Dirty Rock: A Rock Star Romance

by James, Vicki

  I laughed out of shock, a little humour, and a lot of panic. “You’re wrong. She could never be with a normal man now.”

  “I never said—”

  “Unless I’ve missed something. Unless I don’t know her at all like I thought I did!” I practically shouted, pacing back and forth.

  “Rhett,” Dicky said firmly, more authority in his voice now. “Calm down.”

  “You really think that’s what this is about? That she wants the suburban, two-point-four family instead of the music? Instead of the life I—I mean we can give her? The bright lights? The thrill of success? The travels? You think she’s done with what she has with us because it’s not enough for her?”

  “I said I think it’s a possibility. Not a certainty.”

  “Well, you can’t just go around blurting shit out like that, Dicky. You can’t just put her in a nice little cottage with a fucking German Shepard, two doe-eyed kids, and a slow cooker for the rest of her life because you have a hunch.”

  “What the hell has gotten into you?”

  “That woman is made of fire, and she deserves a blazing life. Not an average one where she writes in her diary at 8:00 p.m. every night or plays sudoku because there’s fuck all else to do.”

  “I agree, but what do we do about it? That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed heavily. “I don’t fucking know.”

  A million ideas flew through my mind, but none of them would stick. It made sense for her to want that, I guess, given her quaint little home on Mersea Island away from the bright lights of the city and the oceans of the world we flew across.

  I thought about her perfect little living room. Her brochure-ready bedroom. The seafront she loved to escape to, and the idyllic little kitchen she had where she could don an apron and bake mini Julias their favourite cookies. I thought about a guy—maybe older—walking in from work, loosening his tie, kicking off his shoes and going over to grab her arse with a smug smirk on his face.

  Fuck. That.

  The thought of Julia getting with anyone made my stomach twist up.

  Another man’s head between those thighs? No.

  Another man’s tongue around her swollen nipples? No.

  Another man’s heart beating against hers? Hell, to the fuck no.

  Another man not knowing he had the world’s most kickass, badass publicist who could achieve anything she wanted for a wife. A man making her feel like she was worthless and needed caring for, when she was capable of scooping up the whole world in her arms and taking care of it because she was that strong—that much of a leader.

  I stood taller, not knowing what I was about to say, or what the hell I was doing, only knowing that I had do something to convince Julia that, whether she felt something for me or not, she belonged with us. She belonged with Youth Gone Wild. She was a vital part of it. Without her, a piece of the machine’s heart would be missing.

  She belonged around me… in whatever capacity I could have her. “Or maybe I do know,” I said calmly. “Dicky, I can’t explain where I’m going with this, but I need you to do something for me. I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “I need you to put me in touch with someone who can help me buy a house.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Ma?” I called out.

  “Down here!”

  I made my way into the country kitchen I’d grown up in. The ceilings that had once felt so high now seemed incredibly low. The claustrophobia was real.

  I left my big bag full of stuff at the bottom of the stairs before I went in to see her. She spun around with a smile on her face. It was a smile I’d grown up with. One that spoke of love, and maybe a little secret she hadn’t dared to share. The secret that Caleb wasn’t my real father, and there’d been another man out there who was, technically, the donor of my DNA. I’d been around fifteen when I’d first asked her why Caleb was often cold to me, even though his love was genuine. I’d asked her why I didn’t look or act like him. Why I felt as though something was off, and why I felt so desperately, deep down in my bones, that there was something… missing.

  It was then that she’d broken down and told me the truth after years of holding her secret close to her chest. Ma had gotten pregnant to a man who didn’t love her the way she’d loved him, and in order to survive, she had to let him go.

  I’d barely reacted as she confessed. I’d simply stared right through her, a little gutted that the truth was, in fact, what it was, and also relieved that I hadn’t been imagining it. She’d asked me to promise not to try and track my biological father down, and I’d stuck to that promise until…

  Well, until I hadn’t.

  Ever since she’d spilled the truth, Ma looked at me as though she was disappointed with herself. Like she thought I saw her differently than I actually did. Even now, as she stood there eleven years after revealing the truth, her face was somewhat unsure.

  It fucking killed me.

  Her eyes drifted over my clothes—the jacket on my back, boots on my feet, and the beanie on my head—before she locked her eyes on mine and wiped her hands on her apron.

  “You’re leaving again,” she said quietly.

  “I have to.”

  “Is it me?”

  “Never,” I whispered, scowling lightly. “I never leave because of you.”

  Tears filled her eyes, but she pursed her lips and set her jaw tight as she looked down at the floor. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, her voice a slight croak to it before she looked up at me again. “But I miss you so much, Rhett. So, so much. Sometimes I get this pain in my chest from wishing you were here.”

  “I know.” I did know. I understood how it hurt to miss someone you couldn’t force to be by your side.

  “Tell me… tell me what I could do differently to make you want to be here.”

  I moved at once, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of her and hold her arms. I bent at the knee and met her at eye-level. “Don’t hate this life I have. It’s everything it is because of you. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve written songs about you?”

  She scowled, and her tears were struggling to stay where they were.

  “Whenever I’m on the road, and whenever I’m feeling a little lost, I pick up a pen, find the nearest thing I can—paper, a napkin, a wall, damn… I’ve written on a toilet door before—and I’ve written a line or twenty about you. You, Ma. Not some girl with big tits—”

  “Rhett,” she gasped, but the twitch of her lips made me go on.

  “Not some woman with sparkly eyes. Not the Hollywood Hills. Not the nice cars we get to ride in. Not the stage or even the fans. I’ve looked out of many a hotel window, and I’ve written songs about you, and do you want to know what nearly all of them say?”

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Thank you.”

  Ma blinked up at me with wide eyes and a ghost of a young woman who once would have shone like Julia did now. Her face was kind and homely. She was made for this life right here in her kitchen, safe from the big bad wolves of the world and the lights that were too bright for her sensitive eyes. She belonged away from the traffic, the hustle and bustle of the city, and the endless need for idle chatter. She belonged with the love of her life, Caleb, and his allotment. She belonged in routine, peace, and one single glass of Pinot Grigio on a Saturday night while watching The Voice where she would swoon over Tom Jones.

  “We’re so different, you and I,” I told her. “And all I can ever think to say is thank you for letting us be who we are, and for still loving me like you do. Thank you for letting your rebel son go out there and live. Thank you for buying me my first guitar, my first karaoke machine. Thank you for bringing me up with The Carpenters, Fleetwood Mac, Blondie, and all those strong women who knew how to sing. Thank you for showering me in good music. Thank you for loving me so much, you stay here a little heartbroken, so I can go out there and feel full.”

  Ma reached u
p to cup my cheeks. “If you could feel the love I have for you…”

  “I feel it.”

  “Just promise me you’ll stay safe.”

  “There’s no fun in safety, Ma.”

  “Oh, son, you’re so wrong. So very wrong. There’s more fun in safety than you can let yourself imagine. In cosy nights in front of the fire with someone you love. In the bubble you can create that makes you believe bad things don’t exist. In waking up and knowing what the day is going to bring. But you’re too young to understand that. Right now…” She pressed her palms harder against my cheeks. “Right now, you’re made of the wild stuff. You’re feral. But one day, when you’re a little older and a lot less crazy, you and I will talk about the safe side of life again, and all the fun you can have there. All the fun you will have there.”

  “One day.” I smiled at her, using the boyish grin she liked. The one that existed before cigarettes, a body full of tattoos, and the shit that suddenly made me feel ashamed to stand in front of her. The drugs.

  “And you’ll tell me I was right.”

  “Let’s not get carried away.” I smirked.

  “Promise me you’ll come home.”

  “I can promise to try.”

  She smiled a sad smile in return. “Then promise me you’ll call more. Make more good decisions than bad. Get fewer new tattoos.”

  “Woah. Now you’re just talking crazy.”

  “And that you’ll give me a grandchild at some point.”

  “Jesus, Ma.” I laughed, pulling her hands from my cheeks and holding them between us. “Be careful what you wish for. With the amount of women I’ve slept with, you could get a few knocks on that front door—ouch!”

  Her slap to my arm was one only a mother could deliver.

  “That’s enough of that, Rhett Ryan. Not in this house. Your name might allow you to talk like that out there, but here, in my kitchen, you’ll have some respect.”

  “You got it.” I laughed.

  I loved her.

  She was the only woman I’d ever loved so openly.

  It fucking terrified me how much I loved her, and yet how easy I found it to walk away.

  Still. I walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thanks to Dicky hooking me up, I spent two days in the Baglioni Hotel, in Kensington, London. Seeing the smog of the city every day was oddly satisfying. I’d done nothing but drink and stay in my room as I sorted out a few odds and ends, needing to purge my mind of all the shit running through it.

  It was a Wednesday night, just before midnight, and I’d been writing lyrics for the last three hours in preparation for meeting the guys for rehearsals and shit this week. I had become a lyrical fountain, overflowing with verses, choruses, bridges, and conclusions. Paper was strewn all over the place. I’d hung out of the window so many times to smoke, I had a permanent line indented across my chest from leaning over the ledge to look out at the dark, perfect night of the city that held so many fucking secrets.

  I didn’t want to know any of them. I had enough of my own.

  After every smoke, I’d dropped back down in the hotel room sofa, and I’d started scribbling again, only ever stopping to take another sip of whatever spirit I’d pulled from the minibar.

  My pen flew across the paper, the visions of Julia making my dick hard every time she became my muse… which was more often than I’d admit to anyone. The amount of times I’d jerked off to thoughts of her already could have been embarrassing if I’d have been the kind of guy to give a shit.

  This empty hotel room seemed like solitary confinement without her presence. I thought about going out and finding some hot woman to keep me occupied, but the thought of touching anyone who wasn’t Julia made my insides shrivel. The others were always the same, full of shit and all but forgotten the second I’d got what I wanted from them.

  Jules was different, and different was my new favourite flavour.

  Funny how I’d always thought the familiarity of the band was what kept me happy. It was the familiarity of her. Of her bossy voice, pointed stares, arched brows, folded arms, and those sexy cropped bloody blazers.

  I stared down at the last scribbles of my handwriting that sat on top of the overcrowded coffee table.

  Trying to find peace

  Too close to you

  Trying to breathe underwater

  You’re making me your fool

  Blinded by your comfort

  Seduced by all you seem

  Nothing can ever happen

  We’re such a feeble dream

  The little things we hide

  The truth we dress as lies

  The blank stares and we don’t cares

  Shitty lust we hold inside

  Pretend like we’re not filthy

  Pretending we aren’t as one

  Pretending there’s no desperate need

  To make the other come

  I sat back with a sigh and tossed my pen on the coffee table just as my phone pinged. Reaching for it, I swiped across the screen and saw Julia’s name staring back at me. My heart pounded, and my stomach turned over.

  Finally.

  Julia: Are the flowers from you?

  Me: What flowers?

  Julia: Doesn’t matter. Sorry.

  I could imagine her face, creased only slightly as she pushed her fingertips to her bottom lip and stared at the phone.

  Of course, the flowers were from me.

  She was a day late reaching out, but I could forgive her awkwardness. I would forgive her anything at this point.

  I waited her out, not responding just yet to see if I could get a read on where she stood with me after she’d quit the band and I’d walked away.

  Julia: Actually, I’m not sorry. They have to be from you. The card says ‘For My Homely Girl’. Stop playing with me, Rhett.

  Me: What else does it say?

  Julia. ‘Come to me’.

  Me: Oh, Homely Girl.

  I smirked to myself as the bubble of her response appeared and disappeared several times before a text finally came through a few minutes later.

  Julia: I don’t know why you sent them, but… thanks.

  Me: I sent them because I miss you. Because you’re hurting. Because your sister is hurting. Because I walked away when I should have stayed and argued. Because I think you should be back with the band. Because I miss you. Did I say that already?

  It took her ten minutes to respond.

  Julia: What is happening to you?

  Me: I’m high on Speed.

  Julia: I’ve quit, Rhett.

  Me: Then why are you still texting me like you’re around?

  Julia: Go find fun with someone else.

  Me: I will. If that’s what you want. If you can tell me that the thought of my head between another woman’s legs doesn’t make your stomach twist up in knots just a little bit, then I will. But you have to be honest.

  Julia: I don’t know what I want anymore.

  Me: Have you touched yourself since I left?

  Julia: Stop.

  Me: Good to know.

  My smile was ridiculous. She had touched herself. I imagined her on those bedsheets we’d rolled in, and I instantly got hard at the daydream of me thrusting into her floated through her mind.

  The dots went frantic on my phone, tiny little bursts of activity where I could imagine her in a rage of telling me off, only for her to pause and delete everything she’d typed out before starting again.

  It was time to strike before she struck me off completely.

  Me: It’s eating you up, baby. You can’t find something strong to say, and you’re so afraid of sounding weak. I don’t know what you want. If it isn’t me, then that’s okay, but you should know a few things before you make up your mind: I want you.

  Me: I really fucking want you, Jules.

  Me: I see you everywhere. I close my eyes, you’re there. I shower, you’re there. I brush my teeth, you’re there. I wrap my hand around my dick. You�
�re there. In every TV show. In every song. In every waking fucking thought and all the ones in between when I sleep, and I’m telling you… I no more know what to do with that than you do. All I do know is that it feels easier to tell you the truth than to lie to you.

  Me: So, quit playing hardball.

  Me: And come to me.

  I waited a minute, unable to remove the smile from my face as I reached for another drink, untwisted the cap, and sank a random shot of vodka. I didn’t even need it. I was drinking because I was bored, turned on, and alone. I was drinking because it was a habit. If she’d have been there in front of me, I’d have thrown every drop of alcohol out of the window and lapped her up instead. She was the only thing that could quench my thirst.

  Julia: You’re going to hurt me.

  My smile fell, and I stared at those five words like they were five tiny daggers that had the power to pierce my heart.

  Me: Yeah. Maybe.

  Honesty. I had to give her that.

  Me: But what if I don’t?

  She didn’t respond, and I found myself watching the phone like a lovestruck teenager who was waiting for the high school cheerleader to confirm she was willing to hand over her virginity. Her words. I needed them. Whatever form they came in, I needed them.

  I rattled off the address of where I was staying, and then I tossed my phone aside, closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the sofa. I’d done all I could do for tonight. I’d think of something else tomorrow. Something a little less desperate and a lot more effective.