by Davis, Rhona
My brows pinch. “What?”
“Remember when I told you I thought you were lost?”
I slowly nod. “Yeah . . . what was that about?”
He takes my hand in his and runs delicate circles across my knuckles with his thumb. Looking deep into my gaze, he smiles. “Well, I was talking shit . . . it was me who was lost. But then . . . I found you.”
I snort. “Stop it.”
He holds my hand tight. “I mean it, Krissy. I want a future with you, a real future.”
My heart almost bursts from my chest. “Jay . . .”
He leans forward. “Of course, only if that’s cool with you.”
The corners of my lips curl. “Okay, but on one condition . . .”
“Whatever you say, angel.”
“Push me away again and it’s off.”
He smirks. “I can live with that.”
“I’m serious, Jay. Fuck with me, just one more time, and you’ll have more than that crazy fan to deal with.”
We hug each other.
A hug turns to a kiss.
A kiss turns to predictably earth shaking make up sex.
And for the first time—and not via a poster on my bedroom wall—I can say that I’m deeply and madly in love with Jay Tyler. It’s crazy . . . but crazy’s more than good on this occasion.
15
Krissy
As the band kick off the penultimate gig of the tour, I stand guard with Monica at the side of the stage. The atmosphere is good tonight. The crowd’s in full swing and aside from Jay’s initial doubts about continuing with the tour, he seems in reasonable spirts.
As they unleash a fan favorite, the packed venue erupts into euphoria.
A warm glow of pride travels through me. I love watching what Jay does best; well, second best to what he does to me between the sheets. Here comes that urge to pinch myself again.
“Things settled down?” Monica shouts over the loud rumble of guitars and drums.
“I think so, no signs of any stalker yet.”
“Good.” Her brows lower. “I wonder why Greg never mentioned it before.”
“I think Jay wanted to keep it away from most of the band and crew.”
She angles her head. “So how did Mike find out?”
“He was the one who fought the girl off. Jay was wounded pretty badly.”
She shakes her head and blows out. “Weird how it never leaked . . . I mean, the press would’ve gone nuts over a story like that.”
I nod and take a drink of Coke from my paper cup.
Three more songs pass before I get the urge to go pee. I pass my drink to Monica. Reluctantly, she takes it. “Where are you going?”
“The restroom.”
Just before I walk away, she grabs onto my arm. “I’m going with you.”
I roll my eyes. “Monica.”
“Jay’s orders.”
I chuckle. “Babe, take a look around, there’s no one here. Just happy fans enjoying the gig. I’ll be right back.”
She glares at me the same way she did back in high school, when I used to secretly smoke in the gym’s changing rooms and she’d ready herself to give me a lecture.
I huff. “Cut me a break here?”
She chews on her lower lip. “Well, all right then. But be quick. If Jay sees me standing here without you, he’ll lose his shit.”
“I promise. I’ll be five minutes.”
As a slink away she shouts out, “I’m timing you.”
I laugh at my nutty friend as I disappear backstage and navigate the labyrinth of hallways to the restroom.
* * *
Flushing the chain, I tear off a small ream of toilet paper, wipe my nose, and walk out of the stall toward the sinks.
There’s not a soul in the restroom. No one dare move a muscle when Sweet Agony rips up the stage. For once I’m okay with missing out. I have my whole life to enjoy Sweet Agony’s music, more importantly—Mr. Jay Tyler.
As I wash my hands, I stare at the plug and daydream about our vacation. I called mom before the show and told her everything. She gave me the third degree, which of course I expected, but I’m sure deep down she’s happy that I’m happy. Maybe I can use my business degree to help the band? What a dream that would be; twenty-four seven with Jay, professional and personal—very personal.
Just as I take a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall, the restroom door opens. I glance to my left and see a blonde girl head straight for the sink, three down from me. She’s smiling, whistling along to the faint sounds coming from the arena.
“What do you think?” I ask her.
“Awesome. It’s my fifth time seeing them.”
I narrow my eyes. She looks . . . familiar. She stares back, her jaw opening slightly.
“The . . . coffee shop?”
She nods quickly. “Yes. Shit. How are you?”
What are the chances I bump into that barista girl from LA?
“What brings you to San Diego?” I ask.
“Visiting my big sister. Thought I’d check out the band while I was in town.”
I toss the paper towel into a steel trash can. “Small world.”
“True.”
As I go walk past her, she grabs the sleeve of my shirt. My eyes round.
“Sorry,” she says with a slight smile. “I don’t mean to bother you, but, you know Jay . . . right?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course, you were with him at the coffee shop.” She rolls her eyes. “I was just wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Could you introduce us? Backstage, I mean. I’m a huge fan.”
I pause for a moment. “I’m not sure. Unless you have a pass to meet the band, it’s tricky.”
“It would mean so much.” Her eyes plead with me.
“I don’t know . . .”
Just then, the door swings open. “Krissy.”
“Monica.”
She glances at the blonde girl and then back at me. “Everything all right?”
I look at the blonde super fan. “Everything’s fine. This is—”
“Cassy,” she finishes.
“Cassy wanted to know is she could meet the band.”
Monica tilts her head and shrugs. “I’m sure Jay would be cool with it.”
Cassy almost jumps in place through sheer delight.
After thanking me, I tell her to meet us both in the venue carpark after the show. We’d still have to clear it with Greg and the tour manager, but Cassy seems harmless enough.
She exits the restroom with a spring in her step, leaving me and Monica alone.
“Sure that wasn’t the stalker?” Monica says with a half grin.
“I’m sure. Me and Jay saw her in LA.”
“Hmm . . . you never know.”
“I can assure you, it’s all good.”
She scoffs. “Well, she was pretty weird.”
“I’m pretty weird, but I ended up doing okay.”
Monica’s lips push up at the corners. “Struck gold more like. Come on, let’s get back out there before the band send out an SOS.”
I don’t tell Monica, but my heart was pounding speaking with Cassy. Jay’s story has affected me more than I thought it would.
16
Jay
Heading out to the parking lot, I see Krissy and Monica chatting away. As I approach them I notice a strange girl standing by Krissy’s side.
When Krissy spots me, she waves me over. I pick up the pace.
“Jay,” Krissy says, turning to the stranger. “It’s that girl from the coffee shop, remember?”
I extend my hand out. “Yeah.”
“Cassy,” she gushes, taking my hand. “I’m such a big fan.”
Krissy winks at me and I force a weak smile. I’m too tired for this shit, but the night could’ve gone very dark. I suppose a meet and greet isn’t so bad considering the alternative.
“I was just saying to Cassy before, it’s a small world,” Krissy says.
I rub at the bridge of my nose and glare at the girl. “What do you want?”
Krissy straightens up. “Hey, don’t be rude. It’s the middle of the night. Cassy waited.”
“I meant does she want an autograph or something.” I look at the girl and raise a brow.
She pulls out a concert program and CD from the small canvas bag by her feet. Taking them from her, I search my jean pockets for a pen. She beats me to it, handing me a red sharpie.
Holding the merchandise against the bus door, I scribble my signature across the laminated program and do the same on the CD cover.
I smile. “Impressive. You actually bought a psychical copy of the album.”
“I detest downloads. It’s so much nicer to hold the album in your hands.”
“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” Monica interjects, taking a drag on a menthol cigarette.
“Is that all?” I ask the girl, trying to sound polite and not snarky like before.
“Yes, thanks.” Starting to shuffle away, she changes her mind and turns on her heel. “There is just one other thing.”
“Go on.”
“Well, Krissy told me that you two are like . . . an item.”
I tilt my head, waiting for her to expand.
“I just wanted to say sorry. I really thought you were single.” She laughs. “Many a girl’s dream, I guess.”
I glance at Krissy. She shrugs.
“The roses,” the girl finishes. “That was me . . . sorry.”
I burst into hysteria, scooping the girl in for a hug. Krissy gives me evils, but smiles all the same. I mouth Krissy the words, you knew this? but she shakes her head in response. She looks as surprised as me.
When I eventually let go of the fan, I snort. She looks dizzy and flustered. Bet she never expected that from a meet and greet.
“Okay, I am never washing these clothes again!” She glances at Krissy and throws her an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
Krissy laughs. “Don’t worry about it. He has that effect.”
When the girl finally disappears, I look at both Krissy and Monica. The weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. I can breathe again.
Krissy pushes close to me and hooks her arm around my waist. She exhales sharply. “I think we need some sleep.”
“Too fucking right,” I say. “The roses, all along from her . . . ? Jesus. I feel so stupid.”
Monica chuckles, almost choking on a cloud of smoke from her cigarette.
As we walk to my bus, Monica shouts over, “Be good!”
“We won’t,” Krissy shouts back, her eyes fixed on me the entire time.
Epilogue
Krissy
Six months later . . .
“All packed?” Monica asks me on FaceTime.
I walk from the foot of bed to the window sill. My phone is propped up against a small cactus plant. A late afternoon sun covers my room is dusky orange. It’s kind of melancholy in a way. The idea of spending a year away from home, from everything I’ve known for twenty-three years, suddenly hits me.
“Just about.”
“Don’t be sad,” she says. “You’re gonna have a blast on tour.”
I shrug. “I know.”
“Good on you for using it as a job, too. See, that business degree came in handy.”
I smile. Business rep to the biggest band in the world does have a nice ring to it.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“I gotta go. I’ll ring you when I get to the airport.”
“Sure, babe.” She blows me a kiss and we end the call.
“Come in,” I shout.
Mom walks into the room. “Hey, honey.”
“Hey.”
“Have everything you need?”
I roll my eyes and grin. “Yes mom.”
She scans my bed. The entire contents of my wardrobe are sprawled across my duvet like a junkyard sale.
Starting over to her, I place both my hands on her shoulders. “Mom, it’s time to stop worrying.”
“I can’t help it, honey. You’ll always be my little girl.” She looks at my suitcase. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“For now . . . yes.”
“And Jay treats you right? I grew up in the sixties you know . . . Mick Jagger, Robert Plant . . . those singers had reputations.”
“Mom!”
“Just saying. Don’t let him hurt you.”
“I won’t.”
A warm smile pulls at her lips and her eyes turn glassy.
I push into her arms and give her a big hug. Although she always moans at me, I know it’s because she loves me and wants the best. As we embrace, I feel my eyes become misty and my throat tighten. A year away from my small town world, and then after . . . who knows.
Parting from our hug she brushes the hair away from my eyes. It’s the same tender, motherly gesture she’s done since I was a kid. It feels nice and familiar, making this choice—for just a split second—seem like the hardest one I’ll ever make.
She clears her throat. “Your father will take you to the airport.”
“It’s okay, I booked an Uber.”
“Nonsense. Your dad wants to take you. He may not express himself like I do, but he loves you just the same.”
“I know. Thanks mom.”
She searches my eyes. “I’m proud of you.”
That’s it. Water works. For the first time in my life I feel validated. My parents have always met my dreams with resistance before—reality, as they like to call it. Now, with those four simple words coming from mom’s own lips, I know I’m doing the right thing.
* * *
Two months later . . .
London
If I thought the American fans were crazy for Sweet Agony, then this UK fan base makes them seem pedestrian by comparison. They sing back the songs so loud they almost drown the band out.
I’m standing backstage, reviewing the travel itinerary with the tour manger. All the paperwork is laid out on top of a disused speaker. As I try to crunch costs for both the band and crew, the house lights dim.
A hush blankets the entire arena. Curious at the sudden change of energy, I look out and see Jay take the middle of the stage. Holding onto an acoustic guitar—which is odd seeing as he never plays instruments live—he sits on a backless stool. A single spot light shines down on him as the rest of the band take five in the shadows.
I frown at the manager. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can I see the set list?”
Looking as confused as me, he grabs the attention of a passing roadie and asks for the order of songs. A few seconds later the roadie scurries back with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. I snatch it from him, muttering my thanks.
Carefully, I examine the list. They’ve just played their greatest hit and should be following it up with their latest single.
I walk to the edge of the stage and wait.
“London,” Jay calls out. Everyone cheers. “London, I’d just like to slow things down for a moment. This is a tune that’s never been heard before.”
What is he up to?
“Actually, that’s a lie.” He pushes his mouth closer to the Mic. “Krissy . . .”
What the—?
“Hey, Krissy . . . come on out here.”
Completely thrown, I stagger onto the stage. The spotlight fixes on me, almost blinding me, and the full capacity crowd cheers.
As I get closer to Jay, he offers me his hand.
“What are you doing?” I whisper to him. “This is so embarrassing.”
The bright white spotlight now shines on us both. Thousands of camera phones are held up high in the crowd, creating a magical look that seems as if me and Jay are floating above the stars.
Jay smiles at me and places his fingers on the fretboard. “This song is called Hard Rock Love.”
Not knowing what to do with myself I stand there, idle and feeling stupid. Jus
t as my annoyance peaks he starts playing.
I am completely and utterly floored by what I hear.
It’s the song . . . the song he sang for me that first sweet time in his hotel room.
He hasn’t changed a thing. Same words, same beautiful guitar playing. My heart beats wildly.
When he finishes, the crowd break into emphatic applause. It’s a tender ballad that’s treated with the respect it deserves—there’s no screaming, no anything, just a wave of appreciation from each and every fan.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Jay says into the mic. “That song was about a very special girl.” He gazes up at me from the stool, wearing a slight smile on his face. “For this girl, standing right here with me . . . my rock.”
I gasp and my whole body trembles. Jay wrote that for me. Although we’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend now, he still makes me feel like a teenager—all butterflies and weak knees.
“One more thing,” he says, “Krissy, look at the screen behind us.”
Slowly, with my heart still stuck in my throat, I turn. The giant screen, which normally displays the band’s logo, flashes. Replacing Sweet Agony is a question mark. Nothing else. When I look back down at Jay, my brows meet. Reaching into his pant pocket, he pulls out a small box.
“Krissy Swinton . . .” He rises from the stool, sets his guitar and mic down, and drops to one knee.
The crowd goes wild.
“Will you marry me?”
A flood of tears rain down and I hold my hands over my mouth in shock.
He opens the box. Inside is the biggest diamond ring I have ever seen in my life.
“Well?” he presses.
I don’t answer; this has to be a dream now.
“Krissy,” he whispers, titling his head to the crowd, “kind of got a show to get on with here.”
Snatching the microphone off the stool, I scream into it. “YES!”
The house lights explode in color and the crowd all cheer. The sound is deafening.
I glance toward the tour manger, and then look at the band. They all nod and clap, each wearing a silly grin. Bastards—they knew all along.
Jay pushes to his feet and slides the ring on my shaking finger.