him anywhere my Alexander McQueen with his marker pen,’ I say, mainly to myself, although now I have her attention.
‘That is a nice dress,’ she says, smiling widely.
‘Thank you, it’s…’ I trail off because I know what she’s thinking. ‘No way! Never going to happen! For starters, I am wearing it, I can’t take it off. Also, do you know how much it cost?’
‘I have an idea,’ she says, raising her eyebrows. ‘And anyway, I’m wearing this t-shirt. You can’t leave me topless.’
I massage my temples as I think for a moment. She’s right, I can’t leave her without clothes, but I can’t give her this dress. I love this dress. But if I don’t find Dylan there will be trouble. I suppose Dylan can buy me a new one… but I’ll still be bottomless in the meantime.
‘I don’t have any other clothes with me,’ I tell her honestly.
‘That’s ok, you can have my shorts too.’
Wow, isn’t she generous?
‘Fine.’ Well, what else can I do? I need that phone, so it’s bye-bye favourite dress.
The fan stars unbuttoning her shorts.
‘Erm, can we do this in the toilets or something?’ I ask her, just in time to stop her taking them off in front of all these people.
She nods, and I gesture for a security guard to let her passed the barrier.
In hotel ladies’ room we make the swap. My beautiful pink dress in exchange for her super-short denim jeans and her signed t-shirt.
‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ the girls say as she leaves the bathroom.
The pleasure is all hers. I’m lucky we are almost the same size, but this look is a little bit boy-ish for my girly-girl taste. Dylan will not only be replacing my dress, he’ll be buying me a whole new wardrobe to make up for this. My only problem now is that when I hand the t-shirt over to the girl in room 192, I’m going to be wandering around in my bra. Hopefully if I call Mikey he will bring me a spare t-shirt or a hoodie or something.
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