Paparazzi: A Rock and Love story (Roadies Series Book 2)

by Erika Vanzin

  I almost feel compelled to defend them. I have no idea what’s true about what they write about them, but I know that ninety percent of what you read is fake news slapped onto photos that have no context.

  “Do you think you’ll see him again? Why the hell didn’t you give him your number? I can’t imagine someone that famous asking for the phone number of a woman raining down on them from heaven!” She’s incredulous at my refusal.

  “No, of course I won’t see him again. How would I meet him? It’s not like we have the same life. And by the way, I hope he doesn’t have women fall into his arms every day. I think I hurt him when we ended up on the ground. On the other hand, I hope I don’t have to pay his medical bill—that could be a problem. I don’t know how wise it is to approach him. My life is already a mess without adding a rock star to the equation.”

  “Don’t think about your job, which is a non-problem. The point is, are you interested? You’ve been talking about him for years, and you look dreamy. I’ve never seen you like this with anyone you’ve dated. You exchanged just a few words with Thomas, and already you blush at the thought of his arms. You’re like a teenager in love.”

  I look down and play with the zipper of my bag as the memories awaken inside me. I was sixteen when I first heard their music, hanging out with my dad on booze deliveries to bars in New York City. I shouldn’t even have walked into that place, but I was getting bored waiting inside the van. It was a gray November afternoon, and they were there playing for a couple of drunks who weren’t even paying attention. I remember Damian smiling at me, Michael peacocking and Simon shaking his head, disgusted. But it was Thomas who made my stomach flutter when he stared into my eyes so intensely and smiled. It was like someone seeing me for the first time.

  He wasn’t like the classmates I had dated. He looked a lot older than me—a bad boy, with tattoos and hair falling over his eyes, mysterious. He was so gorgeous he took my breath away. And he had noticed me, the little girl with the too-long, too-skinny legs, without the curves boys my age usually liked.

  I remember watching the rest of their concert, sitting at the bar counter, holding the soda the owner had offered me while my father finished carrying the crates inside. It was maybe five or six songs, but time had stood still, my eyes fixed on him, his gaze occasionally resting on mine. It was as if my world came to life that day and, when it was time to leave, I felt another squeeze in my stomach. I didn’t have the courage to talk to him, I just kept looking at him from afar as he wiped his face with a towel, catching the glint in those blue eyes that caused butterflies to erupt in my stomach.

  After that, I dreamed for months about meeting him by accident in a bar or on the street. I looked up which pubs they played in, but I was only sixteen and had no chance of passing as an adult, even with a fake ID. Then, one day, I found a newspaper article describing them as the up-and-coming band of the year, and I felt my heart explode with joy—as if I had discovered them before everyone else. I was proud of their success, coming a long way from that small bar with no audience. I started collecting every article about the Jailbirds, every little paragraph that gave me a little more information about Thomas and his life. I glued photos onto the pages of my diary and attached posters to the walls of my room.

  I collected all the press information about the band as though it were personal, as though Thomas had told me about it that day, inside that bar. Over the years, I’ve gone out with several guys, but I’ve never gotten to know them as well as I feel I “know” Thomas.

  That first day I saw them, my life changed, and I was so excited I set up a blog and have been following them ever since. In fact, I still have the flyer they autographed and left on top of the bar. They gave birth to my passion for music and journalism. They were the subject of my first post, my first butterflies, my first blush, my first album, my first crush, and my first fantasies.

  Coming out of my memory fog, I look up at Emily.

  “I’ve been imagining their lives for so long I have no idea where my fantasy ends and reality begins. I’m afraid to get near him and discover that the romantic vision I’ve created over the years is a mere fantasy. I don’t want to ruin everything. It’s the only beautiful thing I have in my life.”

  The club is packed, and we struggle to find the table Michael booked in the private section of this place they just opened in Midtown. The waitress approaches us wrapped in a short black dress so tight it leaves nothing to the imagination, carrying a tray with a bottle of whiskey and glasses my friends have requested upon our arrival. Her headband with fake reindeer horns attached puzzles me. Christmas? We haven’t even finished digesting our Thanksgiving turkey and this city is already enveloped in the dream-like world of Christmas.

  I admit, I love this season. I have good memories of Christmas, and celebrating with my friends makes me happy, but sometimes it feels like we don’t have a minute to catch our breath. Every year, Halloween parties seem to multiply, and not just on one day, they now extend almost a week. If you’re in a famous band, the record company will throw at least four or five costume parties on you. Then, as soon as November begins, you’re thinking about Thanksgiving Day, and the next thing you know, it’s all about the Christmas events.

  I remember as a child anxiously waiting for the moment when my mother, two weeks before Christmas, made the list of what she needed for the evening dinner and lunch the day after. A week earlier, we would go to buy the turkey. Then, in the week leading up to the festivity, we would start preparing what could be stored until Christmas Day, when we got up early to unwrap the presents and bake the turkey. I mashed the potatoes, my sister made cranberry sauce, my dad helped by basting the turkey while it cooked. It was a string of small rituals that culminated in the joy of that day. Now, you find yourself celebrating from the beginning of the month: the record company party, the charity gala, guest of honor at the fundraiser. It’s a continuous toast to a Christmas that, on December tenth, still seems far away, and when you finally get to the twenty-fifth, you’re too exhausted to celebrate because of all the events leading up to it.

  “Why the hell are you walking like you have a pole up your butt?” Michael asks me.

  “I slipped in the shower and slammed my back.”

  “Jesus, you’re older than my grandpa.”

  “Drop it, please. Did you see the waitress? How about those reindeer horns,” I laugh, trying to move the conversation from my bruise and Iris, if that’s really her name, to something Michael loves: sex.

  For some stupid reason, I don’t want to talk about the redhead I met this afternoon. He would transform the conversation into something sexual and, for the first time in my life, I don’t want to. I haven’t had a decent conversation with a woman for I don’t know how long, and I’m a little protective of the moment we shared. I don’t want those few minutes to be dumbed down, making them seem like foreplay for sex.

  “I hate Christmas in this city,” Michael complains. “You barely have time to get rid of the turkeys and pumpkins before you find sparkly trees and ornaments on every corner. Not to mention the damn songs. It’s a nightmare!” He slumps down on the sofa, sipping from his glass.

  I burst out laughing and nod. I understand his aversion to the songs. It’s okay to hear them once, twice, even a week I can stand them, but thirty days in a row becomes a nightmare. A couple of years ago, a famous mall chain asked us to do a rock version of Mariah Carey’s song to revamp their repertoire in every store. We were so stunned we immediately thought it was a joke. Needless to say, we kindly declined the offer.

  “Really? You hate Christmas?”

  A blonde from a nearby table sits next to Michael with a pouty face. The tables are way too close in this place if you ask me; it’s too easy to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. On the other hand, her friend sits next to me, so close she’s almost in my lap. I wanted a relaxed night with my friend—I don’t thi
nk this place was the right choice.

  “I hate Christmas songs in November. It’s different,” Michael points out, stretching out his arm and making her sit on his lap.

  One glance in their direction and I know I’m not going to spend this evening with him.

  “Do you hate Christmas too?” the brunette asks me, still glued at my side.

  I’d like to reply with a joke, just to be funny, but I notice her gaze wanders everywhere except my face. I don’t think she’s too involved. I sip from my glass and stare at her without hiding the irritation. I’ve already figured out what question will come next.

  “Are you here alone, or will Damian join you two?”

  Like clockwork, women’s attention is always directed at my best friend, even when he’s not physically in the room.

  “He’s home with his woman. You know, the one he’s been living with in a steady relationship for months? The love of his life?” I reply, annoyed as I get up, ignoring her offended gaze. “But Michael will be more than happy to keep both you and your friend company.” I extend a hand toward my bandmate, who has already stuck his tongue in the blonde’s mouth.

  “Where the hell are you going?” he asks when I catch his attention.

  “Home. I don’t feel like spending the evening looking at you sticking your hands in places I don’t want to see.”

  “What about her?” He nods toward the pouting brunette.

  “She’s waiting for Damian, but I’m sure you’ll be able to make her forget about him.” I roll my eyes when a sly smile crosses his face.

  “Come here, darling. There’s enough for both of you.” He pulls her in and, without wasting time, sticks his tongue in her mouth while her friend dives into his neck.

  There’s one thing we’re all sure of: sooner or later, Michael’s dick will fall off if he keeps using it with every woman he lays eyes on. I leave the club without feeling too guilty. Iris’s cascade of red hair and smart mouth has filled my thoughts since I laid eyes on her.

  *

  I sip my hot coffee while watching the city wake up beyond the window of my apartment. From the sixty-second floor, it looks so peaceful it’s hard to believe there are people down there who have been working for hours, who may not have gone to sleep yet, who keep the “city that never sleeps” alive. There’s always something open, something to do even at night, someone getting up when others go to sleep.

  I didn’t sleep last night either, but not because of the club or the wild night I actually didn’t have. Nor is it the pain in my tailbone, where a purple bruise is spreading. No, I think what kept me awake is the fact that I can’t get my mind off a pair of sweet green eyes and a mass of red hair I’d like to stick my hands into. Never in my life have I spent a sleepless night over a woman, especially one who’s not even slipped into my bed.

  I hope the coffee will wake me up soon, or they’ll have to punch me in the face to keep me awake in the studio today. Luckily, all I have to do is hang out with Damian while he finishes the vocals on a couple of songs. I go with him because I get bored staying at home. After the tour and recording the album, the drop in adrenaline leaves me bored and restless. I should find myself a hobby, but I never even had one as a kid. I ended up in prison too young to find out what I really liked. My adolescence was not like most kids’ and, despite coming out of it okay, I missed out on some things, like discovering what I like besides music.

  The only passion I still have from childhood is decorating cookies, like I did with my mother when I was a kid. I get my artistic side from her, although I never told anyone—we still make fun of Michael for his passion for carving wood. I don’t want them to start with me too. This, however, is something I’m protective of and continue to carry on because it reminds me of my mother’s generosity. When I was a kid, we churned out huge batches of cookies during the holidays to give to those who couldn’t afford them. A tradition I continue, in the tranquility of my apartment, because the donations are still undoubtedly needed, but mostly for the gesture of giving to someone who does not expect it and cannot afford it. It puts a smile on the face of those who have nothing, and that makes me happy.

  I finish my coffee and place the cup in the dishwasher of the ultramodern kitchen in my apartment. Everything in this place is brand new, high-tech, and a little sterile, to be honest, but I didn’t choose it. I bought this place sight unseen, and I didn’t have time to try to furnish it properly. Despite the fact that I’m always complaining about making this apartment a little more personal, when I sit down and think about it, I don’t have the energy to do it. Instead, I do everything but remodel.

  The hot shower calms my nerves and relieves the tension headache hammering my head since last night. When I get dressed, bending down to put on my jeans, my back pain stops me in my tracks.

  “This is a joke, right?” I whisper in a low voice, clenching my teeth and giggling like an idiot. I need to lean on my dresser just to slip on these damn pants. Walking around Manhattan in my underwear, as much as people are used to anything, including giving money to the half-naked cowboy in Times Square, is still not socially acceptable. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. I’m a man, not a kid. Something like this can’t stop me. Or at least that’s what I keep repeating to myself to feel less like a decrepit wreck at twenty-six.

  I call Max, our driver, to take me to the studio, and when I get in the car, I notice he is a little perplexed at of my inability to move. “I know, I can’t sit down. I swear if it doesn’t go away by tomorrow, I’ll go to the doctor,” I say when he notices that I’m all tilted in the seat to avoid putting weight on my tailbone.

  Max looks at me for a few seconds before entering Manhattan traffic with his usual angelic calm. “My wife, when she gave birth, had hemorrhoids. If you want, I can lend you the donut pillow she sat on to relieve the pain,” he suggests out of the blue after a few minutes.

  I look at him through the rearview mirror to see if he’s kidding, but his face is pretty damn serious. “Please don’t say the word hemorrhoids in my presence again. It hurts to hear you say it. And also, do I look like a woman who just gave birth?”

  Max has been accompanying us everywhere like a shadow for years now; he’s become part of the family, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to him about this.

  “Can you sit your ass down or not? It seems to me you can’t, so maybe you shouldn’t be so picky about that pillow. Can you imagine the press photos of you walking with your legs all spread out or sitting all crooked?” he teases good-naturedly, as he usually does.

  “Okay, all right, bring me the damn thing but don’t tell the others or they’ll drive me nuts with their jokes,” I mutter.

  Max chuckles but says nothing. He’s a good guy, and I know that not a single word will come out of his lips about this conversation. He’s seen so many stupid things driving for us that he would have every right to judge, but he never has. Not only because he’s professional, but because in the end, he loves us as much as we love him, and he protects us like family.

  “Do you think you can get out of the car, or do I have to help you?” he asks earnestly as he parks in the basement of the recording studio.

  “No, I’m going to get out of here alone...or I hope so, anyway.”

  The walk through the hallways to the recording room goes quickly, despite my pain. When I arrive, I am surprised to find the sound technician and Lilly sitting in a corner writing on her laptop.

  “Good morning!” She looks up from the keyboard and smiles at me as soon as she sees me coming in.

  “Good morning. Did Damian drag you out of bed this morning too?” I look for a fairly comfortable chair to sit on without attracting attention; my friends are oblivious to my encounter yesterday because my back didn’t hurt so bad when I went back to their apartment. They were so busy kissing they didn’t even notice my presence. After a quick dinner, it’s normal
for me to run to Michael’s. This is one of the problems you have when your best friend is in the “honeymoon” phase.

  “I had nothing to do this morning, so I thought I’d come here and do some work for the band. There are thousands of fan emails.” Her eyes widen in disbelief.

  Lilly insists on wanting to reply to the messages herself because she wants to be more in touch with fans, but she will soon realize that they’re becoming so famous they’re going to need press offices and assistants.

  “How’s the album going?” I ask.

  “We’re almost finished. I’m meeting with the others this afternoon to decide whether or not to include a couple of songs we’re not sure about.”

  “If you need another opinion, you can always count on us,” I offer sincerely.

  The friendship that grew with these guys started when Damian screwed up, requiring us to announce a contest which they ended up winning. But I think it was the best mistake my friend ever made. It’s nice to have someone around who’s still excited about the novelty of this business, who’s not jaded by fame and money.

  “I know, thank you. If we’re still stuck this afternoon, we’ll call you for sure.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s still recording ‘Rise,’” I whisper when I hear the song’s first notes.

  Lilly rolled her eyes desperately. “He doesn’t like the way the chorus came out. He says he’s not gritty enough and blames me for softening him.”

  I burst into hysterical laughter. “For Christ’s Sake, it’s getting worse than ‘Jude,’ which we’ve heard a million times too many.”

  “Imagine having to deal with this at home too.”

  Arthur turns to us and smiles, clearly desperate. He’s our sound engineer for the album. Even Adam, our producer, doesn’t want to see us in the studio anymore.