Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Amanada Lawless

  “Let’s make this one hell of a show!” I roar.

  The guys answer with cheers and shouts of their own, and we break to get to our places. I take Ellie’s hand and lead her back through a maze of curtains and equipment. We come to the edge of the stage, and I take her up in my arms. She kisses me deeply, letting her tongue glide against mine. The surging sound of the crowd blocks out my low groan, but the vibration of it moves through each of us. I pull away and see Ellie’s wide eyes shining in the low light.

  “Go get ‘em,” she grins, giving me a firm slap on the ass.

  “You’re going to pay for that later,” I tell her.

  “Is that a promise?” she asks.

  “You bet is it,” I say, and turn toward the stage.

  The lights blaze to life as I stride to center. The rush of taking the stage never fades, no matter how many concerts I play. Every time, that terrified little fourteen year old experiences a moment of ice cold panic, followed by a rush of intense, indescribable power. I raise my arms up to the crowd and let their applause and cheering rush over me like a crashing wave. I’m the conduit for their energy, the source and the beacon of everything they’re feeling. For this fraction of time, I feel like more than a man.

  I grab a standing mic and drag it across the stage, screaming as I go, “Hawk and Dove! Are you ready for one last show?” A roar of sound erupts through the air in response. “We’re holding nothing back tonight. No half measures, no way. We’re going back to the very beginning, back to the music that made you lose your minds for us in the first place. How about that?”

  A massive swell of noise bursts, and a wild grin spreads across my face.

  My band mates are waiting, poised at their instruments. Every cell of every body onstage is pumping with energy begging to be expressed in song. I look back at Ellie and catch her staring at me with a rapturous glint in her eyes. Her excitement puts me right over the edge.

  I lean back and bringing the mic to my mouth, letting loose with a wild, throaty, animal yell. The pent up aggression and pain and joy that have been muddled for so long by catchy refrains and ticket sales rip through me now, filling the entire sky with blazing, unmitigated fury.

  I stalk across the stage, right up to the very edge. A sea of people roils before me, moved by our every note, my every primal grunt and cry. I reach out to the up-stretched hands, drawing more and more energy from the desperate, exuberant excitement of my fans.

  In the center of the crowd, I watch as an enormous gap opens up. Bodies fly into the abyss, arms swinging, legs kicking. The mosh pit grows and surges, people throw themselves into the dangerous fray left and right. I’m suddenly tempted to join them down there, among the thrashing limbs and furious movement. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this at a show, like anything in the world could happen.

  We tear through our first number, a song we wrote years ago at the very beginning. It feels so good to be back here, retracing our way to a place of truth and meaning after all these years of commercial nonsense. And I never would have had the courage to do this if it hadn’t been for Ellie falling into my life.

  Suddenly, the need to have her there beside me takes over. I stride back to where she’s standing, just beyond the curtain. There’s so much happening onstage and off that the crowd hardly even notices that I'm missing.

  I rush up to Ellie and take hold of her hands. She looks at me like I’ve lost my God damned mind.

  “Come on,” I scream over the music, “Come out here with me!”

  “What are you talking about?” she shouts back.

  “I want you with me,” I tell her, “I want you with me wherever I go, and I want to go with you too.”

  “That’s all well and good,” she says, “But I don’t think I belong onstage at a rock concert.”

  “I don’t think I belong in an indie folk duo,” I shoot back, “But that didn’t stop me. Come on! You know that part of you wants to see what it’s like.”

  “What if they hate that I’m there?” she asks, her nerves getting the better of her.

  “Who cares?” I say, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”

  “But—”

  “No more but’s,” I say, “You’re coming with me!”

  And with that, I scoop her legs out from under her and cradle her against my chest. She kicks out, laughing like wild.

  That laugh of hers was one of the first things that drew me to her. In no time at all, she’s won me over like no one ever has before.

  “Either you’re walking yourself, or I’ll carry you!” I yell.

  “Fine, fine!” she says, thrashing in my arms, “I’ll go willingly, you lunatic!”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” I tell her.

  She grabs onto my hand and squeezes tightly. “Start a song I might know, would you?”

  “You don’t even listen to my music,” I remind her.

  “Shit,” she says, “You’re right...Well, whatever. I’ll just make it up.”

  Hands clasped, we make our way back onto the stage. Little by little, as we make our way to the center, the audience starts to notice the change. The air alters as they realize that I have company, and I grab onto the microphone as we reach center.

  “We have a special treat for you tonight,” I tell the humming crowd. “This is Eleanor Jackson. You might not have know who she was before, but you sure as hell will now. And not because she’s here with me tonight, but because she’s an amazing, brilliant musician.

  Ellie’s mouth falls open as the audience’s reaction rises to a boil. My band mates and cheering like crazy as the crowd rages before us. I pull Ellie to me and kiss her hard on the mouth, unable to restrain myself. She throws her arms around my neck and kisses me back for the whole wide world to see.

  “This is some first date,” she says into my ear as we pull away from each other.

  “A little unconventional,” I agree, “But no time to worry about it now.”

  Behind us, the band powers into the next song, and we’re swept up into the sound. I start to sing, letting the words burst out of me on their own volition.

  Ellie is there beside me, feeling the shape of the song, letting it move through her body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier than her writhing body, lit up against those stage lights. We cross each other and move around the stage, always finding our back. She’s singing now too, and I bring her near me so that our songs can tangle and soar, amplified against the starry sky.

  We’re here together, harmonizing and balancing, giving and taking. It’s a conversation, a collaboration, a string of compromises that cost nothing. It’s beyond exhilarating—it’s orgasmic.

  We make our way to the edge of the stage once more, reaching down into the crowd. Hands grab out, trying to latch onto ours for just the briefest of moments. Usually, this kind of intense affection just makes me feel lonely. All those people out there, in love with the image that I offer up as sacrifice to the masses. But with Ellie here, I feel rooted to who I really am. I don’t feel lost or alone anymore. I know who I am, and what I want, and who I love for the first time in my life.

  Ellie and I lock eyes as dozens of hands stretch up toward us. Her eyes are on fire.

  She jerks her head toward the crowd, and I can tell what she has in mind. This girl never ceases to amaze me. I nod, grinning like an idiot, and take a few steps away from the surging crowd. Together, we take off at a run and leap into the sea of clamoring hands. We’re carried over the waves of humanity by the adoring hands of my—our—fans. I feel my fingers tightly clasped around Ellie’s not wanting to lose her as we let the audience bear us along.

  I look straight up into the clear night sky, the warmth of Ellie’s hand in mine burning like a signal fire among all this noise and chaos. I always feel alive during concerts, always feel like I’m living at full throttle—but this is the first time that I’ve ever actually felt happy during one. I’ve always felt like I needed to share my music,
but tonight I give it gladly, joyously.

  Laying back in the arms of our fans, Ellie and I let the current take us wherever it will, trusting that we’ll be safe and sound as long as we’re crossing the expanse together.

  Chapter Twenty One

  The band and I take our third, fourth, and fifth bows, trying to satiate the audience. They just can’t seem to get enough of us.

  I can’t stop laughing as I look out over the massive group of people. I keep expecting to wake up from this crazy dream any second, but it just keeps stretching on. There’s Trent Parker beside me, the festival main stage beneath my feet, an enormous cheering crowd stretching out as far as the eye can see. It’s real.

  We finally start to make our way offstage, the roar of the audience throbbing and pulsing like a living creature. Trent and I hurry off into the wings as the guys clear offstage, and I all but collapse into his arms. I’m so overjoyed, not to mention overwhelmed, that for a moment all I can do is let him hold me.

  It’s a pretty intense high, being out there in front of an audience like that. And something about Trent’s music just transcends anything I’ve ever felt playing my own stuff. He channels something in the music he creates that I’ve never felt before—something sad, and true, and timeless.

  “Holy crap,” I whisper, resting my cheek against Trent’s firm chest, “Is that what’s it’s like to be you?”

  “I suppose so,” he says, holding me tightly against him, “You were amazing, Ellie.”

  “I was terrified,” I admit.

  “Still,” he says.

  I look up at him in the half-light, listening as the audience slowly begins to migrate away from the stage. “I guess they didn’t hate us together too much, huh?”

  “How could anyone hate us together?” he asks, “When something makes this much sense, feels so right...people can see that.”

  “I guess so,” I smile, my knees starting to tremble. It’s been one hell of an evening. “Let’s get out of here,” I suggest.

  “Yeah,” he agrees, “Though it looks like I might have to carry you after all.”

  “Maybe a little,” I laugh, swinging my leg over his back, “Do you object to piggy back?”

  “It’s not my favorite position,” he jokes, lifting me up onto his back, “But I’m willing to compromise.”

  “Save the banter for later,” I tease, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, “Take me away, my steed!”

  “Stud? I’ll take it,” he says.

  I don’t bother correcting him as he carries me out from the backstage world, weaving through fans and photographers and reporters as we head back toward the hill. I rest my head against his shoulder, exhaustion finally settling into my bones.

  It’s the final night of the festival, a night I’ve always spent partying with the whole congregation of Hawk and Dove. But tonight, I just want to be alone with Trent.

  As we start to climb the hill, it occurs to me that we’ve never spoken a word about what’s going to happen tomorrow. My original plan was to drive back to Barton with Mitch and commence with summer vacation. And surely, Trent has some other concert or recording session to run off to as soon as the festival wraps.

  For all our proclamations and admissions, we’ve never once touched on the practicalities. I suppose that’s what being a rock star is—leaving the practical worries to the little people. But I, for one, still feel very much like one of the little people, and I’m more than a bit anxious about this completely uncertain future we’re staring down at the moment.

  Has Trent even paused to consider it?

  We reach the top of the hill and trudge over to the tour bus. The rest of the band hasn’t returned, probably choosing instead to revel with the fans and groupies down at the after party. I slide down off Trent’s back and lean, exhaustedly, against the tour bus.

  “Wait here,” he tells me, “I have an idea.”

  He skirts around the bus and rushes inside to fetch something. When he returns, he’s got the makings of a tent and a bottle of whiskey in his arms.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “Well, I had been planning on camping out during this whole fest,” he tells me, dumping all the tent parts on the floor, “But some little indie folk asshole told me I wasn’t allowed.”

  “To be fair,” I say, “You were in our space.”

  “Well,” he says, “Do I have your permission to resurrect my tent?”

  “By all means,” I tell him, forcing the doubts from my mind. Better to just enjoy his company tonight than worry too much about what happens in the morning, right?

  I settle down onto the grass as Trent takes a big swig of whiskey.

  He sets to putting the tent up, and I can’t help but shake my head in wonder at this strange, amazing, beautiful person who’s crash landed into my life.

  A week ago, I would have told you that Trent Parker was just some rich asshole churning out pseudo-hard rock dance tunes for the masses. I would have assumed that he was just another womanizing, vain, soulless creation of the pop music marketing machine, devoid of any real feeling or intelligence. I would have thought all these terrible things, and I would have been dead wrong.

  It makes me wonder how often I completely misjudge the people around me, by virtue of not taking the time to know them as people, rather than personas. I’m glad that, at least this once, I was able to see beyond someone’s mask. Thank god we were open to seeing each other for who we really are. What a tragedy it would have been not to have met this man.

  “You’re good at this,” I tell him, as he finishes setting up the tent.

  “I grew up with a bunch of brothers,” he tells me, “Camping skills were just another way to be better than everyone else.”

  “Well, at least your competitive streak comes in handy sometimes!” I say.

  “That is does,” he says, securing the tent down into the soft ground, “Your suite awaits you, my dear.”

  I climb into the tent, marveling at the absurdity of the situation.

  “I’m going camping with the most famous rock star in American,” I mutter, “Just another weekend away from home, right?”

  “I’m about to be the second most famous rock star in America,” he says, climbing in after me, “You made quite the impression this evening.”

  “With your help,” I remind him.

  “You would have anyway,” he says, zipping up the tent behind us and handing me the whiskey. I take a slug, trying to wash away the sourness of our impending departure. I’m not sure how much longer I can put it out of my mind. We just got so caught up in everything that’s happened this week that the rest of our lives managed to slip our minds somehow.

  “Trent,” I say, as he unrolls a big, comfy sleeping bag for us, “Is this how you envisioned spending the last night of Hawk and Dove?”

  “Not at all,” he laughs, “How could I have imagined this?”

  “Yeah,” I allow, “I know what you mean.”

  “It seems appropriate though, doesn’t it?” he says, opening his arms to me, “To have spent the festival with a dove, I mean.”

  “Or a hawk,” I say, curling up on his lap, “This has been amazing, Trent.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he laughs, “I’ve been here too, you know.”

  “I just mean...I won’t ever forget all of this. Whatever happens next...”

  I hold my breath as the question falls between us. Someone had to bring it up eventually. I guess it might as well be me. Trent looks down at me, his eyebrow cocked.

  “Whatever happens next?” he says, “That sounds a little ominous...”

  “It’s not supposed to,” I say, “I just...We’ve never really talked about what the hell we’re going to do tomorrow.”

  “About what?” he asks.

  “About...Everything, Trent!” I exclaim, “You are aware of the fact that we live completely separate, disparate lives, right?”

  “Well sure,” he frowns, “But why are you
so upset about it?”

  I can’t help but feel hurt that he’s not worried about our future. Maybe he just took it as a given that we’d go our own way tomorrow? That can’t be how he truly feels.

  “What are we supposed to do?” I ask quietly.

  “Exactly what we’re doing right now,” he says, pulling me to him.

  “You want to be with me?” I ask as bravely as I can.

  “Of course I do,” he answers, “You didn’t doubt that, did you?”

  “Well...” I say, “No. Well, maybe. A little.”

  His face grows stormy at the suggestion. “What, did you think I was going to leave you behind in the dust like some groupie?”

  “No!”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you, Ellie. You should know better than that.”

  “Then what do you intend to do, Trent?”

  “I hadn’t...thought about it,” he says, turning away from me.

  “Well, think about it now,” I tell him, “Morning isn’t that far off.”

  “What do you want to do, Ellie?” he asks.

  I let out a defeated little laugh. “I have no idea. Part of me wants to run back to Barton, get a job at an ice cream shop, and pretend like none of this ever happened. Everything’s already changed so much just this past week...I’m scared to think of what else might change. What else I might lose if I keep on this path...”

  “Yeah,” Trent sighs.

  “This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me how wonderful it is to be a musician, and how I shouldn’t worry about what I might lose because there’s so much to gain?”

  “Is that what I’m supposed to say?” Trent asks, “Because that isn’t the truth, Ellie. You’re smart enough to know that without me telling you. It’s true—if you see this whole thing through, every single thing about your life is going to be completely different. Even if you try and maintain some level of normalcy—go back to school, live modestly—nothing will truly stay the same. If you turn around now and walk away from all of this, from your career, your fame, you have a shot at regaining the life you had before. But if you stick it out, then yes. There’s a lot to lose.”