Pulling my rocker persona firmly into place like armor, I winked at her. “So, you’re my number one fan, huh?”
She nodded her head as a smile split her face in two. It was a title many girls had proclaimed over the past several years. But I’d always known who my true number one fan was. And no one would ever hold a candle to her.
“Before you run off to do… whatever,” Lila said, motioning between me and Jasmine, “Dawson, you need to put in an appearance at the after-party. Last official duty and all.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “Come on, Jasmine. I’ll introduce you to the other guys.”
We walked side by side, but I was careful not to touch her. I didn’t want to appear too interested or friendly. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Though my intentions were always clear, sometimes I did inevitably hurt someone. My heart and mind were completely unavailable. Usually my body wasn’t either. I wasn’t even good for a quick bang. Definitely not even a one-night stand. It hadn’t stopped me from trying on occasion. For months, I’d hoped I could use meaningless hookups to help me forget.
I tried. Really, I did. But no matter how many times I moved in that direction, I could never seal the deal. Maybe one day it would work. In the meantime, I was sure those disappointed girls were probably ruining my image on social media. But I just couldn’t find it in me to care. When the escape worked, it worked. And when it didn’t, I learned a long time ago, just to forget it and move on.
“I’m so excited to hang out with you,” Jasmine said.
I didn’t bother answering her. The noise in the green room spilled out into the hallway before we even opened the door. When we crossed the threshold, the party was in full swing. Scantily clad groupies were draped across all my bandmates and several of our roadies. Some had already dispensed with their clothes altogether. The alcohol flowed freely, and the back table was filled with all our favorite foods. At least Steve made sure the rider was correctly filled this time. I introduced Jasmine to the rest of the band. Her shock didn’t even register with me. I’d become immune, numb to it all.
“Help yourself to food and whatever,” I shouted to Jasmine.
She followed me dumbfoundedly while I fixed a plate and grabbed a soda. No alcohol for me. Though it called to me like a siren’s song. Something inside me whispered that if I’d just take a drink or five, then I’d be able to forget enough to find release with someone else. Someone who wasn’t her. But my heart refused to risk forgetting her for even a second.
With my plate balanced on my palm, I moved through the room until I found a chair to settle in. I placed my plate in my lap to discourage Jasmine from perching there. Groupies were incredibly forward and acted entitled sometimes.
Mindlessly, I ate each thing on my plate—chips with dip, strawberries, grapes, sandwich, pizza. Meanwhile, Jasmine droned on and on about how her friends wouldn’t believe the head of our public relations team had selected her to hang out with me. As she spoke, my mind was engaged in writing a song.
The lights, the screams
Used to be my dream
The stage, the rush
Now I crave the hush
For in the quiet still
I can dream my fill
My fill of you
Back when I knew
You dreamed of me too.
EXCITEDLY, I asked the group near us for a pen. Flipping my paper plate over, I scribbled the lyrics on the back. Then I folded the plate up and shoved it into my back pocket. I didn’t know why I bothered to save them. They were destined to join all the other scraps of words I’d written. Lines written here and there over the past couple years. Doomed never to become a whole song. Never to have melody, rhythm, harmony. Just another unfinished lyric from a heart too broken to find completion.
My head was full of her.
All around me were opportunities to get out of my head—beer, liquor, weed, coke, women. Sighing heavily, I sipped my soda. I needed to get out of here. I’d done well the past several months steering clear of temptations. Locking myself in my room on the bus after shows as often as possible helped me avoid the draw of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes the crash from performing combined with the deep ache I carried in my heart made the lure too much. I’d grown strong enough to walk away before I fell down the rabbit hole again. But I recognized the need to jump looming inside me. It hadn’t happened much lately, but I couldn’t walk that road again. I needed to do something else to numb my mind for a while. Sighing, I decided I had to try. Maybe this time would be the time.
I stood and looked at Jasmine. “Want to get out of here?”
“Sure,” she readily agreed.
As I passed Steve, our manager, he grabbed my arm. “Dawson, don’t forget when you get off the bus in the morning, you have to take all your stuff with you. I won’t be able to get anything you forgot on it for several weeks.” The label was sending our—not ours anymore—tour bus to be repainted and assigned to another band. They’d bought out my half.
“Sure thing.” I saluted him as we passed.
We kept walking until we reached the door, where Joe, my bodyguard was stationed. He raised a brow at me, and I tilted my head down the hallway towards the unused dressing room. He gave me a disapproving look. But I didn’t care. He didn’t understand. Hell, I didn’t even understand it myself.
“Give me your phone,” I told Jasmine.
“What for?” She frowned, clutching it to her chest.
“Don’t you want a picture of the two of us?” I quirked an eyebrow at her.
Shaking her head, she giggled. “I can’t believe I forgot to ask for a photo.”
“Hey Joe, can you take a picture of us?” Turning to him, I communicated more with him silently.
Jasmine handed her sparkly colored phone to Joe, and then she wrapped her arm around my waist. I settled my arm lightly across her shoulders.
“Joe’s going to hold on to your phone for you while we take a walk for a bit. You can get it from him later.” I’d learned to never trust a groupie with access to a phone during my moments of weakness.
“OK,” she readily agreed.
As I shut the door behind us, she asked, “Are we going somewhere quieter?”
“Depends on how loud you are,” I said with a smirk. I attempted to slip into the role she expected me to play. The role everyone expected me to play. I’d probably fail miserably. The label had demanded I be the rock god sex symbol from the beginning. But the past couple years, they’d really pushed the man whore image.
She giggled and slipped her hand beneath my shirt, exploring my muscles as we walked. I forced myself not to cringe.
When I reached the door at the end of the corridor, she rushed in ahead of me. The light from the bathroom in the back barely spilled into the room, illuminating a couch and chair. Jasmine reached for the main light switch.
“Leave them off,” I commanded. The harsh overhead lighting would interfere with my ability to lie to myself.
♪ Numb by Linkin Park
She stepped back up to me. I ran my fingers through Jasmine’s hair. It was soft and silky, almost as silky as…
Nope, not going there.
Jasmine’s lips searched for mine, but I turned my head away. I could maybe use my body and a stranger’s for a short-term escape, but I couldn’t ever give my kisses. They weren’t mine to give.
Jasmine didn’t seem to notice that her aim fell short. She kissed my neck. And I closed my eyes and pretended that different lips drew patterns on my skin. That different hands roamed my body. That different perfume filled my nostrils. That a different voice filled my ears. And that a different body would be bringing me bliss. Maybe I could lie long enough to get hard and get off this time.
BANGING WOKE me from my peaceful dreams. A fist against my door continued to beat. Cursing under my breath at being ripped from a fantasy where everything was perfect, I yelled, “I’m up. I’m up.” I wiped my hand over my face.
“We’ve got an hour, bro,
to get our crap together before we’re at your place,” Brooks’s voice sounded through the door.
Tossing off my sheets, I stretched. I threw on some clothes and started glancing around the room that had essentially been my home for most of the past three years, across five continents and countless countries. I never imagined a world where our tour bus would be shipped across an ocean, so we could tour the other side of the world.
♪ Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey
Thankfully, all my clean clothes and dirty laundry were packed. When I’d come back to the bus last night, I’d showered to wash off the remnants of the evening. Then I’d gathered my dirty clothes and emptied my dresser. That only left gathering my electronics and little things that made the bus feel more like home.
I grabbed my box of keepsakes from the nightstand drawer—photo album, sketch book, my music notebook, a long piece of red ribbon, some ticket stubs, black velvet ring box, a jar with colored strips of paper messages—and gently placed it inside my suitcase. Gingerly, I picked up the framed photo I fell asleep to each night and woke up to each morning. My fingers traced the fly-away, honey-colored hair tipped in pink, her rosy cheeks, her pink lips, her green eyes. I pressed a kiss to the cold surface covering her face.
“I’m so sorry, flutterby,” I whispered before I added the image to my suitcase.
As I reached for my iPod, the bus turned, causing the small device to slide off the smooth surface and fall into the crack between the nightstand and bed. I peered into the crack, but it was too dark and narrow. Reaching in blindly, I began to feel around.
Aha. I felt the corner of it. When I wrapped my fingers around it, I felt the hard corner of some other rectangle of similar size. Confused at what else might be in the tiny abyss, I traced my fingers along it but could discern nothing but a smooth surface. I couldn’t grab both things because the space was too small. I pulled the iPod out first, then dove back into the black hole.
Once I pulled the mystery item up from the crevice, I realized it was my old phone. The one I’d thought a groupie had stolen years ago when Brooks—encouraged by Wilder—brought a couple groupies onto the bus, and they ventured into my room while I was out.
I tried to power it on, but the battery was long dead. I yanked the power cord from my new phone and plugged in the old one. While it charged, I packed the last of my stuff.
When it had enough juice to turn on, I drew in a deep breath. I didn’t know what I’d find. It had gone missing two years ago, not long after my fame ruined my relationship. The phone demanded my Social Security Number to unlock it. Once I pressed the digits, all sorts of noises emitted from the device, alerting me about unread emails, unopened text messages and unheard voicemails, not to mention the missed calls.
With trepidation, I checked the missed call log. Too many to count—missed calls from Izzy, my parents, unknown numbers. With a trembling finger, I dialed my voicemail.
“You have ten new messages. Press one…” the familiar robotic voice droned in my ear.
First unheard message: “Hey sweetie, I know you’re at sound check. Just wanted to let you know I miss you, and I love you.”
My heart clenched at the sound of her voice. It had been so long since I’d heard those three words spoken in her voice. Especially if I didn’t count the videos saved to the cloud I watched on repeat when I was feeling particularly masochistic.
Then a concerned message from my mom played in my ear. Followed by the voice of an angel. My angel.
♪ Angel by Shaggy
“It’s been a few days, baby. I bet you lost your phone charger. The press found out my number. The nerve of some people. Anyway, just wanted to let you know I love you, and I got a new number so the reporters can’t harass me too much. I’ll text it to you when I hang up. My old number will only work another few hours. Talk to you soon. And don’t worry, we’ll get through this. A bunch of nosey reporters don’t scare me.”
Not my charger, my phone. I’d lost my phone.
Her words of reassurance lifted my heart, but then it crashed as I wished the message had been received before it was two years too late.
Next unheard message: “Hey baby, I hope things are OK. I need to talk to you about how to handle something. Call me back. I love you.”
The vice squeezed tighter. I almost wished I hadn’t found the phone. The picture I’d painted in my mind the months after losing touch with her didn’t fit with the reality being revealed by her messages.
Next unheard message: “Dawson, call me as soon as you get this. I’m scared. I think I’m… never mind. Just call me back.”
The fear in her voice was easily recognizable to my ear, and it sent a dagger through my heart.
Next unheard message: “Forgot to say, I love you.”
♪ I Just Called to Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder
A smile creeped on my face despite the tears blurring my vision. She always had to say she loved me, even before we were more than friends.
Next unheard message: “Since you aren’t answering your phone or text messages, I’ll try to email you again.”
Next unheard message: “Dawson, I need you. Please call me back.”
With each message, her voice betrayed more. She was barely holding it together. I wasn’t sure how much more of her pain I could listen to. I hated myself for not being there for her. For losing my phone in the first place. For not trying harder, fighting harder. For not leaving the tour when I thought she wouldn’t take my calls.
That message was followed by a concerned message from my dad, asking me to call him back right away. Another person I’d let down over the years.
Next unheard message: “I don’t know what happened, Dawson, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m proud of you achieving your dream. I love you. Take care of yourself.” Her voice was stronger, still sad, but resigned to goodbye.
The robotic voice said, “End of messages.”
I didn’t know whether to be relieved I didn’t have to hear her heartbreak in my ear anymore or disappointed there were no more messages to give me pieces of her again.
With a deep sigh and trembling fingers, I opened my text messages. I scrolled up to the oldest one. It took several swipes to get to the first missed text.
Izzy: Hey baby, I miss you.
Izzy: Saw your interview. Hope Lila was pleased with how you handled the questions about us.
Izzy: Here’s my new number. 854-569-0023
Izzy: You’re my sunshine too.
Izzy: Did you lose your phone?
Izzy: Love you.
Izzy: Whenever you get this, call me right away. It’s important.
Izzy: I know you’re OK. I heard an interview you did this morning. Why aren’t you calling me back?
Izzy: Did I do something wrong?
Izzy: Did the label tell you to distance yourself from me?
Izzy: I’m going to back off. I’ve got other things I need to focus on. I love you.
Izzy: Guess you decided that a relationship wasn’t what you wanted after all. I wasn’t what you wanted. Goodbye Dawson. Have a nice life.
The timestamps on the texts showed they were interspersed among the voicemail messages and occurred over many, many days. For weeks, she thought I was ignoring her, while I thought she’d given up on us. My heart constricted as I imagined all the thoughts that must have run through her mind when I didn’t answer at a time when she really needed me. I dreaded opening my email.
There weren’t many unread messages, as no one had this email address.
I clicked the oldest one with hearts and “Love you” in the subject line. The pink text she always used filled the screen.
TO: Dawson
Dawson, I left you a voicemail, but I know you forget to charge your phone all the time when you’re on tour. I hope you’re checking your email. Something’s wrong. We weren’t exactly careful when I came out to visit. You know with me forgetting to take a few pills because of the time differences and e
xcitement. So, I’m not blaming you or anything. I took a few tests, and they’re all negative. But all the symptoms fit. And so does the timing. It explains my exhaustion. I’m going to make an appointment to see a Dr. in a few days. Just wanted you to know what’s going on. Call me as soon as you get this. We can figure things out together. I need you. Please call me or write or text. Don’t forget I changed my number. I love you.
I OPENED the next message with “OK” as the subject line. It had been sent a few weeks after the first email. The message was short and lacked her usual emotion.
TO: Dawson
Dawson, I never heard back from you. I guess you’re too busy. Just wanted to say I miss you, and if you still want to check in, that’s OK, but if you don’t, I’ll be fine. Everything is sorting itself out. Love you.
ONE MORE UNREAD message sat looming in my inbox. The subject line was 3 angry letters—“WTH”. With a deep breath, I clicked it open. No pretty pink text filled the screen. Just the standard, automatic black text.
TO: Dawson
What the hell is this article talking about? Maybe that’s the answer you’ve been trying to tell me with your silence. A picture’s worth a thousand words, especially when the words are lies. You said so yourself. I’m sorry I didn’t get the message sooner. I won’t bother you anymore. Good luck with everything.
I COULD COUNT the number of times I’d heard her cuss on one hand. There were words she didn’t even like to hear. Dread filled me over what could’ve brought that out in my sweet girl.
I clicked on the attached article. The headline read: LO Frontman definitely back on the market, or maybe was never off it.
It went on to read: The sound of hearts shattering all around the world has been heard for months, as fans of Lyrical Odyssey have speculated that lead singer, Dawson Anderson was in a secret relationship. The lack of groupie pairings and after-party appearances seemed to support the rumors. Numerous intimate sightings of the sexy singer with Isabelle Clark suggested his heart was taken. Not to mention, the video footage of the two of them from a rendezvous in Amsterdam all but locked the ball and chain around the rocker’s ankle.
Notes of the Heart: Book 2 of the Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Page 3