Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel)

by Amanada Lawless

  I hope that Hawk and Dove never loses that charm, however successful I might become. Though of course, that success still has yet to be determined.

  “Bright and early,” Trent says, taking my hand in his, “We’ve got all day to prepare.”

  “Yep,” I say, smiling a little too widely to be convincing.

  My nerves are getting the better of me.

  “I know it’s scary,” Trent says, turning to me in the backseat of the car. I can’t believe I’ve been hitching rides with Mr. Private-Jet-Personal-Driver for the last few hours. His entire lifestyle still seems so surreal to me.

  “It is scary,” I say, “But I believe you if you really think this is a good idea.”

  Trent squeezes my hand in response as our car turns off onto the dirt road leading to the talent campsite. It feels strange to return again, after my dramatic exit.

  Part of me worries that Mitch will be waiting for me inside our rinky-dink little tent, waiting to tell me off again. But probably that’s just me being paranoid. I’m sure the last thing Mitch wants right now is to see me. I wonder, with a cloying sense of guilt, when we will see each other again? Or if we ever will?

  I feel as though I’ve seen his true colors over the course of this trip, and they’re far from beautiful.

  I don’t know whether I feel more betrayed or disappointed that Mitch was only interested in my friendship as a stepping stone to a sexual relationship. The fact that being friends alone wasn’t enough for him would, in another time, have meddled with my self esteem.

  But I have a lot more going for me these days than I did when Mitch and I first started playing together. I have a greater sense of myself as an artist, a vision for what my music should be, and a new partner who understands my every thought. Everything’s going to be just fine, I hope.

  The private car swings around and stops in front of Trent’s tour bus. I crack open the door and step out onto the springy grass. The air is filled with the smell of rain, and the ground is muddy beneath my feet. I don’t envy all those poor souls who had to camp out during the storm, though roughing it through the festival was always a source of great satisfaction for Kate and I.

  The campsite is just coming back to life after another night of wild partying, it would seem. I gaze longingly at the craft services tent—I’d forgotten all about that whole eating thing during that mad dash across the country and back again.

  Before Trent can reach the bus, the door swings open before us. A large, burly projectile comes barreling out the door, slamming into Trent at full speed. The human-shaped missile happens to be Rodney, and he’s soon followed by Kenny and Rodger bounding after him. The three band mates swarm around Trent excitedly, leaping all around like jack russell puppies.

  I glance warily at the door, waiting for Kelly to step out and ruin the party, but no one else materializes in the doorway.

  “You’re back!” Kenny cries, hopping up and down.

  “Of course I am,” Trent says, punching the younger guy playfully on the arm, “I said I would be, didn’t I?”

  “Sure, but we didn’t...you know,” says Rodney.

  “My word is always good,” Trent says, “You know that, guys.”

  “We sure do,” Rodger says, “And check it out! We don’t even play until tonight. You got back with time to spare!”

  “And some recovered cargo!” Rodney says, finally noticing me standing there a few paces away.

  “I’d prefer not to be referred to as cargo,” I say smiling, “But, hello to you, too.”

  “Sorry,” Rodney says, his smile dimming.

  “He doesn’t know how to talk to women. Other than groupies, that is,” Kenny says.

  “Hell, he doesn’t even know how to do that,” Rodger laughs, “Most of the groupies aren’t very talkative.”

  “Why don’t you all shut up?” Rodney says defensively. “The only woman we’ve been hanging out with consistently for the last few years is Kelly. Forgive me if my idea of women has been skewed.”

  “Well, no need to worry anymore,” Rodger laughs, “Now you can start your rehabilitation!”

  “Why?” I ask, “What happened?”

  “Didn’t Trent tell you?” Kenny says, eyes wide.

  “Tell me what?” I press.

  “I...Uh...Had to let Kelly go,” Trent says finally.

  “You...fired her?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat.

  “I did. Yeah,” Trent says, trying not to grin at my shock.

  “Can you...Could I borrow Trent for a second?” I say to the guys, beckoning my rock star to follow me around the other side of the tour bus. We make our way around the massive vehicle and come across the sad remains of my own little tent.

  The storm all but destroyed that testament to my brief run as Mitch’s musical partner. It looks like unnecessary hangers-on are being cast off all over the place.

  “I hope you didn’t fire her just for my sake,” I say to Trent, “I admit, I was upset finding her coming on to you, but I can handle it. I trust you enough, Trent, and it won't be the last time I witness a girl throw herself at you.”

  “I know,” he says, “Believe me, what she tried to pull on you was just the final straw. She’s been running this band straight into a bleak, commercial wasteland. We need a change of direction, and we need it badly.”

  “Are you sure?” I say, taking his hands in mine, “Doesn’t a band sort of need a manager?”

  “A band needs a manager that has its best interests at heart,” he tells me, “That’s not what we had in Kelly. She was more interested in making enough money to buy herself a private spa in Malibu than preserving our artistic integrity.”

  “To be fair,” I say, “A private spa would be amazing...”

  “Don’t you start,” he says, pulling me against him. He tilts my chin up and kisses me firmly. His touch reassures me, puts me at ease. But we can’t get carried away right this moment. We have work to do, after all.

  “Come on,” I say, planting my hands on his firm chest, “We’ve got a lot to practice before tonight.”

  I march Trent back around and into the bus where the guys are lounging in various states of excited contentment. Trent grabs the nearest acoustic guitar and leads me back to the little bedroom that I’ve already become intimately acquainted with. Closed off from the rest of the band, Trent and I settle down onto the still-rumpled bed and work out a game plan.

  “How will you know what to play?” I ask, as Trent expertly retunes his guitar by ear.

  “Easy,” he says, “Just sing through your songs for me, and I’ll be able to figure out the chords.”

  “We’ve got, like, twelve hours,” I say, amazed by his confidence.

  “I don’t know if you’ve been told,” Trent says with a grin, “But I’m something of an excellent musician. We’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “Just start singing,” he insists, cradling the acoustic against his chest, “I’ll follow along.”

  I set aside my reservations and decide to go with the flow. Taking a deep breath, I begin to sing:

  And if I might,

  I think I’ll just sleep

  In your green shirt tonight.

  And spend the night

  Dreaming of a porch swing

  Rocking in the twilight.

  So baby, sleep tight.

  And rest easy knowing

  That I’m doing alright...

  As my simple words float out into the air, Trent begins to pluck at the strings of his guitar. I nearly forget the words to my own song as I watch his hands dance along the instrument. I’ve only ever seen or heard him play hard, slamming rock music. But there’s a delicacy to this instrumentation that takes me completely off guard.

  He catches me staring at him and smiles. “You thought I only knew power chords, huh?” he teases, executing an amazingly complicated plucking pattern before my eyes. “Just keep singing, would you? I’m just starting to get the feel of the song.”
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br />   I soar into the next verse, weaving through the world of the song. Trent follows wherever I go, listening and responding to my voice as if it were his own. And as I round back into the chorus, he comes along. His voice harmonizes perfectly with mine, balancing and filling out my sound. The addition of Trent’s voice and music completely changes my song—for the better.

  “That was...” I breathe, as we rest between songs.

  “Amazing? Incredible? Genius?” Trent suggests.

  “All of the above,” I tell him, “I had no idea you were a real—” I catch myself, literally biting my tongue before I can finish the thought. The shadow of a scowl crosses Trent’s face.

  “A real what?” he asks, coolly. “A real musician?”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, “That came out so wrong. This is just so different from anything I’ve heard from you before. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s OK,” he says, cooling off before he explodes, “I’m just a little touchy about that. No one considers rock musicians to be artists anymore, you know? I mean, people worshipped Jim Morrison and Mick Jagger as musical geniuses, but these days...I just wish I could be recognized for being a good musician, rather than a bad boy with a penchant for trashing hotel rooms and selling albums.”

  “Well, maybe this will give you that chance?” I suggest.

  “Maybe,” he says, “That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.”

  “Hell, we could just break off together and start a whole new group,” I laugh.

  “That’s an idea...” he says, looking thoughtful.

  “Oh no,” I say quickly, “I was just kidding. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be the Yoko Ono in this little scenario.”

  “Don’t worry,” he laughs, “I’m sure we can work it out. Later. Right now, we’d better focus on getting your songs down pat. The world will be watching, babe.”

  “You really think so?” I ask.

  “I really do,” Trent says, “Do you feel ready for that?”

  “Does anyone ever?” I laugh.

  “Maybe not,” Trent admits.

  “What was it like for you?” I ask, “When you first started getting popular.”

  “It’s hard to say,” he starts, “I wasn’t in the best place back then. I was drinking a lot, doing more than my fair share of drugs. Things were pretty out of hand when Kelly snatched me up in the first place.”

  “I didn’t realize...” I say, “Sorry to bring it up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Trent says, “That’s a part of my past, no getting around it. But I’m better, now. Or at least I like to think so. I don’t feel like I need any of that to get through the day, anymore. Especially not lately...”

  “Shucks,” I say, batting my eyelashes, “You mean I’m a good influence?”

  “You’re a nut, is what you are,” Trent grins, “But a very talented, very grounded, very beautiful nut who does terrible things to me every time you come into my sights.”

  “Oh?” I say, edging a little closer to him on the bed, “Every time, huh?”

  “You stay back!” he says, “I can’t be held accountable for what happens when you make those sexy eyes at me.”

  “I don’t make sexy eyes,” I protest.

  “Sure you do!” he cries, “You’re doing it right now!”

  “That’s just how my eyes are, asshole!”

  “Well...Fine. Sexy-by-default eyes. But all the same, we need to keep working. There will be plenty of time for...other sorts of collaboration later. Come on, lead me into your next song.”

  Reluctantly, we get back to rehearsing. But every moment I spend close to Trent is another leaves me more and more desirous of him. I’ve never felt so insatiably crazy for someone in my entire life. If this is what falling in love is always like, no wonder people rave about it so much in all those songs! If things keep going the way they have been, I’ll have a few sappy love songs of my own to write soon enough.

  We spend hours in that room together, flowing from song to song in an ever-deepening state of unity. We’ve never played together like this before, and working with Trent this way is almost as thrilling as it was to sleep with him for the first time.

  There are more than a few similarities between music and sex, of course—both require a keen ability to listen and respond, both can change the way you think about the world, and both are much better when you have a fantastic partner.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The little patch of sky outside the bedroom window lightens to a vibrant blue as the hours wear on, but we keep practicing straight through the gorgeous afternoon.

  Playing with Trent doesn’t feel like work, the way playing with Mitch sometimes did. This expression feels like such a natural extension of our dynamic that moving from song to speech is seamless. I feel completely in synch with Trent, as though we’re of one mind. I’ve never felt this kind of easy engagement with anyone, and I’m eager to keep exploring it.

  A knock on the door interrupts our marathon jam session, and Kenny pokes his head into the room.

  “What is it, Kenny?” Trent asks, a bit irritated by the interruption.

  “Sorry to intrude,” Kenny says, “But you guys do know that it’s, like, five o’ clock?”

  “What?!” I screech, “How is it five o’ clock already?”

  “I dunno,” Kenny shrugs, “Just is.”

  “Trent, we’ve got to get down to the stage!” I breathe, springing to my feet.

  “Don’t worry,” he tells me, slinging the guitar over his back, “Everything’s under control.”

  “But—”

  “It’s all cool,” he insists, leading me out of the room, “Just trust me.”

  I nod, fighting to keep my chin from quivering. This is it, the moment of truth. Time to see whether the world can stomach us. Time to see if anyone will give a damn about what we have to share. But whatever the reaction, at least I know I’ve found something beautiful in this surprising collaboration.

  Trent leads the way through the tour bus, and the three guys fall in step behind us as we make our way out into the early evening.

  “Are you guys...coming?” he asks.

  “Of course we are!” Rodger says, “You think we’d miss it?”

  “No, I just...Thank you,” Trent says, “That’s pretty cool of you.”

  Rodney hands Trent a flask, and my partner takes a hearty slug. He holds it out for me, and I raise it to the group before taking a swallow of smooth vodka for myself. A little liquid courage will go a long way, right about now.

  The five of us turn and head down the hill together. I have to admit, it’s nice having a little posse to be a part of. Especially one that knows the ropes of this whole “fame” thing.

  As we approach the bottom of the hill, a crowd begins to form. People peer up at us as we come ever closer, and I can feel my chest growing tighter with each step. The guys spread out around me, forming a protective little "V" to keep me from getting overwhelmed by the crowd.

  Beside me, Trent walks with long, authoritative strides, challenging anyone to be disparaging about our joint appearance. As we make our way to the stage, he throws his arm around my shoulders and pulls me tightly against him. I wrap my arm around his waist, grateful beyond measure for his infectious courage.

  People are clamoring at us left and right, but we keep on trucking until we close in on the stage where Mitch and I were set to perform. We duck backstage, finally leaving the throng behind.

  From among the intricate system of curtains and audio equipment, Pearl the stage manager comes bustling toward us. She’s even more excited than when we first met—which is not something I’d thought possible.

  She’s beaming from ear to ear as she comes up and wraps me in a hug.

  “You sure have had a busy festival!” she laughs, eyeing Trent.

  “You could say that, yeah,” I tell her.

  “We’re just about ready for you out there,” she says, looking around the backstage worl
d, “But where’s your partner?”

  “Right here,” Trent says, stepping forward.

  “No, no,” Pearl giggles, “I meant your songwriting partner. Where’s Mitch?”

  “Trent is my new songwriting partner,” I tell the stage manager, “Mitch and I had a bit of misunderstanding.”

  Pearl’s eye widen. “Oh...Oh, dear. This is rather unexpected. We don’t really have anything set up for the whole band...”

  “It’s just me,” Trent says, “We’re doing the acoustic duo thing, don’t worry. As long as a couple of mics are set up, we’ll be fine.”

  “But...The crowd is expecting to see Ellie & Mitch,” Pearl says anxiously.

  “They’re getting something better,” I tell her, “They’re going to see the first ever performance of a whole new group...Jackson & Parker.”

  “Nice one,” Trent says.

  “I don’t know how this is going to go over with these fans,” Pearl says, biting her lip.

  “Well, we don’t know either. So why don’t we find out, huh?” I say.

  “OK,” says the stage manager, backing away, “I’ll just...get out there and introduce you, then.”

  She hurries away as the rest of the band wishes us all the broken limbs in the world.

  It’s just Trent and I, standing alone backstage. I can hear the rumble of a huge crowd beyond the curtain—I’m sure there are far more people out there than last time. A stampede of butterflies breaks loose in my stomach, and it’s a struggle to set aside my doubts.

  What if they really do hate us as a duo? I know that I shouldn’t care, but my skin isn’t that thick yet. There’s always going to be a part of me that just wants to be liked, to be the best.

  “Trent, this is crazy,” I hiss, squeezing his hand.

  “That’s true,” he smiles, brushing my hair out of my face, “But it’s exciting too, isn’t it?”

  “What if they just despise us?” I ask nervously, “What if they see you, me, and a guitar, and call bullshit on the whole thing?”