Marrying the Rock Star

by B. B. Hamel

  Which is the argument Ava makes, and is totally fucking true.

  I have to start counting for the third time.

  By the time I finish, I walk out into the main room. Delia stretches and looks at me, covers pulled up over her chest, her hair spilling around her shoulders.

  She’s so fucking beautiful. God damnit, it’s so fucking hard to be angry with her.

  “Did you talk to someone about us last night?” I ask her.

  She hesitates and sighs, sitting up. She pulls her covers tighter to her body.

  “I was waiting for this.”

  “So you know you fucked up then.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “Mistake?” I laugh, shaking my head. “Huge fucking mistake.”

  She glares at me. “I didn’t realize she was a journalist. It wasn’t like a real interview or anything.”

  “What was it then?”

  “I sat down next to her at the bar and we got to talking. I thought… I thought she was just nice.”

  I clench my jaw. Typical fucking Ava. She probably knew exactly who Delia was the second she sat down. I’m sure Ava mentioned that she was a journalist at some point, but of course Delia didn’t really understand what that meant.

  “Anything you say to a journalist is on the record unless you specifically ask for it not to be, and even then they might decide to burn you anyway and quote you.”

  “I didn’t know,” she says, starting to get angry.

  “Even if you didn’t know she was a journalist, why are you talking about us to anyone at an industry party?”

  “What am I supposed to do, pretend we’re not married?”

  “If that helps,” I grunt at her. “Fuck, Delia. This is really bad.”

  “Oh, you asshole.” She gets out of bed suddenly. I stare at her perky breasts, unable to help myself. She grabs her clothes and gets dressed while I watch.

  I feel my cock stirring, despite my anger. Hell, maybe it’s stirring because of my anger.

  I want to fuck the hell out of her. I want to fuck her so hard she comes twice, begging me the whole time. I want her to beg for forgiveness, on her hands and knees, my cock in her mouth. And I’ll forgive her by getting her off again and again, each successive orgasm bringing her to a new level of pleasure.

  Except she’s dressed and storming past me toward the door.

  I follow, wearing just boxer briefs. “You can’t run away from this,” I say to her. “You made a damn mistake.”

  “Okay, I get it,” she snaps. “I’m so horrible and stupid.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She whirls on me. “You know I don’t know any of this stuff, right? Any of these people? You threw me into this fucking world completely blind and completely unprepared, and I’m supposed to just figure it out.”

  “I’m trying to help you,” I say softly, containing my anger. I can’t believe she’s trying to turn this around on me.

  “You’re barely helping,” she snaps. “Just ordering me around. Telling me what I can and can’t do. I’m trying to figure it all out but there’s not exactly a manual for how to manage a fake marriage out there.”

  “I’ve given you simple rules, and the one at the top of the list is, don’t talk to reporters.”

  “Okay, I get it, I fucked up.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  She glares at me, standing at the door, and I glare back. She’s so fucking sexy right now, I’m barely containing myself. I know I’m getting hard.

  She knows it too. I catch her glance down at my cock and roll her eyes.

  “Jesus, Chase,” she says. “Even when we’re fighting, you can’t control your dick.”

  I step up to her suddenly, forcing her back against the door. Her eyes are wide and I think I see a hint of fear there, which I don’t necessarily like, but I can’t stop myself.

  I put one hand on the door to the side of her face, leaning toward her. “I can’t help it,” I say softly. “When you piss me off, I want to fuck your tight little cunt nice and rough until you beg for forgiveness.”

  She glares at me but she’s breathing faster. “Not going to happen.”

  “You don’t think so?” I tilt her chin up with my other hand, looking into her eyes. She glares back defiantly.

  I stare into those eyes and for a second, I want to let it all go. I can forget about this. Hell, I can forget everything. I want to take this woman, have her, be with her. I want to get away from the spotlight, away from the tour and the band and all that bullshit.

  But I know that’s an insane thought. We barely know each other now. Sure, we fucked last night, and it was pretty fucking great. But that’s not enough.

  I release her chin and step back, crossing my arms.

  She stares at me for a second, breathing fast, before she turns away and leaves. The door slams shut behind her.

  “Fuck,” I say to myself, staring at the blank door.

  I think about going after her. Maybe I was too harsh, but I don’t know.

  She’s right that she was just thrown into this without any prep at all and she’s just trying to figure it all out. I know that it’s a weird, messed-up situation. I understand it’s got to be fucking tough on her.

  But this is bad. I know Karl’s flipping out. I have to call him back, but I’m really dreading it.

  Mostly, I’m afraid he’s going to tell me to get rid of Delia. That’s my biggest fear with all of this. I know she’s making things harder… but now that I have her, I don’t want to lose her.

  I need her to start playing by the rules and getting this shit down so that she can keep this thing going. Whatever it is, I’ve been happier playing husband with Delia these last few days than I have been in years.

  I sigh, get dressed, and resign myself to the shitstorm I’m about to get from Karl.

  I head down to breakfast, halfway hoping that I won’t run into Karl. I want to put off the scolding for as long as possible, although maybe I should just get it over with so that it’s not hanging over my head.

  I grab some coffee and a pile of eggs. I head into the dining area and spot Joss sitting with Karl in a back corner. I consider turning around and leaving, but I march right over there to face the music.

  Karl looks up. He doesn’t smile.

  “Read the news?” I ask, sitting down.

  Joss frowns a little. “Hard to miss, man.”

  “I guess we have some damage control to do.”

  “You think?” Karl glares at me, rubbing his eyes. “Shit, kid, what was she thinking?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I admit.

  “Telling a reporter like Ava Blue that you two haven’t been together long is practically shoving a sword in your belly.”

  “I know,” I say. “She said it was an accident. She didn’t know who she was talking to.”

  “That’s totally plausible,” Joss points out.

  “Then it’s your fucking fault, dumbass,” Karl says to me. “If you unleash the damn girl in a room full of industry people, you gotta tell her who she can’t talk to. Ava would be at the top of that damn list.”

  I look away from him, sipping my coffee. “I know you’re right.”

  “Damn right I’m right.”

  “Come on, Karl. This isn’t exactly an easy situation for him,” Joss says. Inwardly I’m thankful that he’s defending me, but I don’t need his help.

  Karl’s right about this. I deserve to get some shit.

  “He chose to go down this route,” Karl points out. “If that’s what he wants to do, he’d better be ready to deal with what happens.”

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  “I don’t think you are.” Karl rubs at his temples again and grunts. “I’m getting tired of you morons marrying random girls.”

  Joss grins at me and I can’t help but smile back. “Worked out for him,” I say.

  “You really think this trick’s gonna work fucking twice?” Karl sighs and sips his or
ange juice. “Fucking hell, Chase. I thought you were the sensible one.”

  “He still is,” Joss says. “But he’s getting shit on out there.”

  “I know that.” Karl sounds a little calmer now. “But the girl’s not helping. You married her for a reason, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “You wanted to change the conversation. Make you look like a good guy.”

  “Basically.”

  “Okay, well, it’s not working. If anything, this bizarre idea of yours is only making things worse.”

  I clench my jaw before relaxing and sipping my coffee again. I pick at my eggs, trying to formulate my response.

  “It’s not her fault,” I say finally. “I threw her into this without any preparation. I mean, how many people can dive into our world and walk away unscathed?”

  “None,” he admits.

  “Right, so of course she’s going to make some missteps.”

  “She’s not perfect,” Joss points out. “People fuck up.”

  “Yeah, they fuck up, sure. But there are levels of fuck-ups, and this is a pretty damn high level.” Karl shakes his head, looking more tired than I’ve ever seen him. “I don’t think I’m getting through to you, kid, so let me be straightforward. The girl’s a liability. She’s not helping your case, not at all. If I were you, I’d cut her loose and move on.”

  “I’m not doing that.” I surprise myself with the weight of my statement.

  “I know,” he says, shrugging. “You’re all a bunch of stubborn morons that don’t know what’s good for them.”

  “Sometimes we do,” Joss says.

  “Getting lucky ain’t the same as knowing the right thing.” Karl sighs and stands up. “You wanna do this your way? Fine, Chase, do it your way.” He walks away from the table without another word.

  I take a bite of food but it’s bland. That went about as well as I thought it would.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Joss says softly. “He’s just angry.”

  “Can’t really blame him.”

  “He said all that to me, too.”

  “I know.”

  “And it worked out. And he’s still here.”

  “But how can it work out for me?” I can feel the weight of Karl’s words starting to seep through the cracks in my armor. “What are the chances of that?”

  Joss is quiet for a second. I take the opportunity to drink some more coffee, trying to distract myself from the swarm of questions I have floating around in my head.

  “Look, whatever this thing you have with Delia is… it’s not just business, right?”

  I hesitate. “Right,” I admit.

  “It’s messy and weird. And you like it.”

  “Mostly,” I say.

  “Good. So keep doing it.”

  I shake my head. “It’s bad for the band.”

  “Who the fuck cares?” he asks, laughing. “I mean, I doubt we’ll lose fans because of your weird shenanigans. People are gonna keep buying the albums.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “Then we’ll keep making shitty albums nobody buys and still be rich as hell.” He grins at me. “We’ve already made enough money for one lifetime, and by the end of this tour we’ll have enough for a second.”

  I grin back. He does have a good point. We’re all absurdly wealthy now that we’ve had three successful albums and three big tours, each one bigger than the last.

  Touring is what really brings home the money. Album sales net some cash, which is great, but after the label takes its big fat cut and we’re left with our take, and we split it four ways, it’s really not all that much. It’s touring that really makes a musician money.

  That’s why we put up with all this, with all the driving and travel and uncertainty and exhaustion and night after night of playing the same damn songs to another faceless crowd. It’s amazing and exciting and sometimes it’s the greatest experience I can imagine but a lot of the time touring is just difficult and boring.

  We do it because we make a lot of money out here on the road. If we just relied on album sales, we’d have money… but we wouldn’t be filthy rich like we are now.

  So he has a good point. We’ve worked hard and made a ton of money. At this point, it doesn’t matter what we do next. We’ll always have this cash.

  In some ways, it’s a relief hearing that from Joss, but I know the others don’t feel that way. Especially Nathan.

  For him, this is more than just making money and having fun. For Nathan, this is his whole life. He writes most of the songs, constructs the albums, all that shit. He works night and day on music. This last album has more writing for Joss and even I got to add a few things, but Nathan’s still the creative backbone of everything we’re doing.

  Without this band, I don’t know where he’d be. The money is great, but for him, it’s the freedom and the creativity that really matter.

  For my part, it’s all of the above. I love being a rock star, love making money, but if we didn’t have Slide anymore… well, maybe I could find something else to do.

  I’d never give up music. But if I had to give up the band…

  I don’t know if I could do that. I want Delia, but I don’t want to blow up what we’ve all worked so hard to build.

  I drink my coffee. I eat my eggs. I listen to Joss talk about Grace, her pregnancy, how excited he is to be a father. I listen and I keep seeing Delia in my mind, smiling at me, tipping her chin up to kiss my lips.

  12

  Delia

  I’m so pissed off at Chase that I have to take myself for a walk to cool down.

  Of course, it’s hot as hell. I almost regret it as soon as I step outside, but no, I’m not turning back. I’m an Arizona girl, after all. I can handle a little heat.

  I trudge down the street grumbling to myself like a crazy cat lady. People probably think I’m possessed or something, which is fine. I’m so pissed off at Chase that I’ve devolved into some kind of self-talking demon.

  The thing is, I understand where he’s coming from. The article this morning was pretty bad, and it raises some serious questions about our marriage. People are going to wonder how long we actually knew each other and a million other things, and if they start to look too closely, they might notice some holes.

  It helps that Chase and I go way back, but still. People are going to notice something.

  But it wasn’t like I did it on purpose. I didn’t know the damn girl was a journalist, let alone the one journalist I should never, ever talk to. Besides, I only got angry and started saying stupid things because I wanted to defend him.

  That’s the part that really drives me nuts. The only reason I’ve gotten into it with journalists so far has been to defend Chase’s reputation. Sure, I get too angry and maybe a little too nuts, but I mean well. I hate that these people can’t see Chase the way I do.

  He’s kind and he cares about people. When I talk, I know he’s actually listening. It’s not just the way he looks at me, like I’m the most important person in the whole world, but he also remembers and repeats things back to me. It’s like I’m his favorite book and he’s determined to read me over and over.

  Of course, there are other reasons. The way he touches me. The way he fucks me. The way he makes me feel. It’s all wrapped up in this weird, insane, bizarre situation we’ve found ourselves in.

  But I mean well. I want to defend him, I just need to know who I can talk to and who I can’t. I need prep. I need time.

  As I walk, my grumbling slowly starts to abate, and I go from possessed to normal-crazy, which is an improvement. By now though, I’m sweating like a moron, and I need a little break.

  As I’m walking down the block I notice a little record-shaped sign poking out up ahead. I head inside the shop, letting out a breath as the blessed air conditioning blasts over me, and I step into one of the most packed stores I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I don’t know what the place is called, and I guess it doesn’t matte
r. It looks like a hoarder rented space and threw every single record and CD he owned into this place. There’s a nice older gentleman sitting on a stool behind a cash register off to the left, but I’m pretty sure the guy’s sleeping, so I don’t want to bother him.

  I slip into the shop, heading down a clear path that I guess is the aisle. There are so many records it’s almost impossible to know where to start. As far as I can tell, they’re not organized in any semblance of order.

  I run my fingers over the cardboard sleeves until I decide to dive into a stack. I start to leaf through it, flipping records after records, hoping to spot something I’ll actually want. I don’t have much of a collection, but I’ve been known to dabble from time to time.

  It’s easy to get lost in a place like this. Finding it is like a miracle, and as I flip through stack after stack I feel my anger slowly start to fade away. I forget all about Chase, our arrangement, everything. There’s just me and the record store and thousands of hours of music waiting to be played.

  I flip faster and faster, losing myself in the moment. I don’t hear the person approach me from behind until it’s too late.

  “Crazy, right?”

  I whirl around, yelping softly, a Barbara Streisand record held up in front of me like a shield.

  Landon grins, cocking his head to read the cover. “Streisand’s Greatest Hits? Come on, I thought you had good taste.”

  My heart’s beating so fast and it takes me a second to get myself under control. The big drummer grins at me and slowly takes the record from my hands.

  “Don’t sneak up on me,” I snap at him, getting myself calmed down.

  “Sorry. Did you think I was a journalist or something?”

  “Something like that,” I grumble

  “Don’t worry. All they do is yell at you and insult you, they don’t actually bite.”

  “Good to know.”

  He slips the record into a random stack and looks at me, crossing his arms. He has a few CD cases in his hand, although I can’t see what they are.