Rocked in the Dark

by Clara Bayard

  “What the fuck is this? Are we having a fashion show or working?”

  “Simmer down, man,” Joe said.

  Rick tossed a glare so hard at him I almost staggered from its power. “What’s your problem, man? Away from your girl for five seconds and already sniffing around for a replacement?”

  My mouth hung open with shock. Why was he acting like that? Like he was…jealous.

  Joe chuckled. “Whatever, Rick. I’m just being friendly here. Julia looks beautiful. I may be in love, but I ain’t blind. And Liss wouldn’t mind a bit.” He smiled broadly and spoke his girlfriend’s name almost reverently.

  “Rick, why don’t you mind your own business. No one asked for your opinion,” I said testily.

  He shook his head, clearly annoyed. “Whatever. I don’t give a shit. You obviously didn’t walk in here looking like sex on legs by accident. Don’t see any reason for everyone to kiss your ass about it.”

  Ignoring the flutter of something in my belly from knowing he thought I was sexy, I focused on the rest of what he said. “Right, of course. Why should anyone be nice, right? It’s all fake bullshit?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Damn. I knew you were an asshole, but I didn’t realize you’re a dumb asshole, too.”

  “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

  “You heard me. Now fuck off and go pout in a corner like the child you are. The grown-ups are busy.”

  I turned my back on him and gave Joe my attention. “So, tell me about this girlfriend of yours. Becca says wonderful things about her.”

  He chuckled at the sputtering sounds of anger coming from Rick. “Oh, Liss is amazing. You’ll meet her sometime on the tour. She’s in college now, but I’ll drag her away for a few days.”

  “College? Wow. That must be hard, scheduling-wise.”

  “Well, this is her first semester, but yeah, I miss her like crazy. But I’m really proud too, you know?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t, not really. But Joe was sweet, so I kept talking. Plus I could practically feel Rick’s fury that we were ignoring him, and I liked it. That’s what he got for being such a dick for no reason.

  Joe prattled on for a bit about Liss and her school. “…Most of the students in her program have blogs or something. But she’s been published by a real paper a bunch of times.”

  “That’s great.” Truthfully, I didn’t care about journalism degrees at all, but it was nice to see him genuinely excited and proud of her. It was completely unselfish, a rare trait in our business.

  But before we could continue the conversation, Christine the publicist came over, with the wardrobe chick in tow. She handed me a bunch of bracelets that I slid onto my arm while Christine talked.

  “All right, gang. Here’s the scenario. You’re just a bunch of hardworking and hard partying rockers, right? Chilling together backstage, just doing whatever.”

  I rolled my eyes again.

  “I think we can somehow manage that, Christine.”

  She busted out with one of those annoying tittering laughs again and I realized it was going to be a very long day.

  After last minute hair, wardrobe and makeup checks, we filed back into the green room. It looked very different than the last time I was in there. The plain sofas and chairs were gone, replaced with perfectly distressed dark leather seating. Every surface was dotted with either a brightly colored throw pillow or blanket; it looked like a box of crayons had exploded.

  The food and beverage table was still there, but now it was covered with a tablecloth and piled high with an impressive spread. On one side there were sandwiches piled high next to gourmet pizzas, two cakes and a huge bowl of tropical fruit that I thought might be fake.

  On the other end there were silver buckets with bottles of champagne, a selection of exotic bottled waters – sparkling and still, of course – and some of those Belgian beer bottles that come in what look like gallon bottles.

  “Holy shit,” Dex said as we all took in the sights. “Is this for us?”

  Christine tittered yet again and spread her arms. “Of course. Well, I mean, you can’t eat or drink any of it. All of this is just for decoration.”

  “You’re having a go, right?”

  She shook her head. “If you guys need something to drink or eat we can send someone out. And I think there’s some water in the fridge next door. But we spent a lot of time dressing this room, so be careful not to mess anything up.”

  “So, we’re supposed to just pretend to have a good time with all this shit?” Dex asked, incredulous.

  “Yep.”

  “All right, then.” He went over to one of the new sofas and sat down, struggling to squeeze himself between a pair of pillows.

  Matthew was standing to my left. “This should be interesting,” he muttered before heading over to plop down next to Dex.

  Rick, silent for the moment, stomped to a chair and sat down, pouting.

  Joe and I looked at each other and shrugged before going to join the others.

  The first ten minutes were terrible. The photographer came in, switched on the bright lights and took shot after shot of us pretending to “hang out” together.

  But then, like an angel from heaven, Becca appeared. With a cooler. She handed beers with their labels removed to Matthew, Rick and me. Joe got a glass of something that looked like scotch, maybe, and Dex refused anything but water.

  When she was back in the corner behind the photographers, Joe smiled and stood up, raising his bottle in the air. “To fake parties and real booze.”

  I giggled and sipped my beer. Then, as the camera flash went off in my face a few times, I downed the whole thing. I was going to need it and a few more to get through this farce.

  After that the fake party was still stupid, but a little more fun. Dex had everyone – even Rick – laughing with a story about getting detained by customs when they came back to the States after their European tour a few months ago. He’d been terrified, but it turned out to be nothing and one of the agents was such a fan that he’d had Dex sing a song into a cell phone for the guy’s wife’s birthday.

  Working on beer number three, I realized that I was actually having a good time. Because of the camera and constant scrutiny from Christine and one of the suits from the label, everyone was on their best behavior. I figured the photos would look pretty natural, after all. And I thought, with one large, handsome and jerky exception, it would be fun to travel with these guys for a few months.

  Finally, after conferring with the team, the photographer said he’d gotten enough and we could stop.

  “Guys, before you go, a couple of things. First, thanks for such great work,” Christine said, as three people came into the room and started removing the food and drinks. A guava fell out of the bowl and rolled away. I was right. Totally fake. From the way it moved across the floor I could see it was hollow plastic.

  “I know you probably can’t wait to get onstage to do what you do, but I need you to stay put for a little while longer. There’s a reporter from the local paper coming in to ask a few questions about the rehearsal process, how you’re enjoying Vegas, that sort of thing.”

  I frowned. “I thought we were supposed to be prepped before interviews.”

  “Usually, of course. But she’s only got ten minutes and don’t worry, softballs only. Cool?” She looked at each of us, and after getting no response, she nodded and said, “Cool,” again.

  We had about five minutes of peace and quiet while she was gone. I considered fleeing, but figured it was pointless. All I had on me was a room key and my cell phone. If I wanted to run, I’d need money and that was upstairs. No way I could get back to my room and be gone from the hotel before someone found me and dragged me back.

  I laughed silently at the idea, and the impulse. At one time I’d loved giving interviews. But, of course, the press goes a bit easier on you when you’re a kid.

  Two years ago I would have gnawed my own arm off to get some press att
ention if I thought it would work. How things change. It’s all part of the process, I reminded myself. You want the show, you gotta do the dance.

  SIX

  Christine returned with the reporter. “Everyone, this is Boston, the reporter I told you about. She’s here for a little chat with you.”

  Weird name aside, Boston the reporter was someone I liked from the first glance. She wore a pair of comfortable but cute jeans, low-heeled boots and a green t-shirt. Her hair was short and curly in a frizzy halo around her long face. On the way into the room she glared at Christine and then turned her attention to us, making me like her even more.

  “Hi all. Um.” She put her bag down on the floor and sank into a chair with a sigh. “So, I just got this assignment and I never do entertainment stuff, so help me out, okay?”

  Joe chuckled. “We’ll be gentle.”

  “Thanks.” She talked while digging through her messenger bag, pulling random things out and piling them up on the floor in front of her. Finally, she found a micro recorder and a pad of paper and held them up triumphantly. “Okay. Let’s do this thing.”

  Yeah. I liked this one.

  “First, you know the drill, I bet. Each of you tell me your name, spell it, and then let me know what position you play in the band.” She laughed. “That’s sports. Whatever, you know what I mean.”

  The guys went first, then once Matthew finished, it was my turn. “I’m Julia Clark.” I spelled my name slowly as she jotted something down on her paper. “I’m not in Dream Defiled. I’m the opening act.”

  My mother, who I hadn’t even noticed slipping into the room, interrupted. “Co-headliner. Julia is a co-headliner.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said. “Whatever.”

  Boston smiled at me. “Co-headliner. Got it.” She looked down at some notes. “Julia, what’s it like to be touring again after so long?”

  “Well, it hasn’t actually been that long, really. I spent over a year pretty much constantly on tour with my group a few years ago. But, that was different, of course. Out of the country and doing pretty small shows. So I’m nervous and excited about being back in the U.S. and playing amazing venues from coast to coast.” I could hear the fake cheerfulness in my voice and I wanted to cringe. After so many years it was second nature to me. Reporter asks a question, I turn into a perky cheerleader type.

  “Great, thank you. Tell me, how do you feel about your album’s performance? Sales have been respectable for a debut, but nothing like the annual cast albums you took part in from King of Hearts. Are you disappointed?”

  “Not at all. I’m really proud of the songs I wrote and the amazingly talented team that helped me get it out into the world. As long as there are people out there who want to listen to my music, I’m happy. If it’s ten or ten thousand or ten million, I’ll take it.”

  Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

  I’d spent the whole first week the album was out obsessively calling to check sales. My A&R rep’s assistant started blocking my calls it got so bad. Every time my single or the album charted I printed it out and shoved it in my makeshift scrapbook. But no one else needed to know about that. The nights I sat awake terrified that I wouldn’t sell. That I’d be dropped from the label. The days back when I was recording the album and throwing up every morning before I went into the studio, from nerves.

  But aloud, I just said, “I’m doing what I love. Sales numbers don’t really matter. Of course, that’s easy for me to say. You might get a different story from these guys here. Everything they release goes quintuple platinum the first day.”

  Reporter Boston laughed and moved on to her next question. I answered each one and before I knew it she had finished with me and went on to talk to the guys in the band. I tuned most of it out, instead making plans for the rehearsal I hoped we’d eventually get to do. Singing centered me, and I never felt more at home and at ease than when I was onstage doing my thing. That much was true.

  In the midst of my musing, I happened to make eye contact with my mother. She was pulling the sides of her mouth up in the corners with her fingers, trying to remind me to smile. I smirked and rolled my eyes instead. No cameras, no mindless grinning. That’s my deal.

  I turned my attention back to the interview, mostly just to see if it was over yet. The reporter was trying to pry some information about his love life out of Matthew, but she – smartly – gave up quickly.

  “Okay, let me see. I know we only have another couple of minutes, but let me just throw a couple things out there. Rick, how about you. You’ve been quiet.”

  Be glad for that, I thought.

  “Obviously you guys are enjoying incredible success right now. Most musicians barely dream of accomplishing over their whole careers what you have in just a few years. What do you attribute this to? Timing? Talent?”

  “Voodoo spells,” he replied dryly.

  I almost fell out of my chair. Rick made a joke. I would have thought him incapable of such a thing.

  Boston laughed appreciatively, but then nodded at him to answer for real.

  “I think it’s a lot of things.” He looked at each of his bandmates and I saw something almost as surprising as the joke – tenderness. “These are the most talented guys I’ve ever worked with. And they don’t just rest on that talent, either. We work hard every day. To be better and tighter. And we’ll never stop trying, stop learning.

  “So, we put the work in. But honestly, a lot of it is luck. We released our albums at the right time with the right people and the right songs. And it struck a chord with the fans and the industry. There’s no magic equation to success. All you can do is work your ass off and hope you get lucky.” He shrugged. “Sorry if that’s not the answer you were looking for, it’s the only one I got.”

  Boston thanked him and asked a couple of final questions, but I didn’t hear them. My attention was all on Rick.

  I’d seen, known his fierce protectiveness about his band. But I’d never heard or even imagined there was this wisdom and humility in him. I was floored. He was an asshole, no doubt about that. A sexy asshole who was amazing kisser. But maybe he was something else, too.

  After the interview we finally did get to rehearse. I warmed up in the back while the band ran through a couple of songs and then went out to work on my stuff. The guys hung out for a bit, but didn’t bother me. I was in the zone, completely focused. Well, mostly focused. Every now and then Rick’s face or his voice or his touch flitted into a corner of my mind. I shoved each thought away, but they kept coming back.

  I’d had a lifetime of practice ignoring things that bothered me, and it served me well. I got through two songs, figured out some new blocking for my opening number and chatted with our stage manager, Adam, about some things I’d need to go over with the backing band and lighting guys later. It was a bit of a challenge to plan things for a huge stage and a band I hadn’t met yet, but I wasn’t planning any elaborate choreography, so things were ironed out generally and would be adjusted for each city as we went.

  By the time I finished, I was tired and hungry, but in a much better mood. I was even able to have a five minute conversation with my mother without yelling or swearing.

  “I’d like to have a working dinner tonight, Julia,” she said with her nose buried in her phone.

  “Fine. But I need to go upstairs first. Relax for a bit.”

  “Of course.” She sighed deeply, as if allowing me an hour of time alone was some great altruistic sacrifice. “I’ll go with you. We can discuss some promotional plans. Remember, it’s going to be your job to make yourself the story of this tour. Don’t let these boys outshine you.”

  “Mom-Laura, please. I know all this. I promise if you just give me a little time I’ll happily listen to the eight million schemes you’re concocting, okay?”

  She smiled thinly. “All right. Let’s head upstairs.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “You go ahead. I need to grab something backstage and then I’ll call you in a bit for dinner
. We can go wherever you want.”

  “Excellent.” She wandered off, already calling some expensive place we couldn’t really afford and probably wouldn’t even like. She’d always been good at spending the money I made before we actually got it. It seemed this time would be no different.

  I hadn’t actually left anything backstage, so I just hung around for five minutes watching the crew guys stowing equipment for the night before heading out through the casino.

  As I wound my way through the early-evening crowds, I caught snippets of conversations. One couple was celebrating their fifth anniversary. A family had been stuck in the parking garage for half an hour because of the continuing power outages. A couple of guys around my age had won a couple grand and couldn’t decide how many hookers to buy with it.

  I smiled and kept walking until I reached the bank of elevators that went up to my room. There were four, but two were roped off and had “Out of Service” signs in front of them. That meant I had to wait a long time.

  Finally, a car arrived and I climbed in. I pushed the button for my floor and the doors started to close, but then stopped halfway open. Weird. I hit the “Door Close” button a couple of times, but nothing happened.

  A thick, muscular arm appeared the gap of the doors, then another, and it opened.

  Great. Rick.

  He looked at me and smirked. “Holding the elevator for me?”

  “Not in your dreams.”

  “Sweetheart, in my dreams the last thing you’re holding for me is a door, I promise you that.”

  I sneered right back. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Ugh, whatever. Can you move out the doorway so I can go upstairs?”

  He did move, but slowly, making sure to brush my arm with his before retreating to the other corner of the car.

  Did he know the effect that brief touch had on me? Probably. And I hated that.

  The doors did finally close this time, and I said silent thanks for that. I didn’t want to spend a single second more than necessary alone with him.