Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (8 page)

I take the bus steps two at a time and find the guys
sprawled across the main cabin of the tour bus. Rodney has a bottle of tequila
in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other, and a dozen emptied shot glasses
stand on the little table. Rodger appears to be dancing with himself, as he’s
been known to do when he’s on his way to getting hammered, and Kenny is playing
air guitar along with the Rolling Stones album they’re currently blasting. I
can’t help but grin as I take in the sight of them.

“You assholes started without me?” I yell over the music.

“Trent!” Kenny cries happily, “Now the party can really
start!”

“Where’d you go, man?” Rodney asks, promptly pouring me a
shot.

“Just checking out some of the other acts,” I say vaguely.

“Kelly said you were listening to some little indie duo,”
Rodger said, “What gives, man? Since when are you into anything acoustic?”

“Whatever,” I say, trying to avoid to subject, “Don’t be a
dick about it.”

“What an eloquent comeback,” Rodger laughs.

“You need to start drinking,” Rodney says, handing me the
shot, “We’ve each got about a half-bottle head start on you.”

“Duly noted,” I say, and slug back the rum. That first drink
of the night always feels a little like coming home. I’m just about to settle
in to get nice and wasted when Kelly comes blustering out of the back of the
bus.

“You idiot!” she yells, slapping me on the arm.

“What did I do?” I ask, pouting theatrically.

“I just read the little blog that your mousy friend wrote
for us,” Kelly snarls at me.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask quizzically, “I did the usual
song and dance for her.”

“Really?” Kelly demands, pulling her smart phone out of her
pocket. “Did you happen to say, ‘Rock is not a moral code. It’s the negative
space of one. It’s not a prescriptive movement, it’s how you choose to
interpret it’?”

“That...sounds familiar,” I admit.

“What in the world were you thinking, acting all
philosophical?” Kelly cries.

“I told her to scratch it out. I told her it was off the
record!” I yell back.

“She’s a blogger, you idiot! Not a real freakin’
journalist,” Kelly says, exasperated.

“So I’ve got one smart line out there to counteract the
usual, macho bullshit you have me spouting,” I say, “So what? I think that my
image will survive unscathed.”

“Is that so?” Kelly says, shoving her phone in my face,
“Because your little friend seems to have penned a wistful little think piece
about how you feel trapped by fame, how the real, genuine Trent Parker is being
squashed by the pressures of celebrity. She’s painting you as a sensitive,
intelligent bed-wetter who really just wants to sit on his front porch and sing
love songs into the goddamn sunset.”

“Is that so terrible?” I ask.

Kelly’s face hardens. “It is if you’ve created your image by
being a crude, rule-breaking bad boy. Which you have.”

“You have,” I correct her viciously.

“That’s right,” she snaps, “And if you’re so exhausted by
being a successful musician, you can always pick up and get the hell out of
here. I’m not going to pull you kicking and screaming through the rest of your
career, Trent. Either nut up, or shut up.”

She storms away into the depths of the tour bus before I can
get in another word. The guys have fallen silent, each trying very hard to
avoid my gaze. I grab the bottle of rum from Rodney and take a long gulp.
Furious, I tuck the bottle under my arm and march out of the bus, into the
darkening night. Red, boiling rage is popping and seething behind my eyes. How
dare that woman try to dictate how I go about presenting myself in the world?
It’s not like she was going anywhere fast without me to bring her along on the
ride to stardom. Sure, she’s the one who “found” me back in LA, but I’m the
reason she has a career at all. I’m her meal ticket. Her show pony. And I’m
fucking sick of it. 

I lean against the front grill of the tour bus and take
another long, satisfying pull of booze. This is not the first time in recent
memory that Kelly has driven me to drink. Honestly, I think she does it on
purpose sometimes, just to keep my image edgy enough for her own liking. I
thank my lucky stars that photographers are banned from our camp site—I’m
putting on quite the show for them right now.

I close my eyes and let the myriad sounds of the busy
festival float up the hill to me, hoping that they might calm me down. But the
nearby sound of shouting voices drowns out the happy murmur from down below in
Normal People Land. I peek around the front of the bus, toward the source of
the shrieking argument.

Ellie and Mitch’s tent is illuminated from the inside by an
electric lantern. I can see their shadows moving around in the enclosed space,
darting and pacing in aggravation. Ellie’s shadow sticks its finger into
Mitch’s thin chest, and I hear her muffled voice lobbing angry accusations his
way. I know I shouldn’t look, I know I should keep to myself and enjoy my
bottle in peace...but I can’t help it. My voyeuristic side is intrigued. I only
wish I had some popcorn, is all.

The tent’s zipper is torn open, and Ellie lunges out into
the open air. Her face is flushed and furious, and her eyes are positively
sparking with the need to fight. Her long fingers are balled up into fists, and
I half expect her to start swinging. I know she’s mad, and I know I shouldn’t
be thinking this way...but her passion is more than a little sexy.

Mitch climbs out after her, his face set in a grim mask. He
doesn’t look like he’s taking his scolding passively, that’s for sure. Neither
of them seem keen on cooling down anytime soon, either. Ellie whips around to
face Mitch across the tiny patch of grass between them.

“How could you do that to me, Mitch?” she demands.

“I didn’t realize that expressing my affection for you would
be received as a freakin’ war crime,” Mitch shoots back. “I thought you said in
that interview—”

“I didn’t say anything to anyone about wanting to be more
than friends with you,” Ellie says, “I don’t want to be anything but your
friend, Mitch. Not ever.”

“But the article—”

“The article was made up!” she shouts, “You know that kid
just took everything out of context and threw it against the wall so that he’d
have something to write about! Sure, I told him you were a wonderful musician
and that I love playing with you. And that’s the truth!”

“Is that really all you feel for me?” Mitch asks
plaintively.

“You’re one of my best friends Mitch,” Ellie says, “If
that’s not enough for you, then...”

“What?” he asks.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here together,” she says
softly, turning away from him.

“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time,” Mitch says
angrily.

“It’s not my fault you can’t separate the music from
whatever pipe dream you’ve been harboring. You really think I could feel
anything for your scrawny, privileged, elitist—”

Mitch raises his hand into the air, winding up to slap her.
Before I can second guess the impulse, I fling my body at him and tackle the
kid forcefully to the ground. I cock my fist back, holding the bottle of rum,
ready to break it over his fucking face, but hold myself back.

He’s nothing more than a pile of twigs crumpled up on the
ground—it wouldn’t be anywhere close to a fair fight. He’s looking up at me
with impotent rage surging behind his eyes, and as much as I want to teach his
punk ass a lesson, I know I have to be the bigger man. The last thing I need
right now is a lawsuit.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl.

“Where did you come from, asshole?” he cries, scurrying away
from me.

I try my best to swallow my anger. I don't know how to
explain the feeling that crashed over me the second he raised his hand to
Ellie, but I want to kill him right now.

“You have no right,” I tell him. “Maybe that’s how they do
things in whatever redneck hellhole you were raised in, but it’s not OK. You
need to apologize and get the fuck out of here.”

“Fuck you, man!” Mitch yells, pulling himself onto his feet.

“Apologize,” I say again, setting down my bottle and balling
my hands into fists. Mitch’s face drains of color as I approach. I'm just about
to really get in his face when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t,” Ellie says from behind me, her voice thick with
tears.

The fact that she’s upset only makes me want to pound the
kid even more, but I stand still. This is her fight, not mine. That doesn’t
mean I’m not going to stand here and make sure this asshole doesn’t try any
bullshit. But I’ll let her take the lead.

“I never thought you were the kind of girl to let a man
fight her battles for her,” Mitch says, trying his best to hurt her more.

“I never thought you were the kind of man who would dare try
to hit me,” she says back, “But for the record, Mitch, I could snap those
twiggy arms of yours between my teeth. Next time, I won’t hold back.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” he says quietly.

“You're damned right,” Ellie spits.

“We’re through,” Mitch goes on, brushing off his jeans.

“What?” Ellie says, “What do you mean, through?”

“You don’t think I want to play with you, after all this?”
he scoffs.

“Oh, come on,” she says, taking a step forward, “You can’t
handle one little fight?”

“This is more than one little fight, Eleanor!” Mitch says,
“This whole time, I’ve been waiting for you to turn around and notice...”

“Notice what?” she asks.

“That you...love me, too,” he finishes, pathetically.

Ellie stares at him, her mouth hanging open prettily. I
suddenly wish that I were a mile away from this scene. I pick up my booze and
take a drink, trying not to visibly show how thrilled I am to see this kid’s
heart getting shattered.

“Mitch,” Ellie says, “If you can’t be happy just being my
friend, my partner...If the only reason you’re hanging around is in hopes of
scoring with me...then, yeah. You should really go.”

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

“She said get the hell out of here,” I can’t resist saying.

Mitch glares at me in the gathering darkness. His angry eyes
flit back and forth between Ellie and I, suspicion seething from his every
pore. To his credit, Mitch doesn’t voice his jealous thoughts. He doesn’t say
anything. Without a word, he turns on his heel and stalks away from us, his
narrow shoulders up high around his ears. Ellie and I stand side-by-side,
watching him disappear down the hill, losing himself among the gathering
crowds.

“He’ll be back,” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she says sadly.

“That doesn’t mean you have to let him back in,” I say.

“I know,” she says, turning to look at me, “I wish I could.
But...I think that’s it. We’re through, me and him. Jesus...we’ve only played
one real show.”

I offer her my bottle. “You need a drink,” I tell her.

She laughs hollowly and accepts the offer. I watch her bring
the bottle to her lips like an old pro. God, to be the mouth of that bottle at
this very moment...
Stop it!
I chide myself silently.
Don’t be that
guy, Trent
. I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to keep Ellie from
noticing my growing erection.

“Thanks for stepping in,” she says, “I really would have
been able to take him, but I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

“Has that happened before?” I ask cautiously.

“Never,” she breathes, “I have no idea what got into him...”

“He really loves you, I guess, and he can't deal with it,” I
say.

“No,” Ellie sighs, “You can’t love someone and act that way.
Mitch doesn’t even know me. He can’t possibly love me like he thinks he does.”

“I don’t know how you can write music like that together and
not know each other,” I say honestly.

“Well,” Ellie says, “We divvy it up. He takes the music. I
take the words. I mean, took...”

“You’re damned good at the words,” I tell her, resting a
palm against my bus.

“Oh yeah,” she says with a little smile, “You were there...”

“I was curious,” I tell her. “I wanted to hear what you
sounded like.”

“So?” she says, leaning her tanned shoulder against the bus,
not a foot away from my hand, “What did you think?”

“Honestly?” I ask.

“Honestly.”

I level my gaze at her. “You’re unbelievable,” I say,
“You’re absolutely amazing.”

“Really?” she asks, her eyes growing wide.

“Really,” I say, “Trust me, I’m not one for sugar coating,
either. You’ve really got something, Ellie. Or do you prefer Eleanor?”

“It’s just Ellie,” she says with a happy laugh. I’m glad to
distract her from Mitch’s bullshit for a minute, if I can.

“Let me guess,” I say, “Your parents were Beatles fans?”

She grins at me in her comfortable, unpracticed way. “That’s
right. My name is Eleanor Rigby Jackson. A mouthful, right? But how did you
know?”

“Oh please,” I say, “You can tell from a mile off that you
were named after that song.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“There’s a...sadness about you,” I say slowly.

“...Oh,” she replies, her smile falling.

“Not like, a morose thing,” I tell her quickly, “It’s more
complicated than that. It’s not like you’re a sad person...at least, that’s not
how it seems. It just looks like you’re longing for something. I don’t know.
I’m probably just a rambling drunk.”

“I don’t think so,” she says softly. She’s looking up at me
like she’s just recognized her own face in the mirror.

I hand her the bottle and let her take a long, long swig.
For a little while, we don’t say anything. We simply listen to the rollicking
sounds of the festival below, safe from our little pocket of quiet.

“You’re awfully nice for a womanizing asshole,” she finally
says with a wicked little smirk.