My Night with a Rockstar

by Mankin, Michelle

  Pure bliss twists and rolls and threatens to tear me apart. I’m almost there.

  Almost there . . .

  Oh, fuck, almost . . .

  Beyond the window, a horn blasts. Our heads swing toward the sound a second before the timbre of Lizard’s name is bellowed from below. “Shit, that’s Slade,” he grumbles, pushing me aside before rising to his feet.

  A knot forms in my stomach as he stalks to the mirror, my cum still glistening on his chin like he couldn’t care less. “Are you serious right now?”

  He swaps his jeans for a pair of red leather pants cut so low that a swatch of trimmed hair peeks up from the waistband. “What? We can fuck again later.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. “What’s happening here, Lizard?”

  “Jesus, Maribelle, you scratched the hell out of my chest. I’m playing the Roxy tonight and I look like I was mauled by tiger.”

  A crimson scourge rolls up my face. I hate what he’s turned me into. This clingy, where-do-you-see-this-relationship-going, pathetic girl still spread-eagle on the floor riding the heels of her lost orgasm. “No, I mean between us.”

  Lizard rolls his eyes. His go-to response whenever I attempt to bring up the future. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “I’d like to talk about it now. We fight, we fuck, you disappear all night . . . what are we?”

  He pulls a ripped tee over his head and tousles his hair. “I don’t think we need to label what we are. We’re just . . . us.”

  “Okay . . . but what am I to you?” It’s obvious that Lizard has checked out of the conversation as he leans into the mirror and swipes black liner under his eyes, but I press on. “Do you see a future with me, or are you just biding your time in my bed until something better comes along?”

  A sigh leaves his lips as another horn blasts from below. “I really gotta go, babe. But I promise we’ll talk about this later, okay?” With that, Lizard walks out.

  Emptiness fills my soul as I watch him go. Muscles weak, my head hung low, I pull myself off the floor and into the shower to wash away his scent on my skin, but it’s no use. I can’t erase the sting of rejection or the feel of his face pressed between my thighs. I can’t undo the cracks in my heart knowing I’ve fallen in love with a man who’s incapable of loving me back.

  Maribelle

  A stagnant breeze blows through the parking lot at UCLA, the sky filled with a gloomy haze. I hike my backpack higher on my shoulder, smoothing down my skirt with my free hand.

  In pure reptilian fashion, Lizard crawled into bed in the early morning hours, reeking of booze and sweat as he pulled me against him. Our last conversation ruminated through my head most of the night. I’m not looking for much. I just want to know that he cares. That these years together meant something more to him than a rent-free place to lay his head.

  With a resigned sigh, I look down at my watch. Gabby and I have a phone date in two hours. My best friend should have been the one to come with me. That was the plan. The two of us taking LA by storm. Instead, Gabriella fell in love with the first guy she slept with and ended up marrying him.

  Married.

  The word alone sends a cold shiver down my spine. Who in their right mind gets married at eighteen? I mean, she and Anthony are great together, but that’s a lot of commitment to swallow. Then again, who am I to balk at someone’s life choices? At least she has someone. I traded in my happily ever after for a pet Lizard.

  Scattered rays of sunlight blink off a powder-pink, vintage Volkswagen like a flirty eye as I approach. I love this car. Even though the deep gashes in the leather-like upholstery scratch my thighs and the quarter panel is dented in. It’s more than a car. It’s a fragment of memory I never want to forget.

  Before the fall semester started, my dad insisted on taking the cross-country trek to get me set up. We stayed in crappy motels, ate junk food, and saw all the sights along the road: the world’s largest ball of twine in Kansas, Cano’s Castle in Colorado, the Four Corners Monument, and so many others. It extended the trip by two whole days, but I knew what he was doing. While I was jonesing at the bit to start my new life, he was prolonging my old one, keeping me with him just a little bit longer.

  It was one of the best weeks of my life.

  At the end of our journey sat the ‘59 Karmann Ghia right in front of the building I’d soon call home. The original owner still had the For Sale sign in his hand. It was fate.

  I slide into the cab and slip my key in the ignition. Fuzzy dice dance from the mirror, but the car shrieks beyond the trunk. “Don’t do this,” I whisper under my breath, taking a break before trying again. My gaze snaps to the rearview. Smoke seeps between the seams. I get out and walk to the back, watching it sizzle to the sky and dissipate before my eyes.

  “Car trouble?” The sultry voice comes in from behind, twisting with the fumes in the air.

  When I turn toward the sound, I’m met with the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Soulful and dark, with flecks of gold glittering in the sun. They’re flanked by a thick swath of dirty-blond hair sweeping across his lashes. A tall drink of water resting on the cherry-red Porsche parked beside me.

  “You probably don’t want to be caught leaning on that seventy-thousand-dollar car when the owner comes back,” I joke, my eyes tracing the long lines of his body wrapped in a beige linen suit.

  The corners of his mouth raise in a dimpled grin. “I’ll keep that in mind. You need some help?”

  “You don’t happen to know anything about German engineering, do you?” A pang of sudden jealousy smacks me in the chest. Gabby’s husband would know exactly what to do. No doubt, he’d fix the damn thing right here in the parking lot. If I called Lizard, would he even answer the phone? Doubtful.

  “I’m afraid not. But I do know a great mechanic.”

  Looking away from the handsome stranger, I set my gaze on the trunk. “I can’t afford a mechanic.”

  The car responds to my dismay with a knock in the engine. I suppose I could ask my dad for the money, but far as he knows, I’m living here alone. Pride shone in his eyes the last time I saw him. I can’t risk him jumping on a plane and coming face-to-face with my pointy-tongued roommate.

  “If you leave it in the lot, you’ll get a ticket. At least let me get you a tow.”

  Before I can protest, Mr. Blond turns around, slips his key into the lock of the Porsche, and pulls the door open. Heat rides up my cheeks as he dips inside and makes a call from the phone nestled in the console.

  “Truck should be here in thirty minutes or so,” he announces after unfolding from the confines of the cramped front seat. “He’ll bring it to my guy and have a look at it at the very least. Someone will call you with the estimate.”

  “How much is the tow?”

  Mr. Blond shakes his head. “It’s taken care of.”

  My stomach flips. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “It’s already done,” he insists, lifting his palms in protest. “Consider it a gift.”

  “Strangers on the street don’t just do nice shit for other people.”

  Another sexy smile crosses his lips. “We’re not strangers, Maribelle. We have economics together.” He extends his hand. “Stephan Duke the Third.”

  Embarrassed, I slip my palm against his. “Oh . . . that’s right.” The empty faces of my classmates roll through my mind, but for some reason, his name is the thing that gets top spot in my frontal lobe. “Steve Duke . . . I know that name from somewhere else.”

  The memory hits with a jolt. A story about a run-in Lizard had with a record exec he met getting coffee. He tried to give him a cassette tape, but the guy was a total dick about it.

  “RatBird Records,” I declare with a snap. “You have the same name as the guy who runs it.”

  He runs his fingers through his feathered hair. “Well, I prefer to be called Steff.”

  “Next time, you should lead with that. You definitely don’t want to be confused with that pretentious asshole.�
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  With a grin, he pulls down the cigarette resting on his ear and sets it between his lips. “Leave your keys and a contact number in your glove box. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he struts away from the open passenger side door and saunters to the driver’s side. The whole scene makes me pause. Shit like this doesn’t happen in real-life. Hot guys in Porches don’t swoop in and save the day. I’m not Molly Ringwald, and this isn’t a movie.

  But Steff seems like a stand-up guy. It was really human of him to give me a hand with my car. Sure, he reeks of arrogance, but that’s the kind of man who gets things done — unlike the rock ʼn’ roll wannabe most likely face down in a puddle of his own drool right about now.

  Doing as he suggested, I scrawl out my number and throw it in the dashboard before slipping in beside him. Oingo Boingo fills the two-seater cab as he pulls from the lot. I quirk a brow and glance to my left. Lizard wouldn’t be caught dead listening to pop. The one time I tried to listen to New Order, he practically leapt across the couch and punched the stereo in the face. At the time, I laughed, but now it just shows me how closed minded he is. He’s never going to change. I may as well face it.

  “So where do you live?”

  “I’m off the strip. The Vista View apartments.”

  The title of the complex always made me laugh. The Vista View is a dingy-white box surrounded by palm trees and parking lots. It’s no vista, and there’s definitely no view. The pool promised in the catalog is a concrete hole full of mossy-green sludge. It’s large, it’s square, it has all the makings of a pool, but no one is swimming in there besides Swamp Thing. In case I haven’t been clear — the place is a dump. But the rent is cheap, it’s close to the action, and the neighbors keep to themselves, which is exactly what I was looking for.

  “Oh, yeah, I know where that is. I was actually heading that way anyway. Would you mind if we made a quick stop first? I don’t want to be late.”

  I knew it. This is it. The moment he drives me out to the desert and leaves me for dead. I should have known better than to get into Ted Bundy Junior’s probably rented Porsche.

  He chucks a quick glance my way and graces me with another shy grin. “We’ll be quick, I promise.” He takes a detour and pulls into the lot for a storage unit. Rows of orange bay doors pass by one after the next until the car begins to slow in front of one that’s open.

  A fluttery feeling whirs in my stomach, my tongue coated in dust as my palms grow damp. Okay, so he’s not going to murder me in the desert, he’s going to add me to the pile of dead bodies stored in Uni-Rents. Great. Awesome. Can’t wait for that.

  But as the car comes to a stop, so do visions of my death and dismemberment as a guy wearing a Fender Strat strolls out, followed by four guys with teased hair and leather pants.

  This isn’t a death trap — this is a rock band.

  A cheesy one.

  Now, I’m confused.

  Steff steps from the car and shakes their hands. I follow out, desperately tonguing the roof of my mouth to build up moisture, but the men don’t even look my way as they conduct business under the open maw of the bay door.

  “Okay, guys. Dazzle me. Let’s see what you got.” Steff folds his arms and stands back as the five guys get into position.

  A banner with the band name “Trojan Horses” spray painted across it hangs on the back wall. The dude with the fender peels off a chord that echoes through the lot. The drummer follows, his sticks hammering the skins with blunt-force trauma. I wince at the sound of their feeble attempt at synchronicity falling short. We suffer through the intro, but when the singer begins to wail, Steff’s heard enough.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he shouts, waving his arms as if attached to white flags. “What is this garbage?”

  The front man glances at the guitar player and back, wide-eyed and raised brow. “It’s called ‘Sex for Sale’.”

  “Guys, I’ll be honest.” Steff’s lids flutter closed as he calmly shakes his head, stepping forward. “This is Sunset Strip garbage. It will never get airplay.”

  “We can play another song.” The front man turns back to the guitar player and instructs, “Cue up ‘Ass and Grass’.”

  Steff slices the air between them. “I’ve heard enough. I was sent here to locate real talent. What you’ve given me is five guys in a self-storage unit. This is a ludicrous waste of my time. I’m afraid RatBird is going to have to pass on this.”

  When he turns on his heel, the band scoffs at his retreating form. He stalks to his car while I follow behind and fall into the passenger seat. The LA sun feels like the setting for London Broil. Sweat pools at the base of my neck, the impossible heat singing my ears. I clear my throat trying to muster the voice that wants to flee the scene. “You’re Steve Duke’s son.”

  He reaches into the open pack of cigarettes sitting in the console and pulls one out, gripping it between his teeth. “Good thing I’m not a pretentious asshole,” he teases, revving the engine as he peels out of the lot.

  “Oh, God,” I fluster, burying my face in my hands as I desperately attempt to find the right words to dig myself out of this massive grave. Leave it to me to insult a perfectly nice guy to his face. “The Porsche, the car phone . . . I’m such an idiot.”

  He looks my way before fixing his sparkling eyes back on the road. “No, you’re not. Those guys back there were idiots.”

  “What even was that?”

  “My dad — I guess you can say he’s grooming me to take over the business someday, but I need to prove my worth by bringing in some solid acts. In a city bustling with music, you’d think that would be easy, but the whole rotten place is full of talentless wannabes who look the part but can’t play a lick.”

  A bolt of lightning jolts my nerves. Stephan Duke the Third is more than my savior; he’s my goddamn future. Lizard is going nowhere, and if I don’t do something about it, I’m going nowhere with him.

  Tumblers move in my head, spinning one by one until the whole plan locks in place as Steff slows in front of my building. The leather creaks as I shift in my seat to face him. Holding my breath, I rest my hand atop the shifter and let my fingers curl around the stick. “You wanna hit the strip with me tonight?”

  Lizard

  The burning sting of Jack Daniels rots in my stomach. It incinerates the nerves pooling in my gut. After a thousand shows, night after night, you’d think I’d be used to it, but the unease never goes away. It’s the want. It simmers inside me, bubbling up until I can’t think straight.

  Rock ʼn’ roll is all I need. It’s my love, my life. I bleed on that stage, the emotion pouring out of me until I can barely stand, but the crowd’s adoration lifts me. Their applause, their devotion. This is what motivates me to keep going, despite the rejection. I know I’m going to make it. It’s not a matter of how; it’s a matter of when.

  Slade takes a strong pull on his Marlboro Red and blows it into the air in a steady stream. “Dude, how much fuckin’ makeup are you wearing?” he asks Ron, furrowing his dark brows at our bass player.

  “He just keeps putting it on until he wants to fuck himself,” I reply, and Ron turns and gives me the finger.

  Laughter ripples backstage, but I sit like a stone sipping my drink as if I’m pining for a lost lover. Shit. Maybe I am. Maribelle De La Cruz is a living nightmare. Cool, sexy, and down-to-fuck with no strings. That’s what I liked about her: no bullshit. Yet two years later, she has this hold on me.

  Our original guitar player got himself all torn up over a girl back home and threw his music career away for a wife, a kid, and a boring life in the suburbs. Fuck that noise. Nothing’s going to stand in the way of my dreams. Especially not some hot Latin minx with eyes as smoldering as coffee and lips as sweet as wine. She was meant to be a one-night stand. A groupie I’d fuck and forget, but she stayed with me like a melody. I couldn’t forget her no matter how hard I tried.

  “Lizard, man, are you fucking listening?” I snap my gaze
to find Slade laughing.

  “That chick has you all twisted, man.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not thinking about her.” I push from my seat and tip the bottle to my lips again. The truth is, I’m always thinking about her. In every song and every party, her essence haunts me when she’s not even there.

  Slade snickers and rolls his eyes. “Better push that girl outta your head and bring your A-game tonight. You wanna hit this or what?”

  He cuts a line of coke, and I bend at the waist, snorting it in with a single breath. The fire in my face breeds new life. My heartbeat rapid, my fingers numb, I let it drip down my throat, closing my eyes to the fervid rush.

  “Let’s do this shit.”

  But the drugs and booze are a temporary fix. Nothing can stop the thoughts of her from floating back in. I don’t want to be pressured into a relationship, but I don’t want to let her go. The idea of her being with someone else tears me to shreds. I can’t fucking breathe when I think about another man’s hands on her body. Is that what love is? Constant pain and aggravation? If so, I don’t want it.

  Everything I need waits for me out front. The lights, the audience, my band. The coke riots inside my blood. We take our place on the darkened stage, the beginning notes rising with the lights as the crowd goes wild. The buzzing energy flits around like wasps waiting to sting. I open my mouth and set my soul free.

  Beyond the colored globes above, a shimmering ember catches my eye. A silvery spotlight sways in the distance. Maribelle. Her miniskirt glitters like a starry sky, the fringe on her cropped vest slapping her hips. My heart soars at the sight of her singing along to words I wrote. Words that scream of hate and love; words that secretly belonged to her the day I penned them.

  But the higher I fly, the harder I fall.

  Some douche in a suit who thinks he’s Don Johnson sidles up beside her. He touches her back, and she turns to look, smiling up when she sees him.