Rifted Rock: Secrets of a rock star series

by Pace, Paisley

  “Out of what? My dwindling royalties?” I walked to the window and pressed my head to the cool glass, willing myself to calm down. I needed Darrel here. He’d always been a soft, receptive presence, the wetlands that buffered the force of my hurricane-like mood swings. It’s true; I have an anger management problem. But I’d had a lot to be angry about growing up. And that bravado kept Darrel and me safe. Lord knows he was always too sensitive to stand up for himself.

  And now that he was stuck in inpatient rehab, where he couldn’t defend himself, his songwriting, or Brothers Three, I was damned if I was going to let Kent steamroll over him.

  “Look, I’m sorry I broke your glass and stained your rug. It’s not even about the royalties,” I said. “It’s about me and Darrel. Any decision you make affects him. Did you tell him that you were bringing on a new songwriter?”

  “Promise you won’t smash another rocks glass?”

  “I promise.”

  Kent took a deep breath. “No. I didn’t tell him.”

  “God damn it, Kent!” I punched the wall, driving my fist deep into the sheetrock. “What the fuck? You can’t just replace Darrel.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? Why can’t you see the big picture? Is it the testosterone? The THC? Or is it that you’re so used to everyone kissing your ass, you can’t get your head out of there?”

  “I see the big picture,” I said, crunching the shattered glass under my suede biker boots. “You don’t give a fuck about me or Darrel. You’re just going to milk Brothers Three for every last dime and throw us to the curb.”

  “You fucking nitwit. I’m trying to help Darrel. He needs to get better so he can stop writing shit songs. He needs to stay in rehab and work the program. He does not need stress. He does not need to make big decisions about Brothers Three or worry about the band’s future. That’s exactly what drove him to excess in the first place.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t write songs without Darrel. I can’t perform without him. You know I can’t!”

  “Vance. Buddy.” Kent grabbed my shoulders—not in a threatening way, but in a supportive way. It could have turned into a hug if I’d been just a little less wound up. “Nobody is replacing Darrel. But this girl has a gift. One that might be able to turn things around for Brothers Three. Wouldn’t you rather Darrel find something positive happening when he gets out of rehab…instead of a flop and a failed tour?”

  I bit my lip. The anger had drained out of me and left me exhausted, ready to collapse. I remembered how Kent had found us busking when we were only eighteen, bouncing in and out of shelters for homeless youth. (Thanks to my pot habit, we were mostly out.) He’d let us stay in his guesthouse, produced our debut album on his dime and gotten us signed to Interscope. Magazine covers, international tours and Grammy nominations followed.

  We owed Kent everything, but that wasn’t why we spent every holiday at his house. He was family to us. And when he said he had Darrel’s best interests at heart…I believed him.

  Suddenly, a long drive and a few quiet nights in the country sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

  “Sorry, Kent.” I brought him in for a hug. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” He shook his head and looked up at the raftered ceiling, bemused. “Sorry that I decided to go into business with the worst people on earth. Also known as musicians.”

  “Yeah, man.” I chuckled at the burn. “They’re almost as bad as managers, from what I hear.”

  Chapter 4

  Vance

  I met Kent and Andrea outside, where the car was idling by the curb. It was a typical spring day in the French Quarter: tourists walking around looking stunned by the warmth, palm trees and Spanish architecture; a couple of kids tap-dancing for dollars, and the smell of jasmine and sun-baked garbage pervading everything. I slid in the cool, air-conditioned interior of Kent’s SUV, taking the opportunity to pour myself another glass of Scotch. This one on the rocks.

  “You guys coming or what?” I asked.

  “I’m just trying to figure out logistics.” Kent took the shotgun seat and Andrea got into the backseat next to me. I found myself wishing the SUV wasn’t quite so spacious.

  “Gotcha. Drink?” I asked, waving the crystal decanter at Andrea. She shook her head and shrank back into her seat. I hadn’t pegged her for a teetotaler, but who knows?

  “Vance, I already know you don’t need to pack—“ Kent said.

  “Thanks for keeping the spare bathroom stocked for me,” I said. Kent even kept duplicates of my favorite V-neck T-shirts, slim, dark-wash denim jeans and boots in a guest bedroom’s closet. He said he wanted me to feel right at home in his studio retreat—which I guess was also self-serving—but honestly, Kent’s place felt cozier than my own penthouse apartment did, most of the time. Especially since Darrel had been away.

  “We can swing by your place and wait while you pack a bag, Andrea,” Kent said. “Where do you live?”

  “I don’t need to pack,” she said abruptly.

  “It’s no trouble, Andrea. Just tell our driver the address,” Kent continued, pulling up Google Maps on his phone.

  “I mean, I have everything I need right here.” She held a small knapsack tightly on her lap.

  “Everything?” Kent asked, incredulous.

  “Yes.” Her tight mouth and stony gaze implied that she didn’t want to talk about it. So Kent waved the driver on and we pulled away from the curb, headed toward the on-ramp.

  Either Andrea really didn’t want to impose, or she had her whole life in that battered knapsack. I’d been aroused by her before, but now I was intrigued. What was her story?

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I said, patting the seat next to me. “Why don’t you slide over? You look lonely all the way over there.”

  “I told you, it’s Ms. Hebert. And I’m just fine.” She turned her face toward the window and stared out as we passed the downtown skyline, the Superdome and sky rise hotels sliding past.

  “Sorry,” I said. I slammed back the rest of my whiskey and set the glass back into the holder, a little too hard. Andrea flinched.

  I tried to remember the last time a girl had refused my invitation to get a little closer. I had definitely been in high school. Darrel and I were late bloomers, short, cherubic boys with blue eyes and wheat-blonde hair. The only difference was, Darrel let bigger kids get away with picking on him. I’d learned to stick up for both of us.

  I’d also learned there were things I could do to keep from getting my ass kicked. Such as not singing solos with the school choir. I quit as soon as I figured out how uncool that was. But Darrel just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stop, even though he was too shy to stand in the spotlight. He always sang his solos from the back row, where hardly anybody could see him.

  Maybe he thought if he could hide in the crowd, he wouldn’t be singled out for a beating.

  Little did he know, the whoopings would just keep coming, even when he was an adult. Only this time it wasn’t thick-necked jocks and closeted, self-hating gay guys in the deep South beating up on him. It was music critics. Tabloid journalists. Fickle fans. This industry isn’t for sissies.

  Looking at Andrea, who held onto her knapsack as if for dear life, I wondered if she was ready for the road that lay ahead. Did she know what she was getting in to? Would she be able to take it? Something in her manner—her prey-like jumpiness, her exquisite sensitivity, even the pain in her wide, innocent eyes—reminded me of Darrel.

  “Hey,” I said. She turned toward me, the sun plucking reddish highlights from her wavy brunette hair. “You ready for a rough ride?”

  “Seems pretty smooth so far,” she said, gesturing toward the miles of cypress-studded swamp that surrounded us as we cruised down I-10. “This is a nice car.”

  “I mean it’s a rough industry. This business.”

  Andrea just smirked. “It can’t be any rougher than the past.”

  With that, she settled into the corner of her sea
t and closed her eyes, clearly wishing to be left alone.

  And leaving me to wonder just whose past she was talking about—mine, or her own.

  Chapter 5

  Andrea

  I pretended to sleep for the duration of the hour and a half drive—and although my expression looked peaceful, my thoughts were anything but. I couldn’t get Vance out of my mind. His sinewy, masculine body just inches from my own. The way he looked at me—like he wanted to devour me. I’d seen that look before, from my ex. He and Vance had a few things in common. That look, for one thing. And the anger management issues, for another.

  Even though Kent insisted Vance’s mood swings weren’t a big deal, I know a red flag when I see one. And a business meeting with a guy who’s stoned, drunk, and prone to smashing glasses? That’s basically a whole color guard worth of red flags. To quote my mother, “I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.” That’s what she used to say when she caught me sneaking out of the house at night to meet my now-ex.

  Maybe if I had listened to her, I could have avoided the life experience that taught me to recognize the signs of a sociopath all too well.

  I peeked through my half-closed eyes. Vance was plucking the strings of a guitar with one hand, palm-muting them with the other so as not to wake me.

  Okay. Maybe he wasn’t a sociopath. Just a narcissist. But what else would you expect from a guy who’d had the world at his feet since he turned twenty?

  A tingle ran down my spine as I remembered that I was sharing the backseat of a luxury SUV with one of the most talented (and let’s face it, hottest) musicians to ever live. I was hardly the first to recognize his charms—his conquests were legendary. From models to Hollywood starlets to social media influencers to British royalty, he’d dated the most beautiful women in the world and left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. I would probably have had a better chance with Darrel, his twin brother, but Darrel never seemed to hook up with anybody. I guess drugs were his only mistress.

  I’m not going to lie. I was flattered by Vance’s apparent interest. But visibly reciprocating it was an all-kinds-of-terrible idea—for a lot of reasons. One, I had just gotten out of a seriously bad relationship. Two, Vance was my coworker as of this morning. Three, with his reputation, there’s no way that a fling could possibly end well.

  Yes, sex with Vance would be exciting. But it wasn’t what I needed right now. What I needed to make him fall in love with was my songs—at least one, hopefully all twelve of them. Then I’d have money, more than enough to pay a deposit and the first month’s rent for a nice place of my own. And I could quit bouncing from couches to hostels to rent-by-the-week motels.

  I’d finally be safe.

  Gravel crunched under the car’s tires as we pulled onto a private driveway.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Kent said as I sat up and brushed the hair out of my eyes.

  The peaceful sight of dense, green woods greeted me. It felt like we were hundreds of miles away from civilization, alone in an enchanted forest. Three deer raised their heads from a creek and gazed at us inquisitively as we pulled up to a massive two-story house with a broad deck, brick chimney and three-car garage. This was a cabin? I’d pictured something a lot more…rustic.

  “Home sweet home,” Kent said.

  “I’ve got dibs on the downstairs bedroom,” Vance said.

  “Pick out a room, Andrea. I suggest the one upstairs. Keep a good buffer between you and this prick,” Kent said, good-naturedly elbowing Vance.

  I followed them into the house. Three sets of French doors opened from the deck into a spacious, light-filled great room. Our driver stoked a fire in the large stone fireplace that sat opposite a small spiral staircase. I crossed my arms as goosebumps sprang up. It was cooler out here in the woods than it had been in downtown New Orleans.

  I climbed the spiral staircase and found a sweet, attic bedroom with sloping ceilings, rattan curtains and a rocking chair. One door opened to a private bathroom with a clawfoot tub and wisteria-print wallpaper. The beauty of my surroundings hit me with sudden force, and I couldn’t help but sink to my knees in gratitude. What had I done to deserve this sudden reversal of fortune?

  When I stood up, my face was wet with tears. I plugged my cell phone and laptop in to charge and unpacked my knapsack: black leggings, a black tank top, a denim jacket, two bra and panty sets and an off-the-shoulder black tunic dress which doubled as a nightgown went into the closet. I only had one pair of shoes—the soft black ballerina flats I was wearing now. My toothbrush, toothpaste, tinted moisturizer, lipstick, comb, bar of Dove soap, razor and shampoo went into the medicine cabinet. And ta-da, I was unpacked. Actually, I was completely moved in.

  “Hey.” Vance stood in my doorway, thumbs slung in his pockets. He’d taken off his cap, and his wild, lustrous blonde mane framed his chiseled jaw and five o’ clock shadow.

  I clutched a pillow to my chest, all too aware that I was sitting on the bed and that, from the sounds of it, we were completely alone. “Don’t you knock?”

  Vance shrugged. “The door was open. I thought…”

  “It’s okay. What do you want?”

  “I was going to see if you wanted to come with me into town. I’m picking up some milk, cereal, meth, strippers, condoms… You know. Rock star supplies.”

  “I have no doubt that you could find all those things in rural Louisiana.”

  “To be honest, they seem to find me anywhere.”

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “Seriously, you want to come? I’m just going to Walmart.”

  I imagined walking through the fluorescent-lit aisles of a Saint Francisville Walmart. Would locals recognize Vance, or would they assume that a genuine celebrity couldn’t possibly be in their midst? It might be fun to find out.

  Fun…but also distracting. I wanted to go through the songs, warm up my voice, see if any lyrics needed to be tightened up. In short, I wanted to make the best possible impression.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said.

  “Okay.” Vance rapped out a cadence on the doorframe before he turned and walked away. “I’ll pick out the male stripper myself,” he called. “Hope you brought singles to tip with.”

  Chapter 6

  Andrea

  I must have been more tired than I thought, because the second my head hit the feather pillow, I was out. I slept more soundly in that quiet attic bedroom than I had in ages. When a grumbling in my stomach woke me, the sun had begun to set, and the moss-hung trees glimmered with fireflies.

  I stretched, yawned and went down the twisting spiral staircase to see what kind of groceries Vance had rustled up. But the great room was completely empty. The fire had burnt down to embers. A baby grand stood still and quiet in one corner. I looked through the French doors, past the front deck, and saw that Kent’s SUV hadn’t returned.

  Maybe Vance really was out scoring drugs and strippers. I guess I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Sleeping Beauty arises!” Kent came bounding in, a hiking stick in one hand, a DSLR camera in the other. “Check it out. I spotted a pair of roseate spoonbills.”

  “Cool,” I said, feigning interest in the hot-pink birds. “Have you seen Vance?”

  “He told me he was picking up some groceries.”

  “He told me the same thing. A few hours ago.”

  Kent shrugged. “He’ll be back. There isn’t shit to do in this town. Listen, I’m glad you’re up, because I was just getting ready to head back to New Orleans.”

  “You’re not staying?” The thought of being all alone with Vance in this secluded hideaway both thrilled and unnerved me. “I thought we were going to record some demos today.”

  Kent shook his head. “This time is for you and Vance to work through the songs, figure out arrangements, that kind of thing. You’re welcome to use the studio if you feel well-rehearsed enough, but I wasn’t planning on sending an engineer out here.”

  “Oh. I guess I misunde
rstood.” This seemed a little weird, but I wasn’t in a position to complain. If worse came to worst, I knew how to run. And how to hitchhike.

  “Anyway, are you all set?”

  “I guess,” I said, but my rumbling stomach gave me away.

  “I think there’s some canned food in the pantry,” Kent said as headlights swung into the driveway. I heard heavy metal pounding through the BMW’s sound system. “There’s Vance now,” he said, pleased.

  Vance entered in a haze of marijuana smoke and set a grocery bag down on the antique tile counter. He pulled out a handle of whiskey, a three-liter box of wine, a packet of loose tobacco, a twenty-four pack of beer and a stack of frozen pizzas.

  “I thought you were getting supplies,” I said.

  “I was,” he said.

  What happened to milk, cereal, fruit, sandwich stuff, pasta, salad, tea? You know, actual groceries? I bit my tongue. Maybe this was Vance’s attempt to punish me for rejecting his invitation.

  Or maybe he did actually live on a diet of booze, weed, and pizza. At any rate, I didn’t want to sour our working relationship before we’d even started collaborating.

  “Well, I was just about to head back to New Orleans,” Kent said.

  “Early morning meeting?” Vance asked.

  “Something like that. You guys all set?”

  Vance gestured at his wealth of liquor and pizza as the oven’s preheat indicator dinged. “Oh yeah.”

  “Andrea? You’re okay?” Vance asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll just…have some pizza.”

  “Have some wine, too,” Vance said, popping open the box’s tab.

  Kent took me aside, a concerned look on his face. He lowered his voice. “Call me if he gets difficult. I’ll send a car out to get you, or I’ll come myself.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, filling my voice with false enthusiasm. Then I remembered the situation really wasn’t bleak. I had food and shelter. Plus, this was a job. Jobs always required me to tolerate some form of B.S. “Really. Don’t worry.”