Heartstrings (A Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Hadley Danes

  I barrel back down the stairs, stumbling in my heels. Gustav cocks his head at me as I run out the front door. If my cat thinks I look ridiculous, what is the rest of the world going to think? I wrench open the door and step out into the fading sunlight. An aggravated groan escapes my lips as I take in the scene before me.

  The paparazzi have followed me home. Not all of them, thank god, but a good handful of enterprising gossip hounds are ready and waiting. How they got my address, I don’t even want to know. I hurry to my car, trying to look as dignified as possible with my midriff on full display.

  “Don’t you people have better things to do than bother me?” I ask a bright and shiny young woman who’s all but chained to my front tires.

  “Nope,” she says cheerfully, “And if you’re trying to stay with Slade, you’d better get used to us. Are you trying to stay with Slade, Julia?”

  “I am trying to get to a rock concert. That’s all,” I say.

  I realize, as I tell her this, that I have no idea what my plans with Slade are. I’m just following his advice and living in the moment. And at this moment, all I want is to be backstage again, watching him move thousands of people. I shoo the reporters away from my car and hop in. I swear, it’s like these people want to get run over for the sake of their silly little stories. Never in a million years would I have thought my life would be something that the tabloids wanted to know about. The only time anything has ever been written about me before was when I set a new town record for Girl Scout cookie sales when I was eight.

  My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I careen through the streets, flying toward Center City as fast as I can. I know that this venue is the biggest in the area, and that the show sold out after eighteen seconds of tickets being on the market, thanks to Slade’s heroic viral video. It’s going to be a mad house. I haven’t given any thought to how, exactly, I’ll go about getting in. I’m sort of hoping for some kind of divine miracle at this point. It’s really all I have left to do.

  All the way to the venue, I’m talking myself down from turning around, going home, and putting on a face mask and some acoustic rock instead. My rational mind is screaming at me that it’s not worth it. That Slade isn’t worth the trouble or the heartache or the cameras in my front lawn. But my rational mind isn’t doing the driving, my body and my heart are. And those two trump rational thought every time. The arena comes into sight, and I push the pedal practically through the floor of my little car. I can feel the space between Slade and me closing up.

  Chapter Eleven

  * * * * *

  I swing into a nearby parking lot and leap out of my car. Who knows whether or not I’m allowed to park here—I couldn’t care less. I all but sprint toward the huge press of people milling outside of the concert venue. The place itself is gigantic—it looks like some alien spacecraft all lit up at night. It looks like every rocker between the ages of fifteen and fifty is here tonight. I draw up to the edge of the crowd, and realize something rather crucial: I don’t even have a ticket to get in.

  I edge around the crowd, and finally locate a security guard. He looks stern and beleaguered. Not exactly the type of qualities you want from someone who you hope might do you a favor.

  “Excuse me,” I say with a bright smile, “Can you tell me where the backstage door is?”

  He lets out a short, mean laugh. “And who are you, Miss Thing?”

  “I’m Julia,” I tell him, trying to make myself seem as tall as possible. “I’m the...Um...press secretary?”

  “The press...? This isn’t the White House, Miss. It’s a rock concert. If you’re a groupie or something, just say it.”

  “I am not a groupie,” I insist.

  “Are you here to sleep with one of the band members?” he asks. “Be honest, now.”

  “Well,” I say, “Well, yeah. Actually. But—”

  “Backstage is that way,” he says, pointing, “I always try to help out the ladies, when I can.”

  “You’re a real gentleman,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. I push past the guard and run toward the backstage door. The crowd thins out a little as I go, but there are still hundreds of bodies to push through. A little surge of indignation shoots through me as I notice how many of the people hanging around the backstage door are scantily clad women.

  I spot the bouncer and approach him with a breathless smile. “Hi,” I say, “I’m Julia.”

  “I’m Carl,” he says in a tone of unshakeable boredom.

  “I need to get inside,” I tell him.

  “Get in line,” he says.

  “No, you don’t understand,” I insist, “Slade will be really happy to see me.”

  “Again,” he says, “Get in line.”

  “I’m not just some groupie!” I yell, “Haven’t you seen the tabloids today?”

  “If you think I read that smut, then you’re out of your damn mind,” he tells me pointedly, “There’s no way you’re getting backstage.”

  “Julia?” says a sultry voice from behind me. It’s a voice I know. I turn reluctantly toward the sound and find myself face to face with Helena and her flunkies. They’re grinning at me with cold, fixed amusement. I try and imitate their terrifying cheerfulness, but it probably just looks like I’m grimacing.

  “Helena,” I say as politely as possible. I’m trying very hard not to think about the fact that this woman has slept with Slade before. Trying not to think about their limbs all entangled...it’s not going well.

  “What are you doing out here?” the blonde woman asks me.

  “Well, it’s a funny story,” I say, laughing in what I hope sounds like a lighthearted manner, “I couldn’t work my shift at the hospital today because there were so many reporters hanging around. I got sent home, and I thought I’d catch the show. Surprise Slade, and all.”

  “How sweet,” says Ruby, smiling.

  “Yeah, well...” I shrug, “I’m not having much luck getting inside.”

  “Roger,” Jackie says, addressing the bouncer, “Are you giving Julia here a hard time?”

  “Sure,” the man says, “I didn’t realize she was legit.”

  “She’s with us, Roger,” Helena says. She holds out a manicured hand to me, “Come with us, Julia. We’ll get you inside to see Slade.”

  I stare at her hand for longer than is polite. This is like making a deal with the super sexy groupie devil. But what choice do I have? I clasp her hand, smiling gamely. The girls lead the way as Roger opens the backstage door for us. We step over the threshold and are once again plunged into darkness. But this darkness is different than it was during the last concert. This darkness seems dangerous.

  All around us, people are running and shouting, shoving each other out of the way. I can’t see a thing, but Helena is towing me along with the authority and certainty. I have no choice but to follow her. The darkness itself is writhing, and I can hear the raucous audience somewhere in the near distance. But this crowd doesn’t seem to be happily enthusiastic about the show, the way they were last time. This time, I can feel their aggression, their pent up frustration and anger. A shiver runs across my spine. I’m not sure if I like this place.

  “You’re going to love this,” Helena yells over the backstage chaos, “I bet you’ve never seen a concert like this before.”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “Even better,” Ruby shouts.

  I make out a dull, glowing light up ahead that must be the house of the stadium. Jackie pulls back a heavy curtain and the space opens up before us. I gasp, shocked by the scope of the arena. This place has to be twice as big as the last one—I had no idea it would be like this. There are thousands and thousands of people out there, and the space stretches so far back that I can’t even see where it ends. There’s something terrifying about this endless sea of people.

  “I’m glad we’re watching from up here,” I say.

  “Up here?” Helena scoffs, “At a concert like this? No way. We’re getting right in the thick of i
t.”

  “Wh-what?” I stutter, “No...No, I’m just going to—”

  “You don’t know where you’re going,” Ruby says, “We’re like your tour guides! Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with us. Just relax and enjoy it, would you? You can’t really understand Slade until you’ve watched him perform from the crowd.”

  She has a point. I silence my pesky rational mind again and decide to let the groupies lead the way. The know their way around places like this, I’m sure. Much better than I do, anyway. And it’s not like they’re going to shank me in the crowd. They seem mean, but not necessarily dangerous. For tonight, I’ll trust them.

  Helena tugs me along, moving toward the edge of the stage. We vault down some stairs, the crowd growing nearer and nearer. There are big barricades set up around the ramps up the stage. Climbing over them feels like getting out of the trenches and heading into no man’s land, but I do my best to swallow my panic. Live in the moment, I chant to myself, Live in the moment, live in the moment.

  We plunge into the sea of people, and it’s an immediate shock to my entire body. People push and shove at us like it’s nothing, yell in our faces. This is not how I’d imagined the night going at all. Everyone seems on the edge of some horrible act of violence. I just hope I’m not on the receiving end. Part of me wants to hide under Helena’s legs and wait for it all the be over—but that’s not really an option.

  The four of us come to a stop beside a huge group of skinhead-looking guys. Helena turns to me, smiling wildly. All three of them seem to be tapping into some energy that I just don’t get. The entire crowd is like a big generator, and everyone’s egging each other on. There’s a power here that I’ve never seen before, especially not up close. I guess this is why people come to concerts at all—to be a part of something this huge.

  Just as I turn toward the stage, the lights above us cut off. The audience lets out a roar of approval, of excitement, of pure energy. My voice is paralyzed, and the smile I have plastered to my face begins to quiver. I’m overwhelmed, and nervous, and I just want this all to be over. The stage lights blast on, bathing the space in a bright, harsh light. The people around me press forward, trying to get as close to the stage as possible. I feel bodies all around me—I can’t move even if I try. I take a deep breath to calm down, but even that’s hard with a bunch of people crunching your chest and ribcage. Why do these people put themselves through so much discomfort like this?

  The crowd lets out a wild, unabashed howl as four figures make their way onto the stage. My eyes fall upon Slade, and I feel the wind leave my lungs. He’s got his standard uniform on—perfectly tailored dark jeans and a plain white tee shirt. His long curls hang down over his face, and his mouth is pulled into a wide grin. He looks like a super hero, like a mythical god. He’s something bigger than a man up there, and yet I can still see the person I love. It’s the crowd that’s doing it—it’s their energy that’s building him up inch by inch. It’s like everyone here has come to an agreement; that Slade is the epicenter, the conduit, of all their warring rage and love and lust. He’s the ultimate expression of everything these people desire, and fear, and rally behind. When he’s on that stage, he is more than just a man. I can see that now. And I know, too, that I want this version of him as much as the version who tucked me in last night. Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself extending my arms to him, reaching out through the darkness. Helena lets out a laugh.

  “He can’t see you, babe,” she tells me. “But maybe he’ll feel that you’re here anyway.”

  “I hope so,” I scream, “God, I hope so.”

  Slade grabs the microphone as the others take their places on stage. He kicks over the mic stand, sending another wave of approving noise through the crowd. “How ya doin’, Philly?” he screams. The audience surges around me, as a huge cry rises from the masses. “You know the drill,” Slade goes on, “Go. Fucking. CRAZY TONIGHT!”

  All around me, people are writhing and shouting, the entire mass of people seems to be one huge, breathing organism. A particularly hysterical organism. Slade turns his back on the audience, his muscles rippling through the thin cotton of his tee. I let my eyes linger on his broad shoulders, the black curls tumbling down his neck, the rock solid rise of his ass. But he doesn’t stay still for long. With a bellowing cry, he spins back toward the audience.

  The show has begun.

  I’m mesmerized by the band, the way their bodies thrash and jolt. It’s like something is moving through them, possessing them. Slade’s voice tears through the space, energizing the entire crowd. The whole thing is one huge circuit—the crowd, the band, the music. It’s amazing. Before I know it, I’m dancing right along with the rest of the audience. I’m bobbing my head, gyrating my hips, unembarrassed and engrossed. This is the power of live music, I realize. I’m not immune to it—I doubt if anyone is. I let the music carry me straight into the heart of this crazy world.

  The first song bleeds into the next seamlessly. A guitar riff wails through the space, hard and fat and brutal. They’re moving into their harder stuff, I can tell. I stand there, rapturously, as Slade turns toward the crowd once more. “Get the fucking pit going!” he demands, “I want to see some fucking mayhem out there!”

  In front of my eyes, the center of the crowd seems to drop out. I let out a startled yell as a wave of empty space crashes toward me. I try to break away, to get myself as far away from the growing mosh pit as possible. Three sets of hands close around me as I struggle. I look around wildly as see that the groupies have surrounded me. They’re grinning at me maniacally as people begin to throw themselves into the pit, swinging their arms wildly. The edge of the gaping hole is right next to us, we’re hovering on the precipice of chaos. I try and make a break for it, but the girls’ hands only tighten. There’s pure hatred gleaming in their eyes, and I suddenly realize the danger I’ve gotten myself into.

  “Let me go,” I scream, “I don’t want to be here.”

  “You don’t belong here, then,” Ruby yells.

  “I don’t want to be near the pit,” I plead.

  “But this is the heart of it!” Jackie tells me, “You have to stay!”

  “No,” I say, “Just let go of me. I don’t want to stay here.”

  “If you insist,” Helena says, “We won’t make you stay.”

  “Thank you,” I say, relieved.

  “Try this, instead,” she cries.

  I let out a shriek of terror as all six hands shove me straight into the seething, manic orgy of violence that is the pit. The chaotic whirlpool swallows me up, and a rush of panic surges through me. I feel myself pitching forward, off balance. I’m tumbling now, my hands and knees hit the hard concrete floor. I cry out as pain shoots up my arms and legs, and want nothing more than to roll into a little ball and wait for this whole ordeal to be over. But I know I can’t do that. I’m here now, and I have to stand up for myself if I’m going to make it through. I pull myself to my feet and look wildly around.

  There are people all around me, flying past with flailing, lethal limbs. I can make out the edges of the pit all around me, and I race forward, trying to find my way out. A thick body lands from a leaping kick in front of me, blocking my view. I stand still, hoping that no one will notice me if I don’t call attention to myself. These things happen all the time at concerts, without any tragedy striking. I’m going to be OK. I have to be. I beg my nerves to settle, to let me process what’s going on around me.

  Two men are brawling beside me, falling on top of each other and swinging their fists madly. I skirt around them as quickly as I can, and slam into a patch of women thrashing and lashing out. I catch one of their wild blows on my shoulder and reel away. The band is wailing away above us, and I can see Slade above the crowd, striding across the stage in his glory. I try to make my way toward him across the circle, thinking wildly that maybe if he feels me here, he’ll be able to keep me safe from afar.

  I feel a thick arm close around my waist. I’m pu
lled against a hard, sweaty form, and hands wander up and down my body. Furiously, I whirl around to see who’s got his hands on me. My face is pressed up against a hairy chest covered with tattoos, and I look up to see a buck toothed grin. The skinheads I spotted in the crowd earlier are all around me, four at least, and the biggest has his arm around me, pinning me to him. This can’t be happening...this doesn’t happen at shows. I thought these places were supposed to be sacred?

  “You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” the man holding me sneers.

  “Let me go,” I shout, all but bearing my teeth.

  “She’s a feisty one, guys!” the man laughs, taking my ass into his meaty hands.

  Before I can stop myself, I haul back and spit directly into the man’s eyes. He roars, losing his grip of me. I bolt away, looking for a way out, but four other hands grab me, pulling me back. I’m lifted into the air, carried back to the middle of the circle. I look wildly toward Slade, pleading silently for him to notice me. To save me. There are hands all over me, groping and gripping. I fight back tears of anger as I struggle against their wandering hands. I kick and cry out, trashing wildly in their arms. I’m held aloft, and yet no one among the vast crowd is coming to help me.

  Slade looks straight out into the audience as another song winds to an end. “Let’s get a look at your gorgeous fucking faces!” he screams.

  The stage lights swivel toward the audience, bathing us at once in a wash of bright light. My flailing, set upon body is illuminated in the air, and I reach for Slade desperately. Can he even see out into the crowd? Will he even notice me among so many people?

  “Slade!” I scream, reaching toward him once more. “Slade, please help me!” His eyes scan the crowd appreciatively, taking in the very edges of the room. He’s not going to see me in time. What am I going to do? “Slade,” I screech again. “SLADE!”

  His eyes land on the mosh pit, and for a second his face is filled with gleeful abandon. But I watch his eyes stop, focus, and turn to steel. He’s looking at me, suspended by the band of horrible men. For a second, it’s like he can’t comprehend what’s going on in front of him. Like he doesn’t want to believe it. But the cold, furious cast of his eyes spreads throughout his entire body like wildfire. His every muscle coils like so many springs, his face pulls into the deepest, angriest grimace I’ve ever seen on him. Slade drops the microphone, even as the rest of the band is racing into the next number. It hits the floor with a burst of screeching feedback, and the entire audience reels back. Even my captors falter, their hands pause against my trembling skin. I watch, motionless, as Slade drops into a crouch and flies off the stage, into the crowd.