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

by Erika Vanzin

  I’m staring at him like he’s a mirage. Did he really just invite me to the most famous event of the winter season? This is a surprise of epic proportions. I open and close my mouth a couple of times without being able to formulate a coherent answer.

  “Think about it?” He turns around to leave—smart move to drop the bomb when he’s already on his way out. He opens the front door, turns around with a smile, and gently kisses my lips. Before he goes out and closes it behind him, he winks, and I smile like a sixteen-year-old on cloud nine.

  “Look at the two lovebirds.” Emily’s voice is a mixture of teasing and dreamy sighs.

  “Not lovebirds. And do you think it’s a good call to embarrass me like that in front of him?”

  “I swear, I had no idea he was here. Otherwise, I would have said worse!” She bursts out laughing as I throw a pillow at her in response.

  “Are you fucking him? Christ, you’ve stooped low,” Albert says bluntly.

  Emily rolls her eyes, exasperated, and I don’t know what to say. Albert asked me out once and I said no. Since then, he’s become a plague every time I have a guy interested in me, whether or not I actually date him. We all go out together, we have fun at concerts, and he often helps me with extensive research and systems I don’t have access to. He works for a newspaper; he verifies that facts and sources are accurate and reliable on behalf of the journalists who then put the paper’s signature on their articles. He has access to means and sources, sometimes legal, much more often illegal, that I’ll never have. Every now and then, I feel guilty for taking advantage of him, but he always offers to help, and sometimes I give in to temptation.

  “What do you want me to tell you? It’s not true?” I snap, annoyed. I don’t like to answer him so meanly, but sometimes frustration outweighs my determination to respond nicely.

  Albert gives me the side-eye and offers me a piece of pizza without answering my questions. Luckily, it’s Emily who comes to my rescue, breaking the tense silence between us. “Do you realize that Thomas had the arrogance to come and ask me for a caramel macchiato today? To me, who works in a place that doesn’t serve that junk.”

  She’s outraged. I laugh, amused. “I know, he told me. You terrified him.”

  “I wanted him to learn his lesson. You have to train them, or they’ll keep ordering caramel macchiatos!”

  Emily jumps into her invective against the chains that transform people into robots, and Albert and I are forced to grab the alcohol out of the fridge to turn the evening into a more cheerful one. A pizza, a bottle of wine, and six cans of beer later, we’re sprawled on the bed with my laptop on Albert’s legs googling stupid things like what penguins smell like while Emily opens the bottle of tequila.

  “Do you realize that you slept with the rock star you’ve had a crush on since you were sixteen?” she asks me in a tone that is a mixture of conspiratorial and dreamy.

  We’re all a bit tipsy, and maybe more than that. Unfortunately, when Emily is drunk, she tends to focus obsessively on a topic, and this time she chooses Thomas.

  “Don’t talk about it. It seems absurd.” I cover my face with my hands, a little ashamed. I don’t know if I’m blushing about the turmoil of emotions that affect me or because I’m drunk.

  “Really absurd if you consider you’ve slept with someone you don’t know anything about,” says Albert.

  “Can you explain what your problem is?” Emily glares daggers at him.

  Albert blushes but doesn’t give up. “It’s true! If he was any other guy, you’d never have ended up in bed without knowing anything about him. Doesn’t it seem odd that there’s no information out there about that band’s past? They seem to have materialized out of nowhere,” he says, agitated.

  “He’s right. They have that halo of mystery that makes them to-die-for sexy, but, if you think about it, zero personal information,” Emily admits.

  Not that I didn’t think about it. It’s true what she says, and maybe Albert is also slightly right: if he was any other guy I met at a club, I’d never be having sex with him without knowing anything about him. When you look at famous people, at the glossy life their press offices put out, you feel like you know them like friends, but that’s not true. We only know what they want the public to know about them, superficial things that satisfy the curiosity of their readers, but not what really matters. I know Thomas’s shoe size because I read it in a fashion magazine, but not where he’s lived his whole life.

  “It’s not true that I don’t know him. Today he opened up a lot with me!” The need to justify my actions mingles with the guilt that’s been gripping me for days, making my voice sound shrill like a whiney little girl.

  “If it’s true that he opened up so much with you, prove it,” Albert challenges me as Emily passes me the bottle.

  I throw down a generous swig of tequila, trying to wash away the nervousness Albert stirs up, when in fact, this was a perfect day. I’ve never had such a wonderful afternoon just staying in the house talking to a guy. Albert’s words threaten to destroy the bubble I’ve built around myself to keep away the lies that try to crush me. I want to nip that negativity in the bud, drown it with so much alcohol it can never resurface.

  “Indulge him. Otherwise, he won’t give up.”

  “If what I say tonight leaves this room, you two are dead. No matter who talks. Do you understand me?”

  “Who do you think we’re going to tell? We’re all drunk! Tomorrow morning, we won’t remember this conversation. We’ll only have a big headache to remind us of this night,” Emily mumbles as she pours another drink.

  “Okay. Let me see... Well, he’s not from New York but a small town around here whose name I don’t know.”

  “Really?” Emily is wide-eyed.

  “That’s not news. Everyone suspected this because no schools in New York City remember them. Without the name of the town, it’s not even information, it’s a random guess,” Albert complains as the blood begins to boil in my veins.

  “You want names? His mother’s name is Susan and his father Arthur,” I snap, annoyed, as a half-smile appears on his lips.

  “Now, this is what I want. Start talking.” He leans on my shoulder and hands me the bottle of tequila after smelling it and wrinkling his nose without touching it.

  I drink again, feeling my throat and stomach burning like I’ve swallowed lava. I pass the bottle to Emily, who takes a sip and makes a disgusted face. It’s not our favorite alcohol, but it’s doing the job—driving away that feeling of heaviness brought on by Albert’s insistence.

  “Anything else you want to confess to Uncle Albert?” he jokes.

  Emily passes me the bottle of tequila again, and I take another sip. The evening took a strange turn: I feel my head spin, and I have to squeeze my eyes a couple of times to focus on Albert. On the other hand, the lightness filling my chest feels good.

  “Come on, spill some more secrets while I go get the salt. Tequila alone sucks.” Emily crawls off the bed and drags herself to the kitchen cabinet to grab the blue container I keep on the top shelf.

  “He doesn’t have a car…” I realize I’m slurring, and Albert’s smile is getting blurry.

  “What the hell kind of information is that? Most people who live in this city don’t have a car,” he groans, and I’d like to punch him.

  “I don’t think he even has a driver’s license, because he said he didn’t need one where he spent his teenage years.”

  “Really? A kid in a small town who doesn’t have a driver’s license? They make you get it when you go to high school. You don’t even have to leave the building to take the class!”

  I take another sip from the bottle, and Emily sticks a slice of lime in my mouth after smearing my lips with salt. I almost throw up and take another drink of the tequila to rinse my mouth of the horrible taste of salt.

  “Where did he
go to high school?” Albert pushes.

  “I don’t think he went because he told me he didn’t have many friends his age.”

  The words come out drowsy, and my eyes close until Emily gives me a shove to wake me up. I study her, and her face is blank, without expressions. For a moment, it seems to me that she doesn’t even have eyes.

  Albert is talking to me, but I respond with difficulty, slowly, like I have a potato in my mouth and can’t form the words properly. Sometimes I nod with my head, sometimes I don’t. Albert gets close to my face and doesn’t stop asking questions. Then I close my eyes, and even his voice slowly disappears into oblivion.

  The cat begins to meow, and my head throbs with every sound from his throat.

  “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to choke you,” I whisper to Dexter, who’s at my feet and whining, disappointed because he knows his breakfast is delayed this morning.

  I open an eye to see what time it is. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and my head starts to throb so hard I almost throw up. And then I do. Clinging to any surface that can support me, I barely make it to the bathroom. How much did I drink last night?

  When I get up and grip the sink to brush my teeth and wash my face, I find a note from Emily attached to the mirror.

  ‘I had to go to class. I have no idea where Albert is. Maybe Dexter killed him and buried the body. Let’s pretend nothing happened.’

  I laugh and immediately regret it. The pain hammering my head is unbearable. When I finally get out of the bathroom, I run into an agonized Dexter lying on the ground and emitting an excruciating lament.

  “Stop looking at me like I killed someone. I know it’s late, but meowing like this won’t make me go any faster.” Dexter jumps on the table and stares at me like I’m a murderer. Sooner or later, I’m sure, he’ll kill me in my sleep. When I pour his food and he doesn’t even come near the bowl, I give him the stink eye. Is he trying to make me pay for drinking last night?

  While I prepare coffee, I look around, searching for my laptop, and, after a moment of panic, I find it sticking out from under one of the pillows. I open it and approach the table to charge it. When I open my email, I notice that some messages dated last night have been opened. I try to recollect what happened and a series of confusing images of a bottle of tequila and some heated conversation with Albert come back to my memory, but that’s all.

  One thing, though, I remember distinctly: Albert had my computer on his lap all evening, doing moronic searches on Google. It bothers me to think he read my emails. They’re mostly work-related articles I’ve written, concerts I’ve been invited to. I have nothing to hide, but they’re still private. I don’t want to share them with anyone, let alone Albert. I check the browser history and am surprised when I find it empty. Before Thomas arrived, I remember working. Is it possible I didn’t open any internet pages? I grab my phone and text Emily. ‘What the hell did Albert do last night with my computer?’

  She answers almost immediately. ‘Nothing, I think. He was looking for stupid videos of penguins, as far as I can remember. Is there a problem?’

  ‘My browser history of the last twenty-four hours is gone.’

  ‘He must have watched porn while we were drunk. It’s Albert. I wouldn’t be surprised if he downloaded some naughty videos.’

  The mere thought makes me search the download folder, and, luckily, it’s empty. I go back to look at my emails and realize that not only were a couple opened, but those that contained some concert tickets were forwarded.

  I furiously text Emily: ‘That asshole went through my email to get into some concerts with my tickets! That’s why he deleted the history, so I couldn’t see which links he clicked on!’ I curse between my teeth. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? He was so drunk he didn’t even delete all the outgoing emails to his address. I swear that’s the last time I invite him to my house.

  Something else occurs to me. ‘Albert didn’t ask me to give him those pictures of the Jailbirds I secretly took, did he?’

  ‘I don’t remember exactly what we talked about, but it wasn’t really about the band. He asked you a few questions about Thomas but nothing special.’

  My heart pumps into my chest. ‘Questions like what?’

  ‘If you know where he lives or if you’ve ever been to his house, I think. But he was disappointed when you said no.’

  Some of the tension that knots my stomach disappears. Just to be sure, I check some folders where I keep the photos I send to Ron. I hope he didn’t snoop in those too. But they’re all protected by password, and he’d have to go deep into my computer to find them because I don’t keep them in plain sight.

  I’m so focused on checking my computer that I almost jump out of my chair when my phone starts ringing. I look at the name flashing on the screen, and anger sends a wave of bile up my throat. Apparently, Albert is the lesser of two evils today.

  “Ron, what a pleasure.”

  “Can we meet at the usual café?”

  Whenever I talk to him, in person or on the phone, I’m always surprised at how rude he is and how little consideration he has for me. Does he not know he’s supposed to say hello to people when he calls them? Then I remember how much of a crook he is, and realize there’s probably no part of his brain that understands these kinds of feelings.

  “Are you offering me lunch?”

  I hear him hesitate for a few moments, and my anger grows. I bring him photos worth thousands of dollars. I shoot at his command every time he snaps his fingers. I spend hours in the worst places in Manhattan in the sun, rain, or snow. I think I deserve at least a lunch.

  “Coffee?” he tries to bargain, and I almost laugh in his ear.

  I hang up without even considering answering him. Less than thirty seconds later, his name flashes on the screen again.

  “I think the line went dead,” he tells me as soon as I pick up the call.

  “No, Ron, I hung up on you. I don’t leave my apartment for less than a lunch.” I say this more because of my headache and not wanting to cook a decent lunch than because I want to see him.

  “Okay, all right. In half an hour at the café,” he demands without waiting for an answer.

  He must have something vital on his hands if he caved on lunch and called me twice. I’m dying of curiosity, but I wait in my apartment doing absolutely nothing for exactly half an hour, just to piss him off and arrive twenty minutes late.

  *

  The coffee shop doorbell rings and Ron’s head immediately snaps in my direction. I’m wrapped in a huge jacket over a heavy sweater, a scarf pulled up to my nose, and a cap dropped over my eyes to protect me from the freezing cold and snow-threatening gray sky, but Ron’s eyes immediately find me. I can hide under endless layers of clothing, but that man will always find my face in the middle of a thousand others. His gloomy expression tells me he’s mad at me, and I can’t hold back a satisfied half-smile when I see him. I may need him, but I don’t want him to think I’m his lapdog, running wagging every time he whistles.

  “Punctuality is not your forté,” he complains when I sit down.

  “No, Ron, it’s that you have a bad habit of demanding things without asking. I arrived when my schedule allowed me to do so,” I calmly tell him, reaching out my hand with my palm facing upwards. He looks at my fingers stretched out, and frowns trying to figure out what I want.

  “Your credit card. First lunch, then we talk.”

  He looks at me wide-eyed, like I’ve just told him I want to see him dance naked on the table.

  “Are you serious?”

  “As death.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” he hisses between his teeth.

  “Thank you.” I wink at him as I grab his card and go get food.

  I load the tray with a salad with eggs and chicken, a pastrami sandwich, fruit salad, a lemon cake, a bottle of fruit jui
ce, and a bottle of water. I have every intention of pissing him off properly.

  “Hi, Iris.” The guy behind the counter greets me with a sincere smile.

  “Hi, Ian. Can you tell me if there’s anything really expensive on the menu?” He looks at me, puzzled for a few seconds. “He’s paying.” I beckon my head toward Ron.

  Ian smiles and nods. “I can give you the specialty of the day, the puff pastry stuffed with beef and potatoes.” He winks at me. “Do you want me to warm it up?”

  “Yes, thank you, you’re very kind,” I tell him as I pay sixty-four dollars for a meal that could easily feed four people.

  I go back to the table with my packed tray and give the credit card to Ron, who looks at me horrified. “How long have you been starving?” He shakes his head with a disgusted expression as I open the salad box and nibble something. My stomach’s still shaken from last night. The truth is, I don’t need a meal like this, but I wanted to spite him.

  “What do you want, Ron? Why did you call me?” I get straight to the point.

  “I’ve seen from your blog that you’re on very good terms with the Jailbirds, especially Thomas and the Red Velvet Curtains. I want you to sneak into their private lives and get me the scandal I’ve been waiting on for years.”

  I maintain an impassive facade even though I am bubbling with rage inside. I linger to look at his eyes shining with victory, and I take all the time to come up with an answer. I don’t want to slip on anything that puts Thomas or me under the microscope of this vicious bastard.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any particular contacts. I simply got an email from their press office to do the interview. And my work as a blogger doesn’t concern you. I bring you the photos I have, but our collaboration ends there. If you called me here to get information about that interview, you came out for nothing because you’ll read it like everyone else when it comes out on my blog. And for the record, the Red Velvet Curtains and the Jailbirds have separate press offices. They’re two different bands. You know that, don’t you?” The sarcastic tone in my voice covers the discomfort I feel right now.