ROCKSTAR

by Lauren Rowe

  Everyone around me hoots and catcalls, distracting me from my aching heart. The photo on the screen this time is one of Fish, Colin, and me, as young teens. We’re playing in my parents’ garage while Ryan, Keane, Zander, and Kat look on. The three dudes watching us in the shot are visibly unimpressed by whatever they’re hearing. But Kat? She’s enthralled. Cheering wildly with her hands in the air. I smile to myself: some things never change.

  A few more photos and we’re looking at Colin, Fish, and me on the night we got signed by River Records. That life-changing night happened during Kat and Josh’s destination wedding week in Maui, after Kat had cleverly arranged for 22 Goats to play a concert for all her wedding guests early in the week—a guest list my sister knew included a certain friend of Josh’s with a record label.

  “And the rest, as they say, is history!” Kat says with a flourish. She grabs her glass of wine, raises it to me, and wishes me success and happiness and fun.

  Everyone claps and cheers and raises their glasses to me. My niece, Isabella, presents me with an adorable drawing of my band that makes me bizarrely emotional. My niece, Beatrice, not to be outdone, pops up and gives a speech that turns into a pronouncement of her own personal intention to become a rock star one day, too. “But not like Uncle Daxy,” she explains. “Like Aloha Carmichael. Because she’s pwetty.”

  When everyone’s speeches and presentations and announcements of future career goals are finished, I stand and say a few heartfelt thank yous. To Colby for always letting me borrow his truck for gigs when Fish’s van broke down, which happened often. To my parents for always letting my band rehearse in our garage. And to Kat, my beloved Wonder Twin, and to her husband, Josh, too, for letting my band play that fateful show in Maui. My voice breaking, I promise to video chat with my entire family once a week, and to regularly call my nephew, Theo, to help him with his songwriting. I make a bunch of other promises and say a few more thank yous, but it all becomes one big emotional, rambling blur after a while.

  When I’m finally done babbling, drinks are refilled and normal conversation resumes. After a while, I find myself sitting with my three brothers at the end of a long table, telling them about my conversation with Reed last night—the one where Reed said I should expect to get “mobbed” walking down the street in a month’s time.

  Ryan says, “If you didn’t wanna get mobbed, then it’s a damned good thing you made a porno disguised as a music video. Good thinking, Daxy. That ought to keep people from coming at your introverted ass.”

  “It’s not a porno,” I grumble. “It’s artistically done. Like a European movie.”

  “When the hell are you gonna show us this European-style porno?” Keane says. “I’m dying to see it.”

  “You can see it with the rest of the world when it gets posted on Sunday—when I’m safely on an airplane headed to another continent and won’t have to listen to you guys mercilessly razzing me about it.”

  “Oh, we’ll mercilessly razz you,” Keane says. “Just by text.”

  “Have you told Mom about the porno yet?” Colby asks.

  “No, and it’s not a porno, guys. The way it’s shot, it feels artistic. Like a cool sex dream, you know?”

  “Oh, well, we stand corrected,” Ryan says dryly. “Mom will totally get the distinction between a porno and a cool, artistic sex dream.”

  “Filmed in Europe,” Keane adds.

  “Maybe she won’t see the porno,” I say.

  “Dude, she’s gonna see it,” Ryan says.

  “Not if we trick her,” I say. “How about this?” I look at Keane. “Peenie, ask Maddy to slap ‘People Like Us’ over some Outlander footage and send it to Mom. We’ll tell Mom it’s the official music video for my song and she’ll be so mesmerized by that Jamie guy she loves so much, she’ll never even think to question it.”

  “Genius,” Colby says, laughing.

  “Meh, don’t worry about Mom,” Keane says. “Surely, I broke her and Dad in for you when I was a stripper. Other than maybe a full-frontal shot, you couldn’t possibly shock them more than ‘Ball Peen Hammer.’” He smirks. “You don’t happen to show your peen in the porno, do you? Because that would be hella European.”

  I laugh. “No. Pretty much everything else, though. There’s a nice, clear shot of my ass. Plus, I do a whole lot of simulated fucking in this porno.”

  “Oh, Dax,” Ryan says, mimicking our mother perfectly, and we all laugh our asses off.

  “Hey, don’t stress it, little brother,” Keane says. “If all goes according to plan, I’ll be distracting Mom from your porno soon. I just found out I’m gonna be auditioning for a part on a huge show that’ll require me to do a couple graphic sex scenes. My agent warned it’s possible they might even want to include a glimpse of my peen, just for shock factor.”

  Ryan chuckles. “Peenie is gonna show his peen? Wow, how meta.”

  “Meh, it’s just skin,” Keane says.

  “Yeah, foreskin,” Ryan says, and everyone laughs.

  “Do me a favor and show your balls, too,” I say to Keane. “You do that, and Mom would thank me for only showing my bare ass and simulating graphic fucking on a beach.”

  “I’ll tell my agent to put it in my contract,” Keane says. “Just for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why’d you agree to do such a racy music video if you’re so embarrassed for anyone to see it?” Colby asks.

  “I’m not embarrassed for ‘anyone’ to see it. Just my family. There’s no scenario in which I’m dying to have my brothers, sister, and parents watch me roll around naked with a beautiful woman on a beach and pretend to fuck her.” I shrug. “Otherwise, I’m fine with it. I mean, it’s not my preference to sell my music with my face and ass—I’d have a bag over my head in the video, if I could. Or, hell, there’d be no video at all. But Reed was super pumped on the video concept. He said it’s gonna launch us into the stratosphere. So, why wouldn’t I give it a shot, if he’s that sure? What do I know about music marketing? Plus, I was a bit of an artistic asshole during the recording process—not willing to pander—and Reed backed me up each and every time there was a difference of artistic opinion with my producer. So, I figured, hey, since the music itself turned out exactly the way I wanted it, I might as well step aside and let Reed do his job on the marketing side of things. If he thinks a scorching hot, ‘European-style’ music video sex dream porno is gonna sell the shit out of the album—the album I poured my heart and soul into—then I’m gonna trust him and find out if he’s right. In a perfect world, there wouldn’t even be such a thing as music videos. But that’s not the world we live in.”

  “We live in a visual world,” Ryan says. “I think it’s good you’re letting Reed do what he needs to do.”

  I shrug. To be honest, I’m not completely sure I made the right call regarding that video. But it’s too late to worry about it now. In mere hours, it’ll be out in the world, no turning back.

  “Hey, look at it this way,” Keane says. “If the album bombs, you can always go into porn.”

  We all laugh, including me.

  Ryan lifts his drink. “To Reed selling the shit out of your awesome record, Baby Brother. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard, and it deserves to conquer the world. If you gotta sell your face—and your ass—to get that record heard, then so be it. Good for you.”

  “Amen,” Colby says. “Get that music out there, Daxy.”

  “To you, Rock Star,” Ryan says. “May you take over the world.”

  “Yee-boy!” Keane says.

  The four of us Morgan boys clink and drink. And, again, I feel light and right.

  “So, hey, Daxy,” Keane says. “I saw you macking down on some chick at Reed’s party last night. Did you leave with her?”

  “Yeah. Colin put the proverbial sock on the doorknob at our apartment last night, so I took her to a hotel.”

  “You like her?”

  My entire body floods with tingles at the mere thought of Violet...
followed immediately by a sensation of longing and loss that physically squeezes my heart. “Yeah,” I manage to say. “I like her a lot.”

  “Who’d Colin leave with?” Keane asks.

  “One of Aloha’s backup dancers.”

  “Oh, snap! I saw him with her on the dance floor. She was a cutie.”

  “Yeah, he was losing his mind about her today. We were both pretty bummed about the timing of it all.” I sigh. “Although, even if I weren’t leaving on tour, my girl goes to fashion school in Rhode Island, so I guess it would have been tough, regardless.” Oh, my heart. It’s aching with yearning for Violet. I can’t shake the feeling that she rejected me, even though my brain keeps telling me she did the right thing for both of us. I clear my throat. “It just wasn’t good timing. My brain knows that.”

  Colby looks sympathetic. “And your heart?”

  “Not so much.”

  Ryan groans. “Dude, come on. Now isn’t the time for you to be moping about some girl in Rhode Island! Get your head in the game. You’re about to have the time of your life.”

  “Says the guy who pined for his future wife for months after he met her in a bar,” Colby says.

  “I wasn’t twenty-two and about to go on tour with Red Card Riot,” Ryan snaps. “At Daxy’s age, I was on a tear. And rightfully so, because it’s what got me ready to meet my awesome wife years later—and to then be able to know she was The One when I did. I shudder to think how badly I would have fucked things up with Tessa if I’d met her too young, before I understood who I was and what I truly wanted in a woman.” He looks at me. “Everything happens when it’s supposed to, Dax. Trust me on that. Yeah, I flipped out over Tessa and wanted her on my timetable. And look what happened. I tried and tried to connect with her, to no avail, only to find out the universe had other plans.”

  I really don’t want to hear this “everything happens for a reason” pep talk from Ryan right now. I’m aching to see Violet again too damned much for this little speech to do anything but make me want to punch Ryan’s face. But, of course, since I’m a non-violent sort of dude, rather than punch my brother, I take a long swig of my vodka and nod weakly.

  Ryan lays his tattooed forearms on the table. “Daxy, listen to me. Your Master Yoda. If you’re meant to reconnect with this girl from last night, then you will. But only when the universe decides it’s time. Until then, if you don’t go on this tour and have the time of your life and embrace every aspect of this amazing ride—including getting mobbed on the street, if that’s what’s destined to happen—then I’m gonna track you down in London or Paris or Berlin or wherever the fuck you’re moping, and I’m gonna pummel your moody fucking face. Now, get your head in the game and get ready to have the time of your life.”

  Chapter 12

  Dax

  Ultra Violet Radiation

  Burning up my cheeks, lips, heart

  Ultra Violet radiation

  It’s tearing me apart

  If I could split myself in two

  I’d give half to the world

  And the rest to you

  Would give anything

  For another night with you

  Cuz I got a feeling

  A girl like you

  Comes along once...

  Only once

  Once in a violet moon

  “Hey.”

  Startled, I close my notebook and look up... and promptly lose my shit. It’s Caleb Baumgarten. Or C-Bomb, as the world knows him. The tatted, bearded, badass, ripped, sick-as-fuck drummer of Red Card Riot. And he looks even more badass in person than he does onstage and in music videos and on awards shows and in interviews—all of which I’ve seen, and devoured, like the fanboy I am.

  Today, C-Bomb’s reddish-blonde hair—which he wears in all sorts of different styles—spikey, Mohawk, shaggy—is shaved down to the nub, like he’s a Marine in boot camp. It’s a look that’s making his prominent beard, and him, look especially badass. Seriously, the dude looks like a stone-cold killer standing before me.

  When Fish, Colin, and I boarded this private plane a half hour ago, C-Bomb and the other three guys from Red Card Riot—Dean, Clay, and Emmitt—were engaged in some sort of intense conversation with Reed and a couple other suits at the front of the plane. So, of course, not wanting to bother anyone, we three goats headed to the far back of the plane, got ourselves situated with some whiskey, water, soft blankets, and pillows, and then quietly geeked out among ourselves as the plane taxied down the runway. Five minutes ago, once we reached our cruising altitude, Colin, Fish, and I debated whether we should head to the front of the airplane to introduce ourselves to our idols, or wait a bit longer so we didn’t seem overeager and lame. Ultimately, we decided to wait exactly fifteen minutes before heading up front... but, now, a mere eight minutes into my timer, Caleb Baumgarten is standing here, greeting us like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

  Somehow, Colin, Fish, and I manage to say hello to C-Bomb, the sickest drummer in the universe, without screaming or shedding tears. In fact, I think we’re coming across pretty chill.

  After I introduce myself, Caleb shakes my hand. “You’re the singer, right?”

  I nod. “And guitarist.”

  Fish shakes C-Bomb’s hand. “Hi Caleb. I’m Fish. I play bass. But, just between you and me, I think these guys have kept me around more for my sparkling personality than my musicianship.”

  “Not true,” I say. But it’s kinda true. Fish is actually a sick-ass bass player. But he’s also been my best friend since second grade, and that’s far more important to me than his musical contributions. “He’s definitely a team player, though,” I say. “He originally wanted to play guitar in our band, but he agreed to pick up bass when it became clear that’s what we needed.”

  “Isn’t that always the case?” C-Bomb says. “What kid dreams of playing bass in a band? It’s either guitar or drums. Speaking of which...” He turns to Colin. “You must be the drummer?”

  “Yeah. Colin. Great to meet you, Caleb.”

  Wow. I gotta say, I’m thoroughly impressed with Colin right now. It’s not every day a dude meets his musical idol, and Colin just handled it with big baller energy.

  C-Bomb asks us a few questions about our band, and we answer them. I tell him the story of how Reed signed us in Maui, and he says, “Right on. Reed came to one of our shows when we were puppies and signed us on the spot, too. Great feeling, huh?”

  Out of nowhere, Colin exhales a loud puff of air, like he’s been holding his breath underwater, and blurts, “Caleb, I gotta tell you: you’re the sickest drummer out there, man. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve blasted you in my headphones and pounded along with you for hours, determined to one day be able to keep pace with you without missing a single hit.”

  Fish and I laugh. So much for Colin’s big baller energy.

  “I appreciate that.” C-Bomb grins. “Can you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Keep up with me?”

  Colin chuckles. “Hell no. You’re the best. Nobody can keep up with you.”

  “Colin’s actually obsessed with you, C-Bomb,” Fish says.

  “True,” Colin says, apparently not the least bit upset at Fish for outing him.

  Fish adds, “At one point early on, he demanded we call him a ‘C dash’ nickname, in tribute to you.”

  “Well, Colin called it a tribute,” I say. “We called it stupid.”

  Colin laughs. “Yeah, it didn’t work out so well. My last name is Beretta, and I was like, ‘Call me C-Ber!’ And they were like, ‘Hey, dumbfuck, it works for C-Bomb because his last name is Baumgarten. With your name, it sounds like you’re saying cyber. Do you want people to think you’re a hacker?’ And I was like, ‘Fuck you, C-Ber is dope!’ So then I went to a party and introduced myself as C-Ber to this hot chick and she was like, ‘Huh? Are you a hacker?’”

  Everyone laughs.

  “And I was like, ‘No, no, C-Ber. Like C-Bomb of Red Card Riot?�
� And that was it. All she wanted to talk about after that was how hot C-Bomb is and how much she wanted to fuck C-Bomb—which, of course, by implication meant she didn’t want to fuck me. I was so pissed at you, man. I was like, ‘Thanks a lot, C-Bomb, you fucking cockblocker!’”

  C-Bomb howls with laughter. I mean the dude really and truly belly laughs. And, just that fast, I know we’re gonna get along with this beast of a drummer just fine.

  “Believe it or not, ‘C-Bomb’ started out as a joke,” C-Bomb says. “The guys started calling me that in high school to make fun of me for being such a fanboy over the drummer of Rx Bandits. This guy called—”

  “C-Gak,” the three of us goats say in unison, right along with C-Bomb.

  “Oh, you guys know Rx Bandits?”

  “Yeah, we love ’em,” Colin says. “They’re a huge musical influence for us.”

  “For us, too,” C-Bomb says.

  “Along with you guys, of course,” I add.

  “Ever seen Rx live?” C-Bomb asks. “They’re one of the best live bands you’ll ever see.”

  “Yeah, we’ve seen ’em a couple times and they’re incredible,” I agree. “They’re right up there with you guys as far as live performance goes.”

  “Oh, you’ve seen RCR live, have you?”

  “Twice,” Colin, Fish, and I say at the same time.

  “In Seattle,” I add. “That’s where we’re from.”

  “Oh, I love Seattle,” C-Bomb says. “Great town.”

  The conversation continues. We three goats ask questions about RCR’s prior tours and albums and hang on C-Bomb’s every word.