Delivering His Heir

by Jesse Jordan

  I'm crying, smiling as Rocky goes and gets the spare mic that the roadie had brought on stage, still talking. “One night, towards the end of the recording, we were stuck, looking for that one last song to finish out the album. Cora and I were discussing it, and in a move that took more guts, heart, and love than I think I'll ever see again, she shows me this notebook. In it was the song lyrics she wrote for me. And it was those lyrics that became... well, it became Four Letters.”

  The crowd roars as Rocky holds out the mic to me. “Now, I'm going to give you a choice, Cora. If you like, I'll sing the normal version for you, the one that all these people know. But... but there's another version, isn't there?”

  I swallow, and nod, raising the microphone to my lips, barely able to whisper. “Yes.”

  The roar of support from the fans is overwhelming, and it's Rocky's turn to grin. “Cora... my love, my Muse, my soul... would you do a duet with me?”

  I nod. We've sung it so many times together, and I've sung my part around our house, or in the studio with Rocky just for fun. But that's what this is, not a concert, just fun with the man I love. I smile, and look at Rocky's face, raising the microphone to my lips again and clear my throat, singing a capella.

  The light is so bright

  But still, you can't see

  The glare has blinded you

  It's kept you from the truth...

  Joey and Ian come in with their parts as the song shifts to Rocky, who does his answering verse, and the two of us sing the chorus together. It's powerful, and all I see is him as we soar, flying on the notes high above the stadium. I can see our future, I can see the love. I can see the family we're going to have, and the baby that I haven't told him about that's growing in my belly yet. I just found out today and was going to tell him after the concert. I think that plan's going to have to change.

  The song shifts, triumph replacing the sadness, and Rocky and I sing the final verse together. The one that nobody except for Ian and Joey has ever heard before, the verse we wrote when we didn't know... except we always knew.

  And now we stand together,

  The pain is gone forever,

  Lying here in your arms,

  Each mistake celebrated together

  How could they break our hearts?

  Those four little letters

  The four letters that used to hurt us so?

  When we opened our eyes to the truth,

  And saw the four letters of love,

  In the six letters of friend.

  The last notes, harmonized together, fade away into the suddenly quiet Los Angeles night, and I step forward, putting my arms around Rocky's neck and kissing him tenderly. The crowd roars, and he doesn't hear me at first when I whisper in his ear. When I step back, he's smiling, but confused. “What?”

  I raise my microphone up one last time and smile. “I said... I love you. And... Rocky, you're going to be a father. I'm pregnant.”

  The roar this time is full-throated from all sixty plus thousand people, and Rocky drops his mic, hugging me tightly. He's sobbing for joy, and it takes him five minutes to control himself before he can pick up his microphone again. “Oh, my God. Okay... uh, well... wow.”

  I think I surprise Rocky, Joey, Ian, and everyone when I speak again. “Now, if you want to give me an engagement gift, I've got an idea.”

  “What?” Rocky rasps into his mic, still wiping at his eyes.

  “Give these people the best concert of their lives. You're a rock star. So, go rock.”

  Rocky nods, and turns his face back to the crowd as I step back, the spotlight following me until I step off stage and back into the wings. I'll never forget it, my moment in the limelight, but at the same time, I'm glad to be back in the shadows, watching as Rocky gives the darkened wings a glance again, then turns to Joey and Ian, giving Ian the signal, starting with the driving beat of their new song, Limitless. Because that's what our future is.

  Limitless.

  Want to read Joey & Andrea’s Story + Ian & Mary’s story? Keep reading!

  Rock Me Baby 2

  Andrea

  I look in the mirror on my desk again, trying to decide if I should wear the non-prescription glasses or not. They've got big black frames, and with them, I certainly appeal to the geekier guys in my line of work. I swear they're the reason that I got the interview with the guys at ComicCon that actually got most of my co-workers to take me seriously and not just see me as the boss's daughter, warming a seat before I get pulled up the corporate ladder. So, in some ways, the glasses are kind of my good luck charm.

  But.... Joey Rivera isn't in video games. I don't know, maybe he is into video games, that'll be something I can find out today. I can't freak out about this though. Instead, I pull up the information I've got about Joey on my computer, reviewing as best I can. The problem is, while the Fragments might be one of the hottest rock bands to come out of California, almost everything publicly available about them is about their lead singer, Rocky Blake. A lot of that is that Rocky's got the look of a rock front man. Tall, ripped, with the right blend of brooding good looks and bad boy reputation, he was the publicity focus of the Fragments' old manager up until last year.

  That all was before Four Letters, the album that landed them on top of not just the rock charts, but the Billboard Top 100, something that in today's world of formula pop doesn't happen that often. About that time, they changed managers, with Cora Clearwater taking over. She’s Rocky's love interest, who doubles as the band's producer as well as manager now. And, in a move that left even my heart beating a little faster, it was so romantic, Rocky proposed to Cora three months ago at the debut concert for their new album Limitless. Limitless dropped six weeks ago and is on pace to outsell any rock album of the past decade, making Four Letters look like just the starting point for them.

  So, with Cora taking over as manager, and Gashouse Records hiring a new publicist for the band, James Vandenburg, they want to open the band more too. They want their fans to know more about them. Which is why I'm getting this sit-down with Joey.

  “Hey 'Dre, whatcha working on?” Harry Bethlehem, one of the other reporters for The Los Angeles Pulse newspaper and LA LifeBeat magazine, asks as he comes up, his almost ever-present can of Arizona Iced Tea in his hand. Either that or an energy drink, I'm pretty sure the rail think black man lives off of sugar and caffeine only. He looks at my monitor, chuckling when he sees a photo of Joey in his concert getup from the Fragments' last concert of the first wing of their North American tour in Dallas last Saturday night. They just got back into Los Angeles three nights ago, and this is the first media access any of the band has granted since getting back. “Ah, the Dark Prince of Rock.”

  “You know Harry, you keep trying to assign everyone nicknames, this isn't hip-hop,” I reply teasingly. Harry's found himself in the same dead end that a lot of black reporters do starting out, namely being shoehorned into supposedly 'black' areas.

  Thankfully, Harry and I get along well, and we've reached that sort of professional respect that allows us to relax and sometimes tease each other without being worried about stepping on feelings.

  I think it's because Harry and I can both see that we're sort of trapped, him by his skin tone and me by my parentage, and both of us realize it's unfair, and unchangeable in the short term at least. Harry holds his hands up, winking. “Honey, you should be proud of the fact that I call you 'Dre. Think of all the legends in entertainment that have that name.”

  I flash Harry the crossed fingers 'W' for 'Westside' that Dr. Dre and other gangsta rappers made famous, and Harry laughs. “Whatcha think, am I down enough?”

  Harry, who is not a Cali native, but comes from the mean streets of St. George, Utah of all places, laughs. “You down, 'Dre, you down. You'd be the baddest girl I know back home. So, Joey huh? What's the angle?”

  “The band's on a pause in their North American tour. It'll give Rocky Blake and Cora Clearwater a chance to tie the knot, and figure they'll t
ake that time off, pick up again after the New Year. Instead of concerts, everyone's spending money on gifts, food, Halloween costumes.... speaking of which, what's your thoughts for this year?”

  Harry's famous for pulling off some epic costumes. The same time I went to ComicCon for the interviews that got me respect, Harry went on his own, for fun... dressed as Lando Calrissian. “I'm thinking I'll be either Green Lantern, or maybe go the other way and do Sinestro. You know, I'm just not quite buff enough to pull off the John Stewart Green Lantern. Or bald enough.”

  I shake my head, chuckling. “Either way, I bet the boys out at ILM are just waiting for you to show them how to really pull off something epic.”

  Harry nods, then points back at my computer screen. “So, what's your angle?”

  “I talked it over with James Vandenburgh, their publicist, he said that Joey's willing to open up about his past, totally in private. So, I'm going for the whole 'get to know Joey Rivera' deal, a human-interest story. I mean, he's got a lot of female fans out there who want to know more about him. Other than his music, and the fact he's Puerto Rican, there isn't a lot about him out there. A lot of fans want to know.”

  Harry nods. “Yeah, P-R boys aren't all that normal in rock. You gonna push him hard?”

  I shake my head, leaning back in my chair. “No way, Harry. This isn't an exploitation piece, and James was totally clear, I can ask Joey anything I want, but this isn't to dig up dirt, but to give a profile on him.”

  “So, a cotton candy piece for the Sunday Supplement,” Harry teases, making me roll my eyes in frustration. “Sorry, I know you don't like that sort of job.”

  “No, I know what you're saying, and yeah, it's probably going to run in the weekend editions, maybe in LifeBeat, too if I can find some meat to it. So, while it's not going to be a hit piece, I'll dig for something interesting while keeping it nice, if Joey's a nice guy. I just don't know. I mean, Joey's the mystery man of the group. What the hell do you ask a guy who comes out on stage looking like something between Dracula and The Matrix, shreds guitar so hard that he needs backups on stage for when he pops strings during solos, yet goes on MTV looking like a totally normal guy? Hell, at least there's some public information about Ian.”

  “Ask Joey where he gets his guitar strings?” Harry teases with a smile. “But seriously....”

  Polly, the office receptionist, interrupts coming up with something behind her back, and a barely controlled smirk on her face. “Oh, Andrea.... got a delivery for you.”

  “For me?” I ask, a little worried. Polly's got a gleam in her eye, and I know her sense of humor, I'm a bit worried. “Uh... should I ask?”

  “It's from Chad,” Polly says, pulling out a white cardboard box that's a little over a foot high and maybe about eight inches wide. It's definitely a gift box, or maybe one of those that people but small cakes in. “I looked inside, but... well, you open it.”

  “Do I really want to?” I grumble, but still, I open the envelope that's attached to the big box, finding a card. “Hey sweet cheeks, let's get together and put these to some use. Is he kidding?”

  “Didn't you break up with that guy back in like, June or something?” Harry asks.

  I sigh, rubbing at my temples. I don't need this shit, not right before a chance at a big interview. “He just won't get it, it's over between us. I mean, he wasn't a great boyfriend, to begin with, but then when the rape accusations came out... no way, buddy. Harry, would you do me a favor and open it for me?”

  Harry shrugs in good humor while Polly tries to control her laughter, and I wonder what I just asked him to do. Harry pokes around and finds the tape point on the side of the box. The box is angled so that I can't see anything, but Harry's turning pinkish red, trying not to laugh. “Well,” I finally ask, “what is it?”

  “'Dre, I don't think I could use this even if I hooked up with all of those K-pop girl groups that came through town for the Far East Pop Festival at the same time,” Harry says, turning around the box to show me the gift. A condom tree. Dozens of colorful packages in red, green and gold adorn the tacky wire frame, and at the bottom...

  “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, taking a ball pen and fishing out the twisted-up pieces of 'clothing.' “Candy lingerie?”

  Polly laughs, picking it up the bra when I toss it on my desk. “Hey, I didn't know you were a C cup.”

  “Very funny,” I groan, taking my pen and tossing it in the trash. “There, that'll at least minimize the chance of slime spreading. Polly, if I were you I'd wash your hands. With alcohol spray and maybe some anti-bacterial gel. Keep the creep off you.”

  Polly smacks her gum and shakes her head, grinning. “Hell no. I know this ain't your thing, but if you're going to throw this out, Nick and I can put this to good use this weekend. And I know the tag on this thing, these are at least... well, they're safe, if not classy.”

  “Take the tree too if you want,” I snap, pushing the box away and huffing. Polly, who's a natural 'dirty flirt' but is pretty decent at heart, sets the candy down on the neighboring desk and gives me a commiserating look. “What, Polly? He's an asshole.”

  “No class too,” Harry adds. “There's a time for a condom tree, you know? Bachelor party, Earth Day at the Playboy Mansion, stuff like that. But trying to get back with a girl, with his trouble? You're better off without his dumb ass.”

  “He's right,” Polly adds. “Sorry, Andrea, I didn't mean nothing by it.”

  I smile, shaking my head. “I know, Polly. Listen, take anything you want, have fun with it. Have Nick eat it off you, you eat it off Nick, whatever. Pitch the rest, if you don't mind.”

  “Not a problem,” Polly says.

  “Whatever. Listen, I gotta get ready for my interview this afternoon, so while this is a blast, I think I'll actually try to be a reporter for once this week,” I reply, my mood ruined. “Just get that fucking thing out of here.”

  Polly picks up the box, closing it first before leaving, understanding what's pissing me off. Harry watches her go, then leans down. “Hey 'Dre, don't you worry about Chad. Just nail your work, and later, if you don't have plans, the two of us can go get a beer and laugh about his dumbass.”

  I grin, giving Harry a sideways look. “Your wife won't mind? Taking out the blond co-worker for drinks could get you neutered.”

  Harry's wife, Ahn-soo, is a Vietnamese immigrant, and the two of them are the office's lovey dovey couple, so Harry knows I'm joking. He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, Fridays are her painting classes. I'll be honest with you 'Dre. This guy's sense of persistence and his total lack of taste creeps me out a bit too. Seriously, you watch your ass.”

  “I watch my ass every day, Harry. But thanks. As for the beer, we'll see. But if there's time... sounds good.”

  Harry leaves, and I start gathering up my stuff for the interview. I think I'm ready. Just then, my desk phone rings, and I sit back down, grumbling. “What the hell is it now?”

  I pick up the phone, but before I can even greet whoever's on the other end, I'm cut off. “Good afternoon, honey. How's your day going?”

  Dad. Not what I needed right now. “Dad, I asked you not to call me at work anymore. If everyone sees me talking to the owner of the whole Coates Media Group, it's hard for me to be taken seriously as a legitimate reporter.”

  Dad chuckles that special laugh he has when I know he's just humoring me, the laugh that says he doesn't understand why I insisted on starting at the entertainment desk of his papers and working my way up. Still, it irks me, and his attitude is just one of the reasons I insisted on living in the dorms at college, one of the few concessions he'd given me, but another one of his pieces of freedom that came with plenty of strings. “Come on honey, I'm just on the phone, who's going to know I'm talking to my most special girl?”

  “Daaad....” I fume, trying not to whine. I hate some of his nicknames for me, they make me sound more like his girlfriend than his daughter, and that's just... icky. “What are you call
ing about?”

  “I just wanted to see what you were up to this afternoon, that's all. Can you spare me a few minutes of your time to see show me how the prettiest reporter at the paper is doing?”

  “Dad, I'd love to, but I've got an interview in like thirty minutes that I still need to get to,” I answer, hurriedly putting my bag together. “And I've got to fight traffic all the way out there still.”

  “Who with?” Dad asks, ignoring my protest. After all, he's Darren Coates, people go by his schedule. If he wants to make people wait, he can.

  “Joey Rivera, the lead guitarist for the Fragments,” I reply. “He's making a special effort to come in late this afternoon over at the studio and meet with me, I'd like to not keep him waiting.”

  “The spic?” Dad asks, setting my teeth on edge. Does he really think that sort of attitude and language works in the twenty-first century anymore? Especially in California? “I figured they'd assign that to one of your... less capable co-workers.”

  Less capable. Right up there with 'lazy,' 'urban,' and 'slob,' it's one of Dad's euphemisms he uses when he's not flat out calling someone a racist name. He thinks that anyone that wasn't born to a trust fund and all the advantages that come with it and is somehow just not working hard enough. Why else did I insist on going to UCLA on an academic scholarship instead of having my way paid, even if he does provide a lot of other things that I don't turn down, but at least acknowledge is unfair compared to some of my co-workers?

  “Dad... I asked for the interview,” I reply, holding my tongue. “Joey's one of the hottest guitarists on the rock scene, and his band is making waves. Unless you think having George T behind you means you're a scrub.”