Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Amanada Lawless

  Honestly...I think that I’m falling for him.

  “How the hell did that happen?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head in disbelief. I’m not a girl who falls in love on a whim. So far in my twenty one years on this planet, I don’t think I’ve actually gone and fallen in love with any guy.

  I know what it is to love my family, and maybe a close friend or two. I had a hamster once that I loved with all my heart. But loving a man? I have exactly zero knowledge about the matter. Especially when the man happens to be an international rock star. I suppose we have shared a lot together in these past few days, more than most people probably ever share to be honest. There's just something about him, and the timing of all of this coming together at once.

  Where can I even go from here? I’m sure the last thing Trent needs is a lovesick songwriter trailing him around the country. The Trent Parker that the world has come to know doesn’t do the whole “love” thing. He does the arm candy thing, at least publicly.

  What the hell would people think if I suddenly started appearing by his side? They’d probably think I was just trying to steal a little piece of his fame for myself, or that he was trying to draw in a new demographic of listeners by dating some indie chick. Whatever we did, wherever we went, some swarm of gossip columnists would have an opinion about it.

  That’s supposing that Trent would want me around at all—or that he could possibly be having the same thoughts that I am. I don’t dare hope that some part of Trent is wondering about the depth of his feelings for me.

  I doubt that “love” is a word Trent bandies about. He’s a rock star, for god’s sake. He’s practically contractually obligated not to believe in love. He’d probably think I was a lunatic if I ever told him what I was feeling now.

  And even if, by some holy miracle of the divine, Trent did have feelings for me that went beyond our one night together, what then? I’m not exactly a free agent in the world. I have a band of my own, fragile though it may be.

  I’m still in school—and I have no interest in dropping out to be a rock star’s girlfriend, or groupie, or whatever. And what about Mom and Kate? How would they ever understand my wanting to be with someone rich and famous? We grew up with so little, but what little we had was carefully crafted and full of love.

  The opulence and excess of rock stardom would probably turn my family’s stomachs.

  A powerful pang of homesickness wrenches through me as I think about my little home in Barton. I wish I could be back there right now, helping my mom paint the kitchen whatever color she felt like that week. I just want to sit back on my front porch with a notebook and a beer, and forget about fame and fortune forever. But I can’t have it both ways. I can’t have my peace and quiet and keep my rock star, too.

  With a heavy sigh, I peek inside the tent. A wave of guilt catches me off guard as I take in the sight of Mitch, curled up alone on a half-inflated air mattress. I’ve been a terrible music partner and an even worse friend to him since we got here. He’d been as good a sport as anyone could have asked about this whole thing. Sure, I’d had to drag him kicking and screaming to the festival. And sure, he’d been a huge dick after our first performance. But still, I owe him a little bit of appreciation after all his years of loyalty.

  I unzip the tent as quietly as I can and step inside. It’s sweltering as ever in here, though the day has hardly even started in earnest.

  I cross my legs under my body and sit next to Mitch’s sleeping form. His clothes are a mess, and the smell of vodka hangs heavily in the air. I suppose he spent last night getting wasted yet again. I feel like it’s all my fault, and I hate that. I never meant to make him this unhappy. I don’t have feelings for him, sure, but he deserves better than how I’ve been treating him.

  Gently, I lay a hand on his shoulder. His nose twitches, but his sleep is pretty deep. I give him a little shake, trying to rouse him. Slowly, he begins to notice my insistent presence.

  He stretches, groaning pitifully. A night sleeping on the rocky ground will do a number on your back. Finally, his bloodshot eyes crack open and blink up at me. His mouth twists sloppily, and it’s pretty clear that he’s still a little drunk from his previous evening’s escapades.

  “Well, look who it is,” he mutters.

  “Hi Mitch,” I say, “How are you feeling?”

  “What, me?” he says, rolling onto his back, “I’m just peachy.”

  “What did you get up to last night?” I ask.

  “Not much, not much,” he says, staring up into the tent, “I snagged a bottle of vodka from some famous dude’s campsite and had myself a little party in here.”

  “You stayed here?” I ask, spotting the very large and very empty vodka bottle laying beside the air mattress.

  “Yup,” he says, “It’s not like I had anyone to hang out with.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “Really, Mitch. I just got caught up.”

  “With that asshole Trent?” he asks, pained.

  “We hung out for a while,” I admit, “But really, it was just the whole festival, you know?”

  “Uh huh,” Mitch says, grabbing for his phone, “That sounds legit.”

  “Seriously,” I insist.

  “So, you weren’t off sleeping with the enemy while I plastered myself to the wall in here?”

  “First of all, Trent is not the enemy.”

  “Funny that you associated him with the word, though...”

  “And second of all, no. I wasn’t. But it’s good to know that you have such a high opinion of me, Mitch. That means a lot.”

  I’m lying through my teeth, of course, hoping that Mitch won’t notice. I hold my breath as I wait for his response, hoping that this whole thing will blow over like so many storm clouds. He’s propped up on an elbow, staring at the screen of his phone. A look of pure fury seizes his every feature. His entire body seems to be trembling with outrage.

  Stumbling, he pulls himself to his feet, and I scramble up to the other side of the tent. His eyes are glued to that phone...and I doubt very much if I want to see what it is that’s captured his attention so.

  “Mitch,” I say softly, “Mitch, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  He lifts his eyes to mine, and I feel like the anger there is going to knock me to the ground. Mitch takes a menacing step toward me, thrusting his phone into my face. I look helplessly at the device and feel the bottom of my stomach drop out. There, plastered across the screen, is a perfect close-up photo of Trent and I dancing together. My head is thrown back rapturously, and Trent’s hands are all over my writhing body.

  I grab the phone from Mitch and scroll through the page. There are dozens upon dozens of images just like it. Pictures of us grinding up on each other among a sea of festival goers, pictures of us emerging from his concert hand-in-hand. There’s even a shot of us standing beneath that beautiful tree together, inches away from kissing. Everywhere we went together, there’s a trail of pictures to prove it.

  I feel nauseated by the thought that someone was lurking beside us all through last night, stealing away our private moments and making them public domain. And this is just one gossip blog. If they have these pictures...

  “Oh...” I breathe, as I come to the last photo of the set. It shows Trent and I clamoring up the hill to the talent campsite. Even from a hundred feet away and from behind, you can practically smell the urgency of our flight. There’s no ambiguity about what transpired between us last night, as if Mitch had needed photographic proof to know that.

  “You want to lie to me again about how you spent last night?” Mitch growls, furious.

  “Mitch,” I begin, holding the phone away from me as if it was poisonous, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought you’d be upset...”

  “Upset?” he says, with a cruel laugh, “Upset that you abandoned me to spend the night throwing yourself at a cocky asshole? Upset that you had the audacity to lie to me about it? Upset that the girl I’ve been in love with for years has turned out
to be nothing but a fame-hungry, naive bimbo who’ll suck anything to get ahead?”

  “That’s not fair,” I say, balling my hands into fists, “Don’t you dare accuse me of that. You know that’s not me, Mitch. You know full well that—”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort,” he yells, “How could you be interested in that douche bag? You hate the commercial garbage he calls music, you hate the idea of selling out.”

  “No Mitch, that’s you,” I say, “And you’ve never even listened to his music. How in the world can you judge—?”

  “Oh, god,” Mitch groans, “Can you even hear yourself? Are you so sick with pathetic puppy love that you’re actually buying into his whole act? He’s a freaking con artist, Ellie. He’s nothing but a sham propped up by a record deal and a multi-million dollar marketing campaign. There’s nothing pure or true about him.”

  “And you’re some kind of beacon of truth and light?” I shoot back, “Please! You’re nothing but a privileged, sniveling child with a batch of first world problems and mommy issues. You spend your entire life trying to knock other people’s efforts down so that you’ll feel a little better about yourself. You’ve actually got yourself convinced that you’re some arbiter of taste, and all that’s good in the world, and it’s bullshit. You hate everything, Mitch. There’s not one thing in the world that you don’t look down on or hold in contempt.”

  “I didn’t hate you,” he says, “At least, not until now.”

  “Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” I say, “And, here’s a little bit of breaking news for you: I’m not a thing for you to love or hate. I’m not an idea, or your white whale, or something you can keep on your shelf to look at when you’re feeling blue. You’ve never thought of me as anything but something that you wanted for yourself. But you know what? You don’t get to keep me. I’m taking myself off the market.”

  “That’s fine,” he says, his voice soft, “I’m not interested in damaged goods, anyway.”

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve chucked Mitch’s phone across the tent, straight at his sneering, horrible face. The device cracks against his forehead and spins away. He staggers backward, surprise and hurt piling on top of his anger. My chest is heaving with the force of my disgust for him.

  “Get out of here,” I say, “I never want to see you again.”

  “You’re forgetting, dear,” he says with gritted teeth, “That we have a show left to play.”

  “I don’t care,” I tell him, “It’s not worth it.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I mean it. This is over. I should have let you go that first night. So, consider this your invitation to stay the fuck out of my life, for good.”

  He stares at me for a long, brutal moment. Then, without another word, he snatches up his bag and turns away.

  Mitch climbs out of the tent and disappears from my view. I know in my gut that this is it, but I can’t bring myself to humor him with a goodbye. I stare up into the canopy of the tent and watch as the first fat drops of rain dash themselves against the canvas.

  Chapter Eleven

  I make myself comfortable in the main cabin of the bus, sinking into an oversized armchair. The rest of the guys won’t be up for hours, and I plan to cherish every minute of this quiet morning.

  I have no idea how to go along with this thing with Ellie. If I had any idea in the world what she was thinking, maybe I could at least make an educated guess. I’m not used to not having all the power in a relationship, or at least all the agency. Usually, whatever I say goes.

  But not so this time around.

  Through the windshield, I can see a massive storm rolling in across the plains. Perfect, I think. It’s the perfect sort of weather for lovey-dovey brooding. How am I supposed to get back out there and play our next show when, on the inside, I feel like a fourteen-year-old kid again, miffed that he doesn’t know whether his crush likes him back?

  I need to talk this out with Ellie. This guessing game bullshit isn’t going to work. But what am I going to tell her? That I’ve somehow managed to catch feelings for her in the span of, what, seventy two hours? That’s not creepy at all.

  Even if I was honest with her about this bizarre feeling, what would happen then? I don’t get the feeling that Ellie is the kind of girl who will drop her entire life to follow me around like a puppy. I wouldn't be falling for her if she was. I mean, she’s not even out of school yet. She’s got her own friends, and family, her own life. I don’t want to force my entire world onto her. How the hell would that be fair? She’d be miserable, being with me.

  I try to imagine Ellie giving up her own ambitions to tag along and hang out backstage during my shows. The very thought makes my skin crawl. She’d be hounded relentlessly, just like I am. Her face would be splattered across tabloids with horrific rumors printed below. They’d tear apart her look, her personality, her voice, just because they can.

  They’d accuse her of being a star-fucker and never let her have a career of her own. And if that became the case...I don’t see how she would ever be able to forgive me for it.

  There’s one thing I know for sure in all of this.

  I’m not worth the trouble.

  Being with me is not worth Ellie throwing away everything else she’s got going on for her. It would be selfish of me to ask her to stay. It would be nothing but pure ego to expect her to want to. But...how am I supposed to let her go, feeling the way I do?

  How can I keep her close without destroying everything else about her world? A future between us seems as cloudy as the storm on the horizon, threatening to shatter the sky at any moment.

  I hear someone moving around in the back of the bus. Somewhere in the web of rooms and bunks, one of my band mates is rising back from the dead.

  Or, so I think at first.

  I turn to face the back of the bus and watch as Kelly makes her way slowly into the light of the cabin. She’s looking at me with a cold, steely anger that I’ve seen only a few times since we’ve known each other. I wonder, wildly, whether she was witness to what transpired in my bedroom only a few hours ago. Dear god, don’t let her have been awake for that.

  “Good morning,” I say hopefully. The last thing I need is a tongue lashing from my testy manager. But the steady, unflinching fury in her eyes doesn’t give me much confidence that I’m going to get away from this confrontation unscathed.

  She takes a few slow steps toward me, and I see that she’s holding her smart phone to her chest. With shaking hands she throws the device sharply into my lap. Confused, I look down at the gadget. It’s got some stupid fake news blog pulled up on the screen. I take a closer look and recognize the subjects of the pulpy article.

  “Shit,” I murmur, as the photos come into focus.

  Some asshole photographer must have trailed Ellie and I all night long. Shot after shot cascades down the page, leaving nothing to the imagination. There’s us on the dance floor, all but getting it on right in the middle of the crowd. There’s us watching that first concert on the tree, almost about to kiss for the first time. Us leaving my concert, and...Oh, god. Us heading back up to the bus at the end of the night.

  “This is bad,” I say softly.

  “Bad?” Kelly repeats, “This is beyond bad, Trent. This is a fucking nightmare.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I tell her, “I’m sure Ellie will understand. The paparazzi are unstoppable, you know? She’ll be OK.”

  “Why the hell would you imagine that I care what your little girlfriend thinks about this?” Kelly shrieks. “I don’t give a rats ass whether her feelings are hurt, Trent. I’m talking about you. You, and your career, and the band’s future, and ours!”

  “Ours?” I ask, baffled, “What the hell do you mean ours?”

  Kelly looks genuinely flustered by her slip of the tongue. “As talent and manager. Obviously.”

  “Right,” I say suspiciously, “Well...Other than this being a pain in the ass, would you like to clue me in on w
hat’s so goddamn tragic about a spread of photos in a magazine?”

  “Are you kidding me?” she says, looking at me as though I’ve sprouted two extra heads. “What do you think your fans are going to say when they see you wrapped up in some folk rock pixie’s arms on the cover of a tabloid? Do you think that any of them will be able to respect you, if this is the kind of musician you intend to be?

  Your fans value sincerity, and a fuck-off attitude, and the fact that you’re not a media puppet. That’s your entire brand, Trent. That’s what the fans pay to see. If you go down this road, you’ll be judging reality shows and playing at bar mitzvahs before you can say ‘washed up’.”

  “That’s such a load of crap!” I yell, getting to my feet. “Sincerity? Can you even hear yourself spouting off this shit? Nothing about this entire act is real, or honest, or unfiltered. I’m just as commercial as those famous-to-be-famous assholes you seem so keen to knock. I’m just another commodity. That’s what you’ve turned me into.

  All these years, you’ve been trying to convince me that we’d only have to play the game for a little while. That once we made it big, we could play by our own rules. But that was all just a bunch of lies, wasn’t it? We’re playing by the same rules as everyone else is. We’re not doing anything new, or real...”

  “And I suppose that little girl is, though?” Kelly demands, her face twisting with contempt.

  “Yeah,” I say, throwing up my hands, “That is right. Ellie is the most genuine musician I’ve ever met in my life. She’s the kind of influence I want in my life.”

  “She’s not genuine,” Kelly laughs, “She’s just new in town. That fresh scrubbed exterior will be muddied up soon enough. Especially if she keeps hanging out with you.”

  “Why are you trying to ruin this for me?” I ask, “What do you have to gain from me being miserable and alone?”

  “Good music,” she spits, “And a flagpole act who’s not distracted by cotton candy dreams of happily ever after.”