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

by Erika Vanzin

  I look at him, stunned. “Do you really remember that day?”

  “Impossible to forget. But I have to admit, I didn’t recognize you. We hoped to meet you again at some of our concerts, but you literally disappeared. You’ve become like a memory, like you were just a figment of our imagination.”

  My heart hammers in my chest furiously. “I was sixteen years old. I was too young to sneak into clubs. But that’s when I started the blog. I was blown away by your music.”

  Thomas looks at me in disbelief. Then, without saying another word, he pulls me in and holds me in a hug. I thought that day was a one-way fantasy of a teenager, but finding out that my emotions were reciprocated makes the butterflies in my stomach flutter. My connection to this guy has deep roots all the way back to my adolescence. Which is why I feel even more guilty for all the lies I’ve been telling him.

  People:

  Alicia Pinker steps out with her new flame, Peter Rayan, twenty-five years her junior. Last night, after a romantic dinner at Mandalay in New York City, the new couple took refuge in the hotel and didn’t leave until early the next morning. How will her ex-husband—who now lives in France with his new boyfriend—take it? Certainly, Alicia has a habit of choosing men with whom she risks not going very far in a relationship. Is she afraid to commit?

  Gossip Now!

  Wild night for Alicia Pinker and her new flame, Peter Rayan. After having an intimate dinner at the Mandalay in New York, the two lovebirds holed up in the hotel and never left. Witnesses in the restaurant confirmed that the two could not stay away from each other, and rushed back to the hotel after a hasty meal. First, she marries a man who prefers male company, then she dates a boy twenty-five years her junior. Certainly, Alicia doesn’t like easy relationships. How long will the new couple last? One piece of advice we can give her? Don’t introduce the new boytoy to your ex if you don’t want to be single again.

  I’m riding in the elevator alone, heading to the new recording studio. My instinct is to press the button to the ground floor and go home. After untangling myself from Iris’s arms and finally checking my phone last night, I found several messages and calls from my friends. I left the restaurant sending a quick text to not worry about my non-return, but apparently it triggered a series of questions I have yet to answer.

  Talking with her and listening to her confessions about when she was a teenager, between a piece of pizza and a glass of wine, were the best moments I’ve had in years. It wasn’t just the sex, though that was exceptional. It was waking up with her body cuddled in my arms, the sweet scent of her hair tickling my nose, her deep breathing, one hand resting on my chest as she felt comfortable enough to fall asleep next to me. It was realizing that I loved the feelings creeping into my chest. I’ve only always looked for sex from women, but Iris has given me a whole other world that I can’t forget. Because as much as I don’t want to think about it, as much as I keep telling myself a serious future will never be there for me, the hours I spent hugging her, sleeping by her side all night, have been my happiest in a very long time. What will I say to my friends when they ask me who I spent the night with? Because just the thought that they might make jokes even remotely vulgar about it annoys me. It’s going to rob me of the serenity I’ve been carrying with me since last night.

  As soon as I open the door to the recording studio, I find three pairs of eyes peering at me: Damian, Michael, and Lilly, with smiles printed on their faces.

  “Are you waiting on me for the recording?”

  They burst out laughing, and I know my attempt to buy time has failed miserably.

  “Where were you last night? After diner, we walked to your apartment, but you weren’t there.” Damian says out loud what everyone is thinking.

  “I got a pizza.”

  “Alone?” asks Lilly with a smile on her face. It’s always gossipy when she picks up something we try to hide.

  “With a friend.”

  “Red hair and nice ass?” Michael gets straight to the point.

  “Red hair, nice, smart, and an amazing blogger.” I get a little annoyed, making all three of them laugh.

  “Don’t be pissed, don’t worry. No one touches your Iris.”

  I sit in my chair, my mood drastically worsening. “She’s not mine, and I don’t know why you’re making it a big deal.”

  They all stare at me like I’m crazy.

  “Are you serious?” Lilly scrutinizes me. “Since she swooped into your arms, you seem crazy. You share posts without asking the press office, go into Manhattan clubs without someone from security accompanying you, go outside to smoke a cigarette and disappear for a whole night. You’re the one who usually plans everything down to the minute. This is a big deal!”

  My bandmates stare at me, and I’m aware that Lilly is speaking the truth. At times I don’t recognize myself either. Sometimes I’ve gone so far as to convince myself that I do it out of boredom, because this down time between the end of the album and the beginning of the tour hit me hard. The apathy that assaults me makes me do strange things, but lately I’ve been thinking that if I can’t bring Iris on our tour bus, I don’t even want to go.

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a bit? I’m getting bored, that’s all. And—I don’t have sex with her. I just hang out with her and then leave.”

  “Exactly! This is even worse,” Michael says emphatically. “You don’t ‘hang out’ with anyone. You fuck a different girl every night and move on. You don’t chase one girl, you don’t eat pizza together, you don’t do boyfriend things.”

  I burst out laughing and look at each of their faces. Underneath the teasing, they’re worried about me. “If I were you, I wouldn’t start sending out wedding invitations. Nothing happened.”

  Their questioning is annoying me because talking about it diminishes what happened between us. It wasn’t just a great fuck. It was nice to eat pizza tucked naked under the blankets while watching a movie, make love again before we even got to the ending titles, realize it was five in the morning and we hadn’t slept a single minute yet.

  “No, of course not.” Michael stands up and pushes his chair until it slams into the wall, then leaves the room.

  I look at the others and notice the same perplexity that I feel on their faces. It’s not like Michael cares about women, especially if the woman isn’t even his.

  “I’m going to go talk to him.”

  I get up to follow him out of the recording room and find him in the small break room on this floor. It’s the one least frequented by the staff because it only has a couple of sofas and a coffee machine, and no vending machines full of every snack you could want. It’s where we usually take refuge when we don’t feel like making small talk with people we know little about.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask when I see that he doesn’t look up from his coffee.

  He shrugs but doesn’t answer.

  “Did I do something wrong? Have I offended you in any way?” I have the impression that his irritation is directed at me.

  Michael leans back on the sofa, releasing an almost resigned long breath, passes his hand over his face, and then looks me straight into the eyes. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong...at least not to me.”

  “So, what? Don’t make me come over there and punch you.”

  Michael bursts out laughing. “Don’t get upset. I don’t know what’s happening to me either. You’re all finding yourself a woman, and I feel cut off. Lilly’s in the rehearsal room on a permanent basis. You disappear to eat pizza with the redhead... Sometimes, it seems like the only solution is to go prune plants with Simon in Connecticut. It’s depressing.”

  His words hit harder than I would have liked. I’m caught up in this bubble of bliss, excitement, and happiness, and didn’t realize I was leaving behind a friend at the worst moment of my life. I feel guilty.

 
“It’s not like I have to get married to this girl. There’s nothing serious about it.” I don’t know if I’m reassuring him or myself.

  “Really? When was the last time you chased a woman like this?”

  I was a teenager, and at that time, it didn’t go well at all. I look down without saying a word.

  “Are you going to tell her that you’ve been in prison?” His question is direct and leaves no interpretations for the answer.

  “We haven’t reached that point yet.” My voice sounds agitated, expressing all the tumult that runs in my chest.

  Michael bursts out laughing and looks at me with an almost paternal gaze, not his usual look. Michael is the most brazen party-goer of all. His only desire is to go out and live life to the fullest. The truth is, he’s afraid to stop, to awaken his demons.

  “Really? The problem is, you’re not really thinking. Ever since you met this girl, you’ve been behaving completely irrationally, completely out of character. Which can be a good thing. See how Damian has changed. But going out, fucking a different girl every night and forgetting about them the next morning avoids the problem of having to lie about where we’ve been. We’ve been to jail, Thomas. Nothing will ever change that and, if you really care about her, sooner or later, you’ll have to tell her, and it’s not going to be a pleasant conversation.”

  Michael’s words are as sincere as they are brutal. I know he’s not trying to scold me, but it still makes me feel guilty. “Don’t worry, Michael, we really didn’t get to that point, and we’ll never get there. You know relationships aren’t for me either. I tried once. I’m not going to repeat the same mistake.”

  So, what the hell am I doing?

  Michael smiles and looks down, looking like he wants to say something, then thinks again. “The important thing is that you’re convinced of it. But if you ever realize you’ve lost control, know that I’m here. Damian and Lilly are in their honeymoon phase. Sometimes they’re not the most rational people to ask for advice. If you feel lost, I’m here.”

  He gets off the couch and puts his hand on my shoulder before returning to the studio, leaving me with a thousand more thoughts than I had when I walked into this room.

  “Dexter, I swear if you stick your paw in my eye again, I’ll use your fur to clean the windows,” I grumble angrily, realizing that the sun has yet to peep through the buildings. It’s way too early.

  My cat emits an annoyed meow, standing next to the bowl. He clearly understands he gets everything he wants. “You’re the most annoying cat I’ve ever met,” I mutter, filling his bowl.

  I head to the bathroom and as soon as I turn on the light and look in the mirror, a sigh escapes my lips. “Do I really have dark circles under my eyes?” I wonder aloud, seeing the two shadows that contrast with the pale skin of my face.

  Considering the cat wakes me up at unacceptable hours, and Thomas kept me up all night a couple of days ago, my face looks like a battleground of sleeplessness. Memories from the other night come back to my mind, and I blush like a teenager. His lips and hands have left an indelible impression that even guilt can’t erase. The other night it was like my world flipped, and now I’m inside a snow globe where everything is magical. All the bright, sparkling feelings have yet to settle at the bottom. And sooner or later, they will. They’re going to settle at the bottom of my heart when I realize this isn’t going anywhere.

  When I told Emily what happened, with my heart in my throat, she was in seventh heaven thinking this is finally my chance to be happy. But how can I be happy if the whole relationship is based on my lies? I built a house of cards, and when he finds out, everything will collapse and my heart will be buried under a pile of rubble. Sure, I could enjoy this whole great adventure without thinking about the consequences, but it’s impossible to tell my heart not to invest too much energy because it won’t last. The magic of waking up next to him, making love to him in the morning, and then seeing him feed Dexter as if he’d always done it was like opening a door to a future that’s not real. It left a bittersweet taste in my mouth that made my heart plummet a little lower. I keep telling myself we don’t have a real relationship, but is it true? He went to the corner café to get breakfast and brought it back to bed, using the keys to my apartment while I took a shower. Isn’t that a relationship? Those are the intimate actions of a couple who aren’t afraid to admit what they are, and when trust comes crumbling down because of my lies, that door on the future will close and crush my heart in the process.

  When I get out of the bathroom, I make a cup of coffee as Dexter approaches and rubs himself against my ankles. “Now that you have a full belly, you’re quite the brown-noser, aren’t you?” I scold him as I pick him up. His moment of affection lasts precisely four seconds, enough time to pull out his nails and scratch them on my arm, then run over to the bed to lick his fur as if I had just soiled it with jam.

  “You don’t love me. That’s the truth,” I whisper as I grab my hot cup and approach the window.

  I watch people walking quickly on the sidewalk in front of me. The tall building with the black fire escape obstructs the view of the city I love so much. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to live in one of the apartments in those tall buildings made of glass and steel scattered around Manhattan. It must be like standing forever on top of the Empire State Building and dominating the city. What a powerful feeling to be able to do that, a feeling I’ll never taste since I can barely survive week to week.

  I shake off my daydream and return to my apartment, furnished with pieces I found in dumpsters and restored with a lot of love. An apartment with a room and a bathroom, and I’m lucky there’s a door that divides the two. I smile at the idea and open my laptop to check my email. Since Thomas tweeted my article, new visits to my blog have exploded, as have the recurrent readers. Emails for interviews or requests for album reviews are piling up in my inbox like snow in winter. Maybe I could consider making some money from this blog, even without allowing the advertising I hate so much. I need to talk to Emily and figure out how to take advantage of this sudden rise in popularity and translate it into revenue that might make me feel a little more relaxed about money.

  I start with the comments on my last interview, checking to see if there are insults—which I delete immediately—then answering questions and suggesting that those who ask for interviews contact me by email. Then I go to the old articles, and I see there is more engagement, more comments, more shares there too.

  “Of course, Thomas gave this blog a pretty good boost,” I whisper to no one in particular. Not even my cat listens to what I have to say anymore. “Besides being super-sexy and a god in bed, he brought in more activity than an entire marketing department.”

  It’s at least two hours before I can finish making it to the bottom of all the post comments and messages on Instagram. When I start with the hundreds of emails, I’m already into my second coffee of the day. If Dexter continues to wake me up so early, I’ll be addicted to caffeine. After deleting all the spam, I realize that another hundred and fifty emails are waiting for me. How the hell have I gone from five to a hundred and fifty? Have all these people really only discovered my existence now?

  Someone even invites me to a record-launch party in Las Vegas. It doesn’t look like a scam, and I put it among those to check later and do more in-depth research on the group. When I get halfway through, my heart skips a beat. What seemed like a normal request for an interview turns out to be the email every music journalist dreams of getting: the Red Velvet Curtains ask for an exclusive in-depth interview for the launch of their new album. It’s signed by Lilly herself, and I have to reread it three times before I realize it’s not a joke.

  I stand up, pour a third cup of coffee, walk around the table, sit down, get up again, look out the window, watch passers-by for a few minutes, then sit back at the computer. The email’s still where I left it. It didn’t disappear, I didn�
�t dream about it, the computer didn’t burst into flames. If this is the reward for sleeping with Thomas, I’ll do it again more than willingly. Just thinking about it makes me feel guilty. I’m not sure he asked them to contact me, but I have the impression that he’s behind it. Why would they have noticed my existence otherwise?

  It seems, however, that the email is genuine, professional, but also very kind. And there’s no sign that Thomas put a word in it. The problem is, I don’t understand why she sent it to me. I’m not a magazine. I have no professional authority as a blogger. Despite Thomas’s trust, I am not considered an industry insider. They’re the emerging band of the year. They have the most prominent news media vying for a story from them. They’re considered the heirs of the Jailbirds, and I’m just a blogger. Thomas is the only explanation for this interview, and it annoys me a little: I don’t love favoritism and especially not unasked favors. If I need help, I ask. I don’t need Prince Charming intervening on his white horse. In fact, to be honest, I’ve always hated those fairy-tale princes. As if the princesses were all brainless and unable to figure things out on their own. My mother always laughed at my protests to change the fairy tales she read me.

  I don’t know how to feel about this email: flattered because they chose me or angry because they didn’t choose me on merit. While I have the opportunity of a lifetime for a blog like mine, I wish I’d gotten this job honestly, not because I opened my legs.

  Guilt strangles me and makes me choke. I need to clear my head by getting out of my apartment and going to the only other place where my problems can take on a better perspective. So, I close my laptop without replying, grab the keys to my apartment, and head out without a second thought.