Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (15 page)

My jaw hangs open dumbly, and Ellie’s brow furrows.

“You don’t like the hippie look?” she pouts theatrically.

“I...Um...Need some coffee,” I say haltingly.

“Good idea,” she says.

We set off together across the campsite, toward the smell of
brewing coffee. Ellie keeps a healthy three feet of space between us, and I get
the feeling that it’s more for my sake than for hers.

Does she have any idea just how deep my feelings run for
her? Can I even be sure of them, or am I just swept up in the novelty of being
with someone so different than me?

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? We’re not so different at
all. Maybe we’ve picked different patches of signifiers for ourselves, but
there’s something shared between us that’s much more important. There’s a vital
understanding, a shared experience, that I’ve never had with anyone before. Not
with my family, not with my friends, not with my band mates.

I’ve only known Ellie for a few short days, but she’s
quickly becoming the most important person in my life.

I shake my head in silent wonder as we collect our coffee.
Maybe the world will seem clearer on the other side of a caffeine kick.

Chapter Ten

We part ways quietly as the third day of the festival dawns.
Off across the open plains, storm clouds are gathering on the horizon. The reds
and yellows of the brilliant sunrise start to fade as the rest of the camp
rouses itself from sleep.

It’s not exactly an auspicious sign to start the day,
catching sight of looming thunderheads. I’m determined not to read too much
into the weather as an omen of my romantic future, but I’ve always been a
little superstitious. And I’m more than a little overwhelmed by everything that
happened last night.

Quick though our courtship of sorts may have been, I have no
regrets about sleeping with Trent. My mom used to tell me, when I was a
teenager, that there’s nothing wrong with sex outside of a relationship,
marriage or otherwise.

She said that when you run out of words, when the only
expression of how you feel about someone is intimate, then sex can be a
beautiful thing. She was right, of course, whether or not I always followed her
advice. Between Trent and I, going to bed together was inevitable.

I knew it from the start.

And god, had it been incredible. I’ve slept with a few men
in my life—boys, rather—but I’ve never felt anything like what passed between
Trent and I last night.

I didn’t feel like we were going through the motions, or
ticking off items on a sexy to do list. We were just...Collaborating. Just as
if we were composing a piece of music together, we were contributing to the
whole, not trying to get something out of the experience just for the sake of
it. We wrote a beautiful, unexpected love song together. It was the most
amazing thing I’ve ever experienced with someone else.

I watch as Trent disappears back into his tour bus to get
ready for the day. I linger beside my sedan, cradling my coffee cup in my
hands. If what happened last night was so wonderful—and oh, was it
wonderful—why do I feel so shook up about it? I wish I knew what I was supposed
to do, now. What was expected, or acceptable.

With most guys, the playbook is pretty clear. You sleep with
the guy, you decide whether or not you liked it, then you either ignore his
advances or agree to go along with the whole dating or booty call thing.

But with Trent, there’s no set of rules to follow, no path
that’s already been blazed a thousand times. Whatever is building up between us
is bigger than I could have ever comprehended before. And in its hugeness, it’s
terrifying. Not to mention, in a few days we'll be parting ways and a million
miles away from each other.

Leaning back against the car, looking out over the stormy,
sprawling fields. I dare myself to name the thing that’s got a hold on me. If
I’m honest with myself, I know how I’m coming to feel about Trent.

Honestly...I think that I’m falling for him.

“How the hell did that happen?” I mutter to myself, shaking
my head in disbelief. I’m not a girl who falls in love on a whim. So far in my
twenty one years on this planet, I don’t think I’ve actually gone and fallen in
love with any guy.

I know what it is to love my family, and maybe a close
friend or two. I had a hamster once that I loved with all my heart. But loving
a man? I have exactly zero knowledge about the matter. Especially when the man
happens to be an international rock star. I suppose we have shared a lot
together in these past few days, more than most people probably ever share to
be honest. There's just something about him, and the timing of all of this
coming together at once.

Where can I even go from here? I’m sure the last thing Trent
needs is a lovesick songwriter trailing him around the country. The Trent
Parker that the world has come to know doesn’t do the whole “love” thing. He
does the arm candy thing, at least publicly.

What the hell would people think if I suddenly started
appearing by his side? They’d probably think I was just trying to steal a
little piece of his fame for myself, or that he was trying to draw in a new
demographic of listeners by dating some indie chick. Whatever we did, wherever
we went, some swarm of gossip columnists would have an opinion about it.

That’s supposing that Trent would want me around at all—or
that he could possibly be having the same thoughts that I am. I don’t dare hope
that some part of Trent is wondering about the depth of his feelings for me.

 I doubt that “love” is a word Trent bandies about. He’s a
rock star, for god’s sake. He’s practically contractually obligated not to
believe in love. He’d probably think I was a lunatic if I ever told him what I
was feeling now.

And even if, by some holy miracle of the divine, Trent did
have feelings for me that went beyond our one night together, what then? I’m
not exactly a free agent in the world. I have a band of my own, fragile though
it may be.

I’m still in school—and I have no interest in dropping out
to be a rock star’s girlfriend, or groupie, or whatever. And what about Mom and
Kate? How would they ever understand my wanting to be with someone rich and
famous? We grew up with so little, but what little we had was carefully crafted
and full of love.

The opulence and excess of rock stardom would probably turn
my family’s stomachs.

A powerful pang of homesickness wrenches through me as I
think about my little home in Barton. I wish I could be back there right now,
helping my mom paint the kitchen whatever color she felt like that week. I just
want to sit back on my front porch with a notebook and a beer, and forget about
fame and fortune forever. But I can’t have it both ways. I can’t have my peace
and quiet and keep my rock star, too.

With a heavy sigh, I peek inside the tent. A wave of guilt
catches me off guard as I take in the sight of Mitch, curled up alone on a
half-inflated air mattress. I’ve been a terrible music partner and an even
worse friend to him since we got here. He’d been as good a sport as anyone
could have asked about this whole thing. Sure, I’d had to drag him kicking and
screaming to the festival. And sure, he’d been a huge dick after our first
performance. But still, I owe him a little bit of appreciation after all his
years of loyalty.

I unzip the tent as quietly as I can and step inside. It’s
sweltering as ever in here, though the day has hardly even started in earnest.

I cross my legs under my body and sit next to Mitch’s
sleeping form. His clothes are a mess, and the smell of vodka hangs heavily in
the air. I suppose he spent last night getting wasted yet again. I feel like
it’s all my fault, and I hate that. I never meant to make him this unhappy. I
don’t have feelings for him, sure, but he deserves better than how I’ve been
treating him.

Gently, I lay a hand on his shoulder. His nose twitches, but
his sleep is pretty deep. I give him a little shake, trying to rouse him.
Slowly, he begins to notice my insistent presence.

He stretches, groaning pitifully. A night sleeping on the
rocky ground will do a number on your back. Finally, his bloodshot eyes crack
open and blink up at me. His mouth twists sloppily, and it’s pretty clear that
he’s still a little drunk from his previous evening’s escapades.

“Well, look who it is,” he mutters.

“Hi Mitch,” I say, “How are you feeling?”

“What, me?” he says, rolling onto his back, “I’m just
peachy.”

“What did you get up to last night?” I ask.

“Not much, not much,” he says, staring up into the tent, “I
snagged a bottle of vodka from some famous dude’s campsite and had myself a
little party in here.”

“You stayed here?” I ask, spotting the very large and very
empty vodka bottle laying beside the air mattress.

“Yup,” he says, “It’s not like I had anyone to hang out
with.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “Really, Mitch. I just got caught up.”

“With that asshole Trent?” he asks, pained.

“We hung out for a while,” I admit, “But really, it was just
the whole festival, you know?”

“Uh huh,” Mitch says, grabbing for his phone, “That sounds
legit.”

“Seriously,” I insist.

“So, you weren’t off sleeping with the enemy while I
plastered myself to the wall in here?”

“First of all, Trent is not the enemy.”

“Funny that you associated him with the word, though...”

“And second of all, no. I wasn’t. But it’s good to know that
you have such a high opinion of me, Mitch. That means a lot.”

I’m lying through my teeth, of course, hoping that Mitch
won’t notice. I hold my breath as I wait for his response, hoping that this
whole thing will blow over like so many storm clouds. He’s propped up on an
elbow, staring at the screen of his phone. A look of pure fury seizes his every
feature. His entire body seems to be trembling with outrage.

Stumbling, he pulls himself to his feet, and I scramble up
to the other side of the tent. His eyes are glued to that phone...and I doubt
very much if I want to see what it is that’s captured his attention so.

“Mitch,” I say softly, “Mitch, what’s wrong? Did something
happen?”

He lifts his eyes to mine, and I feel like the anger there
is going to knock me to the ground. Mitch takes a menacing step toward me,
thrusting his phone into my face. I look helplessly at the device and feel the
bottom of my stomach drop out. There, plastered across the screen, is a perfect
close-up photo of Trent and I dancing together. My head is thrown back
rapturously, and Trent’s hands are all over my writhing body.

I grab the phone from Mitch and scroll through the page.
There are dozens upon dozens of images just like it. Pictures of us grinding up
on each other among a sea of festival goers, pictures of us emerging from his
concert hand-in-hand. There’s even a shot of us standing beneath that beautiful
tree together, inches away from kissing. Everywhere we went together, there’s a
trail of pictures to prove it.

I feel nauseated by the thought that someone was lurking
beside us all through last night, stealing away our private moments and making
them public domain. And this is just one gossip blog. If they have these
pictures...

“Oh...” I breathe, as I come to the last photo of the set.
It shows Trent and I clamoring up the hill to the talent campsite. Even from a
hundred feet away and from behind, you can practically smell the urgency of our
flight. There’s no ambiguity about what transpired between us last night, as if
Mitch had needed photographic proof to know that.

“You want to lie to me again about how you spent last
night?” Mitch growls, furious.

“Mitch,” I begin, holding the phone away from me as if it was
poisonous, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought you’d be upset...”

“Upset?” he says, with a cruel laugh, “Upset that you
abandoned me to spend the night throwing yourself at a cocky asshole? Upset
that you had the audacity to lie to me about it? Upset that the girl I’ve been
in love with for years has turned out to be nothing but a fame-hungry, naive
bimbo who’ll suck anything to get ahead?”

“That’s not fair,” I say, balling my hands into fists,
“Don’t you dare accuse me of that. You know that’s not me, Mitch. You know full
well that—”

“I don’t know anything of the sort,” he yells, “How could
you be interested in that douche bag? You hate the commercial garbage he calls
music, you hate the idea of selling out.”

“No Mitch, that’s you,” I say, “And you’ve never even
listened to his music. How in the world can you judge—?”

“Oh, god,” Mitch groans, “Can you even hear yourself? Are
you so sick with pathetic puppy love that you’re actually buying into his whole
act? He’s a freaking con artist, Ellie. He’s nothing but a sham propped up by a
record deal and a multi-million dollar marketing campaign. There’s nothing pure
or true about him.”

“And you’re some kind of beacon of truth and light?” I shoot
back, “Please! You’re nothing but a privileged, sniveling child with a batch of
first world problems and mommy issues. You spend your entire life trying to
knock other people’s efforts down so that you’ll feel a little better about
yourself. You’ve actually got yourself convinced that you’re some arbiter of
taste, and all that’s good in the world, and it’s bullshit. You hate
everything, Mitch. There’s not one thing in the world that you don’t look down
on or hold in contempt.”

“I didn’t hate you,” he says, “At least, not until now.”

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” I say, “And, here’s a little
bit of breaking news for you: I’m not a thing for you to love or hate. I’m not
an idea, or your white whale, or something you can keep on your shelf to look
at when you’re feeling blue. You’ve never thought of me as anything but something
that you wanted for yourself. But you know what? You don’t get to keep me. I’m
taking myself off the market.”

“That’s fine,” he says, his voice soft, “I’m not interested
in damaged goods, anyway.”

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve chucked Mitch’s phone
across the tent, straight at his sneering, horrible face. The device cracks
against his forehead and spins away. He staggers backward, surprise and hurt
piling on top of his anger. My chest is heaving with the force of my disgust
for him.