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

by Erika Vanzin

  “Or, if I had your number, I could text you that I’m coming by to say hi, and not look like the perverted maniac who follows you,” I venture and immediately regret it, seeing her grimace. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you, and I certainly shouldn’t have come here,” I stammer uncertainly, standing up, ready to run out of this place like a one hundred-meter runner in the race of his life.

  A hand grabs my wrist before I can walk outside. When I turn around again, I find Iris’s almost confused eyes. “No, please. We got off on the wrong foot this morning,” she reassures me, motioning for me to sit next to her again. “So would you like my number so you can tell me about that time you took the stage with half your pants?” The mischievous smile on her face tells me she’s not mad at me.

  I burst out laughing. I like how this story has become our inside joke to break the ice. “The time I was attacked by a dog that ripped off my jeans? Yes, I really should tell you that story.”

  Now it’s Iris who bursts out laughing. “Really? A dog? I didn’t remember it that way.”

  “I swear.” The tension slips away with this private joke only the two of us share.

  “So, what did you get for breakfast?”

  “A black coffee and...I don’t know, I think it’s called double granola.” I look at the two cereal cookies with cream in the middle, holding them together.

  “A black coffee? Seriously?” Her raised eyebrow tells me she doesn’t believe it.

  “Don’t make me feel guilty like Emily did. I always order a black coffee when I’m out.”

  She chuckles, leans on the sofa, and looks at me with an interested smile. “Are you one of those rock stars who survive on black coffee and cigarettes?”

  I laugh out loud, forgetting my manners. “No, definitely not. I order black coffee because it’s easy. Everyone has it, and I can play it safe without losing my mind with these crazy menus. I’m a person who likes to have the situation under control. I like to plan, find solutions and try to anticipate any problems. The unexpected annoys me. Having a line of people behind me in a hurry to order makes me nervous. I feel the pressure and, in the end, I never get to read the whole menu. So I order the black coffee and clear the line in less than five seconds.”

  I know it sounds like a fool’s speech, but it’s not like I can make a worse impression than the one I’ve already made. I might as well be honest.

  “So you can face concerts in stadiums with thousands of people in front of you, but you feel pressured to order a coffee?” she asks me incredulously, and I burst out laughing.

  “Exactly. For the concerts we prepare for months, everything is planned. I know what will happen, the timing, the set list we’ll play. Over time, I also learned to predict which unforeseen events are statistically more likely to happen and have somehow become part of my routine. But if you make me order a coffee in front of someone who’s fussing because he has a meeting he’s going to be late to, I’m going to freak out.”

  Iris looks at me, and I see understanding in her eyes, not someone trying to comprehend the rantings of a madman. Right now, the people sitting around us seem light years away, as if glass walls surrounded us, cutting out the rest of the world, giving this conversation special relevance.

  “It’s not your fault that the person behind you is late for his job. He could always get up five minutes earlier, take an earlier train or decide not to have breakfast out,” she points out.

  “I’ve learned that my actions have consequences for others, whether I like it or not. I prefer to be as less of an obstacle as possible for the people around me,” I respond with a half-smile.

  Iris studies me for a few seconds, then perhaps realizes the topic makes me uncomfortable and decides to bail me out of my embarrassment. “So, the fact that I don’t do things like you expect, like giving you my phone number, is upsetting you.” It’s a straightforward observation, but I hear almost satisfaction in her voice, as if she understands that she has a power over me that she did not expect.

  “The truth? You’re freaking me out. I’m acting like a teenager who makes a series of bad decisions but doesn’t know how to snap out of it. I spent ten minutes outside this café this morning convincing myself to go home because I look like a lunatic, but here I am, with a black coffee and a cream-filled cookie that I ordered just because Emily pressured me. I have no idea what’s inside this damn cookie!” I laugh, and she does the same, covering her mouth with her hand, but I still see those amused green eyes peeking out from above her fingers. I feel like a kid at Christmas for making her laugh.

  “It’s hazelnut cream, and it’s Emily’s favorite cookie. You must have made her really happy after ordering only a black coffee,” she teases me a little.

  I look at Emily, who is still watching us, smiling and waving her hand. “So, you’re very social, but you don’t have Facebook?” I move the focus of this conversation to her again.

  Iris shakes her head as she sips from her cup. “You checked.” The satisfied smile on her lips almost makes me want to lean in and take it off with a kiss, like last night’s. But now it is daylight. There is no darkness to hide from prying eyes.

  “I at least wanted to know if you’re ‘in a relationship’ before asking for your phone number for the umpteenth time, and Facebook is the best source for this kind of news,” I admit without beating around the bush.

  “I have a feeling this is information you will add to your not-able-to-control list and it will drive you crazy.”

  The way she deflects my questions is one of the things I find most intriguing about this woman. Is it possible that when I talk to her I leave more confused, and with more questions, than I had at the beginning of the conversation? Right now, I have absolute certainty that this woman is putting me under her thumb, and I have no idea how to get away without hurting myself.

  “It means I will have to take you home to see if you live with someone. You know, I’ve been good at stalking people lately.”

  Iris laughs, and my day lights up a little more. “You go from my phone number to my home address. You’re leveling up.”

  It’s my turn to burst out laughing, and in an impulsive move, I stretch my arm out and draw her to me to kiss her head. I feel her stiffen for a moment but then let go of a long breath and relax. For a moment, I forget we’re in a crowded coffee shop.

  “If you really want to find out where I live, this is your chance,” she tells me, stuffing the computer in her bag and putting on her jacket. I’m almost surprised. I thought she was going to skate over this like she did with the phone number. It takes a moment before I rush up and follow her out into the cold Manhattan morning.

  “Your coffee and cookie? Don’t you want them?”

  I smile, embarrassed because I completely forgot I put them on the table in front of us. “Emily won’t be offended if I leave them there, will she?”

  Iris smiles amusedly. “She’ll remind you for the next six years, but then she’ll forget about it.”

  “Only six years? I can handle that.”

  We walk a couple of blocks in comforting silence, with our hands in our pockets so as not to feel the bitter cold. The air is charged like it’s about to snow, and the gray sky makes this city even more magical usual. Iris stops in front of a building that has seen better times, with peeling plaster, the chipped steps leading up to the slightly open door, and a row of garbage cans occupying the sidewalk. Christmas magic is nowhere in sight on this desolate corner. I hope this thought doesn’t translate into a grimace on my face.

  “Will you promise to close your eyes as we go up?” she asks, a little embarrassed.

  “Do I have to worry?”

  “Let’s just say this place isn’t like the luxury hotels you’re used to,” she admits, looking down.

  “Trust me, my life has not been all luxury and glitz.” After prison, any place can feel li
ke home to me.

  Iris inhales deeply and eventually seems to convince herself. She beckons me with her head to the stairs, and I follow her. She pushes the door slightly and as soon as I take a step inside the small and dark entrance, the pungent smell of urine forces me to cover my mouth to keep from vomiting. I glance down the three steps that descend into the basement and find a filthy blanket in the corner where, I’m guessing, the homeless take refuge at night. For a moment, I imagine Iris coming home late, with some drunks here bothering her as she takes the stairs to her apartment. Nausea almost makes me falter. The sense of disorientation destabilizes me. I have never felt such strong feelings of protection toward anyone but my bandmates and it confuses me.

  I follow her up stairs that are worn and chipped and covered in so much dirt you can’t even tell what the original color was. It’s so narrow here that two people trying to pass at the same time would have trouble. The hallway walls are bare, there are no Christmas decorations on the doors—a stark contrast to the luxurious buildings in Manhattan. In the building where I live, the lobby is decorated with a ten-foot tree, every single free space is filled with poinsettias, and each door is decked out with Christmas garland or a custom arrangement made by a trusted florist. Even I had Claire get one, so as not to be out of place. Here, it seems the magic of Christmas disappeared at the entrance.

  The third-floor hallway Iris enters is better. The dark gray plaster is peeled in some spots, but at least the place is clean, and at the entrances to the various apartments a few doormats decorate the otherwise bland surroundings. When we arrive in front of her apartment, the lamp’s dim light next to her door illuminates her carpet, and I find it difficult to hold back a laugh. The black lettering on the brownish bristles reads, ‘If you’re the pizza guy, you’re welcome.’ I imagine her standing in a store in front of such a carpet and smiling, satisfied as she puts it in the cart.

  “Congratulations. You’ve survived the valley of tears without running away. Not many of them arrive at the door.” She tries to play it down with a joke, but I see in her eyes that she is embarrassed by the desolation of this place.

  “Because they didn’t realize that to get the prize, they have to overcome the obstacles first,” I smile.

  “Let’s hear it—what would this prize be?” Her gaze challenges me.

  I bend down and kiss her without giving her time to think about it. I sink my fingers into her hair and draw her to me to savor her tongue that gently caresses mine. She grabs my jacket to pull me closer and I gently push her against the door jamb. I press against her body, and she feels a little more mine. Iris has a tendency to slip between my fingers, but with this kiss I want to feel every part of her, caress the skin of her face, inhale her sweet scent. Since last night I’ve wanted to do this, take a moment to savor her without rushing, without witnesses, without interruptions. When I step away from her, she looks at me perplexed and perhaps even a little disappointed.

  “Don’t you want to come in and see if I have a boyfriend?” She smiles.

  “If you really lived with someone, you wouldn’t have let me up here and risked being discovered.”

  When she sees me moving away from her, she’s taken back. She’s still panting from the kiss, with a dazed and dreamy look and red cheeks. She’s so beautiful, I’d like to go back and kiss her again, without giving her time to breathe, but I don’t. It’s my turn to confuse her, to leave her gasping in front of that threshold that divides my sanity from pure desire. If I cross that door, nothing will be the same, and the emotions I feel scare me too much to be able to deal with them. I need to distance myself before I cross that fine line that I won’t be able to go back from.

  I walk down the stairs, this time with a smile planted on my face. I couldn’t get her phone number, but at least now I know where she lives.

  A Band You Can’t Miss!

  Hi Roadies!

  Have you seen my Instagram stories from last night? If you have, you’d already know that I was at “The Bitter End” for The Revolver concert and interview. This band surprised me in a good way because, despite everyone being very young, they have an enviable stage presence. Their second album came out recently, and we noticed a vast improvement over their debut record.

  Q: On your first album, you experimented a lot with genres. You covered a wide range on the spectrum. However, in your latest work, the funk turn is the common thread from the first to the last song. How did you make that decision?

  A: The truth is much less poetic than you can imagine. On the first album, we were looking for our identity. We wanted to do something that might please everyone a little bit. In the second, we were more selfish and played only what we like, what amuses us, and what makes us remember why we started making music.

  Q: So, should we expect this direction on the next albums as well?

  A: We can’t be sure because people grow, mature, tastes change, but unless it takes fifteen years to release the next one, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be something down this line.

  Q: In the spring, you start an overseas tour with twelve concerts around Europe. There are many venues planned but also two big festivals. What should fans who come to hear you expect?

  A: Yes, we still can’t believe we’re finally going to visit Europe. We have a loyal fan base over there and decided to go and meet them. Some of them came to the US to follow us on tour here. They’re a blast. It’s time for us to reward them for their support. What they can expect is an energetic tour like the concert you saw tonight. We’re going to make them dance and sweat at every show!

  To read the full Revolver interview and find out what else they told me last night, go to their website.

  Be kind and Rock’n’Roll,

  Iris

  35480 Likes 17842 Tweets 17458 Shares 3592 Comments

  “Do you think you’re going to tell him what you do for a living?” Emily’s question hits me as soon as I open the door.

  I let her into the house after her shift at the café. I knew she’d ask. When Thomas followed me to my apartment, she watched us leave, half happy and half worried. She’s concerned about me, and knowing this makes me feel even more guilty about the turn my life has taken.

  “It would be much easier if he forgets I exist.”

  A little laugh escapes her lips. “Are you serious? He kissed you in a crowded place, then he came to the café to find you, accompanied you home… To make him forget you exist you’d have to remove part of his brain.” She sits next to me at the kitchen table. Her smile is sweet and understanding.

  I know she’s right; this situation is anything but simple. I should have walked away the moment I fell into his arms and recognized him. I should have run and not gotten involved. Any attempt at approaching him, at this point, is a lie. It’s not just because of my job. It’s the way we met, why I was there in that alley, and the fact that I’ve lied to him all this time despite having more than one chance to tell him the truth. It’s no longer an omission. It became a straight-up lie when I kept meeting him and hid the truth about myself.

  “I know,” I agree with Emily. “I refused to give him my number again, but he stayed anyway. I didn’t seek him out—I made sure I was nowhere near him when I knew he’d be out in public somewhere. I avoided him in every way, but he always found me. I don’t know what to do anymore. By the way, you told him I was going to be at the café this morning, didn’t you?”

  My scolding glare doesn’t seem to affect her. She just shrugs and smiles. “Sometimes you have to help fate.”

  “I don’t want to help it, Emily. I’m walking into something I already know will hurt me. I like him a lot. Right now, the love-sick teenager in me is delighted at finally having my dream come true. But I’m afraid to encourage something I already know will backfire. How do you think he’ll react when he finds out I’m a paparazzo?”

  “If he finds out
by accident, he’ll be mad for sure, but if you tell him and explain why you do it, maybe he can forgive you.” She echoes my conscience while she strokes Dexter’s fur. He has climbed onto the table to be cuddled.

  “Let’s say that it’s true, that he is more understanding than a saint and that he forgives me. How do you think he’ll react when he finds out I was the one who sold the photos that almost destroyed their career four years ago?”

  Emily’s eyes get compassionate, and it makes my heart tighten in my chest. She knows I’ve made too many mistakes in my life to not deserve that forgiveness. But I’m not in a position to forgive myself. Why should I expect others to?

  “You were desperate, you needed money, and it was the only solution. Don’t condemn yourself. You had no choice.”

  “That’s not true. I could have prostituted myself, but I didn’t. Instead of selling a piece of me, I sold them. And the thing that makes me feel the most guilty is that, despite everything, I’m so selfish I can’t stay away from him.”

  “Who could resist him? He’s so gorgeous he takes your breath away—sensual, cute, and so shy you want to hug him. He’s the perfect mix of cute and sexy every woman desires. Like he’s been custom-made to set you on fire just being near him. I understand why you can’t stay away from him: on paper, he’s the perfect man for you.” She says out loud what I don’t dare say.

  Dexter complains a little while Emily holds him in a hug but shows no sign of getting off the table.

  “You are not helping.”

  “I don’t want to help. He’s the first decent man you’ve met and you literally fell into his arms. You can’t keep punishing yourself for the rest of your life for the choices you’ve made. Life has been a bitch to you. You’ve faced difficulties people your age can’t even imagine. Give yourself a few moments of happiness. You can’t keep carrying the burden of the whole world. It’s unfair to you.”