I scowl at her. “If you had your way, I’d be trapped in a recording studio dungeon with a chamber pot and a pack of cigarettes, cranking out an album a week and never having any fun.”
“Guilty as charged,” Kelly smiles, “I’ll be back at the tour bus. Try not to be too long, would you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur, as Ellie lingers perfectly on the last note of her opening number, “Get out of here, you dirty buzz kill.”
“Love you too,” Kelly says, rolling her eyes. She stalks away, managing (miraculously) to walk gracefully through the mud in her signature, towering heels. I turn my attention back to the stage and see Ellie, beaming out into the crowd. She looks—and I’ve never been caught dead using this word before in my life—radiant.
“Thank you all so much,” she says, picking the microphone up off its stand and walking to the edge of the stage. “I can’t tell you how amazing it is to be playing here tonight. I’ve been coming to Hawk and Dove for years, as a fan. My big sister and I used to drive down from up east every summer and spend a few days rolling around in the dirt. No pun about ‘rolling’, I promise.”
The audience lets out a collective laugh. They absolutely love her, and I can hardly blame them. She has this wonderful unpolished quality about her. You can tell she’s never been media trained, never stared down a sea of paparazzi flash bulbs, never negotiated a record deal or given into temptation and taken some groupie up on a good offer. She’s so real, it almost hurts to look at her for long.
I wonder if I was ever that genuine and unpracticed. I feel like I’ve been putting on an act since I was fifteen years old, but what about before that?
Mitch picks up his guitar, one of the several instruments lined up onstage, and looks expectantly at Ellie. Her body tenses just noticeably as they trade a few words. When it’s just her and the music, she looks like she’s on cloud nine. But every time Mitch butts in...I’m probably just imagining things. I know it would be wise to back off and let her have this experience without subjecting her to my company.
God knows, my side is not the easiest place to spend time. In the five or so years I’ve been a successful musician, I’ve had plenty of one night flings, but never a girlfriend that stuck around longer than a week. I don’t blame any of them for picking up and moving on. I wouldn’t want to get sucked into a world of no privacy and jet setting if I had another option...At least, not if I wasn’t at the center of it.
Not that I’m necessarily such a self-absorbed person, it’s just that music has always meant more to me than anything else. As long as I have my music and my career, what do I need other people for?
Ellie lets out a long, moaning wail, soaring into a second number. The beat is fierce and ruthless, and she’s practically spitting out the lyrics now. I watch her pace across the stage, more than a little turned on by her powerful, take-no-prisoners attitude. The words ring out like a battle cry across the late afternoon sky:
Plowshare baby, won’t you till the ground
We’ve been digging our heels into for decades, now?
Give it a shot, kid, and make us proud—
But don’t you make a sound...
I wonder where these lyrics come from inside of her? It is just her engaging persona that’s leaving me hungry for answers, or is it the girl herself? She’s definitely a performer, no doubt about that, but I don’t think it’s her act I’m falling for.
“Snap out of it,” I utter to myself, running my fingers through my hair. She’d probably be completely turned-off if I tried to woo her away from Howdy Doody up there. That little introduction they gave made it pretty clear that she’s not even on the market. And the last thing I need to do is get myself tangled up in a little tabloid kerfuffle. As public as my life is, I do my best not to play directly into the hands of the media moguls. I like to be in control of what they get from me. It’s better that way.
“We’ve got one more for you today,” Ellie says over the uproarious cheering of the crowd, “But we’ve got another performance later on in the festival. We hope to see you there!”
“And one more thing,” Mitch cuts in, grabbing Ellie’s mic out of her hands, “I just want to say, in front of all you, how much of an honor it is to play with this beautiful woman. Ellie, I’m so glad you convinced me to come down here. And...well...”
“Mitch,” Ellie whispers urgently, “What—”
But her words are cut off as Mitch pulls her against him ungracefully, kissing her full on her surprised mouth. The audience loses its mind, and a deep, roiling revulsion churns in my stomach.
I watch Ellie push Mitch away roughly. Her face is pulled into a furious scowl. What the hell is going on up there? Who does that punk think he is? I’m just about to charge through the crowd and pull her away when she gets a hold of herself, and covers up her annoyance and outrage with a congenial smile. Her lips are pulled into a contented grin, but her eyes are very clearly saying, “We’ll talk about this later.” As I watch, I’m sure that I see her gaze flick toward me for just an instant.
I turn away from the stage, shaking my head. There’s no way I’m sticking around here to see that pimply little dweeb suck face with someone as talented and gorgeous as Ellie. She’s way out of his league, and he’s totally taking advantage of the opportunity. I can’t stand guys like that.
A laugh escapes my throat as the full hypocrisy of my criticisms slaps me in the face. Who am I to talk? It’s not like any woman in the course of my romantic life has ever liked me for any reason other than my celebrity status.
Before I was famous, or before I was even good, the fact that I played guitar was the only thing I had going for me. I guess I’m pretty good looking, but plenty of guys have that going for them. For me, the music was always the thing that sealed the deal. How could I blame this Mitch kid for trying to play the same game?
It's not the same with Ellie though, she's not like the rest of the groupies and hanger's-on. The women I’ve always pursued haven’t been interesting, or at all interested in talking about anything besides how much money I have. They’ve all been gorgeous, without question—tits out to here and legs that go on for miles. But we’ve always been on the same page. They know I only want one thing from them, and I know they only want one thing from me.
I get a good lay, they get to tell their friends they slept with a rock star. It’s a win-win. Or something. But I’d never think of pulling something like that on Ellie. I’m sure it wouldn’t work, for one thing. But more importantly, she deserves better.
Where is this shit coming from? I quiz myself as I trudge back up the hill to the talent campsite. I don’t even know the girl. Not really, anyway. We’ve had one and half conversations, and not even very deep ones at that. She seems like an interesting, complex person, but for all I know that could just be an act. Yet here I am, speculating about what she does and does not deserve? Who she does and does not deserve? I need to snap out of this. It’s none of my business.
My tour bus is practically rocking on its hinges as I approach. The guys must be pre-gaming hard for the first night out of the festival. They’ve only got bunk beds in the bus, as the tiny little master bedroom at the back is mine, but that’s never stopped them from carting women back after an evening full of debaucheries. Looks like tonight’s headed in that direction for sure.
I take the bus steps two at a time and find the guys sprawled across the main cabin of the tour bus. Rodney has a bottle of tequila in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other, and a dozen emptied shot glasses stand on the little table. Rodger appears to be dancing with himself, as he’s been known to do when he’s on his way to getting hammered, and Kenny is playing air guitar along with the Rolling Stones album they’re currently blasting. I can’t help but grin as I take in the sight of them.
“You assholes started without me?” I yell over the music.
“Trent!” Kenny cries happily, “Now the party can really start!”
“Where’d you go, man?” Ro
dney asks, promptly pouring me a shot.
“Just checking out some of the other acts,” I say vaguely.
“Kelly said you were listening to some little indie duo,” Rodger said, “What gives, man? Since when are you into anything acoustic?”
“Whatever,” I say, trying to avoid to subject, “Don’t be a dick about it.”
“What an eloquent comeback,” Rodger laughs.
“You need to start drinking,” Rodney says, handing me the shot, “We’ve each got about a half-bottle head start on you.”
“Duly noted,” I say, and slug back the rum. That first drink of the night always feels a little like coming home. I’m just about to settle in to get nice and wasted when Kelly comes blustering out of the back of the bus.
“You idiot!” she yells, slapping me on the arm.
“What did I do?” I ask, pouting theatrically.
“I just read the little blog that your mousy friend wrote for us,” Kelly snarls at me.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask quizzically, “I did the usual song and dance for her.”
“Really?” Kelly demands, pulling her smart phone out of her pocket. “Did you happen to say, ‘Rock is not a moral code. It’s the negative space of one. It’s not a prescriptive movement, it’s how you choose to interpret it’?”
“That...sounds familiar,” I admit.
“What in the world were you thinking, acting all philosophical?” Kelly cries.
“I told her to scratch it out. I told her it was off the record!” I yell back.
“She’s a blogger, you idiot! Not a real freakin’ journalist,” Kelly says, exasperated.
“So I’ve got one smart line out there to counteract the usual, macho bullshit you have me spouting,” I say, “So what? I think that my image will survive unscathed.”
“Is that so?” Kelly says, shoving her phone in my face, “Because your little friend seems to have penned a wistful little think piece about how you feel trapped by fame, how the real, genuine Trent Parker is being squashed by the pressures of celebrity. She’s painting you as a sensitive, intelligent bed-wetter who really just wants to sit on his front porch and sing love songs into the goddamn sunset.”
“Is that so terrible?” I ask.
Kelly’s face hardens. “It is if you’ve created your image by being a crude, rule-breaking bad boy. Which you have.”
“You have,” I correct her viciously.
“That’s right,” she snaps, “And if you’re so exhausted by being a successful musician, you can always pick up and get the hell out of here. I’m not going to pull you kicking and screaming through the rest of your career, Trent. Either nut up, or shut up.”
She storms away into the depths of the tour bus before I can get in another word. The guys have fallen silent, each trying very hard to avoid my gaze. I grab the bottle of rum from Rodney and take a long gulp. Furious, I tuck the bottle under my arm and march out of the bus, into the darkening night. Red, boiling rage is popping and seething behind my eyes. How dare that woman try to dictate how I go about presenting myself in the world? It’s not like she was going anywhere fast without me to bring her along on the ride to stardom. Sure, she’s the one who “found” me back in LA, but I’m the reason she has a career at all. I’m her meal ticket. Her show pony. And I’m fucking sick of it.
I lean against the front grill of the tour bus and take another long, satisfying pull of booze. This is not the first time in recent memory that Kelly has driven me to drink. Honestly, I think she does it on purpose sometimes, just to keep my image edgy enough for her own liking. I thank my lucky stars that photographers are banned from our camp site—I’m putting on quite the show for them right now.
I close my eyes and let the myriad sounds of the busy festival float up the hill to me, hoping that they might calm me down. But the nearby sound of shouting voices drowns out the happy murmur from down below in Normal People Land. I peek around the front of the bus, toward the source of the shrieking argument.
Ellie and Mitch’s tent is illuminated from the inside by an electric lantern. I can see their shadows moving around in the enclosed space, darting and pacing in aggravation. Ellie’s shadow sticks its finger into Mitch’s thin chest, and I hear her muffled voice lobbing angry accusations his way. I know I shouldn’t look, I know I should keep to myself and enjoy my bottle in peace...but I can’t help it. My voyeuristic side is intrigued. I only wish I had some popcorn, is all.
The tent’s zipper is torn open, and Ellie lunges out into the open air. Her face is flushed and furious, and her eyes are positively sparking with the need to fight. Her long fingers are balled up into fists, and I half expect her to start swinging. I know she’s mad, and I know I shouldn’t be thinking this way...but her passion is more than a little sexy.
Mitch climbs out after her, his face set in a grim mask. He doesn’t look like he’s taking his scolding passively, that’s for sure. Neither of them seem keen on cooling down anytime soon, either. Ellie whips around to face Mitch across the tiny patch of grass between them.
“How could you do that to me, Mitch?” she demands.
“I didn’t realize that expressing my affection for you would be received as a freakin’ war crime,” Mitch shoots back. “I thought you said in that interview—”
“I didn’t say anything to anyone about wanting to be more than friends with you,” Ellie says, “I don’t want to be anything but your friend, Mitch. Not ever.”
“But the article—”
“The article was made up!” she shouts, “You know that kid just took everything out of context and threw it against the wall so that he’d have something to write about! Sure, I told him you were a wonderful musician and that I love playing with you. And that’s the truth!”
“Is that really all you feel for me?” Mitch asks plaintively.
“You’re one of my best friends Mitch,” Ellie says, “If that’s not enough for you, then...”
“What?” he asks.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here together,” she says softly, turning away from him.
“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time,” Mitch says angrily.
“It’s not my fault you can’t separate the music from whatever pipe dream you’ve been harboring. You really think I could feel anything for your scrawny, privileged, elitist—”
Mitch raises his hand into the air, winding up to slap her. Before I can second guess the impulse, I fling my body at him and tackle the kid forcefully to the ground. I cock my fist back, holding the bottle of rum, ready to break it over his fucking face, but hold myself back.
He’s nothing more than a pile of twigs crumpled up on the ground—it wouldn’t be anywhere close to a fair fight. He’s looking up at me with impotent rage surging behind his eyes, and as much as I want to teach his punk ass a lesson, I know I have to be the bigger man. The last thing I need right now is a lawsuit.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl.
“Where did you come from, asshole?” he cries, scurrying away from me.
I try my best to swallow my anger. I don't know how to explain the feeling that crashed over me the second he raised his hand to Ellie, but I want to kill him right now.
“You have no right,” I tell him. “Maybe that’s how they do things in whatever redneck hellhole you were raised in, but it’s not OK. You need to apologize and get the fuck out of here.”
“Fuck you, man!” Mitch yells, pulling himself onto his feet.
“Apologize,” I say again, setting down my bottle and balling my hands into fists. Mitch’s face drains of color as I approach. I'm just about to really get in his face when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t,” Ellie says from behind me, her voice thick with tears.
The fact that she’s upset only makes me want to pound the kid even more, but I stand still. This is her fight, not mine. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to stand here and make sure this asshole doesn’t try a
ny bullshit. But I’ll let her take the lead.
“I never thought you were the kind of girl to let a man fight her battles for her,” Mitch says, trying his best to hurt her more.
“I never thought you were the kind of man who would dare try to hit me,” she says back, “But for the record, Mitch, I could snap those twiggy arms of yours between my teeth. Next time, I won’t hold back.”
“There’s not going to be a next time,” he says quietly.
“You're damned right,” Ellie spits.
“We’re through,” Mitch goes on, brushing off his jeans.
“What?” Ellie says, “What do you mean, through?”
“You don’t think I want to play with you, after all this?” he scoffs.
“Oh, come on,” she says, taking a step forward, “You can’t handle one little fight?”
“This is more than one little fight, Eleanor!” Mitch says, “This whole time, I’ve been waiting for you to turn around and notice...”
“Notice what?” she asks.
“That you...love me, too,” he finishes, pathetically.
Ellie stares at him, her mouth hanging open prettily. I suddenly wish that I were a mile away from this scene. I pick up my booze and take a drink, trying not to visibly show how thrilled I am to see this kid’s heart getting shattered.
“Mitch,” Ellie says, “If you can’t be happy just being my friend, my partner...If the only reason you’re hanging around is in hopes of scoring with me...then, yeah. You should really go.”
“Is that what you want?” he asks.
“She said get the hell out of here,” I can’t resist saying.
Mitch glares at me in the gathering darkness. His angry eyes flit back and forth between Ellie and I, suspicion seething from his every pore. To his credit, Mitch doesn’t voice his jealous thoughts. He doesn’t say anything. Without a word, he turns on his heel and stalks away from us, his narrow shoulders up high around his ears. Ellie and I stand side-by-side, watching him disappear down the hill, losing himself among the gathering crowds.
“He’ll be back,” I tell her.
Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) Page 6
