Fall Of The Rock Girl: A Lesbian Romance (Revolving Record Book 2)

by Nicolette Dane

  “Layla,” said Jack, softening his face. “I mean, you’re hugely famous, too. You’re a pop star, too.”

  “I know,” I said, putting my face in my hands.

  “You’re struggling,” he said. “I get that.”

  “I don’t feel like I belong,” I said, stubbing out my cigarette on the deck underneath my chair. “I feel like… out of place… like, an imposter.”

  “No, Layla, c’mon,” said Jack. “You’re an incredible singer. You deserve everything you’ve got.”

  “I don’t feel like me,” I said in earnest, staring at Jack and trying to really connect with him. “I feel like I’ve become everything I was against.”

  “You’ve got it really good,” he said. “There’s no shame in being a pop star. You know how many people would love to be in your shoes?”

  “I know,” I said. “But it’s not that. I can’t really explain it… I feel like I fucked up.”

  “You fucked up?” said Jack, furrowing his brow. “You have more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, you’re known across the world, there are millions of fans out there worried as shit about you right now… they don’t even know you,“ he said. “But they care.”

  “Money and fame haven’t solved my problems,” I said. “I guess maybe I thought they would. But I just… pushed them down, hid from them, let everything else carry me away.”

  “Money only amplifies who you already are,” said Jack sagely. “At a certain point, it doesn’t make you any happier or fix anything that’s really broken.”

  “How do you deal with all this?” I asked. “With all the fame?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jack, as he considered it. “I mean, I’ve been doing this since I was 12. We got famous pretty young. Layla, this has just been my life. It’s all I know.”

  “I guess I come from a different background,” I said. “Cast Party didn’t take off until I was 25. We did a few albums together, got big, then…”

  “I know,” he said reassuringly. “You don’t have to talk about Cast Party.”

  “I fucked up,” I said again, feeling my eyes begin to water. “I really fucked up.”

  “You didn’t fuck up,” said Jack. “You did what you had to do.”

  “No,” I said, looking around at my surroundings. Everything was beautiful. The view, that thick forest up there in the Hills dotted sporadically with large homes, my own incredible house. And I was sitting across from Jack, one of the most recognized faces in music, yet to me he was just a great friend. It seemed perfect, but I still felt like I had made a mistake.

  “You can’t go back in time,” said Jack. “What’s done is done. Besides… you know they’re fine.”

  “I feel like I was pressured into all of this,” I said. “I feel like I was coerced.”

  “That’s misremembering,” said Jack, shaking his head. “Layla, you’re just in a delicate spot. You’re beating yourself up.”

  “The label, my manager… Daisy,” I said.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “Nope, don’t listen to yourself. Don’t listen to the negativity.”

  “Everybody,” I continued. “They said to do this, they kept pushing me on to the next thing and the next. I always felt funny about it. I always felt a little sick. But I was just somebody’s meal ticket,” I said. I was getting angry. I fumbled with my cigarette pack and lit up another. Jack watched in a momentary silence as I readied my smoke.

  “I think you should see a therapist,” said Jack straightly. “I’m your friend, Layla, I care about you, you mean a lot to me. You need some help.”

  “Maybe I do,” I said. “But I’m starting to get smart and see all this for what it is.”

  “I don’t think you are,” he said.

  “I collapsed at the Grammys, Jack,” I said, arms wide, smoke billowing from my lips. “That’s gotta tell you something!”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’re sick. Nobody’s been trying to fool you. It’s the opposite of that. Everybody has wanted to help you. And look at you now. You’re a huge success. Those people who you think have tried to hurt you for their own gain, those are the people who’ve loved you the most.”

  I took a long inhale from my cigarette and shook my head. Jack couldn’t convince me. The puzzle pieces were coming together and starting to show the true picture in my brain. Yeah, objectively I had it all. But what had I paid to get it?

  “You’re obviously in a rough spot,” said Jack, standing up from his chair. “Just try to relax and don’t do anything to hurt yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Call me, Layla,” he said. “I just live down the street and I can be here fast.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  “A lot of people love you,” said Jack with finality. “They love you. Not the image. Remember that.”

  Jack gave me one more soft smile, and then started to walk away from me.

  I wanted to speak up, to stop him, but I couldn’t make a sound. It was probably best that I was alone anyway. I had a lot of thoughts to process.

  I laid back in bed, supported by the pillows, with the nightstand light on. The bed was huge and supremely comfortable, with big, billowy blankets and sheets, everything so soft and immaculate. In my lap I had a magazine, a tabloid, and I was reading an article they had written about me. It made me sick. It made me sick how much they got wrong, but I couldn’t stop reading it. It was like watching a car wreck on the highway. You can’t look away.

  The stillness and silence in the room was broken when Daisy slunk in. I looked up from my magazine at her across the room. She smiled sheepishly at me, wearing a silky light pink gown that cut off at her mid-thigh. Her hair was back in a ponytail for the night, her face free of makeup, her natural beauty shining through. As beautiful as she was, I felt tumultuous in my head, a thunderstorm brewing in there that was far out of my control.

  “Hey,” she said with a peep.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You’re not reading that article, are you?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Layla,” Daisy chastised softly. “Just throw that garbage out. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  “I’m almost done,” I said.

  “Maybe I can entice you away,” said Daisy. Reaching down, Daisy took the hem of her gown and flipped it upward, showing me that underneath she wasn’t wearing anything at all.

  “I’m just not feeling it,” I said.

  “C’mon,” she teased, turning around, revealing her bare butt, and wiggling it.

  “I’m sorry, Daisy,” I said. Her face changed from seductive to saddened.

  “Fine,” she said, coming around to her side of the bed, flipping up the blanket, and climbing in.

  “I just feel like shit,” I said. “It’s not you.”

  “Okay,” said Daisy. She was pouting now.

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll just pleasure myself over here.”

  I sighed and dropped my head back, eyes up to the ceiling, letting the magazine slide down my lap.

  “I’m exhausted,” I said. “I’m… depressed.”

  “I know,” said Daisy. “I was just trying to help pull you out of that. Just trying to take your mind off of it.”

  “I’m fixated,” I said. “On regret.”

  “You can’t change the past,” she said. “And, honestly, Layla… you’ve made a lot of great choices that have taken you really far. You have to see that.”

  “Do you love me?” I asked. “Like, for real?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Daisy, quickly shifting around in bed to face me. “Oh my God, Layla, yes I love you for real.”

  “Not just pop star Layla?” I said. “You don’t just love the idea of me being a pop star?”

  “No, Layla,” she said. “Is that what this is about? I know you’re under a lot of pressure, I know you’re not feeling well… but I’m on yo
ur side. I love you, Layla. Really.”

  “I don’t know who I can trust anymore,” I said. “I used to have James, Renee, I used to have Nikki. I don’t have any of them anymore.”

  “People change,” said Daisy matter-of-factly. “You’re in a much different place now.”

  “It’s been so long,” I said. “But it feels like it was so sudden. Like the rug was just pulled out from under me. I don’t have any of my old life anymore.”

  “You have me,” said Daisy, trying to offer me an inclusive smile. “I’m still here. I’ll always be here.”

  “James tried to warn me,” I mused, staring off, my head slowly shaking back and forth as I remembered.

  “He was wrong,” said Daisy emphatically. “He had a mindset that just doesn’t mesh with how things are done in this business. And you can see how it ended up.”

  “No,” I said. “I think he was right.”

  “You’re going down a bad road, Layla,” said Daisy. “You’re letting self-doubt creep back in after doing so well for so many years. You’re on top of the world and you belong here.”

  “I’m just not so sure about how I got here,” I said evenly. Folding the magazine closed, I tossed it off the bed, causing the pages to flutter until it hit the ground.

  “Things are complicated,” said Daisy. “Sometimes we have to make difficult decisions, and you’re no different. You went after your dream.”

  “Did I?” I said. “Is this really my dream?”

  As much as someone like me might rally against the seductive call of fame, I can attest that for most any artist there is an instinct lurking under the skin clamoring to be heard. What good is my music if nobody can listen to it? And that only multiplies as you gradually walk up the staircase of celebrity. It’s enticing to find ways for more and more people to hear you, to do what needs to be done to turn the amp up higher, to sing at a volume so loud that nobody can ignore you.

  Sure, at that volume, they can all hear what you have to say when you’re ready to speak it. But when you make a mistake, when you fall, they’re all there to watch it happen. They’re watching you every moment of the day, hanging on your words, and waiting to see if you trip up. It’s a grand spectacle.

  Was this my dream? I had a difficult time even remembering.

  “Fuck them,” said Trish, waving me off. “The only people who believe that trash are small minded rubes looking for reassurance that their own shitty lives aren’t that bad.”

  I sat in a leather chair opposite Trish, her wide glass desk separating us. Behind her was a wall of glass looking out over the city. I looked behind Trish for a moment, thinking, trying to parse her meaning and apply it to the way I was feeling.

  “I guess I shouldn’t care what people think of me,” I said finally.

  “That’s right,” said Trish. “Anybody with notoriety, especially people with the kind of notoriety you have, are bound to get negative criticism, to have lies told about them, to be a media punching bag at times. But you got the money, babe,” she said, pointing at me with a serious expression. “They can’t touch you.”

  “The money,” I repeated. “It’s hard for me to fathom how much there is. It feels… beyond comprehension.”

  “There’s still more out there,” said Trish, grinning at me and nodding enthusiastically.

  “But why?” I asked. “Why should I even care to get more?”

  “First, Layla,” she said. “You’re contractually obligated to work more to actually receive those checks that have been promised. You’ve got a lot more ahead of you.” Trish looked down at some paperwork on her desk. “Another tour, television appearances, you’ve got another record. But for you, that’s all easy peasy. Beyond that, well, I think we can really yank these fuckers by the balls and make them cough up even more. You’re a hot commodity, a big star.”

  “Even after the Grammys?” I asked.

  “You won, baby,” said Trish. “You’re a Grammy Award winner. Let that sink in.”

  “A long time ago,” I said. “My friend James told me that the Grammys were just one big advertisement, it was just about the record labels pushing whatever hot band they wanted to implant in the public perception. Is that true?”

  “The Grammys are the preeminent music award,” corrected Trish. “Get off this tinfoil hat conspiracy shit. You won because you’re good. Because you’re great. Don’t let any negative bullshit you’ve got going on in your head take that away from you. You worked hard, Layla, and you’re seeing the results.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding.

  “Second,” continued Trish. “In a couple years, nobody will even remember what happened to you. They’ll forget all about it. Why? Because the public has a short attention span. Before you know it, they’re on to the next thing. ‘Oh, the new Layla Bean record is out! Take my money!’ You know what I’m saying?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Listen to me,” she said. “You’re in a unique spot here. Very few people will ever achieve what you have. You put in ten more years of this, you’ll have such immense wealth that you can spend the second half of your life doing fuck all.”

  “Ten more years?” I said, feeling like some kind of pressure was coming at me from the ceiling. “Then what?”

  “Anything you want,” she said. “Hell, we could get you a residency in Vegas. Layla Bean sings the hits! Or, you could buy your own private island and disappear for good. I’d prefer the former, of course, but I think the island thing sounds quite enticing.”

  “Trish, I’ve got to tell you,” I said. “I’m feeling really bad lately. There’s just some kind of… doom hanging over me.”

  “Take a break,” she said. “Go screw off and disappear for a while and find yourself. Whatever it takes. People expect you to disappear after what happened.”

  “Is it wrong to question all of this?” I asked. “I mean, question peoples’ intentions, question whether or not things are truly what they seem?”

  “It’s fine, up to a point,” she said. “But don’t dwell. That’s a downward spiral. You’ve got to find a healthy balance.”

  “Okay,” I said, slinking back and sighing. “Thanks Trish.”

  “Don’t worry about media perception,” she said, putting up her hands. “I’ve got it covered. You just do what you need to do to feel good about all this. And I’m always here for you, doll.”

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  “Now get your tush out of here and take a vacation from your mind,” said Trish.

  I nodded slowly.

  Pushing through the revolving door of the building, exiting out onto the street with my hoodie pulled up over my head and sunglasses on, a man rushed up with a large camera and began taking pictures.

  “Hey Layla,” he said. “Do you have any comment about the Grammys?”

  “They were very exciting,” I said, trying to ignore him and walk to my car. But he persisted.

  “What about your fall?” he said. His face was obscured by his camera, which emitted an almost constant clicking sound. He must have been taking hundreds of photos.

  “The fall?” I said. “I think we’re planning a new tour for fall.”

  “You’re funny,” he said. “How’s your health? Are you sick? Your fans want to know.”

  “My doctor says I’m just about the healthiest person she’s ever seen,” I said, I dodged down a walkway to the parking lot but the man continued to follow me. I sighed. You never totally get used to their incessant invasion of privacy.

  “I read that you’ve got mental problems,” he said. I could feel the anger rising inside, but I had to stay cool. It was their job to provoke me to do or say something I’d regret. I wished Trish was with me. She would have pushed him away or knocked the camera out of his hands. Trish was good for these kind of situations.

  “I read that you were an upstanding citizen,” I said. “But I guess we can’t believe everything we read.”

  I could see my car. I picked up
my pace, but the photographer was obviously a professional at hounding celebrities.

  “Did you read what your old bandmate said about you?” he asked. I stopped walking and turned to him.

  “What?”

  “Your old friend from Cast Party,” said the man, lowering his camera and looking at me. “The guy… James, or something. Did you read what he said about you?”

  “No,” I said. My heart was racing. As much as I didn’t want to provoke the paparazzo, I couldn’t help but wonder what James had said.

  “Yeah,” said the man. “He said ‘karma’s a bitch’.” He raised his camera again and snapped a picture of me looking worried.

  “Oh, fuck off,” I said. Reaching out, I grabbed his camera by the lens and pushed it downward. Unlocking my car, I climbed into it as quickly as I could.

  “Hey!” he protested. “You can’t touch me! I’ll sue!”

  “Get a fucking real job,” I said, slamming my door. Turning the key, my car roared alive, and I got out of there as fast as I could, fastening my seatbelt as I sped out of the parking lot and away from that asshole. I wanted so desperately to be alone.

  Back when I was younger, sitting at the diner, drinking coffee, scribbling my words down into my tattered notebook, I could have never imagined my life as it had become. And even if I had tried to envision what it would be like to be a pop star, a famous celebrity, there was no way I could have fathomed the intricate and specific difficulties I’d face. When you look at famous people, you think that they’ve got it made. But it’s not the answer. I wish everybody could become rich and famous, so that they could see it wasn’t the solution to their problems that they thought it would be.

  I really just wanted to be a punk rock singer. At first, of course, I had no idea that I wanted that. But when James proposed we start a band with me as lead singer, it became so much fun and so fulfilling. It solved some of my problems. It became my job, which was nice. It soothed my anxiety, even nicer. And it gave me a greater purpose that I’d never felt before. It feels amazing to have purpose.