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

by Stevie J. Cole

  I glance through the window at Stone, but he’s staring down at his phone. The rhythm comes through again and this time, I nail it. At least the first line, anyway.

  Three hours later and it’s over.

  Jag doesn’t acknowledge me when he tosses his headphones on the chair and walks out of the room.

  I grab my bottled water and walk to the side of the recording studio. The wall is lined with albums. Seven of them Pandemic Sorrow. I stop in front of their first album and look at Stone. Really look at him. Even though he has this stoic expression, I can still see a twinge of excitement, like he was hiding a smile. I walk past a few more albums and stop at their last one. That stoic look is no longer a façade.

  Do I really want to do this to myself?

  I head out the door and run right into Stone who is waiting outside. “That sounded amazing,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I take a breath.

  “Now just the tour and you can be done with us.” He smiles.

  “Yeah, can’t wait to see what jack asses you guys are on tour.” The smile fades from his face. “Sorry,” I say, “I just…” But there is no just. “Sorry.”

  He shoves his hands inside his pockets and walks to the stairwell, shoving open the door and disappearing inside.

  I stare at the door for a minute. “Why am I being such a bitch?” I mumble to myself.

  Thirty minutes later and I’m stuck in the rush hour traffic on the I-101. Some old man keeps creeping up next to me and staring. My phone buzzes in the console. I glance at it and sigh. Pam.

  I grab the phone. “Hey.”

  “Hey, baby,” she says. “Henry told me this record should go platinum.”

  “Huh. Okay.”

  “See what your mother does for you? Stays with a dirty old man so her baby can achieve her dreams.”

  I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised I don’t strain a muscle. “Gee, thanks, mom.”

  “I was thinking, you know, maybe we should see about doing an interview with Rolling Stone.”

  “For what?”

  “Publicity, of course. I was thinking we could wear white fur, you know, kinda like I did when me and Jimmy did that article back in ninety-one.”

  This is typical Pam behavior. How can she get in the spotlight? “Yeah,” I sigh, “just not really feeling an interview. Especially not one Henry has to pull strings for.”

  “Oh, come on now, you know as soon as people figure out it’s Zeve Zevens daughter the media will be all over you.”

  My face heats, my chest goes tight. I swerve into the exit lane and someone lays on their horn. “He paid you to keep your mouth shut about that.”

  “Of course he did, but that was over twenty years ago and Marlow is dead, so I mean, what would he care? Henry thinks it would be a good publicity stunt.”

  “I care, Pam. I care!” I don’t want any more shit piled on top of my name.

  “Don’t call me Pam, it’s so impersonal.”

  “Fitting,” I snort into the phone, because Mother Dearest was about as impersonal as she could be. I came into this world as a ploy, a way for her to climb her way to the top… and when that didn’t work out, I mean, what was she going to do? I was raised by nannies and stage hands. I don’t have memories of her kissing a scraped knee or baking cookies with me. No, all my memories of her include finding her laid out on the couch after a binge with blood dripping from her nose. Having rock star after wannabe rock star in our house. Going to concerts and sitting back stage while she went and fucked her way through half the band. Until Jimmy.

  Jimmy was the closest thing to a parent I ever had, and that’s just tragic at best.

  “Baby, please just– ”

  “You want to do an interview to rave about raising a child on your own? About being Jimmy Rage’s ex-wife and the wife of Henry Edwards, fine. Set it up. I’ll sit there and shake my head for you, mom.” And I hang up the phone.

  Fame.

  Stone was right, it’s a disease. A sick fucking disease.

  My cell rings again and I snatch it up, pressing it to my ear. “What?” I snap into the phone.

  “Well, lovely to hear your voice, too, sis.”

  The tension in my muscles automatically eases at the sound of Harvey’s voice. “Sorry.”

  “Ah, that’s the ‘Pam’s being a cunt’ tone, isn’t it?” he says.

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  “Wanna come over and chill? I’m bored. Plus, I have this wicked picture of a naked woman I ordered from some artist and I don’t know where to hang it.”

  “You ordered art?”

  “I was high.” He laughs. “But it’s bad ass, she’s got blood running down her sides and a serpent head.”

  “Wow.”

  “Come on, I’ll fix you my magic ice cream.”

  I grin and put my blinker on. “Fine, but I’m only coming for the ice cream.”

  “See you in a few,” he says and hangs up.

  13

  Stone

  We climb out of Jag’s Lotus and walk down Ventura towards Oceans. The neon sign glows bright in the night, and before we even cross the street, I can see the line wrapping around the building.

  “That would suck,” I mumble.

  “Yep,” Jag says. “Would fucking blow.

  Heads turn. Eyes lock on us. There’s nudging and whispering before there’s screaming and cameras flashing as we walk past the line straight toward the entrance. One girl hops over the rope and latches on to Jag. He, of course, shoves his tongue down her throat.

  The bouncer glances at us. Without hesitation, he leads us through the front door, directing us to the VIP area where drinks are waiting.

  It’s not two minutes after we sit down before the owner comes over and shakes our hand. “Good to see you guys here,” he says. “Where’s the rest of the band?”

  I shrug.

  “Fucking,” Jag says.

  George nods toward the stairs, and there, waiting in front of that little velvet rope stands four girls. Four dolled up girls. Tits out. “I have some ladies that wanted to come party with you,” he says.

  “Of course,” Jag winks before walking over and unfastening the rope. “Won’t you come in?”

  They all giggle. I just grab a drink from one of the tables.

  “You know my brother, Stone,” Jag says, pointing at me.

  I lift a hand, watching as Jag snakes his arm around two of the girls’ waists. The other two stumble over to me in their high heels. The minute they sit down, their hands are all over me, their warm lips on my neck, my face… I glance over at Jag and one of the girls already has his dick out.

  Grinning, he raises a drink in the air. I nod, threading my fingers through the hair of the blonde that’s undoing my zipper. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, glancing up. I shrug one shoulder. “Knock yourself out.”

  The other girl keeps sucking on my neck, so I put a hand on her thigh, slowly inching my way up, questioning why I do shit like this. I mean, I don’t know these girls. I have no intention of getting to know them, yet one of them is ramming my cock down her throat, and I’m about to have my fingers crammed inside the other one’s pussy. And why? Simply because I can, I guess. Because it’s what’s expected of me. Because, when your famous, the world’s an entirely different playground. This – random hookups, fucking strangers – it’s how you get that human contact we all so desperately need. I may be most girl’s fantasy, but the thing about fantasies, they are fleeting. Overrated, and usually once you get a little taste of the reality, of the shit that comes along with it, you don’t want it anymore. I throw my head back and sink down on the chair a little, letting these girls find their fantasy while I lose myself a little more.

  14

  Phoenix

  I take the last bite of ice cream, the marshmallow fluff and caramel dripping onto my chin. “God, Harvey,” I say, licking the spoon, “what do you put in there?”

  He glances at me with a smile. “
I’d have to kill you if I told you.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  “Of course I am.”

  I laugh, and he grabs the bowl from me, taking it to the kitchen. I glance around his living room, staring at that weird-ass picture of the naked serpent lady he has propped against the far wall. He’s the closet thing I have to a sibling, even if we were only legally related for a year. He terrorized me. Stuck lizards in my bed, stole my training bras… shit on my bathroom floor. And, he got what it was like being with a parent that sucked at being a parent. His mom overdosed when he was three, which left Jimmy a single dad and Harvey being raised by the four men in an 80s-metal band.

  He comes back into the living room with a bottle of tequila. He opens the top and hands the bottle to me. “To your first album.” He grins. I take the bottle and tip it back, then pass it back to him.

  “Your mom’s a cunt,” he says.

  “I know.” I smile.

  “You know, she tried to fuck me once.”

  “What?”

  He nods. “I mean, she was off her face drunk, but she tried to. I was eighteen, so it was legal.”

  “Please, please tell me you didn’t?”

  “Fuck no. Look, I will never forget being sixteen and having to drive my dad to a clinic because he said it felt like an army of fire ants were pouring from his dick. He moaned and groaned the whole way there.” Harvey snarls his lip. “I swore from that moment on, I’d never fuck the same girl my dad did again.”

  “Again?” I ask.

  “I mean, you know, teenage boys are horny and groupies are even hornier…” He grins wide and I want to vomit.

  “Oh my god, and I’ve eaten after you.”

  “I told you that burrito wasn’t worth it…” he laughs and tips the bottle back.

  This is the thing I appreciate about Harvey. We can just be ourselves. There’s no pressure, no shit. He’s one of the few people I can just hang out with. We sit and talk until the bottle is laying empty on the floor and I’m shitfaced. Harvey’s shitfaced. “Shit,” I groan as I push up from the couch. “I can’t drive.”

  “I mean, I have plenty of rooms. Just stay here.” He climbs to his feet and staggers toward the kitchen.

  I stare through the large floor to ceiling window at the back of his house, the dark night sky looks so peaceful, so I stumble toward the sliding glass door and tug it open. The warm ocean breeze blows through my hair. I close my eyes, inhaling the salty air before I step onto the patio. I walk toward the wrought iron fence lining the pool and glance out over the beach at the white caps peaking on the tide. I lose myself in the quiet, the stillness of the night.

  A warm hand glides along my shoulders, sweeping my hair off my neck. “What are you thinking about?” Harvey asks.

  “Whether I’m doing the right thing.”

  “The right thing with what? The music?”

  “Yeah, the music.”

  “Of course you are. It’s in your blood.”

  “Am I?” That is what I keep asking myself. I’m doing what’s normal to me. Fame. Rock and roll, shouldn’t I strive for something extraordinary? Shouldn’t I want to be a lawyer or a doctor? Something that is different than my normal? I know what a shit show it is. I know what I’m in for– at least from an outsider’s perspective, because while everyone around me may be famous, I’m not, and I’m sure that pressure does something to you. Can I really handle that?

  “Come on, you’ve got an amazing voice.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Sometimes, you just have to go with the shit, you know?”

  “I guess.” When I turn around, he’s still right there.

  He stares down at me, a lazy, drunk grin on his face. “There’s a lot of things you just need to let happen.” His hand slowly creeps around to the back of my head and I swallow, panicking inside because what the actual hell is he doing?

  “Harvey…”

  “Shhh, just go with it, sis.” He leans in and tries to kiss me, but I duck to the side. He grabs my arm. “Come on, Phoenix. I’ve wanted you since I met you.”

  “Gross.”

  He snorts. “It’s hot. Stepbrother-stepsister shit is all the rage.” He snorts again. “And I’m all the rage.” He grabs his crotch with his free hand.

  I stare blankly at him, trying to focus the double vision threatening to take over.

  “Tell me you never thought about it.” He steps closer to me.

  I go to step around him, but he just tightens his hold on me. I close my eyes. I try to fight through the tequila swirling around in my head. “No, I love you, but you’re gross.” He has to be joking. He’s joking…right? I look at him and he’s biting on his lip, dragging his gaze over my body like a dirty rag.

  “So mean,” he hisses. “I like it.”

  He pulls me against him and plants his lips on my neck, biting me hard. I slap at his forehead and all he does is laugh against my throat. “Get rough. Abuse me.”

  “I’m about to fucking hurt you if you don’t let go of me.”

  “Yes,” he groans and grabs my tit. That’s it! Drunk or not. Ex stepbrother or not. I take my elbow and ram it against his face before yanking my arm out of his hold. “Aw, fuck. I was just playing with you,” he shouts.

  “Oh no…” I rub over my stinging arm as I glance from him to his house then back to the gate leading down to the beach. Of course, leave it to me to get into some shitty situation like this. God, the level of awkwardness that will be there in the morning is going to be unbearable. “I’m just gonna…” I edge my way toward the gate. “Go for a walk. Clear my head. You just…” I shoo him away with my hand. “Go inside and go to sleep or something.”

  Sighing, he turns around and staggers toward his back door, grumbling beneath his breath. I watch him open the door and slip inside. He turns around and looks at me, then locks the door before flipping me off. Classic Harvey Rage. And this – having my old stepbrother try to woo me into sexual escapades with ice cream and tequila – this is my life. This is my fucking normal.

  I should have gone to law school.

  I push the gate open and head down the winding path, taking my sandals off when my feet hit the sand. For some reason, I’m angry, or maybe I’m hurt. I blame the tequila. I guess maybe it’s the fact that I thought Harvey was one of the few people who wanted nothing from me. Lauren– I love her, but I know she likes the perks of hanging out with rockers. My mom– god, let’s not even go there. My friends– I never could trust that they were my friends because of who I was, more or less, whose house I lived in. And then there was Harvey. The one person who didn’t want anything from me.

  I’ve wanted you since I met you.

  And even though I hate myself for thinking it, I guess maybe he just wanted me because I was a challenge. A taboo challenge. How, when you are around the greedy ladder climbers that infest this industry like an itchy rash, can you trust that anyone actually likes you for you? I take a deep breath, rubbing over my stinging arm, telling myself to stop being such a whiny bitch, but again – tequila. Tears are falling down my cheek. “Great,” I huff and swat them away because I don’t cry over stupid shit. And this is stupid shit.

  I compose myself and step around the huge clump of seagrass only to find someone in Harvey’s beach chair, sprawled out. The moon glints off a bottle, and I groan. The way my night is going, it’s probably a drunk serial killer. Take me now, Bundy. Just take me now!

  15

  Stone

  It’s past midnight, and I can’t fucking sleep. I get up, grab a bottle of whisky from the liquor cabinet, and walk out onto my pool deck with my phone. I flop down on one of the stiff lounge chairs and exhale. My gaze drifts over the illuminated water, over to the waterfall pouring down into the pool before I pull the top off the bottle and turn it up. From here I can hear the distant lull of the waves crashing on the shore, and that settles me a little. There’s a few laughs from some kids down on the beach, but other than that, it’s completely quiet.

&nbs
p; I stare through the massive window at the back of my house. The winding stairwell that leads up to eight bedrooms is in plain view from here, and I can’t help but laugh. A 7,500-square foot house all to myself.

  All by myself.

  Leaning back on the cushion, I stare up at the sky. I used to think fame was the answer to everything– I think most people think that, at least until they have it. And then, at first, god, it’s amazing. You’re on a constant high, everything’s new and exciting and then… then it all slowly wears and tears on you, and you’ll start to sink. Slow and steady. Just like a rock.

  The thing about fame, it puts you in this bracket of people who are all just as miserable as you are, but have to pretend everything’s amazing: Here, let me post pictures of myself on this yacht with my wife that’s fucking the guitarist in my band. Let me post a picture of my new Maserati. Let me get high as fuck so I can actually force a smile at this awards ceremony.

  I always like to compare fame to Penny Howard, the pretty blonde in high school that was too good to give me the time of day. It was the idea of her that got me. The idea of what it would be like to kiss her that drove me fucking wild. God, I spent a year chasing her, writing songs for her, and when I finally won her over, when it was finally just me and her, well, I realized she was shallow as shit and had a soul as black as Satan’s. Sometimes it’s the idea of something that makes it seem worthwhile. The idea is fun, the actual possession of it–not so much.

  The idea of fame makes you believe your life will be filled with all these things and people– I glance around. Things, sure. I’ve got tons of things, but people… when you’ve been tainted be fame the majority of people you run into only want to use you, so you find yourself on your multi-million-dollar home’s pool deck, alone with a bottle of liquor.