Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Amanada Lawless

  “There’s some quinoa in the fridge,” Mom says, scrutinizing the wall.

  “The perfect portable snack,” Kate says, rolling her eyes, “I’ll stop somewhere along the way.”

  “Have a good shift,” I tell her.

  “You’re not leaving until the morning, right?” she asks, wrapping me up in a quick hug.

  “That’s right,” I say, “You know I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye!”

  “I don’t know,” she sniffs, “Now that you’re a big, famous musician, who’s to say if you still have time for the little people?”

  “Not you too,” I groan.

  “I’m kidding,” she grins, making tracks, “I’m just proud of my little sissy-poo!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble good-naturedly, “Get lost, weirdo.”

  Kate lets the front door slam shut behind her, and we hear her second hand car rattle to life and drive off into the distance. As I watch my mom’s emphatic, disorganized progress around the room, a powerful stab of sadness shoots through me. In no time, Kate will have enough of a cushion to find a place of her own. And I certainly don’t mean to move home once I graduate from Berklee. Thinking of her alone in this house brings stinging tears to my eyes, tears I blink away in a hurry lest she see. The three of us girls are kind of like old war buddies. We survived the utter force of destruction that was my father and made a new life for ourselves in this little nest. It was terrifying, starting over without Dad, but we made it through, stronger for the struggle.

  “Whoa!” Mom cries, as I rush forward and wrap my arms around her middle, “What’s the deal, kiddo?”

  “I’m just going to miss you,” I say softly.

  “You’ll be gone for a week,” she says, “I’m sure you’ll manage to live without me.”

  I let out a little laugh and pull away from her, my skin dappled with her yellow paint. I shouldn’t worry so much about her—Mom is nothing if not unflappable. I turn on my heel and head up to my old bedroom to pack.

  The same old posters that I put up in high school still cling to the cluttered walls of my room. I haven’t changed a thing about this space since I went away to college. There’s something comforting about knowing that this little shrine to the way my life used to be still exists somewhere in the world. When I’m away in Boston, stressing out about a vocal performance, or some insane exam, or some one night stand gone stale, I can remember that my poster of Carly Simon is right where I left it. It makes me feel a little better, every time.

  I sink down onto my faded quilt and take a deep breath. My every nerve is buzzing in anticipation of this trip. Tomorrow, bright and early, I’ll go collect Mitch from his parents’ picket-fenced shrine to normalcy. We’ll head south, all the way down to Kansas. I’ve already resolved to stop at as many oddities and pit stops along the way as possible, much to Mitch’s inevitable chagrin. I can’t help it—I love the bizarre, kitschy nooks of this country. That’s half the reason I love trucking down to the festival every year. Every time, the whole thing becomes a little more familiar. I start to recognize other regulars, truck stops, “natural wonders”. Only this year, I’ll get to be one of the chosen ones. For a few beautiful hours, I’ll be the one singing into the heavy summer air, listening to my music float up into the clear, starry sky and out over the country.

  Humming happily through a new melody that’s been stuck on my mind of late, I rummage under the bed for my luggage. The sudden ringing of my cell phone startles me, and I smack my head roughly against the underbelly of the bed. Yelling out a string of creative curses, I pull myself back into the open and fumble through my purse. Mitch’s name is blaring across the screen of my phone. Even his ring tone sounds moody.

  “Yes?” I say, answering the call.

  “Have you seen it?” he demands angrily.

  “Seen what?” I ask, “Mitch, what are you—?”

  “Turn on a computer,” he growls. I hurry across the room to my desk and tap idly at the keys of my laptop. “Type our band's name into the search engine,” he tells me. I do so, and wait for the results to load. The first hit blinks onto my screen, and I feel my jaw drop a full foot.

  “Exclusive interview with Ellie & Mitch’s front woman, Eleanor Jackson,” I read, “What the hell is this? That’s a major music blog, isn’t it? I haven’t given any interviews to them.”

  “Click through to the article,” Mitch demands. I follow his orders and let my eyes travel down to the byline of the piece.

  “By Theodore Farmer,” I groan, “That twerp Teddy sold me up the river! God, I was doing him such a favor, too! The most exciting thing the Barton Bugle ever gets to write about is parking meters and the occasional teacher getting fired for smoking too much weed.”

  “This isn’t funny, Ellie,” Mitch says, his voice raking harshly across the line, “He’s got you saying all kinds of ridiculous shit in this thing. Did you really say you like the Hawk and Dove fest for the drugs?”

  “What?” I cry, “Of course not. Mitch, he’s just cashing in on his one degree of separation moment. No one’s going to believe any of it. Hell, no one will even read it, probably. No one knows who we are outside of Barton and Berklee.”

  “Really?” Mitch says dryly, “Maybe it looks like that right now, but I’ve been checking our website’s analytics this afternoon. Our page views have gone through the roof. Our band email is getting flooded. Ellie, this is exactly the kind of attention we don’t want.”

  “I thought all press was good press,” I say quietly.

  “False,” Mitch says, “If things keep up like this, we’ll never be respected as real musicians. We’ll just be another couple of hipster assholes getting high and mumbling nonsense. You’re too good for that, Ellie. We’re too good for that.”

  “I made a mistake, Mitch” I say, “I’m not exactly used to this kind of thing. Ever since we won this contest...”

  “We could still back out,” he offers.

  “No,” I say firmly, “We’re leaving for Kansas tomorrow. We can stop by Teddy’s house and egg it or something.”

  “Yeah. Maybe he’ll write an article about how we’re vandals and junkies,” Mitch sighs, “I’m going to bed. Get some rest, would you?”

  “You too,” I tell him. The line clicks off, and I toss the phone not-too-gently across the room.

  I know I shouldn’t give a crap about some dumb high school kid trying to get noticed on the Web, but this whole thing makes my skin crawl. And I hate that Mitch is trying to make me feel reckless and irresponsible over it. I know he’s trying to maintain his position of power within our little duo—he’s always been the one to make the decisions, to guide our direction. When it comes to our music, he demands control...maybe because he doesn’t have any when it comes to our relationship.

  With a heavy sigh that feels very appropriate for my teenage bedroom, I begin to toss things into my worn leather suitcase. I summon up the excitement that’s been building inside of me as the trip looms ahead. Whatever happens at the festival, our being invited to play is still a huge deal. But suddenly, and not for the first time, I wonder if going along with Mitch is the best thing for me. He’s always been my music partner by default, and I love what we do together, but his attitude is dragging me down.

  I let my eyes skirt across the room to my guitar case. I only have the most basic knowledge of the instrument—some chords and strumming patterns, no plucking or anything fancy. Mitch is the instrument guy, after all. I unfold my long legs beneath me and ease the case open, taking my starter acoustic out into the open. I settle down onto my quilt, crossing my legs and draping my arms over the body of the guitar. I hold it to me like I might a new lover—tentatively, tenderly.

  I arrange my fingers into a simple G chord and strum. The sound reverberates around my little room, and I add another chord to the pattern. I move between them, adding others when the mood strikes. The new melody begins to sing itself through me, weaving through the assortment of chords. With my voice,
I can bring new complexity to the impromptu song, offsetting the basic chords. An illicit little shudder runs through me as I let my voice slide all through my range—making music without Mitch feels a little bit like cheating.

  My hands fall still, happy with the memory of movement. I can’t quite shake the lingering tension of knowing that Mitch is angry with me, but I’m not going to let it ruin my last night at home before we set out. I place my guitar reverently down on my bed and head back toward the kitchen. Mom is still hard at work coating the wall with sunny yellow. I cross to the fridge and pull out a couple of cold beers.

  “Why don’t you take a break?” I suggest, waving the drinks in front of her.

  She smiles, her forehead beaded with sweat. “Good idea,” she says, letting her roller fall back into the tray. We trek through the front hallway and step out into the early evening air. A few rusty lawn chairs are arranged around the little deck, and we settle into them in unison. I hand her a beer and clink my bottle against hers.

  “To your trip,” she suggests, taking a sip.

  “Sure,” I say, following suit.

  “What is it?” Mom asks, her brow furrowing, “You’ve got your serious face on.”

  “It’s nothing,” I tell her, “That dumb kid from the diner gave some information to a music blog, and I guess it’s been getting attention. I’ve been getting attention, I mean. Now Mitch is all pissy, like he wasn’t already dragging his feet with this whole thing.”

  “Mitch isn’t excited?” Mom asks.

  “Not really,” I tell her, “He thinks the festival is a waste of time.”

  “Is that what you think?” she asks.

  “Of course not!” I say.

  “Well...I doubt that it’s the festival he’s upset about,” my mom says, “You know he’s been waiting for you since you two met. Waiting to be more than friends with you, that is.”

  “He can keep waiting,” I grumble.

  “People are going to ask, you know,” she says, “You can’t wander around with an asterisk between your names and not expect people to ask.”

  “We’re just friends,” I insist.

  “That’s not how it looks when you play together,” she tells me, “You look like a couple of kids in love, is what you look like.”

  “That’s just the music,” I say.

  “It’s the music for you, and it’s you for him.”

  “You’re nuts,” I tell her, and we both know I’m dodging the subject like a fast pitch aimed at my head. Kindly, she lets it drop. Almost.

  “That article is just the beginning, Ellie,” she says softly, “The more exposure you get, the more money that’ll start to flow in. It can be overwhelming, becoming successful all at once. I don’t want you getting swept up in all this attention. I don’t want you to let it change how you think about yourself.”

  “It won’t,” I tell her. But I know it’s not really me we’re talking about. “I’m not like Dad, you know. I’m not going to turn into some monster once I get a little money. If I get a little money.”

  “I know it’s kind of backwards,” she says, “But I sort of hope you’ll always be a starving musician. Money does horrible things to people.”

  “Well, thanks Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I’ll try and not be very marketable.”

  “Just scowl at Mitch a lot onstage,” she suggests, “That’ll throw people off.”

  “I might not be able to help it, if he keeps up his whining,” I tell her.

  “I bet things will be OK when you get down there.”

  “Yeah...I bet.”

  We lapse into silence, staring out toward the hilly horizon, each wondering what the next week might hold.

  Chapter Two

  Something heavy smashes against the rickety door separating the tiny kitchen from the rest of the tour bus. Tipsy cheers rise up from the main cabin—my band mates have started power hour without me, what a bunch of dicks. And I’m stuck back here giving my ten thousandth interview to some first-time music journalist who hasn’t gone ten words without saying “um” since she’s arrived. At least she's got a nice rack.

  “What was that?” squeaks the mousy girl sitting across from me.

  I shrug, turning my gaze away from her. “Just the usual,” I say, “Probably a bottle of tequila. We have plenty of those to spare.”

  “Is your band always this...um...destructive?” she asks.

  I scoff and turn back to face her. She’s practically trembling with nerves. Usually, that kind of thing turns me on—the feigned reluctance, wilting flower thing, but this girl does not wear it well. She actually dressed up in a power suit to come meet me. A power suit.

  “My band is a force of nature,” I grin, “They’re as destructive as they feel like being, whenever they feel like it.”

  “That must make traveling like this difficult,” she ventures.

  Another loud crash rings out from beyond the barrier. I smile, silently thanking the guys for their impeccable comedic timing. “You’re assuming that we’re trying to abide by anyone’s rules,” I say to the girl. I’m laying on the bad boy thing thick. Reporters don’t know what to do with me when I’m not acting like a caricature of a rock and roller. I’ve long since given up on being up front with these people. Instead, I try and feed them a couple of good lines and get them on their way as quickly as possible. And I can tell that this one is starting to wear thin.

  “Um. Mr. Parker,” she starts.

  “Trent,” I say, leaning forward with my best screw-it-all smile, “You can just call me Trent.”

  “Um. OK, Trent,” she says, her eyes widening in her already narrow face. “Why did you decide to play at the Hawk and Dove festival this year? You usually steer clear of things like this, don’t you?”

  “What kinds of things do you mean?” I ask, giving her a very obvious once-over. I can feel her shiver from three feet away. “You mean commercial pig sties brimming with rich hipster kids with poor taste in music and even worse taste in beer?”

  “Sure, yes that.” the girl says softly.

  “Well, what can I say,” I smile, “The money’s great.” Before she can leap in with a follow up, I hold up my hands and go on, “I’m kidding, of course. Look, any chance to perform is one that the guys and I are going to take. And this whole festival needs a few more hawks and a few less doves, if you ask me.”

  “Fewer,” she mutters.

  “What?”

  “It’s fewer doves, not less,” she says, picking her chin up bravely.

  “Aha,” I say, “Your journalistic balls have finally dropped, I see. Care to ask me a few real questions, now that you’ve arrived?”

  She clears her throat and begins, “You call the Hawk and Dove festival commercial, but compared to your recent behavior with regard to touring and merchandising, they’re practically a charity. Wouldn’t you say that you’ve become a commercial commodity yourself, rather than the more independent artist you once were?”

  “Coming out swinging I see,” I say, nodding with approval, “I like that. As it happens, Lindsay, I’m not—”

  “Lucy,” she interjects, “My name is Lucy.”

  “Right,” I say, waving away her interruption, “Anyone who says that they’re not hoping to make a little cash as a musician is just lying through his teeth. Their teeth? Whatever. My guys and I have hit the jackpot with our popularity. So, yeah, we’re playing all the concerts we can, selling all the albums. So there are tee shirts out there with my face on them. So what? I still sleep perfectly sound at night.”

  “Do you think that you’ve lost any fans, as you’ve become more mainstream?” the reporter asks.

  “What do you think?” I shoot back.

  “I...I think...” she stutters, “Well, yes. I know that some of my friends who were fans during your early years no longer think you represent the core values of rock and roll.”

  “Oh, please,” I groan, “What core values? Rock is not a moral code. It’s the negat
ive space of one. It’s not a prescriptive movement, it’s how you choose to interpret it.” Lucy’s scribbling down my words like a maniac, and I heave a heavy sigh. “Scratch all that out,” I tell her.

  “What?” she says, looking baffled, “But that was all brilliant! Why—?”

  “Scratch it out,” I tell her again. That was all far too heady for the blogosphere. I have to watch myself during these interviews, make sure that I’m staying on message. Jesus...In ten years, I’ll have so much experience with bullshit politics, I’ll be able to run for president.

  The tour bus slows to a crawl in front of a rundown motel. We’re dropping off Nancy Drew here and heading on into Kansas tonight. The door separating us from the rest of the bus swings open, and my manager Kelly peers in at us. She’s all teeth and pep, just like she always is for the press.

  “Here’s your stop!” Kelly trills to the reporter.

  “Right,” Lucy says, standing up awkwardly, “Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Parker.”

  “Trent,” I remind her again, “For God’s sake, just Trent.”

  She nods quickly and hurries away. I watch her step over broken glass and brimming ashtrays, ignoring the cat calls of my band mates. The engine revs back to life as the little lady makes her way across the parking lot and disappears into the hotel. The second that the revolving door has swallowed Lucy up, Kelly turns to me, her features crumpled into a cynical, bad-tempered scowl.

  “What the hell was she wearing?” Kelly asks, “God. Do you think they sent us an intern or something? Remind me not to take any more interviews from them.”

  “You got it, Boss,” I say, watching the hotel disappear behind us.