Interview with the Rock Star

by Rylee Swann

  It’s just us.

  Always just us.

  Moving higher above her, I become an umbrella so she doesn’t drown from the rain pounding down on us, and I take her fast. My balls tighten even as her body clenches around my cock like a fist.

  “That’s right, baby. Come again.”

  She’s close. Her eyes roll back, and her mouth opens, her “come face” one I recognize and adore. I love being able to please her this way.

  She comes again, crying out my name. Damn. I love my multiple orgasmic girlfriend. Her fingers dig into my shoulders and her legs clamp down on me like a vice. I don’t stop. Don’t give her time to come back down. I slam into her again, riding her hard, pushing her until she explodes once more. I feel her spray drip down my ball sack.

  Or maybe it’s the rain. It doesn’t matter.

  A bright white light explodes around us, followed seconds later by the rumble of thunder.

  We need to go. But I need to come.

  As my cock slides in and out, faster and harder, a familiar, primal feeling takes over every part of my body. I know this feeling well, intimately. My cock swells and stretches, my balls tightening, readying themselves to drive my cum as deep into her as possible.

  My focus narrows down to a pinpoint, and the only thing I can see is her beneath me. As my ass and calves begin to tighten, my vision blurs, and my ears ring, my breathing growing guttural as I pass my DNA into her body.

  We’ll make a baby this way one day, but not yet. We have years and years to enjoy each other first.

  Completely exhausted, I drop my face into her neck, and she laughs and begins to sputter from the rain coming down into her mouth and nose. Moving until I’m her umbrella again, I grin down into her smiling face.

  I take a deep breath. “Marry me.”

  She blinks, and I love that I’ve taken her by surprise. Her face lights up when another strike of lightning brightens the sky.

  “Kace. Are you serious?”

  We’ve talked about marriage, but it’s always been in a “one day” kind of way.

  Pushing back onto my knees, groaning as the rock bores into the bone, I pull her up until she’s sitting in front of me. Tucking my cock away, I dig into the pocket of my trunks and pull out the ring I’d hidden there.

  “Marry me.”

  She’s blinking hard now, the rain and what I know are tears streaming down her face.

  “Yes.”

  Such a simple word.

  Rain begins to beat harder down on us, and lightning pierces through the sky, a crash of thunder quickly following. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive…” I kiss the tip of her nose. “And we have to go.”

  Dressing quickly, we begin to run through the forest, sliding on the slick path. The wind picks up, causing the trees to lose branches, green leaves nearly blinding me as we hurry along.

  Another crash of lightning and the air seems to sizzle with the electricity of it.

  “Hurry!” I yell and reach back for Presley’s hand. When she doesn’t take it, I stop and turn. She isn’t there.

  She’s gone.

  Heart pounding harder now, I retrace my steps, searching the mud for her tracks.

  She’s gone.

  Racing back to the waterfall, I catch a glimpse of her climbing the rocks above the churning water and scream her name.

  When she turns to look at me, it’s not my smiling Presley… this Presley is dead, a skull peering at me through the riot of red curls.

  “You killed me. You broke me. You.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She laughs.

  And jumps.

  Before I can blink, she disappears into the churning waters of the falls.

  And I snap awake, Stephen’s hand on my shoulder.

  “You okay, man?”

  I don’t answer him. I just watch the next mile marker as it flies by.

  Closer.

  She’s closer.

  And my going there is a huge mistake.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Presley

  “You look beautiful.”

  I meet Phyllis’s eyes in the mirror for a moment, wanting to believe her.

  Do I?

  Or do I look like I’m trying too hard? Or not hard enough?

  I can’t tell, and I don’t trust my rattled brain enough to sort it all out.

  Starting at my toes, I scrutinize every inch of me, more critical than the meanest mean girl could ever be. I’d never been self-conscious of how I looked, but I’m self-conscious now.

  I’d found a pair of black canvas Louboutin espadrille wedges for the steeply discounted price of one hundred and twenty dollars. I immediately fell in love with them, knowing they’ll give me needed height to feel more powerful, while the wedges will provide comfort and keep me from teetering around like a fool.

  Ankle length skinny black pants in a soft cotton help to camouflage the ten pounds I’ve gained since Kace last saw me. I like them so much, I may go back for every color in the store.

  I refuse to wear the hideous orange Vol Nation favors and opt for an elbow length white jacket over a gray floaty tank. A long silver chain is my only accessory, although I put on and took off a dozen different earrings.

  At least my skin glows, the facial I’d gotten yesterday still shining through the carefully applied makeup I’d just finished putting on. I’d also gotten a trim, and my stylist had slathered on a deep conditioner that was making my halo actually almost glow. So far, the ringlets were in place, which could change the moment I step out into the humid air.

  Overall… I look okay.

  I feel fairly confident.

  Then why do I want to vomit on my new shoes?

  I know why.

  “What about these earrings?”

  I glance over at Phyllis, who is digging through my jewelry box. I shake my head at the small hoops she is holding up. “My hair gets caught in the rings and I don’t want any distractions.”

  Taking the box to my bed, she upturns the entire thing onto my gray duvet before I realize that’s her intent. The false bottom falls out and yep… so does the ring.

  The ring.

  The ring of waterfalls and rain showers and thunderstorms. The ring of love and hope and happiness. The ring I’d accepted with all the belief that fairytales could come true. The ring I’d given back when my bridge to happily ever after had not just one but several dangerous trolls underneath.

  Who’s that trip, trip, tripping on my bridge?

  Booze. Drugs. Women.

  My heart squeezes as Phyllis slowly picks the sparkling diamond up, her dark eyes turning to me. “You kept it.”

  Kace bought that ring with his first royalty check from Lie with Me… the song he wrote for me. Within those lines, he promised to never lie to me, but what neither he or I understood clearly at the time is that an addicted mind doesn’t listen to promises. It wants what it wants, and it tortures the body it inhabits until its fed… no matter the cost.

  “I actually gave it back to him numerous times, but each time I did, he sent it back. Finally, I just kept it. Hid it away. I had forgotten it was even there.”

  That is a lie, and from the look in Phyllis’s eyes, she knows it, but lets it slide.

  “Will you be okay today?”

  I turn to the mirror again. I’ve armored up the best I can.

  “Yes.” I meet her gaze again. “And it will be good to, you know, face the past. I still have all these fantasies about what could have been… should have been in my mind. Today, reality will set in and I can put those fantasies to rest.”

  Phyllis shoots me a bright smile, her white teeth gleaming against her mocha skin. “Yes. That’s the exact right way to look at it. You’ll face him and then you can put him behind you once and for all.”

  I nod. “It’s just so strange that it’s happening today of all days.”

  She sighs and looks back down at the ring she still holds between her fingers. “It feels like some
kind of weird fate or karma is at work, doesn’t it?”

  Yes. Yes, it does.

  “It’s called closure, I think. At nearly the exact same time I would have been walking down the aisle ten years ago, I’ll be walking to face him one last time.”

  “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

  The backs of my eyes burn as emotion claws its way up my throat and into my face.

  “Like I didn’t imagine possible.”

  “What about now?”

  I let the question sink in, swirl around in my mind. Hoping it will land on the appropriate answer.

  No.

  Yes.

  Maybe.

  Sometimes.

  Forever.

  The truth is, I do still love him. The boy I met my freshman year. The boy who rocked out in his parents’ garage. The boy who’d taken my virginity with such innocent care. The boy who’d taken my heart so completely.

  The thing is… even as the drugs and alcohol became the third person in our relationship, I still loved the core of him. Even when I took my own sniff of coke as he held the straw to my nose, I still loved the core of him. Even when I found him naked between those two other women, I still loved the core of him.

  Because the core of him was — is? — good and loving. The core of him was — is? — full of laughter and gentleness. Full of deep conversations and emotional insights. Full of a deep caring about other people.

  It just got pickled. Literally.

  “I wish he’d never written that song.”

  It isn’t an answer to Phyllis’s question, but it’s an admission I’ve never articulated until now.

  Her eyes soften further in compassion. “Lie with Me?”

  The song that turned him into a rock star. The song that caused all the money to come rolling in. Followed closely by everything else.

  “Yeah. We were so happy when we were eating Ramen and scrabbling money together to splurge on one-dollar Taco Tuesday.”

  Phyllis lifts a shoulder. “Most people can’t handle fame.”

  “And that was ten, eleven, twelve years ago. Back then, we had Facebook and MySpace, but YouTube was still a toddler, and Twitter an infant. No one had heard of Snapchat and Instagram and all the other stuff. Gossip magazines were only on grocery store racks, not at everyone’s fingertips twenty-four seven.”

  I shudder.

  It was bad enough having the gossip magazines print Kace’s drunken nights on a weekly basis. It was bad enough that he was caught snorting coke. It was bad enough that there were pictures of him with other women. Most of those were innocent, I knew, because I was there when they were taken. The photographer would capture the one moment when a woman launched herself in his arms, and it was that image that would be front page news.

  It fed his rock star image.

  And they were lucrative. With each photo, more albums were sold.

  Seems like every woman secretly wants a bad boy. Even if it’s just his voice crooning to her in bed.

  I’d begged James, his best friend and manager at the time, to protect him more. Get him help. Or keep him from the public eye. Something. Anything.

  But James would just laugh it off, calling me a possessive neurotic.

  And I’d begun to feel like a possessive neurotic. Then started acting like one.

  Then… it was over.

  And while the peace and calm of being away from the rock star life should have been healing, I still carry the scars.

  With what appears to be infinite care, Phyllis puts the ring away then fits the false bottom of the jewelry box back into place. “There,” she says, looking back up at me. “It’s exactly where it belongs.”

  Hidden away. Buried.

  I shake my head. “No. Let me have it. I’ll give it back to him personally this time.”

  Her eyes widen. “Are you sure?”

  No.

  “Yes.”

  She takes it out again. With shaking fingers, I take it from her palm and almost slide it onto my finger. Instead, I push it deep into the pocket of my new pants after feeling around to make sure there are no holes that it can accidently fall through.

  Glancing at the clock, I see I’m out of time. I can’t procrastinate anymore.

  Grabbing my bag with my little recorder and notepad already tucked inside, I tuck my phone inside and snatch up my keys. “Wish me luck,” I say.

  Her smile is as hesitant as mine. “No, Presley. I’d rather wish you peace.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kace

  The stadium looms into the sky, growing taller as we get closer.

  Forcing a smile on my face, I wave to the crowd of fans gathered along the sidewalk, hoping to get a glimpse of a star.

  Curly red hair catches my eye, and my heart trips over itself. When I realize it isn’t her, it deflates in abject disappointment, becoming its old, withered self.

  “Here we go.”

  I nod to Stephen and to the two bodyguards who are already getting out of the limo that is delivering me to the stadium door. The roar of the crowd is deafening, punctuated by high pitched squeals coming from every direction as I step out.

  This is what I always wanted. This is what I dreamed about my entire life.

  This is why I picked at a guitar until my fingers bled. It’s why I sang until I couldn’t breathe.

  The adulation.

  The love.

  The respect.

  The fame.

  The roar of the crowd gets louder as I lift a hand in acknowledgement. There are crying girls holding out pieces of paper for me to sign. The flash of the cameras from every direction.

  The dream became reality… it is reality.

  But something is missing.

  Her.

  Forcing Presley out of my mind, I shake hands and scrawl my signature across paper. And arms. And breasts.

  I feel the phone numbers being stuffed into my pockets. The panties that get stuffed in there too.

  Women grab at me. My arms. My chest. My crotch. Their eyes are full of promise. But it isn’t me they want. It’s the rock star. The illusion.

  It’s a relief when the door of the stadium closes behind me and the squealing voices are drowned out by the echoing darkness of the hallway.

  “This way.”

  I follow Stephen, pulling out the panties and papers in my pockets, tossing them unseen into the trashcan outside the conference room door.

  One of the bodyguards holds out a little bottle of GermX. I smirk and let him pour a big glob in my hands. You never know where those panties have been.

  Taking the bottle of water I’m handed, I down half of its contents, wishing I could splash the other half on my face. I already regret the destroyed jeans I’m wearing but am glad I chose the cotton shirt and vest in lieu of a jacket. I’d almost forgotten how damn humid it is in Tennessee, even when it is nearly Fall.

  Passing a hand over my hair, rustling it up even more, I scratch at the scruff on my face, just wanting this to be over. I’m a singer, not a talker. And the same old questions just make me tired.

  Stephen opens the door and sticks his head out. “Ready?”

  I chug more water, hand the bottle over, and nod. Striding to the podium, I try not to slit my eyes against the assault of camera flashes and bright lights. Before I’m even at the microphone, reporters are throwing questions at me. I ignore them until I’m settled, then hold up a hand to silence the onslaught. I learned from my early years that it’s best to take the media by the horns.

  “Good evenin’, ya’ll,” I say in my best Tennessee accent. After ten years, my vowels have become shorter, but it’s easy to fall back into the familiar old way of speaking. “It’s good to be back in the valley, supporting the orange and white.”

  Questions pepper me. Squinting into the darkness behind the lights, I extend a finger toward a raised hand. The man introduces himself as a reporter from one of the local television stations. “It’s good to have you back, Kace. Why so lon
g?”

  I’ve been expecting this question, and I decide to tackle it head on. My past problems aren’t a secret, and there’s no reason to try to hide anything now. “I’ve been working hard to get my life back on track, and ten years seems like a nice round number to face the past.”

  Chuckles all around, and another hand shoots up. I nod in its owner’s direction. Another introduction, a radio station this time. “How’s that going for you?”

  I attempt to wipe yesterday from my mind. The drunken stupidity that I’d allowed back into my life. “To be honest, it can be a struggle sometimes, but I’m excited about the future and about my new album.”

  How’s that for a hint? Let’s focus on the music, folks.

  But no…

  “Can you tell us more about the struggle? Are you saying you’re still into the rock and roll lifestyle?”

  My fingers curl on the edges of the podium. These damn lights. I wish I could see faces so I could meet the man’s eyes as I answer him directly. “If you’re asking if I’m still an addict… yes.” My therapist’s voice rings in my head, reminding me that my addiction is like a scar. The wound might be healed but it will always be there. “But if you’re asking if I still take drugs… no. There’s a difference, one I live with every day.” Hoping to direct him back to the music, I add, “I write about it on the album. Have you listened to it?”

  The man just chuckles. “Actually, that sort of music isn’t my style.”

  My hackles raise, and I want to ask, then why are you here? But I don’t. I’ve been preparing myself for this, and I knew this would be today’s interview’s focus. I’ve run from the questions long enough, and I might as well face them where it all began.

  A woman’s voice pierces through the sea of men in front of me. Holding my hand over my eyes, I wish I hadn’t let Stephen convince me to lose the shades. It’s a blonde on the left. I point at her. “Yes.”

  “I’ve listened to your new album, and appreciate the rawness and truth you reveal in the lyrics, but I can’t help but wonder if this come back tour is really necessary? Are you afraid that you’ll never hit the same level of success you enjoyed ten years ago? Will you feel like a failure if you don’t?”