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

by Erika Vanzin

  That’s why I love this café nestled between the walls of the offices, practically invisible. They are efficient, quick to serve you. You are in line behind people who know exactly what they want and do not even look at the price list on the wall behind the counter. Christmas decorations are also few and essential: a tree with warm lights and some garlands hanging on the walls. Some call it minimalist. I just see something simple and quick to set up, so as not to waste too much employees’ time. I’m pleased when I order my black coffee. I sit at one of the ample modern white counters next to the entrance and start working on my new blog post.

  “So, you can survive even with your feet on the ground. You don’t have to be suspended over other people’s heads.”

  A voice I recognize makes me raise my head. Next to me, holding a tray with four cups in his hand, Thomas is looking at me as if I were his favorite dish. I don’t know if I’m flattered or intimidated. He’s looking at me curiously, lingering on every inch of my face, like a photograph he wants to imprint in his memory, freckles included. It is not a lustful look. On the contrary, he seems genuinely happy to see me again, making my legs tremble and my stomach tighten.

  “I thought one of the perks of being rich and famous was that you had an assistant who gets your coffee,” I reply, pointing at the tray.

  He bursts out laughing, closing those blue eyes that choke my breath in my throat every time, and showing his perfect pearly whites. He grabs the stool next to me with a smooth gesture, sits, and rests the tray next to my laptop.

  “I volunteered to come and get them. If they had forced me to smile for another selfie, I would have risked paralysis,” he explains, amused.

  “Your working day must be really hard, all those smiles, the cameras. A real ordeal.” It’s so natural to talk to him that I become brazen in making fun of him. Of course, I don’t typically restrain myself when it comes to being ironic and sarcastic, but I do it with Emily, a person I’ve known for years, not a stranger.

  Luckily for me, Thomas laughs. He seems really comfortable staying here chatting with me, and I can’t help but gloat a little bit.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I like it, just sometimes I don’t know if these people are here to take a picture with us or to really listen to our music. Every time we release a new song, I get a lump in my stomach because I think, ‘What if people think it sucks?’ Having an idea of the public’s reaction before being thrown into the lion’s den helps me to be more prepared, that’s all.”

  “You’re a perfectionist.”

  Thomas crinkles his nose. “Not exactly. I like to be aware of things to solve problems when they arise. Having some of the information in advance helps me better cope with what life throws at me.”

  I smile at his response. It’s clear that he wants to have things under control, and I honestly understand. It must not be easy to live at his level of fame. Something gets out of hand, and everything is immediately magnified to the point of crushing you.

  “If I had won the contest, you could have read the review on my blog. Too bad I didn’t win.” The words slip from my lips before I can connect my tongue to my brain. I don’t want him to know what I write. But it’s too late to pretend I said nothing. His eyes seem to light up.

  “You have a blog?”

  There was no chance he would miss that part. “Yes, I like music, so I thought I’d take advantage of living in a city where I can find it until I get tired and write about what I like. Concerts I go to, up-and-coming bands, album reviews...nothing different from what everyone else does.” I try to downplay it. I don’t want to make a big fuss about a successful blog; it’s certainly not comparable to an industry magazine.

  He nods, looking me in the eye as if he really cares about what I’m saying. “Are you a journalist? Who do you work for?’

  “No, I’m not a journalist. I’m a simple music lover who was lucky enough to build a following online, that’s all.”

  He nods, and, luckily for me, he doesn’t investigate any further. “And have you tried to enroll in the contest?”

  I look down, a little ashamed. Why did I say anything? Looks like I’m whimpering because I didn’t get what I wanted. “Yes, but I’m not worried about it. I’m going to write a blog post about the event. I came here to take some pictures, so I could put out original content instead of the usual old photos from the internet.”

  “What’s the name of the blog?”

  “Rocking in New York, why?”

  He pulls out his cellphone, and I watch him type something on the screen. “Man, you’ve got a lot of followers. Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”

  I burst out laughing and shake my head. “I am not, trust me. I don’t earn anything from that blog.”

  Thomas looks at me, puzzled. “Really? With that following, you should be able to monetize.”

  “I decided to keep it without ads or affiliations. I don’t want to feel tied up because someone pays me to review a certain product or band. It was born out of my need to talk about music, and I want to have the freedom to say what I think.”

  Thomas nods and smiles. He seems to think about it. He looks at his cell phone, scrolling in search of something. He motions for me to stay where I am. And why would I move? I don’t think my legs would hold me for two steps. I’ll have to sit here for the rest of the day to recover from this second meeting. If I was thrilled to see him in the first place, I’m on cloud nine for sharing something so personal with him. This goes way beyond knowing things about him through his public image: this feels profound.

  A few seconds later, a smile brightens his face, highlighting two small dimples covered with a few days’ beard scruff. He grabs his earphones from his pants pocket and hands them to me. I stay still, puzzled for a few seconds at his gesture.

  “Do you or don’t you want to write the review of these singles?”

  It takes several seconds, staring at him like a complete idiot, before I realize he’s actually proposing I listen to their music. “Are you serious? Look, my blog isn’t a magazine. I don’t have any credibility in the industry... I’m not someone who can give you visibility or anything...I mean, you don’t get anything out of what I write... I’m just a loser who has a blog and zero social life.”

  Thomas’s thunderous laugh makes me stop my inconclusive blabbering and utterly embarrassing stuttering. “We don’t need publicity, trust me, for that we have legions of agencies. But it would be nice to have an opinion from someone who listens to music out of passion and not just for work.”

  “Considering that I liked ‘Sunshine’ from your very first album, I may be biased when it comes to your music.”

  Thomas looks at me wide-eyed, with such surprise he almost seems speechless. “But we didn’t even put that song on the album for the label. It was part of a demo we recorded in the beginning so Evan could represent us!” he exclaims, stunned.

  I raise my shoulders and smile at him. “I’ve been following you for a while.”

  He shakes his head with an incredulous smile and invites me to listen to the new pieces. I grab his earphone with trembling hands, take the notebook and pen from the bag, open them, and motion for him to hit play.

  The first one out of the earphones is so overwhelming I find it hard to sit back and take notes. I want to get off this stool, move to the beat, and sing along—even if I don’t know the words. It’s a rhythm that overwhelms in every sense, and it shows how much they’ve grown and matured musically since the last album. It’s hard rock, sometimes a bit dirty. Damian’s voice is dreary and scratchy. It gets into your gut and holds you in a grip. The rhythm is hectic, overwhelming, does not let you breathe. It’s that classic concert song that gets you up, jumping frantically and falling, exhausted, at the end, burned of all the energy in your body. I can’t wait to hear it played from a stage, with Thomas’s arms frantically beating on the drums, sweat dri
pping from his forehead and gluing those dark curls to his face. I want to see Simon and Michael’s fingers flying all over their instruments in the frenzy of the moment, setting and breaking the rules with every refrain. I want to see Damian wriggle on that stage as if possessed, unleashing a hormonal storm in every single woman in the stadium.

  The second song is slower than the first. Still, it vibrates inside you, dragging you to the underworld with low tones, and leaving you there to agonize under the lashes of Damian’s voice accompanied by dry, almost violent drum shots. It’s a march that guides you into the darkest corners of the soul and brings out agonizing emotions. I have never heard Simon go so violently on the strings of that bass; he’s usually the quiet one, the one who almost softens the rough sound of their music. Not this time. He seems to want to destroy the instrument, to emphasize the rawness of the lyrics of this song. It’s a song of revenge, of payback, almost of hatred toward those who hurt you.

  The third song is the one that surprises me the most—a slow ballad. The lyrics unfold into a story about a violent, suffocating, toxic love. The sweetness of the music clashes with Damian’s rough voice; the words envelop your heart and tighten until it stops. With the last verse, you feel your heart stop like the woman’s life between those lines. Red as the love you desired, red as blood on your grave. I have to swallow a couple of times before I can knock down the knot in my throat.

  They’ve come a long way from the first album full of passion and anger. In moments that seem all too short, the three songs end and Thomas stops the music, takes back his earphones, and looks at me as if my opinion alone will decree whether this album will be a success or not. They are a world-famous band, with this album they will ascend the Olympus of music, becoming part of the history of the greats, of legends.

  “So?” he asks me hopefully.

  “So, you’re going to wait for my review like everyone else,” I say, unfazed, as if this were a respectable professional meeting. The reality is my heart and mind are so distressed with emotions I would not be able to formulate a coherent sentence, let alone a sensible opinion.

  Thomas widens his eyes and looks at me as if horns had grown in my forehead. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am. Do you think I pulled out this notebook to give you a ridiculous, incomplete review on the spot?”

  He furrows his brows and seems almost disappointed by my answer, or perhaps even frightened.

  “I knew you were serious, but I was hoping you’d give me at least a general idea... Look, it doesn’t matter, I still have to bring this coffee to those three before they think someone kidnapped me,” he says, standing up and making me feel terribly guilty.

  He really expected to hear my opinion, and I didn’t dare to give it to him. The smile he gives me before standing up never reaches his eyes.

  “Thomas,” I call before he leaves. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be anxious about my opinion. It’s definitely positive, I just don’t have anyone read my articles before they’re finished...you know, I’m a perfectionist too.” This time his eyes light up with his smile, and what looks like a weight rising from his chest. “You have to give me the song titles if you want the article to be complete.”

  “If you give me your phone number, I can send you a text,” he smiles slyly.

  I burst out laughing at his attempt, and then hand him my pen and paper. “Or you can write them here. What do you say?”

  “And you’d miss the chance to hear the story of how I took the stage with my pants ripped in half?”

  “Do you mean that what I heard from your own lips is not the real one?”

  He pretends to think about it, scratching his chin. “I told you the one where—during a spiritual session—my pants caught fire on a candle, and I had to cut off the leg of the jeans just before I took the stage, right?”

  I burst into amused laughter. “Those were not the words, but I get the feeling I’ll never have the real version of that story. Or am I wrong?”

  “You can give me your number and find out,” he tries again.

  “Or you can write the titles of those songs here and keep that aura of mystery a rock star needs to survive.” I push the notepad toward him again.

  He says nothing, nods a couple of times as if he wants to say something, but then stops. He grabs the paper and writes down the titles. “Will you ever tell me why you don’t want to give me your number? Do I scare you or something?”

  “You meet a lot of women. How do I know you don’t ask for all of their numbers? After all, you didn’t tell me why you want it.” I smile at him, but I don’t add anything else. The truth is, I’m beyond nervous about this whole situation and making excuses is the only possible solution I can see.

  As before, Thomas seems to hold back a thought, picks up the now lukewarm coffees, and makes his way to the door. He throws me one last look and a smile, then waves and disappears into the streets of Manhattan carrying with him all the air I had in my lungs.

  It’s been a whole day, and Iris hasn’t posted her review yet. By now, I’m sure her name is Iris because once I discovered her blog, I read every single article she’s posted in recent years, all really great pieces, all signed with her name. There is no doubt this woman is a journalist, even if she says otherwise, and one of the good ones, competent both in her subject and her style. I can’t believe she never studied journalism.

  Locked up in my apartment all day, sitting on the white leather sofa next to the window overlooking Central Park, reading and rereading the same articles, was not a great idea. I was so nervous that at one point, I gave in and cooked almost two hundred cookies and started decorating about fifty of them. Even though I had promised Claire, the assistant Evan found me, that I would never cook anything again—at least until Christmas. There was a time, right after the tour, when she spent whole days contacting associations that help the homeless to donate the decorated cookies I churned out in industrial quantities. At one point, she threatened to tell Evan and my friends if I didn’t stop immediately. She’s not going to be happy about helping me pack dozens of cookies to give to some good cause. But I was too anxious waiting for the verdict—I had to release some tension this way.

  It didn’t help. My nervousness is still skyrocketing. I feel like a caged, chained lion who would bite its own paw off to get out of here. But I can’t run away, not from myself, at least. The truth is I’m terrified of the review she might write. Maybe she didn’t like the songs, and that’s why she doesn’t post anything. She’s playing for time. And yet yesterday, she reassured me before I walked out of that damn café. I’m paranoid. That girl got so under my skin I can’t have one rational thought anymore. It’s ridiculous!

  I get up from the sofa and head to the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine. Maybe caffeine isn’t a great idea, considering how nervous I am. I’ll risk pulling an all-nighter. On the other hand, I’ve never been famous for my brilliant choices. I pour a steaming cup and go back to the couch where I left my laptop. I reload the blog page for the millionth time, and my heart almost stops.

  The new post is there, with the name of our band clearly written in the title. I put down the laptop, grab the cup and go to the window to sip my coffee, trying to calm down. I don’t dare read it. It’s what I’ve been waiting for with trepidation all day, and now I can’t bring myself to read those lines. The problem is that I care too much about her opinion, and even the possibility that she didn’t like the songs scares me. If one of the kids in the room yesterday for the listening group wrote a bad review, I’d be displeased for sure, but it would only last a short time. It won’t be so easy to forget if she blasts it. I laugh at my total inability to be rational at something that is a non-problem.

  I breathe deeply and take courage. I go back to the post and start reading it. At first, I feel so eager to get to the end that my brain can’t process the lines I’m reading. Then the wor
ds ‘magical,’ ‘higher level,’ ‘incredible quality’ enter my visual field. When I reread the article for the third time, I finally realize it’s praising our music. Every word is designed to emphasize the musical quality and the improvements we’ve made with this album.

  When we sat down and started writing the new songs, we set out to satisfy our fans and take the next step, take what we’ve built so far and improve it, grow our artistry and not just our fame. Apparently, according to Iris and her article, we succeeded.

  I’m so caught up in the enthusiastic comments starting to appear in the post that I share the link on Twitter without thinking twice.

  @Thomas_Jailbirds

  She likes the new songs! Read the Rocking in New York blog review!

  Not even a minute goes by before the phone rings and Evan’s face appears on the screen. The euphoria I felt reading the post and sharing it is replaced by a cold shower.

  “Can you tell me why the hell you tweeted that link?” His tone is unbelievably angry. I can almost see his red face and neck veins about to explode.

  “Because it’s a good review?” I wish I was more sure of myself, but my voice comes out trembling.

  Our manager expects such impulsive gestures from Michael or Damian, not from me, and I realize that I didn’t think for one second about whether what I was doing was right. I took it for granted that this article was excellent, and didn’t consider that it might not be approved by our press office.