Stone: A Standalone Rock Star Romantic Comedy (Pandemic Sorrow)

by Stevie J. Cole

  To people looking in, I’ve got it made. I’m surrounded by celebrities and rock stars, I have everything I could possible want, yet I’m hungry for the most basic things: love, affection, genuine people. And I’ve learned, much to my displeasure, most people are only out for themselves.

  I toss my purse on the entrance way table and take a deep breath. I signed the contract, I should be excited, but there’s this sick feeling twisting deep in my gut. This nagging voice telling me I don’t deserve any of this because it’s been handed to me on a silver plate.

  I didn’t ask Henry to give me a deal, to be honest, I didn’t even let him know I was sending demos out to other labels. God, I would have loved to sign with Sunshine Records or MTM, partly just to piss Henry off, but no one wanted to touch me. I’m tainted by his fucking name.

  I cross the living room to grab some water from the kitchen when I hear a giggle followed by a bump. I freeze. Another giggle.

  I slowly tiptoe toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. There are only two people that have the code to the building. My best friend Lauren and– “Oh god, Blaze. Fuck me harder.” –I cringe at her pathetic moans.

  Pam, or mother dearest as I sometimes refer to her, must have helped herself to the privacy of my apartment since Henry’s in town. Now the question is, do I just ignore it, or do I kick them both out right now? There’s a bang against the wall and the picture hanging outside the room sways on the nail. Shaking my head, I walk down the hall, stop outside the room, and take a cleansing breath before I pound my fist over the door. “Oh, mother,” I shout. “Could you stop fucking random men in my house, please?”

  There’s no response, so I bang my fist over the door again. “Get out, or I’ll call Henry.”

  There’s an angry groan. Some mumbling from whoever the hell Blaze is. Rustling. I take a step back and lean against the wall watching the door.

  The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there stands Pam trying to shimmy a tight leather skirt over her hips. Her bleach blonde hair is in disarray. Lipstick is smeared over her face, mascara on her cheek. “Baby,” she slurs, and I just roll my eyes. High and fucking. The two talents she’s known for.

  “Please, get out,” I say.

  She sighs before turning her attention to the shadow in the room. A perverted smirk plays over her collagen plumped lips. And then a guy– a guy who looks to be the same age as me– pops out of the room. His eyebrow is pierced; tats cover both his arm.

  “And who the fuck are you?” I ask.

  “Blaze Jeffries.” He smiles and I can see the arrogance radiating off him like a fresh pile of shit.

  “Okay, get the fuck out, too.”

  “You don’t know who I am?” he scoffs, his gaze drifting back to dear old Pam.

  “Uh, no.”

  He laughs.

  “Baby,” Pam says, “he’s the new bassist for that band, Blood Stain.”

  I sigh. “Don’t know them. And that’s a stupid fucking name.”

  He groans. She groans. “I’m sorry,” she says, “she’s rude.”

  I laugh. “Yes, because I’m the one getting random dicks shoved in my sagging vagina inside my daughter’s house!”

  She shoots an angry glare at me before she leans over the dresser and does a line of coke.

  “And fucking drugs? Jesus…”

  “I wasn’t in your room.”

  “Oh my god,” I groan. “Just go.”

  Blaze grabs the baggie from the dresser and shoves it inside his pocket then they both file out of the room and down the hall. When I hear the front door slam shut, I lean my head back against the wall. My life is a train wreck. Always has been, and from the looks of it, it always will be.

  Amazing!

  3

  Stone

  2 weeks later

  Los Angeles traffic drives me batshit crazy. Bumper to bumper, people swerving in and out of fucking lanes. By the time I get off the interstate and I pull through the herd of woman gathered outside Jag’s front gate, I can feel my fucking pulse throbbing in my eyes. I park my car, hop out, and head straight to the door. I pound over it, but no one answers – of course – so I fish my keys from my pocket and let myself in. The front of the house is empty. There’s beer cans and a dusting of cocaine on the table. A bra hangs from the ceiling fan. Shaking my head, I walk down one of the hallways toward the studio.

  “Fuck that shit,” I hear Rush yell just when I stop outside the studio door. “Hell to the motherfucking no!”

  I open the door, and all three of the guys turn around to face me. Both Jag’s and Rush’s faces are red as shit, and Pax, well he’s just sitting behind his drum set twirling his sticks.

  “Do I want to know?” I ask, closing the door behind me.

  “Fucking James!” Jag groans before chucking his phone across the room. It hits one of the padded walls and falls to the floor with a thud.

  I stand glancing between the guys for a second because I need more information than that. I toss my hands in the air. “Fucking James, what?”

  “He just called and said we have to do a collaboration.”

  My brow wrinkles. “What?”

  “With a chick!” Rush ads. “A chick from a band named Blood Queen.” He shakes his head and snorts. “Blood Queen, sounds like some feministic period pride shit.”

  I drag my hand down my face. “Why?”

  “Hell if I know. He didn’t ask us, just said that old fucking Henry Edwards said it was gonna happen.”

  “Why does he give a shit?” I ask.

  “Hell if I know,” Jag sighs. “James was being a dickhead. Just kept telling me not to argue with him.” He snatches his guitar from the stand. “Fucking going on tour with us, too, I guess.”

  Rush throws his head back and groans.

  “Maybe she’s hot,” Pax says.

  Both Jag and Rush glare at him. I shrug.

  Jag’s phone rings. Groaning, he walks to the side of the room and grabs it off the floor before placing it to his ear. “What?” he snaps into the phone then rolls his eyes. “Fine, but I’m not changing my entire schedule for this chick. She wants to sing with us, she can bring her ass over here to practice.” There’s a pause. “Yeah… yeah…” And then he hangs up. “Fuck an A, man. We gotta go down to the studio and practice with that girl tomorrow.”

  Rush grumbles, and I fall back against the wall. “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”

  Rush walks up to me and clasps his hand over my shoulder. “You disappoint me,” he laughs and I glare at him. “You call yourself a rock star, but you sound like a whiny pussy sometimes.

  I punch him in the arm, and he winces before rubbing over it.”

  “Oh, come on now, Rush,” Jag says. “Stone’s always been the sensitive one.” Jag chuckles before flicking my hair. “He’s the only one with morals, so I’m sure having something shoved into his shit tunnel has made him question his life. He’s trying to see the silver lining everywhere now.”

  I swat Jag’s hand away before punching him in the chest. “You don’t even make sense half the time, you know that, right?”

  Jag shrugs. “I’m high most the time. What do you expect?”

  4

  Phoenix

  As much as I want to pretend playing with Pandemic Sorrow doesn’t intimidate me. It does.

  They are the biggest rock band on the market right now, and I’ve been thrown in on a collaboration they want nothing to do with. Exactly how I wanted to start my career out. Exactly.

  James leads me down the hallway to the studio. He turns and glances at me before he throws the door open. “I’m sorry, but this is going to be a terrible experience for you.”

  “Great.”

  He shrugs as we walk into the room. “Henry calls the shots, but those boys are…” he shakes his head, “idiots. They’re going to be assholes and vulgar, they’ll try to fuck you.” He points at me. “Which I suggest you don’t do. The amount of times that one fucker Rush has been tak
en to a clinic for burning piss.” He shakes his head. “I refuse to shake his hand anymore.”

  I’ve heard about them. I mean, hell, they’ve branded themselves on being a professional at being unprofessional. They are the epitome of what rockers are supposed to be: sexy as hell, filthy whores with an insatiable sex drive and love of drugs and booze. “Don’t worry,” I say, “I won’t get too close.”

  James nods. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, they are money making machines partly because of how disgusting they are, but you know, you’re like a kid sister or something and I just can’t stand the thought of you being taken advantage of.”

  “Yeah, thanks…”

  “Alright,” he says, dragging a hand down his face, “you’ve been practicing the song, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, so maybe two weeks of practice and a week of recording and you can be done with it.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Well, done until the tours and interviews.”

  “I’m sorry.” I agreed to a collaboration. Not a tour. Not interviews…

  A nervous laugh works its way up James’ throat. “Your dad –”

  “Henry.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Henry, he uh, well, he kind of worked out a deal for you to go on a stint of their tour and open for them. And, of course, there’ll be a few interviews. The Meredith Show. Good Morning Show.”

  “What!”

  James winces.

  “James!”

  “It’s a good gig, Phoenix.”

  I groan. While I should be thankful, it seems so underhanded to just have me riding on the coattails of these shitheads. “Shit. Fine, what choice do I have really?”

  “None.” He sighs. “No other label will touch you because of Henry, and let’s face it… you can’t go do a normal job, I mean, you’re not normal. Normal people will look at you like some freak at a sideshow.”

  “James, really?”

  “Yes, you’re fucked, sorry to say. Fame fucks you and you’ve been fucked up the ass by it since the second you were squirted out of Zevens’ dick.”

  “Wonderful.” I slap my hand over my forehead and groan.

  I fall onto one of the metal chairs and tilt my head back. I would pay money to have been brought up in a normal home, with normal parents. This shit is for the birds... yet, here I am sinking deeper and deeper into the sinkhole of shit because there is no way out of it. It’s like a mafia or something– the only way out is through death, and I’m not ready for that. Yet.

  “Where the hell are those shitheads?” James says. I look up and James is glancing at his watch. “I swear to god.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just run through it on my on a few times.”

  “Yeah, do that.” He grabs the door and opens it. “Look, just so you know, I told them you wouldn’t practice at Jag’s house. God knows what kind of a chaotic mess that is, and besides, I didn’t want to be responsible for putting you in a house alone with them.”

  “Thanks.” I smile as he walks out of the door. Although his heart was in the right place–which it rarely is because James is a slimy guy– I know he just made my life a hundred times harder by telling them I wouldn’t practice at Jag’s house.

  I grab my guitar and strum out the first few notes and shrug to myself. Well, if they already think I’m a diva, may as well play the part.

  5

  Stone

  The interstate whizzes past. Rush passes a joint up from the back of the car. I take a toke and hold the smoke in my lungs, watching as we speed right past the exit for the record label. I blow the smoke out and hand the joint back to Rush. “Jag, man,” I say, “you just missed the exit, fucker.”

  “No I didn’t,” he says.

  “Are you that high? Exit 13 was right there.” I thumb behind us.

  “I know that was Exit 13. I can read.” He laughs. “We’re making a pit stop before we go practice.”

  I glance at the clock and groan. “Making a statement?”

  “Yep,” he says. “New acts don’t call the shots.”

  “That’s my man,” Rush says from the back, reaching up and slapping Jag on the shoulder.

  Pax grunts behind me. “Where are we going?”

  “The titty bar.”

  “Woo-hoo! Titties!” Rush shouts, a large cloud of smoke wafting up to the front. The smoke is so thick in here it looks like there’s a fog machine going off.

  “Man,” I say, “you remember the first time we went to a strip club?”

  “Oh, yeah, how could we forget?” Jag says. “Paxton, you remember, don’t you?”

  “Fuck you,” Pax says.

  Rush laughs so hard he snorts, then farts. “The Showboat in Savannah, man those strippers in the back room would do some crazy-ass shit. Pax, your face when that girl squirted the water out and it hit you in the face –”

  “It got in my eye.”

  “Yeah, and then you had the clap in your eye from it. Your eye was all swollen and red and weeping yellow shit.” We all laugh because that would only happen to Pax.

  “First STD,” Rush cackles, “and you were still a virgin.”

  “Fuck off,” Pax mumbles.

  Jag speeds up before veering across three lanes of traffic, cars honking. We barrel around the exit and within minutes, we’re parked and crawling out of the car.

  As soon as I stand up, the pot hits me. Hard. My head goes all dizzy and my heart races. “Man, that weed… ”

  Rush laughs. “Some crazy strand called Green Crack or some shit.”

  “I swear to god,” Pax says, trying to gain his balance, “if that’s some more gank-ass shit laced with embalming fluid.”

  Rush sniffs and adjusts his dick. “Nah, this crack-head looked super trustworthy.”

  “You bought this from some random dealer?” I ask. “What happened to Twitch?”

  “I think he’s in jail or something.”

  “Yeah, he’s in jail,” Jag says.

  We manage to stumble up the stairs to the club, and it’s not until I’m right here that I glance up and look at the neon pink sign that glows: Pussy Club. “Where the fuck are we?” I ask.

  Jag points to the blinking light. “The Pussy Club.”

  Rush and Pax snicker. I look around the parking lot. There are only a few cars here, and one’s an old Ford pickup with the hood smashed in. “Jag, what the hell, man? This place is… ”

  “Low end,” he says, “yeah, but it was the only strip club open at noon. Give me a break.”

  I shake my head.

  The wooden door creaks when he pulls it open, and the smell of stale cigarettes and beer suffocates me when I walk in. There’s a middle-aged man with a comb over and a gut that’s pouring over his metal belt buckle leaned against the wall. I guess this is supposed to be the bouncer.

  Rush laughs silently as he thumbs toward the guy.

  “Twenty a head,” the man says.

  “What? Twenty?” Rush sighs, shoving his hand in his pocket. “This place smells like piss and open ass, old man, you do know that?”

  “Yeah, I’m aware.” He glances up and I notice a bulge in his lip. He grabs an empty Mountain Dew bottle, places it to his lips, and spits. The brown liquid oozes down the inside of the bottle. “And there’s titties in there,” the guy says. “So it’s 20 a head.”

  Rush grumbles something else before he pulls his wallet out and hands the guy a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  The doors to the actual club swing open and we file in. In the middle of the room is one stage with metal fold out chairs surrounding it. There’s a naked girl swinging around a pole. Rush looks over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “Pussy Club,” he chuckles.

  I take a seat to the left of the stage and Pax sits next to me. “I worry about his mental health sometimes,” he says in my ear.

  I nod in agreement. “God, I hope he can’t reproduce, could you imagine a little Rush running around and shitting its pants?”


  We both shrug, because it wouldn’t be much different than the adult Rush.

  The song ends and the lights dim. Some old man in the corner of the room claps and whistles. The girl bends over, bleached asshole gleaming, and collects the few bucks that have been thrown on the stage before she totters off in her nine-inch heels.

  A waitress approaches us, tits out, nipples hard. The second we all glance over at her, she stops dead in her tracks. She opens her mouth to say something, then stops, and before any of us can say a word, Rush is out of his chair and grabbing her by the hand. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, “and yes, yes we are Pandemic Sorrow, and you have a lovely pair of titties right there.” His eyes drop to her chest and he smiles.

  She gives Rush a once-over as a slow smile inches over her lips.

  I reach out and grab him, pulling him down to me. “Do not try and fuck that stripper.”

  Jag leans in. “I mean, you can get her to give you a blowjob, but I wouldn’t park my shit in her bat cave.”

  Rush glances back at her. “Man, I’m not going to fuck her. I’m too high and that’s too much work.” He turns back to face her. “Just bring us a bottle of whisky. That should do for a minute or so.”

  Giggling, she winks and spins around, heading back toward the bar.

  We sit in front of the stage, drinking, watching girl after girl dance. Rush and Jag are throwing money at them like cheap-fucking-confetti, Pax has gone up to the VIP room with some redhead. And I’m fucking bored. Having lived the life I’ve lived for the past few years— one-night stands, having girls line up for a fuck and suck— well, after that shit a little strip club doesn’t exactly do much for a man’s libido.

  _________

  Pax parks the car in the studio lot. He was the least shitfaced of us all. Jag calls him a cunt before shoving open the door and staggering out. And there, waiting on the sidewalk, are the paparazzi. Jag glances over his shoulder at me and smirks before making a show of tossing his glasses over his face.