by Jesse Jordan
“I'm sorry baby, Mommy's so sorry,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. “Mommy made such a big mistake, and I'm so sorry.”
“Mommy... why were they mean?” Bella asks.
“They... some people are just mean, I guess. It's not like your books, is it?” I ask, sniffling back my tears and regaining control for a little while. I can cry later, I must take care of my daughter right now. “It's a lot harder in real life.”
“I wish it was like Kitty's book, where people could just talk and make things better,” Bella says, sniffing. “That's better than crying.”
“I agree,” I whisper, kissing Bella's forehead again. “I agree.”
The manager brings the food and we go home, and while Bella tries to cheer back up, I can tell she's just as down about the whole thing as I am. After she goes to sleep, I finally have my cry. It's not fair, and I feel like shit. I know what they say, that only I can give other people permission to make me feel bad, but that doesn't take away the pain.
I must make this up with Rocky. I should explain to him, to explain that I didn't do it, and about Bella. I need to have a heart to heart with him, to let him know that I do love him and that I don't care about the scandals, I care about him. I want him to understand that while I hid Bella from him, it's not because I don't love him, I was just being overly cautious. I want him to know that for the past few nights, I've dreamed of him being more than the man of my life, but I can see him being the father that Bella so desperately needs. I see the ticket on the table, and I pick it up… okay. I can do this. I can try and talk to him Saturday night.
It still doesn't help with the tears when I go to sleep, but at least it's better than nothing.
Rocky
“So, Rocky, with the Fragments releasing your first full-length CD, what plans do you and the guys have?” the host asks, grinning with an empty smile that I'm sure comes across well on TV. In the pre-interview chat, I could see that he wasn’t into music... but we're able to fit the interview in right after getting done with the taping for Late Night. I'm looking forward to the flight back, getting some sleep... and my date tomorrow with Cora.
For now, though, it's time to work. “Well, Saturday night we're doing a premiere concert for our newest single, we're calling it Four Letters. That's going to be a ton of fun.”
The host looks interested, grinning like he had tickets or something. “Really? And when can we see a full CD?”
“Gashouse is working overtime on it,” Joey says, taking the lead on those sorts of questions just like the three of us had worked out before the interview. I knew that if we let them, the host would just look at me the whole time, with Joey and Ian being ignored. To hell with that. So, unless they ask us by name, we sort of worked out a rotation. I get to talk about concerts and band activities, Joey's the CD, and Ian is fans or just general things. So far, that's helped, Joey and Ian have both gotten to talk. “It's going to be... well, I'm not trying to get over excited, but we're hoping for something that people will appreciate.”
“The buzz on the web is big for the Fragments,” the interviewer says, smiling still. Jesus, is that smile Botoxed on that way? “A lot of people are still sharing and downloading the little bar blurb you guys did of Gimme Danger. But that's not going to be the lead single, why is that?”
“We were working on the CD, and Gimme Danger is a great track, but Four Letters just spoke to our hearts,” Joey says, causing me to nod. The three of us talked about it on the plane ride over from Los Angeles, and he's right. Cora's words touched Joey and Ian too. “It's that sort of song that just clicked, right to our hearts. The preview video's up already, for anyone who wants to check it out, and the whole thing is going to drop right after the concert finishes streaming.”
The interview wraps up, Ian being his normal public self and answering with one and two word answers most of the time, and we shake hands with the interviewer before we leave the studio. As we do, Martha's waiting for us in the wings, a concerned look on her face. “Rocky? Got a minute?”
I'm groaning inwardly even before Joey and Ian give me commiserating looks and head towards the snack table. I'll give it to the network, they have good snack tables, stocked with stuff from the cafeteria downstairs. “What is it this time?”
Martha sighs, showing me her tablet. “I just got off the phone with Cora about this.”
I look, going white as I see the headline and the video clip. The website's edited at least, they blurred out my cock, but.... but you can see almost everything else. “What? What the fuck, Martha?”
“I know, I know,” Martha says, taking the tablet back. “Like I said, I just got off the phone with Cora about this.”
“And?” I ask, pissed off that I'm facing another personal scandal, but still worried about Cora. “Is she okay?”
“She's happy about it,” Martha says, nearly whispering sadly. “She said… she said that she's glad about it, that she's already going to talk to some of the reality producers about trying to spin this into a spot on a show.”
I wince, my heart aching in my chest. “She what?”
Martha nods, reaching up and patting my shoulder. “I'm sorry Rocky. I think... I think she used you. I know what she said in the parking lot, I heard it myself with my own ears, but maybe... I don't know, Rock. Maybe she's been gaming you the whole time, maybe she thinks that it's not an issue, maybe... I don't know, Rocky.”
I'm crushed, and I turn around, walking off without saying anything, leaving the sound studio and looking for an escape. There's a stairwell off to my left and I take it, heading up the stairs, climbing higher and higher. The interview was done nearly at the top of the Astor Plaza building, so it's only about six floors until I reach the door to the roof, and I open it, gasping half in the exertion and half in emotion. The frigid New York wind smacks me in the face, and I slip and slide as I half-run from the door, looking for quiet and something that I'm not sure even exists. I reach the railing to the fake grass space that's on the roof and lean against it, trying to calm down.
The first tears are hot, burning as they drip down my cheeks, and I try to fight them back, but I can't. They roll out of me, my chest hitching as I start to sob, not caring. Hey, the tabloid media wants to see? Fine, go ahead, take all the fucking photos you want. I don't give a fuck anymore. Watch as 'Rock's Fallen Angel' cries his fucking heart out and sobs like a bitch over a woman who used him, who played him for a fool. Take a look, you fucking vampires. Take a look, make your money, I don't give a damn anymore.
I don't know how long I'm leaning against the railing, I do know that I'm shivering when I hear someone crunching on the snow and turn my head, seeing Ian crossing the roof, his arms wrapped around himself, his face full of concern. “You gonna jump?”
“No,” I rasp, blowing my nose. “Besides, there's another landing like this one floor down, I'd just break my fucking legs.”
Ian comes over and looks, seeing the narrow strip of fake grass below, and off to the corner of the building what looks like it might be a restaurant. “Huh, I didn't know that. We've been looking for you.”
“I figured. You hate the cold,” I rasp again, clearing my throat. “Guess you're glad for the hat right now.”
Ian tugs on the knit cap that he's wearing, he wore it for the interview as well, and half-shrugs. “It helps, I'd rather have a heavy jacket though. Hey, Martha clued Joey and me in on what happened. Jesus man, I'm sorry.”
I shrug, leaning back against the railing again, staring out at the lights of New York. “I love her, Ian. That's what makes this hurt so much.”
“I know,” Ian says quietly, leaning against the railing next to me. “You know what's been bugging me? How's this keep happening to you, anyway? You've got to have the worst luck of any guy I know in terms of tabloid scandals.”
I shake my head, anger and hurt and sadness still boiling inside me. “I don't know, Ian. I'm tired of this shit though. I wanted to be a rock singer, not a tabloid prince. I...
I can't take much more of this.”
Ian nods. “I know.”
I look over, surprised at the answer. “What, no comments about bucking up, about learning to deal with it and to focus on the fact that I'm on the verge of becoming a huge rock star?”
Ian shakes his head and shifts around, sitting down on the grass, his legs dangling over the edge of the landing before he leans against the lower railing before looking to his left and right, snorting derisively. “Can't believe the city safety inspectors let this still go on, someone could fall through this and hurt themselves any day. Anyway, Rock, you know that millions of kids every year dream of being rock stars. And for 99.9 percent of them, they don't have what it takes. Whether it's a lack of talent, a lack of look, a lack of work ethic. Whatever it is, they don't have it. So, let's say that you're that one in a thousand kids who has that right combination of talent, look and isn't afraid to work. You've still got thousands of others to compete with. So, what happens to most of that thousand? You ever think about it?”
I shake my head, sitting down next to him. I don't know what it is about Ian, he's just got this way of speaking that calms us, that reaches through the emotions no matter what it is, and while it doesn't cheer us up, it at least gets us from going nuts. Maybe it's just that because he doesn't talk a lot when he does, it's fascinating. “No, what happens to them?”
“There's a few who make it, of course, if even for just a minute. A lot of them turn out sad cases though, especially the one-hit wonders. A lot get burned out, some burn out all the way. Drugs, partying... jumping from fifty-seven story buildings or putting shotguns to their heads. But a lot of them just quit the biz for the very same reason you're hurting right now. Not the sex tape, but the stress and realizing that music... it's both a calling and it's a job, man. We're happy when we play, but it's not forever. We put the guitars and drums up, we have to look ourselves in the mirror. We have to go to the store, we have the same dreams and needs of everyone else. Like love.”
“Like love,” I whisper, putting my head against the railing. “Jesus, Ian, this hurts.”
Ian nods, saying nothing for a long time. Finally, when he does, it's with concern in his voice. “Rocky... I don't want you going on if this is going to kill you. I'd rather we break up the band. I can get a spot working with someone else. It won't be the same, I've enjoyed every minute of being in the Fragments with you. But I don't want to see you dead.”
I swallow, and while my eyes are looking out over Manhattan, I shake my head. “I'll make it, Ian. I owe you and Joey that much.”
“Bullshit. You don't owe us a fucking thing,” Ian says, his voice level and contemplative. “You owe yourself.”
I think it over, and make a decision inside myself. “Okay, maybe I do. But I owe myself more than just walking away. I don't know if I've got a career in this, but that song, the concert tomorrow, I owe that to myself. For all the pain, all the hard work... and that song. It is fucking timeless.”
“And I read the original paper, man. I don't know what she became later on or why, but the eighteen-year-old girl who wrote Four Letters those years ago… she loved you, Rocky. So, if you want my fifty cents’ worth of free advice, tomorrow night, sing to that girl. Not to the image you've got in your mind and heart right now... but sing to the girl that loved you, and to the image that you love. Don't let it go into past tense yet, it's too fresh, too raw for you. But tomorrow, sing for that girl.”
“And the rest of the songs?” I ask, thinking of the fifteen song set that we've put together over our free moments the past few days, old material, new material, and a few rock covers that we've done in concerts just for fun, and thankfully no Eternal Flame.
Ian looks over and smirks. “Sing for Joey. You know he's got the hots for you.”
I laugh and punch Ian in the shoulder. “Asshole. Why do you have to make me smile when my heart's breaking?”
Ian gets up and offers me a hand, pulling me to my feet. “Because that's what life is. Smiling through heartbreak while you slowly freeze your ass off on a New York rooftop. Hmmm, wonder if we can turn that into a song?”
I clap him on the shoulder and give him a hug. “Thanks, big man. No matter what, I've got your back.”
“And I've got yours, Rocky. Come on, Martha's gotta be pissing her pantsuit by now.”
We go inside, where we find Joey and Martha with worried looks on their faces at the studio level, the concern clearing when they see that I'm okay. Martha comes up closer, rubbing my frozen cheek. “Rocky...”
“It's okay, Martha,” I reassure her, taking her hand and pulling it away gently. “I'll be okay. What I need right now though is to get to the airport and fly home. We've got a concert Saturday, and we've still got run throughs to do tomorrow morning on that.”
Something flashes in Martha's eyes, but she swallows and nods. “Okay, Rock. I already talked with the MTV people, they said they'll call us a limo for the trip to JFK. We'll be there in plenty of time. Too bad we don't have a private plane.”
“Hmm, maybe for the world tour,” Joey jokes, patting me on the back. “Come on Rocky, I was thinking we can put a version of Pour Some Sugar on Me in the set Saturday.”
“Not if you want to get paid,” Martha warns, growling, as we turn and leave the studio, heading for the elevator. “You play any Def Leppard, and I'll castrate you all.”
“Then we can sing The Bangles without a problem,” Ian deadpans, and Martha growls again. “What?”
“Fucking rockers. Wiseasses, all of you. Come on, let's go home.”
Cora
The concert isn't so much a concert as it is a press event, and because of that, it's got the whole media circus going along with it. Red carpet entrances for the celebs, who are showing up and being dropped off by their drivers in outfits that might look tame at the MTV Music Awards, but that's about it. For the rest of us who might drive their regular cars, valets are mandatory.
Also, Vevo is streaming the whole concert on the brand new “The Fragments VEVO” channel tonight, with the world premiere of Four Letters happening immediately afterward on MTV.com and on YouTube. I checked this morning, the preview video's hot, already garnering over a half million views even though it's only a forty-second preview clip. As for me, my original ticket was for a celeb entrance, but I go instead through the regular entrance, skipping the circus.
What this means for me is that I'm able to approach the venue without having to walk through the red-carpet gauntlet that the celebrities are. Instead, I look normal in my jeans and the old leather jacket that I used to wear back in high school, my hair pulled back and threaded through the hole in the back of the baseball cap I'm wearing along with the cheap aviator sunglasses that I picked up at the dollar store today.
Why I'm doing this, I don't really know. Actually, check that, I do know. I knew when I dropped Bella off at Mom and Dad's house, already dressed for this fool's errand. They say that love is foolish, that any reasonable person would have cut their losses and moved on by now. Let's face it, I'm not exactly ugly, at least Rocky thinks I'm attractive, and other men have hit on me too. So, it's not a matter of trying to deal with the instinct to reproduce. It's not a matter of security either if I was just money-grubbing I'd have slept my way to a decent prenup when I was an intern.
I'm doing this for Rocky, and for my heart. So yeah, I'm a total damn fool, and I am more aware of that than ever as I hold my arms up for the security guard to sweep the metal detector over my outfit, ignoring the beeps over my sunglasses and the zippers of my jacket. “Take off the glasses.”
I want to protest, I don't know if my face is famous enough to be noticed by security, but I know that if I do, I'm just going to call attention to myself. I quickly pull them off, and the guard checks my eyes, looking carefully. “What's up?”
“Sorry, but we had a bunch of folks show up high as kites last month for some concerts that my company worked, and it's cheaper than the alternative,” the guard says,
studying my eyes for a moment before waving me through. “Enjoy it.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, putting my glasses back on and heading into the Bowl. They've built up the stage quickly, erecting temporary extensions that will allow the guys to cross the moat-like gap between the normal stage and the rest of the arena. The Starlight Bowl is often used for stage productions, not rock concerts, and the production crew wants to make sure that not only are the guys close to their fans but also that nobody gets trampled in between a couple of wrought iron fences.
Thankfully, I can use another element of the Starlight Bowl to put my plan into motion. Established the way it is, and built in the late forties, the wings aren't built with the same amount of defined 'front/back' areas that newer stadiums are. The giant evergreen shrubs that extend around the wings of the stage allow open access to the back of the house from the arena area.
I use the shadows and the general hubbub of the situation to try and put my insane plan into action. Roadies are still on stage doing mic checks and lighting checks while most of the concert goers are outside, checking out the A- and B- listers who made it to the concert, probably begging for a few autographs, snapping photos, and stuff like that. Still, there's a lot of people around, and I plan on taking advantage of the craziness. I head towards the wings of the Bowl, looking to get backstage. My plan is simple, just act like I'm supposed to be there, and hope that nobody notices that I'm not wearing an ID tag until I run into Rocky, Ian or Joey.
I slip past the big bushes, and in seconds hit my first snag. While the original plans for the Starlight Bowl might have only had the evergreens separating the backstage and the seating areas, someone must have tried to pull the same trick that I'm trying, because there's waist high temporary security barriers just past the bushes, out of sight of the concert goers but still enough to stop someone who just randomly decides that the big ass bushes aren't a real barrier. I grab on and jump, thankful that I'm wearing tennis shoes and land on the far side. Safe, so far.