Mitch glares at me, not too pleased about having Ellie take over the proceedings. Whatever they are, anyway. I wave cheerfully, infuriatingly, at Mitch—his cheeks light up with every shade of red you can imagine.
“Can I help you two with something?” I ask, “You need a mediator?”
“What? Oh, no,” Ellie laughs. Her laugh is rough, clumsy, not at all the practiced little trill I’m so used to hearing in LA. There’s something genuine about her—not wholesome, certainly not naive, but kind of unpracticed. She must be new to the music scene. No one stays this interesting for long in our business.
“Are you looking for your campsite?” I ask. “I don’t really know my way around.”
“That’s the, uh, thing,” she says, grinning sheepishly, “You’re sort of...in our spot.”
I look around at my tent and gear, the little kingdom I’ve set up for myself. Ellie points at a numbered marker in the ground, a feature of the landscape I just now notice.
“Oh,” I say, disappointed, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s OK,” she says, “We don’t have a lot of stuff. We could probably share.”
“Isn’t that your bus?” Mitch asks flatly, “Do you really need an entire extra site? Consumerist bullshit—”
“Would you stop it?” Ellie hisses.
“It’s fine,” I laugh, “I don’t know who I was kidding, setting all this up. You guys just go ahead and set up. I’ll get everything cleared away.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Ellie shoot Mitch a look. He stalks on back to the car to get their things. She watches me quietly as I start to break down my stuff. I can feel myself performing for her, turning all my best angles her way, tensing the muscles in my arms more than necessary. I know I’m preening, but I can’t stop myself. She’s not the type of girl I usually pursue, but she’s the kind that never fails to catch my eye.
“Sorry about that,” she says, “He’s just annoyed that we’re here in the first place.”
“So’s my manager, if it makes you feel better,” I tell her. “So, are you two a band or something?”
“Yeah,” she says, “Ellie & Mitch.”
“That’s your band’s name?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, a little defiantly. I like her more every minute.
“I can’t say I’ve heard of you,” I tell her honestly.
“No one has,” she shrugs, “We won the New Voices contest is all.”
“Aha,” I say, “Well, congratulations.”
“Thanks,” she says, grinning, “I’ve heard a thing or two about you, you know.”
“Do tell?” I smile, straightening up, “What’s your first impression, now that you’ve met me in the flesh?”
She looks at me long and hard. “Maybe, if it develops into a lasting impression, I’ll share it with you.”
Mitch yells something from the car, and Ellie rolls her eyes at me. I laugh as she stalks back toward the sedan to help her partner unpack. I watch the sway of her hips, her easy gait, the way her short haircut bounces behind her as she moves...
I may not have ever heard her music, but I’m a fan already.
Chapter Three
I’m pulled up from a deep slumber by the oppressive, heavy heat. I brush the sweaty hair away from my face and force my eyes open. The walls of our little tent are glowing dimly.
The first day of the festival has hardly begun, and already it’s sweltering. I try to roll off my quickly-deflating air mattress, but something is anchoring me. As I glance down, I see a thin but firm arm wrapped protectively around my belly. I glance over my shoulder and stifle a sigh. Mitch must have rolled over in the middle of the night and made me his little spoon without me noticing.
I let my eyes linger on Mitch’s sleeping face—he looks downright cherubic. His signature scowl must be slumbering, too, since for once it doesn’t seem to be occupying his features. Mitch has always been a handsome guy, in the rakish, brooding way that some girls go nuts for. He’s had the misunderstood musician thing down pat since before I met him. His parents raised him rather...unconventionally.
While the rest of us were watching cartoons and going to soccer practice, Mitch was reading Shakespeare and eating baby bok choy. His house didn’t get cable, and he had to beg his parents to install a computer when he started high school—and even then, he could only use it for typing up homework assignments.
Mitch’s rebellious stage was rough. He was angry with his parents for raising him the way they did. He felt like an outsider, and he blamed them completely. When I met him, he was just reemerging from a good few years of destructive behavior and deep depression. And the thing that finally brought him back out into the world? Music, of course. Making music saved Mitch’s life, he’ll tell you.
My heart smarts as I feel his arms close tighter around me. Mitch can be a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but I can never hold it against him. Beneath his above-it-all exterior, there’s still a lonely little kid who just wants to be noticed for a minute. He’d kill me for saying it, but he acts a whole lot tougher than he really is. I want our time here at the festival to be good, and amiable, and maybe a little bit fun. I can be patient with his grumpiness; I’m used to it by now. Maybe he’ll even have a good time, if he can stand to let himself.
Delicately, I maneuver my way out from under Mitch’s arm. He sleeps on, looking peaceful and serene. I wish the rest of the world could see him the way I do. To most people, Mitch comes across as a temperamental artist. But to me, Mitch is a wonderful friend. He’s helped me work through so much of my own baggage, just by helping me express my angers and fears and joys through music. Even though he can be a pain in the ass, he’s still a good guy at the end of the day.
As quietly as I can, I unzip the door of the tent. Cool air rushes into the tiny, enclosed space, and I step eagerly out into the morning. Though our makeshift dwelling is as hot as an oven, the air outside is clear and delicious. I fill my lungs with the fresh coolness of it, savoring the smell of the morning. All around us, giant tour busses and RVs stand silently—like big metal cows sleeping for the night. I look out from atop our hill, down across the sprawling festival below.
Here and there, tiny patches of movement catch my eye. I wonder if the people still wandering around the huge general campsite have even gone to bed yet? I’m not used to the up-all-night, raging type of musical atmosphere. Ellie & Mitch fans tend to be bookish, nerdy, and academic. We’re more likely to get stoned in someone’s backyard and talk about the cosmos than snort coke off toilet seats, or whatever it is that famous musicians do. I can handle myself just fine around more adamant drinkers and druggies, and have always been just fine at Hawk and Dove. I just hope that doesn’t change, now that I’m going to be performing.
A sudden familiar smell catches me off guard. Someone else must be awake in this little city on a hill. I turn around and notice a thin ribbon of steam rising from a tent across the site. As I reroute towards the fine smell of good coffee, I see that it’s a craft service tent. I remember someone telling me that our food and drink would be complementary while we were at the festival, but I never dreamed that they’d be able to accommodate my early bird ways so well!
I’m sure that my eyes are as big as saucers as I approach the lofty food tent. A couple of industrious souls are setting out fresh trays of pastries, bagels, and toast. I spot a brigade of waffle irons, bowls of fresh fruit, and a whole array of cereals and goodies. There even looks to be an omelet station off in the corner. This is certainly a far cry from the way I’m used to eating during the festival. In years past, I’ve spent five days munching on Pop Tarts and peanuts, exclusively. This will be a welcome change of pace, I must say.
“Would you like something?” asks one of the people setting up.
“A coffee would be fantastic,” I tell her. She nods and starts to turn, before a voice from over my shoulder stops her.
“Make that two, would you?” croons a rich baritone.
I
look over my shoulder and swallow hard. Trent Parker is standing three feet away from me, looking sleep-rumpled and terribly sexy. All six feet of him are perfectly balanced, from his scruffy brown curls to his worn out sneakers. He looks strong but not bulky. His muscles look natural and fine, not bulbous and gym-manufactured. His jaw line is like a straight razor’s edge, though it’s covered in dark stubble. His full lips are curled into a subtle half-smile, and his vibrant green eyes are smiling, too.
I had a hell of a time yesterday trying to keep my cool when we met. I’m no super fan, but running into someone so famous had been a little disorienting. It didn’t help that he is even more attractive in real life than he is in any picture. There’s this charming, open quality about him in real life that doesn’t seem to come across in print or on the web. He’s got quite the bad boy reputation, Mr. Parker. And while I’m not one to get intimidated easily, I can’t say that I’m not a tiny bit star struck. He’s a wonderful musician, after all. And above anything else, I find talent to be incredibly sexy. I give him my best, it’s-cool-we’re-totally-equals-right? smile.
“You’re up early,” I say, keeping it light.
“I don’t sleep much,” he shrugs, slipping his hands into his back pockets. God, what I wouldn’t give to be those hands right about now. “What’s your excuse?”
“I’m an early bird,” I tell him, “Always have been. I’ve been waking up at five in the morning for as long as I can remember. It certainly wasn’t welcome come Christmas morning, I can tell you that much.”
He laughs easily. “I can imagine. Your boyfriend must not be too happy about it either.”
I can feel my brow furrow. “My...? Oh, you mean Mitch?”
“Yeah,” Trent says, “That squirrelly kid who yelled at me yesterday.”
“He’s not squirrelly,” I say, “And he’s just my band mate. Well, not just. He’s my friend too, obviously. But he’s not...We’re not...”
“Together?” Trent suggests.
“Right,” I say quickly. Why am I babbling in front of this person? I try to redeem myself as we wait for our coffee to brew. “This is your first time playing at the festival, right?” I ask.
“It is,” he tells me, “Just like you.”
“But I’ve at least been here before,” I say with a grin, “If you need someone to show you the ropes...”
“You’re too kind,” he laughs, “But I think we’ll be OK. My band mates and I are very adaptable.”
“I’ve heard you described otherwise,” I tell him.
“Oh?” he says, “What have you heard?”
“Well,” I say, turning toward him, “I’ve heard you guys tend to not give a damn about who or what gets broken when you roll into town. I’ve heard that the only thing harder than your heads are the parties that you throw.”
“You can’t leave a ‘harder’ joke open like that,” he warns.
“Forget it,” I say, “I’m sure you’re all perfectly lovely in real life.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Trent laughs, “But we’re not terrible guys, once you get to know us. At least not to each other.”
“How about to women?” I ask.
“Is that something else you’ve heard about us?” he asks, looking at me intently.
“I mean...Yeah,” I say, sorry to have started in on this weird critical kick, “Your reputations precede you, is all.”
“It’s one of the perks of the gig,” he says sarcastically.
I’m about to press him further when two steaming cups of coffee materialize in front of us. I grab mine eagerly, breathing in the dark, roasted aroma.
“It’s the good stuff,” I moan.
“Should I give you and the coffee a little privacy?” Trent laughs.
“Maybe,” I kid, “I tend to get carried away.”
“Is that so?” he asks. I feel his eyes lingering on me, and I feel suddenly exposed before him. And much to my surprise...I kind of like it. Is Trent Parker, international rock star and bad boy of every girl’s dreams, actually hitting on me right now? Maybe I haven’t actually woken up yet this morning, maybe—
“Ow!” I yelp, as hot coffee singes the tip of my tongue. Clearly, I’m awake after all. And clumsy as ever. Trent winces kindly on my behalf while I wag my tongue around like an idiot, trying to cool it off. I’ve never been good at the whole sexy vixen thing, but this has got to be a new sort of low.
“Hope that won’t interfere with your singing,” Trent says. I can see that he’s trying hard not to laugh at me.
“Our first little show is tonight,” I tell him, “So if I show up with a bandage on my tongue, you’ll know why.”
“You’re playing tonight?” he asks, “You must be excited.”
“There will probably only be three people at our stage,” I tell him, “But still. It is exciting. We’ve never really played anywhere besides campus and hometown bars.”
“I started out in bars too,” he tells me, “It’s nothing to feel embarrassed about.”
“Thanks,” I smile, “I’ll take your word for it, that’s for sure.”
We wander away from the food tent together, our steps falling in line with each other’s. I’m certainly in no hurry to scamper away, and it doesn’t seem like he is either. If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be strolling around the Hawk and Dove talent campsite with Trent Parker, I would have had them committed. I feel like I’ve snatched someone else’s body, that the authorities are going to arrive any minute and arrest me for impersonating a successful musician. So, before the clock strikes midnight and my VIP pass turns back into a pumpkin or whatever, I’m going to enjoy myself as best I can.
“So, Ellie,” Trent says coming to a stop on the crest of the hill, “How do you usually spend these early morning hours?”
“It depends,” I tell him, “I’ll run or do yoga every once in a while. Mostly I just sit with myself. Or write, if I’m in the mood.”
“Ah. You’re the writer of the duo, huh?” he asks.
“That I am,” I tell him, “Do you write your own stuff?”
He looks genuinely offended that I asked. “Of course,” he says, “What did you think?”
“I don’t know,” I try to backpedal, “A lot of musicians don’t write their own songs, necessarily.”
“A lot of pop stars don’t write their own songs,” he corrects me, “I’m not Kelly fuckin’ Clarkson.”
“I didn’t—”
“I’ve been writing my own songs since I was fifteen,” he says hotly, “And I still do. Just because I’m successful, doesn’t mean I’m selling out. So—”
“OK, OK!” I say, cutting him off, “Take a breath, would you? It was an honest question. And in the future, I prefer to not have people jumping down my throat before the sun is even up. Or really ever, quite frankly.”
He stares at me for a long moment, and the anger drains rapidly from his face. In its place is utter embarrassment, and, if I’m not mistaken, a little bit of wonder. Clearly, Mr. Parker is not used to people speaking honestly with him.
“Sorry about that,” he says gruffly, “Haven’t had my full cup of coffee yet, is all.”
“It’s cool, I'm with ya on that,” I say.
“It’s not,” he insists, “But it’s nice of you to say so.”
“I’m not nice,” I tell him, “Not really. But I try to be kind, when I can be. And understanding.”
“I think being kind is a lot more important than being nice,” he says, looking at me with a steady, unwavering gaze. Those bright green eyes of his are shining, even in the dim light of the morning.
I take a sip of coffee so he won’t notice how tongue tied he’s making me. I’m not usually one to get tripped up talking to boys. But then again, Trent Parker isn’t some boy—he’s a man, through and through. Before I can stop them, my eyes skirt down across the panes of his chest, his tapered waist...It’s like he’s become my new center of gravity, I can’t help but feel drawn to him.
>
It must be the rock star thing, I reason. I’m just not used to being around famous people yet. I drag my eyes back up to his and force a big, goofy smile across my face.
“Well,” I say, “I’m going to head back and try to wake Mitch up. I want to get a little practice in before the day kicks into gear.”
“Right,” Trent says, “Good deal. I’ll see you around, Ellie. It was nice having someone to wake up with.”
I stifle a little sigh, thinking about what it would be like to really wake up to Trent Parker. “Yeah, you too,” I blurt nonsensically, “I mean, see you later. Have a nice day.”
I turn and hurry away from him, my cheeks burning. So much for playing it cool. He probably thinks I’m a drooling groupie, rather than a fellow musician. Well, so be it. I don’t need him to like me...though I certainly wouldn’t mind it if he did.
The tent is far too hot for productive thought, so I make myself comfortable on the trunk of my sedan. I sip my coffee as the sun peeks over the horizon, sending ribbons of yellow and orange spinning through the clouds. There’s nothing like a Hawk and Dove sunrise. Nothing. Memories of all the years past start to well up and swirl in my mind.
I feel a stinging pang of nostalgia, thinking of coming here with Kate. We’d set up camp among the masses, always with a handmade flag hanging over our site so we could find it at the end of the night. There aren’t any showers in the main part of the festival, so by the end of five days we would be absolutely caked in mud. That first shower after a fest was ecstasy.
Suddenly, I find myself wishing that I were back down the hill instead of up here among the stars. There are bathrooms and showers and probably saunas set up here. I know I shouldn’t be complaining, and I know how lucky I am to be here, but I’m feeling that same longing that comes over me in Barton when I visit from school. I feel like I’ve outgrown the pocket of air that I left behind here. Surely I haven’t changed that much, just because I happened to win some kind of contest? I’m sure that once we get down into the thick of things, I’ll feel better. No one’s going to know who I am, or care that much about our little band. It will be just like old times—dirty, boozy, and full of great music.
Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) Page 4