Rock Me: A Rockstar Romance (Rock Chamber Boys Book 4)

by Daisy Allen

Almost killing me.

  And worse, almost killing herself.

  The urge to see her, to kiss her, to talk to her, to hear her play is trumped by the overwhelming urge to shake her, shake her until she gives up her secrets, to tell me why. How she could be this kind of person? To make her show me how she could hide this, even from herself.

  It's been a month since we've come back to L.A.

  As part of my rehabilitation, we practice every day. My playing isn't perfect, but there's real hope for a full recovery.

  Physically.

  Mentally, emotionally, I'm as wrecked as I ever was.

  And the only person who can fix me is the only person who ever broke me.

  There's a knock on the door and I ignore it. Preferring to sit in my dark room and stare out the window into the night.

  Night is good.

  Quiet.

  Safe.

  Alone.

  The knock comes again, louder this time.

  I sigh and call out, "It's open."

  There's a pause and the door cracks open, and light streams in through the gap, drawing a bright line clear across the floor of my bedroom.

  I squint and can barely make out the shape of the person at the door. It’s Anca.

  "Hey, Jezzy," she says, quietly, as she steps into the room and closes the door behind her.

  "Hey. Want a drink?" I hold up the Cognac decanter I'm swilling from.

  "Um, no, thanks. Maybe you've had enough for tonight?"

  "Hmmm," I say, as if I'm really thinking about it. "No. No, I don't think so. I think I'm going to drink this one and then another one and then we'll see."

  "Jez." The way she says my name sometimes makes me question who's the older sibling of us two. She's grown up a lot in the last few months. First coming into her own after her own drama and then dealing with my accident. It can't have been easy for her seeing me, in a hundred broken pieces in that hospital bed, asleep for weeks.

  But she handled it with more grace than I could've had the tables been turned. I would've torn up L.A. on a rampage.

  And what good would it have done?

  Nothing but assuaged my own guilt, my own ego, that I hadn't been able to take care of my own baby sister. I guess it's a good thing that she's wiser than me. And as it turns out, much kinder.

  "Give me the bottle," she says, holding out her hand, and I take one last sip, before handing it to her.

  She lifts it to her mouth and takes a drink, her eyes crinkling as the liquid burn down her throat.

  "Now we're both drunk. Happy?"

  "You had one drink,” I roll my eyes.

  "You know I'm a cheap drunk. It's partly why Marius loves me. That and I'm very bendy," she wiggles her eyebrows and I make pretend to stick my finger down my throat and retch.

  "Please, too much information. I think of you guys sitting up in bed in flannel pajamas and playing scrabble."

  "Naked scrabble, maybe."

  "Dear God," I say, eyes pointed up to the ceiling. "You've put me through a lot in the last few months, but this, this is easily the worst of it,"

  She giggles softly and nudges me with her elbow, making more room for herself on the bed next to me.

  "Ugh, when are you going back to Romania already?"

  "When I think that you're ready for me to go." She doesn't pull her punches, my sister. And I'm glad for that. She's had a hard time, it's good to see her feel comfortable in her own skin. I just wish she'd do it far away from me.

  "Well, now's a good time. I can call you an Uber. I'll even pay."

  She pokes her tongue out at me, and suddenly she's six years old again and I'm telling her off for not putting on her shoes. It really was just us for a lot of our childhood once were alone. Our grandparents couldn't have taken better care of us, but our music lessons and private schooling cost a lot, and they had to work more than they should've at their age.

  Just another way our parents’ car accident changed the course of everyone's life.

  "I heard you're working on a new piece. Marius says it's so good, it's going to be the title of the next album."

  "Don’t listen to what that Dung Beetle Breath says," I say.

  "Hey, that's my boyfriend you're talking about."

  "Hey, that's one of my best friends you're boning," I shoot back at her. "And I've known him longer than you."

  "Yeah, but you know he's right. He knows good music when he hears it."

  I roll my eyes, but I have to agree with her. And the new song is good.

  It's not finished and I'm not sure how it's going to end up, but it's good.

  And I'm proud of it.

  "What about... other stuff? Non-musical stuff?" she asks, trying to keep her voice light, like I won’t notice she’s prying into my life.

  "Mind your own business, Anca." It's the same response I give whenever she tries to make me talk.

  "No. Not today. It's time. Tell me what's going on in your head."

  "Nothing. There’s nothing going on in my head."

  I get a hard elbow poked into my side. "Yes, there is. Tell me about her."

  "Ow! Do it again and I’m telling Dennis,” I warn her. “And by the way, I especially don't think about her."

  "What a load of absolute bull elephant shit."

  "That's a helluva lot of shit."

  "Exactly,” she glowers at me.

  "What do you want me to say, Anca? That I spend every day not knowing if I want to kiss her or kill her? That I can't believe I finally fell in fucking love and it was with someone like her? That I don't know how or why I wake up every morning, because I know when I do, she's not going to be here? That I'm still so disgusted by her that I can't even say her name? But if I could, if I could turn back time, I would get in that car instead of her, knowing that it would hit someone? Because I would rather it was me than her. Because I can live with my own shame, But I can't live with someone I'm ashamed of. That I miss her more than I missed playing the cello? And that I'd chop off both my arms if it meant things could be different?"

  Anca sighs. "Yes. I want you to say all those things. And more, if you have it."

  I shrug, "No, I don't have anything, Anca. Just you and the band."

  "Only because you chose to walk away."

  "Are you kidding me?” I bellow at her. "You, of all people, you're judging ME for walking away from her?"

  "No, I'm not judging you. You are."

  "The hell I am."

  "You are, I hear it in everything you're saying. The conflict. Make up your fucking mind. Do you love her or do you hate her?"

  "Both."

  "No. You don't. You just think you should hate her."

  "She got in a car drunk, Anca. And she hit me.”

  She stands up abruptly and waves her finger in my face. "Oh, I know, I saw. I saw the blood, the tubes, the casts. Heard the doctors frantic, asking each other what to do, all while the fucking paparazzi were blocking the entrance ways for the exclusive scoop that you were dead. It’s a pint of my blood coursing through your veins right now. So, yeah, I bloody hell know, so don't you tell me I don't know what happened to you."

  "Mom and Dad…"

  "Died in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. Yeah, I know that, too. I was four years old and couldn’t understand why my mom, my hero, never came back for me. Tell me something, I don’t know."

  She sits down, drawing in a long breath.

  "Anca, I can't just forget."

  "No one's telling you. But the grudge, that's for you to decide whether you can let it go or not. I've had a good life. Haven't you?"

  "The absolute best." I tell her. Meaning every word. "I... I just don't know I could ever forgive her."

  "You know the answer, you just said it."

  "That's not what love is, Anca."

  My little sister looks at me, as if I’m an absolute idiot. "It's exactly what it is. And for what it's worth. I forgive her. I saw how happy she made you, so I forgive her. It’s your choice."r />
  I sit there, listening to my own breath, wondering what I can and cannot change.

  Anca sighs and pats me on the hand. "Like I said, your choice. But right now, you're going to get up and drag your ass out here and listen to Brad sing karaoke. And that, my darling brother is NOT a choice. Come on, enough sulking. Time to get back to the land of the barely living."

  She gets up and holds out her hand to me. I sigh and let her pull me to my feet.

  "When did you get so wise, anyway?"

  "I dunno, sometime around when you were pretending that the dog ate the cake I made for Gramps."

  I blink and try not to react. "Oh, whatever do you mean?"

  She punches me on the shoulder lightly. "Yeah right, you left a glass of milk on the table, you ass."

  "Fuck,” I let out a laugh. “Why didn't you ever say?"

  "I was saving it for when I needed something."

  "And that's now?"

  She makes a pained face. "Yeah... please, oh please don't let Marius sing."

  "Deal. And by the way, the cake was delicious. Totally worth it." I grin and watch her eyes grow red with anger before running into the other room, my little sister hot on my tail.

  Returning to the land of the living.

  ***

  "Here." Dennis comes up to me as everyone starts to stagger back to their rooms after a marathon karaoke session that ended in one microphone being thrown into the toilet and the HDMI cord cut in two. There’s a folder in his hand.

  "What's this?"

  "It’s a file, about the accident. Your accident. About what happened the night the car hit you."

  "Dennis.”

  "Jez. It’s time. You’ve spent your whole adult life with me protecting you, making sure you guys are safe, that you guys are taken care of, that nothing can hurt you. Nothing can interfere with your music, your performing. But, if the accident taught me anything, it’s that I can’t be there every second of your life. And I can’t make all the decisions for you. You're an adult. And I should’ve told you from the beginning who Noémie was. And let you make the decision with all the information. I think we've seen, hiding from it, or not remembering, doesn’t mean it doesn't happen. You should know. So here. Here is everything. This time, make your decision, with all the information. Try to make it the right one, okay. And for the right reasons.”

  I stare at the folder in his hand and close my eyes. The scene changing instantly in my mind.

  I remember seeing the pedestrian lights change, and stepping off the sidewalk onto the street.

  I remember headlights blinding me from the side.

  I remember the tires screeching.

  And then nothing else, until I woke up in the hospital.

  It’s nothing new, I’ve been replaying the scene over and over in my head hundreds if not thousands of times. Sometimes when I’m awake, and sometimes in the dead of dreams.

  Noémie said once, there was nothing worse than having everyone else know what happened in your life, and yet have no recollection of it.

  How was my experience any different?

  There was another side of the story of what happened that night.

  But I never wanted to know it. It’s time to see the whole picture.

  “Time to take back your life, Jez,” my manager tells me. And I know he’s right.

  I take the folder from Dennis and he gives me a grim smile, squeezing my shoulder before leaving me alone.

  I wander back to my room, and sit with it in my lap, picking up the decanter from where Anca left it and take a swig.

  "Now or never."

  I flip open the folder and see it's filled with official reports and news articles and tabloid pictures of the scene. There are private photos probably taken by the guys in our entourage of me bloodied and bruised on the bed, the whole band surrounding me, Anca looking tired, eyes red from crying.

  My stomach flips and I almost stop. I didn’t want to know about this. I’d been too involved with my own recovery, that I never really thought about the effect it had had on everyone around me.

  But it’s not the whole story without them. So I let my heartbeat slow, taking deep breaths before I continue flipping through the pages.

  I pull the police report from the pile. Everything, details in black and white.

  The date. The location. Pedestrian hit, Jeremy Petrescu. That's me.

  Driver found unconscious at the scene. Severe head injuries to the front and back of her skull. Noémie De Bruyn. That's her, I remind myself. Noémie was the driver who hit you.

  Passenger also unconscious, revived by paramedics at the scene.

  Vehicle, car, 2017 Viper Dodge.

  Green.

  Totaled at the scene.

  Patrons at the bar heard the accident and came over, and called the paramedics.

  Wait.

  Hang on.

  I go back and reread the details. No. It can't be. I flick through the pictures, looking for something to confirm what I have read.

  Oh my god.

  Oh my god! That can't be!

  I can't believe it. I grab the papers and run out into the room.

  "GUYS! Wake UP! WAKE UP!"

  Brad comes running out of his room, Emily follows, tightening the belt around her robe.

  "What's up, what's going on?"

  "I can't explain right now. Just... get me a car. And grab the others. We have to go, now!"

  "Go where?" Brad says, picking up the phone.

  "You'll see!" I yell, running into my room to quickly pack a bag.

  "You're crazy,” he calls after me.

  "Maybe. We're about to find out."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Noémie

  My childhood bed in my childhood bedroom is small and creaky.

  I can't turn over in it without waking the whole house, the decades-old mattress sagging under me, and the wooden bed frame moaning as the rusted screws hold on for dear life. It was a hand me down from my older cousin, and probably a hand me down from someone before him.

  Except for the bed at the Bellagio, I've never known a more comfortable place in my life.

  Paige and I spend the first day of our stay here holed up in my room, poring over the hilarious memorabilia of my teenage years. She recognizes some of the people from the pictures in my photo album but the rest is a strange phenomenon to her.

  When we finally emerge at dinner time, my mom has conjured a feast with all the comfort foods of my heart. Tuna casserole, mac and (very orange) cheese, green beans and corn on the cob slathered in butter. I think Paige gains ten pounds just looking at it all. I watch as she digs in and I know she can tell the difference, when a meal is created out of love.

  The kitchen table is quickly cleared after dinner and we bring out the games. A rowdy game of Cards Against Humanity has us howling with laughter deep into the night, my Mom waving away suggestions about her going to bed to rest for work the next day as she gleefully deals another round, talking trash.

  The clock ticks over into another single digit hour of the early morning when Paige and I wish each other goodnight, her breath quickly becoming soft and steady.

  I close my eyes, and all I can see is his face.

  “Piss off, Jez,” I whisper, shaking my head etch-a-sketch style, but the screen in my head doesn’t clear. Those lines of his face that I drew with my mind in those first few days together at the hospital have burned themselves into my memory. He’s the background of everything I do, think, feel.

  In those first few days, I was numb.

  The band-aid had been ripped so fast, that I was still reeling from the shock.

  But the saying shouldn’t be “time heals all wounds.” It should be “time heals and wounds.”

  Because as the days ticked by, that numbness gave way to a crippling, breathtaking sense of loss.

  I miss him so much. Sometimes I realize I’m holding my breath because I’ve forgotten how to breathe without him.

  But there
’s nothing I can do.

  I’m what he hates most.

  There’s nothing I can do.

  Except love him and miss him from afar.

  I pull my phone from under my pillow and open you tube, searching for the Rock Chamber Boys, something I only let myself do in the hardest moments.

  I open an old interview video of his and watch on mute, watching him flick his fringe back off his face as he flirts with the interviewer, winking and grinning, his eyes bright and warm. Everything I’d come to take for granted in the short time we had together.

  I wipe the single tear that falls as the video ends. I wish him goodnight, goodbye.

  And let him go.

  A few days later, Paige is on the porch with a cup of coffee when I join her after a sleep in.

  "Hey," I say, taking the coffee from her and taking a sip, making a face when I realize it’s cold.

  "You are so lucky," she sighs, ignoring my splutters from the coffee.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "You have all this," she says, waving her hand around.

  I look around, she can't be pointing to the disheveled porch with the obligatory rusted bikes and dusty baby pools in the corner. Wilted plants on wobbly tables in someone's vain attempt to garden, rickety chairs salvaged from the side of the road.

  "All of what?" My eyebrow raised.

  "Family."

  "Ah. Well, you have that, too. Your Dad adores you. He spoils me, that’s how much he adores you."

  "No, he buys me off. We both know that."

  "You and he know that?"

  "No, you and me. I think he thinks that he's actually showing love." Her voice is hard, resentful. I wonder what’s brought all this on.

  "But he does love you, Paige. I've seen you guys together. He does love you."

  She just shrugs. "Sometimes, love is giving someone what they need most. Not just what you can afford to give. And all I ever wanted was his time. And a little attention. But he's never had any of that to spare for me. Never could give me anything that interfered with his precious company."

  "I'm sorry it feels that way for you."

  "Me too,” she sighs.

  "Well, we can't say that my Mom ever tried to buy my love." I think of her having to get up early this morning to take on a shift at the local penny store.