Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (26 page)

We tear through our first number, a song we wrote years ago
at the very beginning. It feels so good to be back here, retracing our way to a
place of truth and meaning after all these years of commercial nonsense. And I
never would have had the courage to do this if it hadn’t been for Ellie falling
into my life.

Suddenly, the need to have her there beside me takes over. I
stride back to where she’s standing, just beyond the curtain. There’s so much
happening onstage and off that the crowd hardly even notices that I'm missing.

I rush up to Ellie and take hold of her hands. She looks at
me like I’ve lost my God damned mind.

“Come on,” I scream over the music, “Come out here with me!”

“What are you talking about?” she shouts back.

“I want you with me,” I tell her, “I want you with me
wherever I go, and I want to go with you too.”

“That’s all well and good,” she says, “But I don’t think I
belong onstage at a rock concert.”

“I don’t think I belong in an indie folk duo,” I shoot back,
“But that didn’t stop me. Come on! You know that part of you wants to see what
it’s like.”

“What if they hate that I’m there?” she asks, her nerves
getting the better of her.

“Who cares?” I say, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else
thinks.”

“But—”

“No more but’s,” I say, “You’re coming with me!”

And with that, I scoop her legs out from under her and
cradle her against my chest. She kicks out,  laughing like wild.

That laugh of hers was one of the first things that drew me
to her. In no time at all, she’s won me over like no one ever has before.

“Either you’re walking yourself, or I’ll carry you!” I yell.

“Fine, fine!” she says, thrashing in my arms, “I’ll go
willingly, you lunatic!”

“That’s what I like to hear,” I tell her.

She grabs onto my hand and squeezes tightly. “Start a song I
might know, would you?”

“You don’t even listen to my music,” I remind her.

“Shit,” she says, “You’re right...Well, whatever. I’ll just
make it up.”

Hands clasped, we make our way back onto the stage. Little
by little, as we make our way to the center, the audience starts to notice the
change. The air alters as they realize that I have company, and I grab onto the
microphone as we reach center.

“We have a special treat for you tonight,” I tell the
humming crowd. “This is Eleanor Jackson. You might not have know who she was
before, but you sure as hell will now. And not because she’s here with me
tonight, but because she’s an amazing, brilliant musician.

Ellie’s mouth falls open as the audience’s reaction rises to
a boil. My band mates and cheering like crazy as the crowd rages before us. I
pull Ellie to me and kiss her hard on the mouth, unable to restrain myself. She
throws her arms around my neck and kisses me back for the whole wide world to
see.

“This is some first date,” she says into my ear as we pull
away from each other.

“A little unconventional,” I agree, “But no time to worry
about it now.”

Behind us, the band powers into the next song, and we’re
swept up into the sound. I start to sing, letting the words burst out of me on
their own volition.

Ellie is there beside me, feeling the shape of the song,
letting it move through her body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier
than her writhing body, lit up against those stage lights. We cross each other
and move around the stage, always finding our back. She’s singing now too, and
I bring her near me so that our songs can tangle and soar, amplified against
the starry sky.

We’re here together, harmonizing and balancing, giving and
taking. It’s a conversation, a collaboration, a string of compromises that cost
nothing. It’s beyond exhilarating—it’s orgasmic. 

We make our way to the edge of the stage once more, reaching
down into the crowd. Hands grab out, trying to latch onto ours for just the
briefest of moments. Usually, this kind of intense affection just makes me feel
lonely. All those people out there, in love with the image that I offer up as
sacrifice to the masses. But with Ellie here, I feel rooted to who I really am.
I don’t feel lost or alone anymore. I know who I am, and what I want, and who I
love for the first time in my life.

Ellie and I lock eyes as dozens of hands stretch up toward
us. Her eyes are on fire.

She jerks her head toward the crowd, and I can tell what she
has in mind. This girl never ceases to amaze me. I nod, grinning like an idiot,
and take a few steps away from the surging crowd. Together, we take off at a
run and leap into the sea of clamoring hands. We’re carried over the waves of
humanity by the adoring hands of my—our—fans. I feel my fingers tightly clasped
around Ellie’s not wanting to lose her as we let the audience bear us along.

I look straight up into the clear night sky, the warmth of
Ellie’s hand in mine burning like a signal fire among all this noise and chaos.
I always feel alive during concerts, always feel like I’m living at full
throttle—but this is the first time that I’ve ever actually felt
happy
during one. I’ve always felt like I needed to share my music, but tonight I
give it gladly, joyously.

Laying back in the arms of our fans, Ellie and I let the
current take us wherever it will, trusting that we’ll be safe and sound as long
as we’re crossing the expanse together.

Chapter Twenty One

The band and I take our third, fourth, and fifth bows,
trying to satiate the audience. They just can’t seem to get enough of us.

I can’t stop laughing as I look out over the massive group
of people. I keep expecting to wake up from this crazy dream any second, but it
just keeps stretching on. There’s Trent Parker beside me, the festival main
stage beneath my feet, an enormous cheering crowd stretching out as far as the
eye can see. It’s
real
.

We finally start to make our way offstage, the roar of the
audience throbbing and pulsing like a living creature. Trent and I hurry off
into the wings as the guys clear offstage, and I all but collapse into his
arms. I’m so overjoyed, not to mention overwhelmed, that for a moment all I can
do is let him hold me.

It’s a pretty intense high, being out there in front of an
audience like that. And something about Trent’s music just transcends anything
I’ve ever felt playing my own stuff. He channels something in the music he
creates that I’ve never felt before—something sad, and true, and timeless.

“Holy crap,” I whisper, resting my cheek against Trent’s
firm chest, “Is that what’s it’s like to be you?”

“I suppose so,” he says, holding me tightly against him,
“You were amazing, Ellie.”

“I was terrified,” I admit.

“Still,” he says.

I look up at him in the half-light, listening as the
audience slowly begins to migrate away from the stage. “I guess they didn’t
hate us together too much, huh?”

“How could anyone hate us together?” he asks, “When
something makes this much sense, feels so right...people can see that.”

“I guess so,” I smile, my knees starting to tremble. It’s
been one hell of an evening. “Let’s get out of here,” I suggest.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Though it looks like I might have to
carry you after all.”

“Maybe a little,” I laugh, swinging my leg over his back,
“Do you object to piggy back?”

“It’s not my favorite position,” he jokes, lifting me up
onto his back, “But I’m willing to compromise.”

“Save the banter for later,” I tease, wrapping my arms
around his shoulders, “Take me away, my steed!”

“Stud? I’ll take it,” he says.

I don’t bother correcting him as he carries me out from the
backstage world, weaving through fans and photographers and reporters as we
head back toward the hill. I rest my head against his shoulder, exhaustion
finally settling into my bones.

It’s the final night of the festival, a night I’ve always
spent partying with the whole congregation of Hawk and Dove. But tonight, I
just want to be alone with Trent.

As we start to climb the hill, it occurs to me that we’ve
never spoken a word about what’s going to happen tomorrow. My original plan was
to drive back to Barton with Mitch and commence with summer vacation. And
surely, Trent has some other concert or recording session to run off to as soon
as the festival wraps.

For all our proclamations and admissions, we’ve never once
touched on the practicalities. I suppose that’s what being a rock star
is—leaving the practical worries to the little people. But I, for one, still
feel very much like one of the little people, and I’m more than a bit anxious
about this completely uncertain future we’re staring down at the moment.

Has Trent even paused to consider it?

We reach the top of the hill and trudge over to the tour
bus. The rest of the band hasn’t returned, probably choosing instead to revel
with the fans and groupies down at the after party. I slide down off Trent’s
back and lean, exhaustedly, against the tour bus.

“Wait here,” he tells me, “I have an idea.”

He skirts around the bus and rushes inside to fetch
something. When he returns, he’s got the makings of a tent and a bottle of
whiskey in his arms.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Well, I had been planning on camping out during this whole
fest,” he tells me, dumping all the tent parts on the floor, “But some little
indie folk asshole told me I wasn’t allowed.”

“To be fair,” I say, “You were in our space.”

“Well,” he says, “Do I have your permission to resurrect my
tent?”

“By all means,” I tell him, forcing the doubts from my mind.
Better to just enjoy his company tonight than worry too much about what happens
in the morning, right?

I settle down onto the grass as Trent takes a big swig of
whiskey.

He sets to putting the tent up, and I can’t help but shake
my head in wonder at this strange, amazing, beautiful person who’s crash landed
into my life.

A week ago, I would have told you that Trent Parker was just
some rich asshole churning out pseudo-hard rock dance tunes for the masses. I
would have assumed that he was just another womanizing, vain, soulless creation
of the pop music marketing machine, devoid of any real feeling or intelligence.
I would have thought all these terrible things, and I would have been dead
wrong.

It makes me wonder how often I completely misjudge the
people around me, by virtue of not taking the time to know them as people,
rather than personas. I’m glad that, at least this once, I was able to see
beyond someone’s mask. Thank god we were open to seeing each other for who we
really are. What a tragedy it would have been not to have met this man.

“You’re good at this,” I tell him, as he finishes setting up
the tent.

“I grew up with a bunch of brothers,” he tells me, “Camping
skills were just another way to be better than everyone else.”

“Well, at least your competitive streak comes in handy
sometimes!” I say.

“That is does,” he says, securing the tent down into the
soft ground, “Your suite awaits you, my dear.”

I climb into the tent, marveling at the absurdity of the
situation.

“I’m going camping with the most famous rock star in
American,” I mutter, “Just another weekend away from home, right?”

“I’m about to be the second most famous rock star in
America,” he says, climbing in after me, “You made quite the impression this
evening.”

“With your help,” I remind him.

“You would have anyway,” he says, zipping up the tent behind
us and handing me the whiskey. I take a slug, trying to wash away the sourness
of our impending departure. I’m not sure how much longer I can put it out of my
mind. We just got so caught up in everything that’s happened this week that the
rest of our lives managed to slip our minds somehow.

“Trent,” I say, as he unrolls a big, comfy sleeping bag for
us, “Is this how you envisioned spending the last night of Hawk and Dove?”

“Not at all,” he laughs, “How could I have imagined this?”

“Yeah,” I allow, “I know what you mean.”

“It seems appropriate though, doesn’t it?” he says, opening
his arms to me, “To have spent the festival with a dove, I mean.”

“Or a hawk,” I say, curling up on his lap, “This has been
amazing, Trent.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he laughs, “I’ve been here too,
you know.”

“I just mean...I won’t ever forget all of this. Whatever
happens next...”

I hold my breath as the question falls between us. Someone
had to bring it up eventually. I guess it might as well be me. Trent looks down
at me, his eyebrow cocked.

“Whatever happens next?” he says, “That sounds a little
ominous...”

“It’s not supposed to,” I say, “I just...We’ve never really
talked about what the hell we’re going to do tomorrow.”

“About what?” he asks.

“About...Everything, Trent!” I exclaim, “You are aware of
the fact that we live completely separate, disparate lives, right?”

“Well sure,” he frowns, “But why are you so upset about it?”

I can’t help but feel hurt that he’s not worried about our
future. Maybe he just took it as a given that we’d go our own way tomorrow?
That can’t be how he truly feels.

“What are we supposed to do?” I ask quietly.

“Exactly what we’re doing right now,” he says, pulling me to
him.

“You want to be with me?” I ask as bravely as I can.

“Of course I do,” he answers, “You didn’t doubt that, did
you?”

“Well...” I say, “No. Well, maybe. A little.”

His face grows stormy at the suggestion. “What, did you
think I was going to leave you behind in the dust like some groupie?”

“No!”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Ellie. You should know better
than that.”

“Then what do you intend to do, Trent?”

“I hadn’t...thought about it,” he says, turning away from
me.

“Well, think about it now,” I tell him, “Morning isn’t that
far off.”

“What do you want to do, Ellie?” he asks.

I let out a defeated little laugh. “I have no idea. Part of
me wants to run back to Barton, get a job at an ice cream shop, and pretend
like none of this ever happened. Everything’s already changed so much just this
past week...I’m scared to think of what else might change. What else I might
lose if I keep on this path...”

“Yeah,” Trent sighs.

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me how
wonderful it is to be a musician, and how I shouldn’t worry about what I might
lose because there’s so much to gain?”

“Is that what I’m supposed to say?” Trent asks, “Because
that isn’t the truth, Ellie. You’re smart enough to know that without me
telling you. It’s true—if you see this whole thing through, every single thing about
your life is going to be completely different. Even if you try and maintain
some level of normalcy—go back to school, live modestly—nothing will truly stay
the same. If you turn around now and walk away from all of this, from your
career, your fame, you have a shot at regaining the life you had before. But if
you stick it out, then yes. There’s a lot to lose.”

“Right,” I say, sitting down on the soft earth, “I suppose I
knew that.”

“So what you have to ask yourself,” Trent says, sitting
before me, “Is whether or not what you have now is worth never knowing what
might have been.”

“How can I possibly know that?” I ask, “How can I predict
whether or not this will all be worth it?”

“You can’t,” he says, taking my hands, “That’s the bitch of
it. You just have to think long and hard about whether or not you’ll regret not
taking that leap. This is a once in a lifetime moment, Ellie. You don’t get a
second shot at your big break. So, if you think you can live without everything
that comes along with a life in music...maybe going home is the right call.”

I look up at him, wishing like hell that he would just tell
me to stay. If he said those words right this second, if he told me not to
leave because he couldn’t possibly bear the thought of a life without me, I’d
make up my mind in a heartbeat.

I know, now more than ever, that I want to be with Trent.
But I also know too well what can happen when you give up the life you’ve
always known for a man. My dad proved pretty well that men can’t be counted on
to stay. Mom gave up the life she’d built to follow him. If I went along with
this famous musician charade, would I be doing the same thing?

“We couldn’t be together if I turned my back on this, could
we?” I ask.

“No,” he answers simply, a pained expression taking hold of
his features, “If we tried to stay together, you’d get sucked in no matter
what. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“You could walk away too,” I say, “We could both just turn
away and never look back. Go find a cabin in the woods somewhere and write
music together in peace and quiet.”

Trent smiles sadly. “That’s a nice daydream,” he says, “But
we both know full well that it could never happen. We have to share our music
with the world. That’s why we’re here in the first place.”

“But what if—” I start. There’s no graceful way to say this.
“If I throw myself into this crazy world, and you decide later on that you’re
not...you don’t...”

“What?” Trent asks.

“Want me,” I say.

He looks at me long and hard, a dozen emotions flitting
across his face. There’s anger there, and sadness, and hurt.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” he says, “The only thing
I want is for you to be happy, Ellie. Do I hope that means being with me? Of
course I do. But if you decide that all you really want is a quiet life away from
the spotlight, I’ll respect that too. I’ll miss you for the rest of my life,
but I’m leaving the decision up to you. You have to want this for more than
just being with me in the moment. And, if I can be honest, I think you do. When
you’re onstage, I can see it—you’re home. I can see how much you love being up
there, bringing people together. I know that you want this, and I know that
you’re scared as hell.”

“Maybe I am,” I say, “Can you blame me?”

“Not at all,” he says, “You’d be crazy if you weren’t. But
don’t let that fear control you, Ellie. What’s the point of going after your
dreams if you’re just going to politely pass on seizing them? I know it’s
terrifying, but I know that, for me at least, it’s been worth it every step of
the way. Especially now...” His strong hand runs up my arm. “I think about what
it would be like to share all of this with you...This life is amazing, you
know. It’s insane, and scary, and infuriating, and strange, but it’s absolutely
incredible. And to watch you discover all of that, to be there with you through
it, would be an honor. Truly.”