Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Amanada Lawless

  “Well, how did it go?” Kelly demands, crossing her skinny arms in front of her chest. I let my eyes linger on her fine body, wondering as I always do why Kelly doesn’t have any effect on me. By all rights, she should leave me in a puddle every time she walks by. She’s tall, lean, with a surgically perfected rack and blonde curls as far as the eye can see. Maybe I just know her too well to be attracted to her. It’s a pity...I bet she’d be a good, angry fuck.

  “It went fine,” I tell her, “The usual. I was hoping to have a little more fun with the girl.”

  “That girl?” Kelly asks.

  “Not that kind of fun,” I tell her, “The cat with a mouse kind of fun.”

  “Well, preserve your energy,” Kelly tells me, “We’ll be there soon, and then the festivities can really kick off.”

  “You sound thrilled,” I say sarcastically.

  “Well, this is a royal waste of our time,” she says, exasperated.

  We’ve had this argument many times before.

  Kelly had no interest in taking this little field trip down to Kansas, but I held out. Whatever I might have to say in front of the press, I’ve honestly just been craving a good stretch of days filled with nothing but booze, food, and some excellent bud. We’ve been touring like lunatics promoting our latest album, and because I’m technically a solo act with a backing band, I end up doing all the press crap myself. But for these seven beautiful days, I don’t have to worry about any of that. No interviews, no signings—nothing but a few excellent shows and the clean country air.

  I’ve secretly been looking forward to this for months, though my manager would rake me over the coals if I admitted that I’m dragging us all down to Kansas for the sake of my own peace of mind. Half the time it seems like Kelly’s job is making me happy, the other half I just feel like a whipping boy. Anyone who says that being a good ol' fashioned rock star isn’t as much of a pain in the ass as any other job is selling you something.

  I never thought I’d have the chance to learn that little lesson first hand. Growing up, rock stars were pretty much on par with astronauts and circus clowns—cool guys with jobs that were totally off limits to even dream about. I was raised in a factory town in the Midwest, not exactly a hotbed for creativity. Both of my parents worked long hours, longer than nine to five on most days. So, my big brothers and I were left to entertain ourselves most of the time. For most of us, that meant watching a lot of TV and eating Hostess cakes by the dozen. But for me, it meant saving up my pocket change to buy my first acoustic guitar. I bought it at a pawn shop downtown, it didn’t even have all its strings...but it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on.

  I used to practice in the shed we kept in our back yard. That was the only place on the property I could find any peace and quiet. With three older brothers around, secrets didn’t last for long. I wanted to be good and ready before they heard me play. We were all competitive with each other, and I didn’t want any of them getting ideas about picking up the instrument themselves. If I was going to play guitar, I was going to be the best at it. So, I kept practicing and practicing, straight through junior high. When I got to high school, I grabbed some buddies by the scruffs of the neck and forced them to be in a band with me. We signed up for a talent night at a local pub, and I invited my family to come see me play.

  A little cringe seizes me as the memory of that night unfolds in my mind’s eye. I was fourteen years old, and out of my mind with nerves over playing in front of a whopping ten people. The two kids I’d forced into my band were on the verge of puking, or wetting themselves, or both. We were not what you might call a class act. But when the poor bartender who was forced into emcee duty that night called out our band’s name—Raptor Flesh—we trudged onto the stage like good little soldiers.

  And as the hazy stage lights hit my face, something snapped into place inside of me. I knew what to do, instinctively. I greeted the crowd, feeling a foreign confidence holding me up. I could feel exactly what the audience needed in order to get excited. I could get a laugh, I could get a moment of silence. I had control. I led our little trio through the one song we’d picked out for the occasion: Nirvana’s “Lithium”. (We were babies of the eighties, after all). The song moved through me, through my guitar, and out into the smoky dimness of the bar.

  We raced through the ending, the other two kids struggling to keep up with me. I knew we hadn’t sounded perfect, and I didn’t much care. I smiled out into the bar and saw four faces looking up at me in baffled, impressed silence. My mom and four brothers rushed the stage, yelling over each other about how great I’d been. Through their embracing arms, I could see my dad checking his watch. He walked over to our happy group and announced that it was time to head home—he was missing the game already.

  My parents never hit me. We were poor, but not destitute. I have all four limbs, all five senses, and a career people dream about, but it’s never really felt like enough. From that night on, I’ve been single-minded, obsessed with my music. I practiced until my fingers bled and calloused, said “no thank you” to college so that I could focus on my next move. I left that tiny town in the middle of the country and moved to LA, along with what felt like half my generation. And that’s when it all started to work out.

  I was eighteen when I moved to California, fresh out of high school. I had about two thousand dollars to my name, and a good half of it was gone when I rented my first apartment. But I can still remember sitting in that empty apartment, my first night in LA, beaming into the darkness. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life. Part of me thinks that I’d be better off giving all my money away, and throwing myself back into the rat race. But there’s no way to rewind the past seven years. No way to quit.

  Even if I could take myself out of the spotlight—retire, or whatever—I’d never make it back to that place of happiness that I found alone in a bare apartment in LA at the ripe old age of eighteen. I’ll never be able to feel that optimism, or that star struck hope again. I’m only twenty-five, but you see a lot of the world as a musician. You start to realize that people are the same everywhere, that just about anyone you think you can trust will sell you for a hundred bucks and a pack of cigarettes. Sometimes I wish I could even go back further—never play that talent show, never see the blank look on my dad’s face afterward. I could work in the factory now, like him. Or tend bar. Or do any number of normal, comfortable things. I’ve got all the money in the world, and none of it will buy me a moment’s peace.

  “You OK?” Kelly asks, snapping me back to reality.

  “What?” I ask, shaking my head. My father’s eyes still linger, just behind mine.

  “You look like you’re about to start drooling,” she shudders, “Did you hear anything I just said to you?”

  “Not even one word,” I tell her honestly.

  “Typical,” she sniffs. “Well, if you can bear to be interested for a moment, we’re closing in on the festival grounds. Gird your loins, would you?”

  She turns on her heel and walks away as I pull myself to standing. Through the window, I can see the festival looming up on the horizon. Giant staggering tents and stages rise up out of the plains like titans. Alone in the back of the bus, I let myself smile a little. Maybe this will actually be what I’ve been needing for so long.

  “Trent!” a chorus of drunken, merry voices cries. My band mates come staggering back toward me, blundering around like rambunctious puppies. The Three Stooges look like refined gentlemen compared to the guys I play with, but I can’t help but love them all. Having grown up with three older brothers, the easy friendship of guys is where I’m most comfortable. Ever since I started getting famous, women haven’t approached me with the most unbiased of views. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to pass on banging a hot chick just because her motives boil down to “he’s famous”, but I’m definitely not going to be friends with someone like that either.

  My drummer Rodney is leading the pack, his thick, stocky body
is blocking the doorway entirely. Rodger, the bassist, is clamoring behind him, all angles and long limbs. Kenny is jumping up and down like a damned Jack Russell, but his enthusiasm is contagious. Kenny’s always been like a kid brother to me, and this is his first big music festival. Hell, it’s our first festival as a group, too. We’ve been playing together for three years, ever since my record label insisted that I do more than just play solo. I was reluctant to bring on new meat at first, but needless to say, the guys have grown on me.

  “Hello, Kansas!” hollers Rodney, grabbing my by the arm and pulling me into the main cabin, “Who knew the corn states could be so awesome?”

  “I thought we’d never get here,” Rodger moans, “Why didn’t we just take the jet?”

  “I wanted us to have the road trip experience!” I say, shoving him roughly, “We’re getting too pansy assed, lately. It’s been bottle service and private jets for our entire tour. Let’s get a little dirty out there, don't be a bitch.”

  “What, did you bring a tent Bear Grylls?” Rodney asks, rolling his eyes.

  “I did,” I tell him.

  The guys stare at me like I’m a lunatic.

  “What? We have a fuckin tour bus, and you bring a tent?” Rodger asks.

  “I told you, I want to experience the festival,” I tell him, “Take a breather, you know?”

  “He just doesn’t want us around to scope out all the festival ass he’s going to be getting,” Kenny laughs.

  “Sure,” I say, trying to placate them, “Whatever. I’m going be enjoying myself, roughing it like a real man, while all you assholes sit around in the air conditioning like a bunch of—”

  “Watch it!” Rodney says, “You don’t want to be down a band when it’s time for you to play, do you?”

  “I don’t indeed,” I say, “I also don’t want to be anywhere near sober. So let’s drink.”

  The guys rally around the nearest bottle of whiskey, and I pour out four generous shots. We raise our glasses to each other and slug back the booze. I close my eyes, savoring the burn at the back of my throat. Now this is the right way to kick off a vacation. I’m about to pour us a second round when Kelly barges back into the cabin.

  “Save it,” she says shortly, “We need to make sure that camp is set up. I have plainclothes security guards circling the perimeter.”

  “Kelly, no need to call in the secret service,” I say, “Would you try and ease up, a little? Change into something more...casual.”

  Our manager glances down at her impeccable skinny jeans and flowing white top. I’ve never seen this girl in anything but three inch heels. She’s a few years older than I am, and she’s singlehandedly responsible for finding me in LA. One night, after I finished an acoustic set at some hole in the wall bar, she approached me out of nowhere. She was just setting out as an independent manager, and wanted to take me on as one of her first clients. I agreed, thinking that it would go nowhere. But after a couple of years being in the right place at the right time, her connections and my following paid off. The way she tells it, I owe my success completely to her. I personally wouldn’t go that far, but Kelly will never let me forget that she discovered me. And it’s finders keepers for her.

  “Let’s get a move on,” she chirps, beckoning for us to follow her out into the early evening air.

  I step out of the tour bus and take a deep breath. Green plains stretch out for miles all around us. We’re parked in the talent campsite, the whole place is a maze of tricked out busses and RVs. The five of us move around the bus, and take in the view of the festival from afar. The event is splayed out across the field like it’s always belonged there. It looks like a little city that’s cropped up out of the ground. I can see people milling and seething all over, tens of thousands of people.

  There’s one big stage in the middle of everything, rising up into the dusky sky. This is the epicenter of the entire event, where the big names play. We’re playing there ourselves, along with some wrinkled classic rocker and a hip hop dude who’s always making an ass out of himself in the media. Smaller stages are spread out in ripples around the main playing space, and even tinier spaces are tucked into corners and crevices all around. Hundreds of acts play every year at this festival, even if it’s only on a tiny little stage that only three people end up coming to. Spread out between all the vast and various playing spaces are food trucks, people selling handmade clothes and crafts, the works. The festival’s like a marketplace, a music hall, and a rave all wrapped into one.

  “Would you look at all that mud?” Kelly says in my ear.

  “That would be what you notice first,” I say, rolling my eyes, “Why don’t you try and enjoy it here, Kel? You’re stuck here for five days, whether you like it or not.”

  “You know that I’d do anything for you Trent,” she tells me, her eyes hardening, “Even if it means rolling around in the dirt all day so that you can feel like you’re reconnecting with the people, or whatever the hell you call this.”

  “You’re a doll,” I tell her, breezing past.

  I rush back into the bus and gather all my old camping stuff up into my arms. I haul it down onto the grass next to our tour bus as my band mates shower me with snarky remarks. There certainly aren’t many tents going up in our little campsite, but what the hell do I care? Those elitist assholes don’t know what they’re missing. I’m glad that there aren’t any photographers allowed up here, however. The last thing I want making the rounds is a picture of me acting like a boy scout. It would be terrible for business.

  Finally, when I’ve got the tent up, I unroll a thick blanket and drape it from a pole above the entrance. I stand back and check out my work, pleased with the result. There are a few celebrity types looking at me strangely from inside their fancy busses, but I couldn’t care less. I’m going to do this the old fashioned way, and they call all just kiss my—

  “Hey,” says a mopey voice from behind me. I peer over my shoulder and see a lanky guy, no older than twenty by my guess, glaring at me like this is the gunfight at the OK Corral. I’ve never seen the kid before in my life, and for a second I’m worried he’s some kind of deranged fan who wandered up from the general campsite. But he’s got a badge that tells me he’s with one of the acts. From the looks of him, he probably plays the jaw harp in some eighteen person jam band that sings exclusively about the rays of the sun or some bullshit.

  “What’s up?” I ask him, “You’re not looking for an autograph or something, are you?”

  “Not on your life,” the kid says, rolling his eyes dramatically, “I make a point of not listening to commercial drivel like the stuff you put out.”

  “You’re too kind,” I sneer, “I’m sure I’ve got nothing on whatever emo, navel-gazing mumblecore genius you have going on. Please tell me your band has a synth?”

  “We—No—” he splutters. I love picking on pretentious little shits like him.

  “Spit it out, junior,” I tell him, “I still have about half a bottle of whiskey to put away before this night kicks into gear.”

  “You need to get your stuff out of here,” he spits.

  I gaze around at my modest little camp and pull an exaggerated pout. “But I just got here, Boss. How come I have to leave?”

  “Could you be more obnoxious?” he asks, appalled.

  “I think you’ve seen pretty good evidence that I could be, yes.”

  “God, you’re even more of an asshole in real life than I could have—”

  “Mitch!” a soft, lovely female voice calls out.

  I peer around the lanky twerp and see a long-legged girl stepping out of a beat-up sedan that’s parked up on the grass. She winces as she straightens out her lean body—I bet she’s been stuck in that jalopy all day long, trekking to Kansas. She swipes her short blonde hair away from her forehead, revealing a pair of big, wide set eyes and an adorable button nose. Her full lips are pulled into a scowl as she approaches the kid who’s been hell bent on pissing me off as thoroughly as possib
le.

  “What are you doing?” she demands, squaring off against the punk.

  “Don’t worry about it. Why didn’t you wait in the car like I asked?” the boy hisses.

  I fold my arms, watching the lover’s spat unfold. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little enjoyable.

  “Don’t tell me to wait in the freakin’ car. This isn’t a family road trip,” the girl snaps.

  “You’re right,” the guy says, “It’s a freak show, is what it is. We should really just get back in the car, turn around, and—”

  “Enough of that,” she says, lowering her voice, “I swear, if you don’t stop with the paternalistic, macho, elitist—”

  “Do you guys want me to leave?” I ask, “I’d say you could borrow my tent, but I’d like to break it in myself. You understand.”

  The girl opens her mouth to reply, but as her wide eyes focus on me, the words fall right out of her mouth and into the air. I smile, not without a bit of sadness, as recognition sweeps over her face. It was nice, watching her move across the grassy plain without self-consciousness. People tend to close themselves off around me, become versions of themselves. It’s always such a pity.

  But as I keep my eyes trained on her face, the moment passes. Her body shakes off its knowledge of my celebrity, right before my eyes. There’s no shift, there’s no facade that goes up. She smiles at me as herself—now I’m the one that’s speechless.

  “You’re Trent Parker,” she says simply, taking a step toward me.

  “That’s right,” I say, offering my hand. She stops short, and I realize what an awkward gesture it is to offer a handshake at a music festival. But she’s a good sport about it. She places her hand in mine and shakes firmly. She’s strong, but pretending to be a little stronger than she really is. Compensating, just a little. My skin smarts as she takes her hand back—the contact was too brief. A sudden, hot longing for her stabs me between the ribs. I’ve always been a sucker for stubborn girls.

  “I’m Ellie,” she says, “This is Mitch.”