“Jackson,” I said, “While we’re in interview mode...”
“Yes?” he asked around the toothbrush in his mouth.
“Why do you want an expose written about you?” I asked.
He looked at me for a long time before shrugging. “I dunno,” he said.
“That’s not good enough,” I pressed. “Why did you decide to bring a journalist along with you now? What are you hoping to accomplish by getting your real story out to the public?”
“Honestly?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“The thing is,” Jackson sighed, “I’m tired, Alexa.”
“Well, no wonder,” I said, “Given the night we had—”
“No,” he said, “I’m tired of all this. I’m tired of having to pretend to be ten different men when I’d prefer to be just one, thanks. I’m not trying to force myself into early retirement or anything, but this split personality thing has got to end. I have to at least be a version of myself up on stage, or I’ll go bloody mad. I suppose that’s why I wanted you to write my story. I wanted your help. I read your stuff, and I could tell that you had the power to free people of assumptions, and lies, and bullshit...”
“You got all that from my little old blog, huh?” I asked with a smile.
“All that and more,” Jackson said.
“I guess that means I’ve found my angle then,” I said.
“Do tell,” Jackson said. “Because it sure seems to me like you haven’t done a lick of research or journalist-ing this entire trip.”
“Well excuse me,” I said, “I’ve been a little preoccupied with your—”
“I know, I know,” he said, toweling his hair dry. “So, tell me your angle.”
“How’s this,” I said, “Jackson Brent, the man who never meant to be a rock star. Wanted his whole life to amount to something, after the tragic loss of his mother when he was an infant. Felt the strong compulsion to make something grand of his life, as a tribute. But no man should try and take on the weight of the world. Rock stars are tragedies waiting to happen, but Jackson Brent was singularly suited to the job. He was so devoted to his responsibility that he spit into two, four, a hundred different versions of himself. But my story will focus on the first Jackson Brent, the true Jackson Brent. The one that I’ve come to know and love.”
Jackson stared at me in wonder. For a moment, I thought he was marveling at my story telling, before I realized what I had let slip.
“Love, huh?” Jackson said softly.
“I’m...Oh, man,” I said, blushing madly, “I’m sorry, that was weird...”
“Hey, no, it’s OK,” he said awkwardly, coming toward me.
My embarrassment only deepened when it became clear that Jackson wasn’t about to return the sentiment. He certainly wasn’t about to profess his love to me as I just accidentally had. I felt like an idiot. A hurt idiot. A hurt, lovesick idiot.
“I’m just going to let you finish getting ready...” I said, making a beeline for the bedroom door.
“Alexa, wait,” he said, catching me my the arm. “What you said...It was really sweet.”
“Yeah, cool,” I said, wincing at how ridiculous I sounded.
“It’s just...I’m not...” he stuttered.
Don’t say you’re not in love with me, I pleaded. Don’t say you can’t love me.
“I’m not ready for the show yet,” he finished in a rush. “I’ve got to keep getting fixed up. I’ll see you at the show, OK? Hey, you should take a seat in the audience today, my treat.”
I nodded and stepped out the door, refused to chance a look back at him. My face was burning with embarrassment. Had I seriously just dropped the “l” bomb on Jackson Brent? God, he probably thought I was a desperate basket case. I’d never told any man I loved him in my entire life. Why had I decided that right then was a good time to start? I rushed off to get ready for the night’s show, cursing my stupid tongue as I pulled on a curve-hugging red number. Maybe the hue would offset my flushed cheeks, or something.
The guys set off for the venue before the rest of us to sound check, and I relocated the groupies girls within the labyrinth of the hotel. They were lounging around their room like sirens in the surf, passing a bottle of champagne around. They looked up as I sidled into the room.
“If it isn’t Miss Brent, nee Lane,” Sadie said happily.
“Ha, ha,” I said, sitting on the floor beside her.
“That’s some dress,” Britt said, “Be careful not to make the new boyfriend jealous with all the boys you’re going to snag.”
“Oh, stop it,” I said, though I couldn’t pretend not to be pleased.
“I might have to find a new niche if things keep going this way,” Annabelle said, taking a swig of champagne, “No doom has come crashing down on you and Jackson yet.”
“Well, the tour is long,” I said.
“Do you think something might happen?” Sadie asked.
“Honestly?” I said, “Yeah. Many somethings will probably happen. But it will be worth.”
“Live in the moment,” Britt said happily.
“Indeed,” I said.
The three of them ambled toward getting dressed for the night, tossing garments and accessories around the room. I knew that I’d never be able to be as free-spirited as they were, but I was still glad I got to know them for this short slice of time. We rode over to the venue together, going in the front way for once. They guys insisted that we take in at least one show from the audience, rather than backstage. It felt so bizarre going into the show with the rest of the fans. The girls and I exchanged excited glances—we shared a secret that no one else knew. Or at least, that’s what I thought at first. That was until I heard the first whisper.
“Alexa...”
I turned my head to see who had said my name, but could find no one.
“Is that Alexa Vansant?” I heard again from my left.
“That’s Alexa! The one...”
All around my little whispers were going up, hailing my arrival. Those tabloids must have made a bigger deal out of me than I’d thought. The murmurs followed me all the way to my seat, front row center. It was rather eerie to be recognized, after a life of happy anonymity. But if I was completely honest with myself...It wasn’t an altogether terrible feeling at all. I was going be spoiled when this was all over and I had to go back to just being a byline.
Just as the four of us were settling in, the lights above faded to black. In a wave, the entire audience was on its feet, cheering and stomping and carrying on. The energy was infection, and soon I was up with them, jumping up and down as though I’d never seen Carnal Knowledge in my life. The stage lights blazed in a wash of color, and the members of the band emerged from the wings. I stared up at Jackson and suddenly knew why so many people saw him as a god. From this vantage, he looked unreal. Far too perfect to possibly be human. And he was mine...at least for a little while.
They dove right into their first set, roaring through their most popular song. Jackson’s vocals soared above the pumping music, revving the auditorium up into a frenzy. All around me, crazed fans gyrated and jumped, writhing and twisting as if in ecstasy. We were all moving as one, somehow, united by the power of Jackson’s words, the band’s music. For the little window of time, we were a unit, a nation, apart from the rest of the world. No wonder people loved rock stars so much.
The songs rolled one right into the next, and the audience danced to keep up. Time ceased to matter—all that mattered was the next chord, the next phrase. We were suspended the images the songs were calling up, floating like a raft on the stream of the real world. I was moving without inhibition, singing along when I knew the words, thrashing and leaping when I didn’t. Listening to Jackson sing was almost as good as making love to him. Almost.
A sudden break in the music made everyone look up. The band had played through the final song of their set list. At once, the audience began to cry for an encore, one more song with which to head ou
t into the world. The members of Carnal Knowledge filed offstage, all except for Jackson. The crowd began to buzz with anxious anticipation as a stage hand hurried onstage carrying a gorgeous guitar. As he handed it to Jackson, I gasped—it was the guitar he’d been playing when I found him alone in that London hotel room. The one he’d been playing just before we’d slept together for the first time.
Jackson slung the guitar over his shoulder and approached the microphone. He smiled out into the bright lights and said, “Good evening.” The crowd roared its love for him, but he gestured for them to quiet down. “I hope you won’t mind if I play you an encore by myself tonight.” The ensuring screams and shouts indicated that nobody minded in the least. “Now, I have to warn you,” he said, “This isn’t Carnal Knowledge’s typical sound. Not in the least. But it’s a song that’s very close to my heart, because it’s about someone very close to my heart.”
My blood froze in my veins as Jackson lowered his eyes to scan the front row. Those beautiful blues alighted on my face and lit up. The entire audience was holding its breath as Jackson held the microphone close to his gorgeous lips and said, “Alexa. I’m so glad that you’ve stumbled into my life. I’ve never met another woman like you, and I don’t suppose I ever will. And to continue our conversation from earlier this afternoon...I love you too. I hope you enjoy the song. It’s still a little bit rough.”
And with that, his hands took off, plucking out an intricate, winding melody unlike anything I’d ever heard. Fat tears of joy rolled down my cheeks, and though the song didn’t have any words, my heart supplied its own: He loves me too! He loves me too!
No one made a sound as Jackson wound through his amazing tune, taking us from soaring heights of delight to deep chasms of heartache. It was as though he was telling our two life stories as one, weaving them together into one perfect arrangement. Leave it to a musician to resolve two seemingly irresolvable lives.
The final chord of Jackson’s song wavered delicately, filling the entire arena with bittersweet wonder. A long moment passed in silence, then the entire place was alive with astonished cheers, applause, completely befuddled adoration. For my part, I could only stand rooted to the ground, looking up this mysterious, wonderful man who had crashed into my life. He smiled and came to the edge of the stage where I was standing. To my infinite amazement, he sank to one knee before me. Oh no, I thought desperately. He can’t possibly...?
Jackson held out his hand, in which rested the guitar pick he’d been playing my song with. I let out a relieved laugh and plucked the little piece of plastic out of his palm.
“If you’d proposed right then, I would have broken your nose,” I told him.
“I know,” he said above the roar of the crowd, “Another reason why I love you.”
Then he brought his lips to mine once more. I melted against him, forgetting about the thousands of people all around us. As our mouths parted, moving together, it was like we were alone on the planet once again. Jackson grabbed my hand and pulled, grinning and nodding for me to join him onstage. I let him pull me up, grinned as Sadie and Britt rushed to his aid. I straightened up beside him and looked out into the sea of faces and lights. I’d never had my breath taken away before that moment. If Jackson’s arm hadn’t been firmly around my waist, I probably would have toppled into an accidental crowd surf.
“So, this is what it’s like to be Jackson Brent’s lover?” I asked over the roar of the crowd.
“I think this is what it’s like to be Jackson Brent’s girlfriend,” he responded.
“Is that so?” I said, “We’ll talk about that on the tour bus.”
“Yes, dear” Jackson smiled, “Now wave to all the nice people. I think they love you as much as I do.”
Epilogue:
Two Months Later
“Do you have any idea how many advance copies of this issue I’ve sold?” Kellan asked, nearly vibrating with excitement.
“Let me guess,” I said, “A shit ton?”
“A shit ton!” he cried, leaping up from his desk chair and doing an honest-to-goodness jig. “Alexa, you haven’t just put yourself on the map with this one. The magazine is going to be huge, thanks to you. I can see it now. For every issue, we’ll send you out on tour with a different musician, and—”
“Whoa, whoa,” I said, holding up my hands, “I’m not sure I can handle another tour just yet, Kellan. I’m surprised you even let me keep my job after this last one.”
“What do you mean?” Kellan asked.
“I fell in love with my subject, didn’t do a lick of actual journalism, and landed on more tabloid covers than I could count in a week,” I reminded him.
“Yes,” he allowed, “But you wrote me a damned good story.”
“Well...I was rather close to the subject matter, in the end,” I said.
“It’s not just that, Alex,” Kellan insisted, “Though, don’t get me wrong, the whole falling-in-love-with-the-real-Jackson-Brent angle was absolutely inspired.”
“I thought so too,” I said.
“But it’s not just sensationalism,” Kellan said, “It’s fantastic freaking writing. Really. Even if you hadn’t gone gaga for Jax, it still would have been an amazing story. I just hope that I you keep up the good work at your next job.”
“Next job?” I said, alarmed, “What...are you firing me or something?”
“Firing you?” he said, aghast, “God, no! I just assumed that you’d move on to bigger and better things once the story came out.”
“Kellan,” I said, “We made a deal before I left. Remember?”
“You mean...” he said, “You’re still OK with that?”
“OK? I’m over the moon about it,” I said. “I’m the Senior Editor now, right? And if memory serves me, you also have to bring me a cup of coffee every morning.”
“If it means you’ll keep writing for The Beat, anything,” he said.
“You didn’t actually think I’d desert you, right Kellan?” I asked, “You’re the only reason I have a career in the first place. I was nobody before you picked me up. You gave me a chance when no one else would. I owe you everything, Kellan.”
“Not everything,” he said, “But let’s just say we know how to help each other out.”
“Sounds good,” I said, “See you bright an early. I take my coffee black, so you know. It’s not black if you put anything in it.”
Kellan nodded as I made my way out of the office into the late summer dusk. Though the sun was going down already, I slipped my new, huge sunglasses onto my face. I was still getting used to the whole people-recognizing-me thing. After a life of being Just Another Girl, making the transition to being Jackson Brent’s girl was a little bit challenging, at times. I’d been worried, above all, that the fact of our being a couple would make people not take me seriously as a writer. But based on the critical response to the advance copies of my story, that wasn’t going to be an issue. I had to admit, I took quite a bit of pride in the fact that my words could trump my relationship with a rock star.
I breathed deeply of the summer air as I made my way across town. I had missed the worst of summer that year, having spent most of it abroad. The tour had made its merry way all across the continent, and I doubted that I’d ever have a more rollicking good time again in my life. The crazy little snow globe of a world that those people lived in was a place that had been wonderful to visit. I’d been like Dorothy in Oz for the summer, meeting fantastic, sometimes surreal people, having the most incredible experiences of my life. But as I made my way through New York, I had to concur with Miss Dorothy Gale: there really is no place like home.
After the tour had drawn to a close, Jackson and I had tacked on an extra month of travel, just the two of us. We’d flown his private jet all over Europe and beyond. We’d set down in Morocco, Egypt, India, going wherever we pleased. And all the while we’d explored each other, too, learning the ways of the other’s body. Just thinking about the nights we spent in those exotic places mad
e me need to stop and take a breath right there on the sidewalk lest I pass out.
I gazed happily into Gramercy Park as I rounded onto my block. The old five story walk up had not been burned down or sexed to death while I was away, thank god. I made my way up the flights, still getting used to the strain again after spending a couple months with only sex as exercise (not that I was complaining). As I opened the door to my apartment, I found myself face-to-face with a firm chest in a button down shirt. I looked up to find a very handsome man looking back down at me. I’d never seen him before in my life, but this was hardly an aberration from the norm in our house.
“Hi,” I said, “You must be...?”
“Vincent,” the man said.
“Charmed,” I replied, scooting past him into my apartment.
“Hey,” he said as he left, “Aren’t you Alexa Vansant?”
I smiled. This was certainly a first. “I am,” I said.
“Wow,” he said, “Jackson Brent’s...”
“Biographer,” I finished. “See you around, Vance!”
“It’s Vincent!” he said, as I closed the door in his pretty face.
Hadley emerged from her bedroom wearing a pink silk teddy. She didn’t look nearly rumpled enough to have had that good of a time with Vincent.
“A dud?” I asked, fetching myself a glass of water.
“Totally,” she said, yawning, “It’s just like...After a while, oral just gets old, you know?”
“World’s longest blow job?” I asked.
“Oh, no, he was going down on me. But it’s all he wanted to do. It’s like...get a life, buddy.”
I laughed warmly. I couldn’t help but admiring a girl who knew so resolutely what she wanted out of life—even if what she wanted was an endless stream of great sex. Perhaps especially so.
“Are you sure you’re going to be OK without me come fall?” I asked.
“Oh my god,” she groaned, “For the last time, it’s totally fine! Would you please drop it? Your apologies have started to give me migraines.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
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