ROCKSTAR

by Lauren Rowe

  “What’s going on over here?” a new voice asks.

  I turn my head and nearly shit my pants. It’s Dean Masterson standing before me, the lead singer and guitarist of Red Card Riot, accompanied by Reed Rivers. Holy shit. I’ve idolized Dean Masterson since age sixteen, since RCR first burst onto the worldwide scene with their smash hit “Shaynee” and instantly made me realize the pop-punk thrashers I’d been writing weren’t coming from an honest place. That they were, in fact, a brazen attempt at portraying coolness and angst, as opposed to revealing the truth.

  I remember the electricity I felt the first time I heard “Shaynee.” When I first heard the sound of Dean’s wailing, plaintive, honest voice on that song, and the tormented weeping of his guitar, I beelined to my bedroom, my guitar in hand, determined to learn it. I sat on my bed until I learned every note and lick of that amazing song, and then proceeded to play the damned thing so many times on a running loop, my parents finally threatened to kick me out of their house if I didn’t switch to a different song. So, what did I do? I learned the rest of RCR’s debut album and played those songs into the ground, as well.

  In retrospect, I wasn’t playing RCR’s songs to mimic them. I was learning about myself as an artist. Shedding layers of bullshit and self-consciousness. I was transforming.

  When I emerged from my one-week obsession with “Shaynee” and RCR’s debut, I was a new man. A fearless one who understood who he wanted to be as an artist.

  Right after that, I broke the news to Colin and Fish that I wanted our band to go in a new direction. And, to their credit, my two best friends said, “Whatever, Rock Star. Just tell us what you want to play and we’re down.” A month later, we were no longer Dax Attack, thank God—the stupidest band name in the history of time. We were 22 Goats Smiling at You. A close second for that title. A month later, we’d shortened our name to 22 Goats because Ryan said it sounded like we were a band of pedophiles who played children’s parties to scout their next victims, and we never looked back. We started playing garage parties and all-ages clubs and getting a decent following. Bar gigs and festivals followed. A small mini-tour of the Pacific Northwest. And through it all, we were slowly but surely becoming who we were meant to be.

  And now, here we are, six years since I first heard “Shaynee,” sitting on a private plane with Dean Masterson and Red Card Riot, heading to London to kick off an eight-month world tour with them. And it’s all thanks to me hearing Dean’s honest voice and guitar on a song that showed me what a “love song” could be in the right hands.

  “I’ve just been sitting here, getting to know our support band a bit,” C-Bomb says to Dean. “They’re hilarious, man. You’re gonna love ’em.”

  Reed introduces the three of us goats to Dean. We find out Emmitt and Clay are both asleep at the front of the plane, and that they’ll surely come back to say hi whenever they wake up.

  “Hey, no rush,” I say. “We’re gonna be together, day in and day out, for months. There’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other.”

  I clamp my mouth shut, realizing I just now sounded like a serial killer grooming his next victim. Fuck! I’ve got a thousand things I want to blurt to Dean. Questions I want to ask him about his songwriting process. But now isn’t the time. Slow and steady, Dax. There’s no need to bombard the poor guy on day one and come off like a stalker.

  “Hey, did you guys have fun at my party the other night?” Reed asks.

  “We had a blast,” Colin says. “I wound up hooking up with one of Aloha’s backup dancers, and Dax hooked up with an ‘intriguing’ party crasher.”

  “And I got stiff-armed by a bitchy model,” Fish says brightly, making everyone laugh. “Good times.”

  Colin addresses C-Bomb and Dean. “Have you guys ever met a particularly amazing girl, right when you had to leave?”

  “Of course,” C-Bomb says. “That’s touring for you. A way of life.”

  “But have you ever tried to keep it going with someone like that?” Colin asks.

  Violet. Her beautiful face just flashed across my mind. Those eyes. That smile. The way she purred when she came.

  “Speaking for myself, it’s impossible,” Dean says. “If you want it to work out with a girl, then you’ve pretty much gotta bring her on the road with you. At least, for an extended tour. Having a girl waiting for you back home during a world tour never works out, even if she’s the best girl in the world.”

  I can’t help thinking, But what if she incites fireflies in a way nobody else has ever done?

  “I had the best girl in the world when we left on our first tour,” Dean continues. “An amazing girl. And I just couldn’t keep my head on straight. And I wasn’t the only one. When we headed out on our first tour, three of the four of us had serious girlfriends. By the end of the tour, all four of us were single.”

  But what if the girl isn’t just amazing, she’s one in a million? Once in a violet moon?

  C-Bomb says, “Touring at this level is like nothing you’ve experienced before, guys. There’s no way to explain the craziness. It fucks with your head. Makes you do things you never thought you would. Especially that first tour.”

  Dean says, “Jesus, that first taste of fame fucks with you. Even the best guys become flaming asshole sex addicts during their first tour.”

  C-Bomb laughs. “Even Emmitt went off the deep end for a while. Remember that?”

  Dean chuckles. “That’s right. And so did I. God, during our first tour, I lost my mind. People treat you like a god, day in and out. Nobody calls you on your shit. Everybody wants a piece of you. People come out of the woodwork. You lose the ability to connect with people in a real way for a while.” Dean looks at me. “My money’s on you to go completely off the rails. At least, at first.”

  “Me?” I choke out, shocked at being singled out. “Hell no. It won’t be me. Put your money on Fish. He’s the one chomping at the bit to experience the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. Not me.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not the one baring his ass and simulating fucking in a music video. For the love of fuck, man. Women are gonna lose their minds when they see that thing.”

  Everyone laughs but me.

  “You’ve already seen the video?” I say.

  “I sent it to them a few weeks ago,” Reed says, smirking. “Oh, don’t turn shy on me now, Golden Boy. It’s a little late for that. The video posted to the River Records YouTube channel three hours ago. There’s no turning back now. Your ass is hanging out there, literally, for the entire world to see.”

  C-Bomb says, “It’s an amazing video. Brilliant, actually. It’s gonna be huge.”

  Dean says, “Honestly, when Reed said he’d plucked some band called 22 Goats from obscurity to open for us for the whole tour, all four of us were like, ‘Who? Huh? Why?’ This was before you’d shot the video, so Reed sent us a rough cut of the song. What’s it called again?”

  “‘People Like Us,’” Reed replies.

  “That’s right. So, Reed sent us the song and he was like, ‘Guys, trust me. You’re gonna wanna be a part of this band’s origin story.’ So I listened and immediately knew he was right. I mean, wow, that song is really good, man. So I was like, ‘Okay, maybe this nobody band really is gonna take the world by storm, just like Reed keeps saying.’”

  I’m dying inside. Did Dean Masterson just say a song I wrote is “really good”?

  C-Bomb says, “And then Reed sent us a rough cut of the video and we were all like, ‘Oh, for the love of fuck. They’re not just gonna have a hit. These fuckers are gonna have a monster-smash-worldwide-number-one hit.’”

  Dean says, “So, that’s when we were like, ‘Yeah, okay. We don’t want to look like the pricks who were too stupid or vain to give the boys an opening slot. Count us in.’”

  “Hey, however we got here, we’re grateful,” I say, my heart pounding like crazy.

  “Reed mentioned it was you who wrote that song?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

&n
bsp; Dean nods his approval. His blue eyes are blazing. “Much respect. I heard it and instantly wished I’d written it. That hardly ever happens to me. It’s my highest compliment.”

  Holy fucking shit. For a moment, I feel light-headed. But I breathe through it and, finally, choke out, “That means a lot, coming from you. You’re a huge inspiration for me, Dean. I admire your artistry so much.”

  “Thanks,” Dean says. He grins. “Well, I’m gonna watch a movie now. Maybe get some sleep. I just wanted to say hi and welcome you to the tour.”

  We thank him and say our goodbyes, and then Dean and Reed head to the front of the plane. But, to my surprise, C-Bomb hangs back to talk shop with Colin, his counterpart in our band, for a while.

  “Dude,” Fish whispers to me, settling into his seat next to mine. “What just happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper back. “I’m reeling. How is this is our life?”

  “I expected them to be dicks to us,” Fish whispers. “I’ve heard horror stories about headliners being total pricks to opening bands, just for the sport of it.”

  “I’ve heard the same. But they treated us like bros.” I shake my head in awe. “I can’t wait to tell Kat. She partied with RCR a couple years ago in Vegas.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot that story. You should tell C-Bomb about that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Totally.”

  I wait for C-Bomb and Colin’s conversation to reach a lull, and then insert myself. “Hey, Caleb. Fun fact: a few years ago you partied with my big sister, Kat, in Vegas.”

  “Uh oh. Our friendship is over this fast? Sorry.”

  “Huh?”

  “I slept with her?”

  I laugh. “No, no. Our friendship is intact. You just partied with her. Her then-boyfriend, now-husband, is good friends with Reed, so Reed took them to a party he was throwing for you guys in his hotel suite. Apparently, your tour had come through Vegas that night?”

  C-Bomb shrugs.

  “My sister looks exactly like me, only the very hot female version of me. She said she stomped through Reed’s hotel suite, dripping wet in nothing but her bra and underwear?”

  C-Bomb laughs, but the look on his face tells me he doesn’t remember the party at all, let alone my half-naked sister. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell,” he says. “Which is probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to have to worry about you putting arsenic into my vodka during the tour.”

  “Even if you’d slept with my sister, you wouldn’t have to worry about that. There’s not enough arsenic in the world for me to poison every guy Kat’s slept with.”

  “Jesus,” C-Bomb says, bursting into laughter.

  “I’d make that joke if Kat were sitting right here, by the way. In fact, if she were here, she’d make that joke about herself. She’s happily married now, but back in the day, my sister made no apologies about her sex life. If she wanted to hook up with someone, she did, the same as any dude. No apologies. No hang-ups. My sister was always really selective, actually. And she could be, because everyone who met her wanted her. But if she wanted to get with a guy, then she did it, without worrying what anyone thought. I’ve always admired that about her.”

  “Admired her?” C-Bomb says. “That’s interesting. I’ve got a little sister and I’m not nearly as chill as you are about that stuff. Just the thought of some fuckboy getting his hands on her makes me wanna commit murder. In fact, I almost killed a guy once when he grabbed my sister’s ass in a bar.”

  “Oh, well, I’d be right there with you, on the cusp of murder, if some asshole did that to Kat. And so would my three older brothers. But that’s different than my sister having sex because she wants to have sex. If she’s doing what she wants, then I say, ‘Go forth and conquer, sister. Hell yeah.’”

  “I’m just super protective of my little sister. Like, crazy-protective. No fuckboys allowed. No liars, cheaters, or douches, either. Nobody touches my little sister unless he’s gonna treat her right and commit to her. Plus, she’s not like your sister. She doesn’t sleep around.”

  Ooph. I hate the subtext of that comment. She doesn’t sleep around. I can’t help feeling like that comment is a slur against not only my sister, but against Violet, too, and any woman who has sex the same way most guys do. The way C-Bomb surely does. As far as I’m concerned, when it comes to sex, what’s good for the gander is always good for the goose. But, whatever, I force myself not to defend Kat’s honor—and the honor of Violet and all womankind—against this kind of lowkey slut-shaming.

  “Is Kat younger or older?” C-Bomb asks.

  “She’s four years older than me. There’s a brother in the middle of us.”

  “Ah, well, maybe that’s the difference,” C-Bomb says. “My sister is younger than me. And, not only that, it’s just me and her. Our dad was a total prick. So I can’t help feeling like it’s my job to protect her and take care of her like a father would.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I respect that. I’m the baby in my family—I’ve got three older brothers besides Kat. And our dad and mom are still happily married, so I’ve never felt like I had to step into the shoes of a father figure in that way. I’m protective of my sister, but having three older brothers, two of whom are older than Kat, has probably made me feel less like her protector and more like her confidante.”

  “Well, there you go. My sister tells me absolutely nothing.”

  We both laugh.

  C-Bomb says, “I’m sure if you asked your two oldest brothers, they’d say they feel similar to the way I do—like they want to pummel any guy who gets near your sister.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right about that.”

  He’s not right about that. When it comes to Kat, Colby and Ryan might be a bit more like C-Bomb than me, especially Ryan, but neither of them is a full-blown caveman like C-Bomb. But whatever. Now isn’t the time to call C-Bomb out on his brand of brotherly protectiveness, for obvious reasons.

  “Refills, gentlemen?” a flight attendant asks, and everyone in the group answers with some variation of “Hell yes.”

  Booze gets poured. Snacks get passed out. A few extra pillows and blankets are distributed.

  Finally, when everyone is situated, I lift my refilled glass to C-Bomb. “Thanks for being so welcoming to us. We’ve heard stories of headliners being dicks to openers, so we were ready for anything.”

  C-Bomb clinks everyone’s glasses. “I’ve been known to be a bit of a dick to newbies on occasion, but only when they cop an attitude. But you guys are humble. I can already tell. And that’s particularly cool, given how good you are.”

  My heart skips a beat. “Thank you.”

  C-Bomb takes a long slug of his drink. “I’m stoked to have a front row seat to whatever’s about to happen to you guys over the next few months. I mean that sincerely.” He leans back in his bucket seat and closes his eyes. “Just do me a favor. When you guys get to the top, which I predict you will, don’t turn into a bunch of fucking dicks.”

  Chapter 13

  Violet

  Right after my plane touches down in Providence, as it’s taxiing to the gate, I turn on my phone to see what I’ve missed during my five-hour flight.

  First up, I’ve got a text from Miranda, attaching a YouTube link with the following message:

  If you’re in public, watch this with earbuds and where nobody can peek over your shoulder. NSFW! I know you want to pretend Dax doesn’t exist, but something tells me you’re going to run across this video, with or without my help, so I wanted to be the one to give you the heads up.

  Of course, I’m dying to watch whatever video Miranda’s sending me, especially if it’s “not safe for work.” But since I’m sitting on a crowded plane and my earbuds are stuffed into my bag, I scroll to the next text. It’s from my mom, saying she already misses me. Dutifully, I shoot off a sweet reply and scroll again. The next text in line is from my brother, wishing me safe travels. I tap out a reply to him, wishing him safe travels, too, even though I
doubt he’ll get it until after he arrives in London.

  I scroll again and come upon a text from an unknown number... and when I click on the message, I gasp. It’s from that baller dude from the party! Holy shit. When Miranda pointed him out and told me who he was, I never thought in a million years I’d get to talk to him that night, let alone that he’d text me three days later. My heart thumping in my ears, I read the guy’s text for a second time:

  I’d be happy to put you in touch with some people I know in the industry who might assist your efforts to break into costume design after graduation. That’s an unconditional offer. Apart from that, though, I’d also love to take you out on a date. I’m in NYC on business frequently. How about I swing by Providence the next time I’m on the East Coast to take you to dinner? Or, if you’re willing, I’ll fly you to NYC to meet me. Don’t feel obligated to say yes to a date to get those professional introductions out of me. One doesn’t have anything to do with the other. Say yes to a date only if that’s what you sincerely want to do. Cheers.

  Whoa. This dude is smooth as silk, which I already knew, based on his reputation. Plus, he’s confident and sexy in a way men my own age typically aren’t. He certainly filled out his designer suit nicely at the party. We didn’t talk long that night—hardly at all—but it was quickly obvious he’s charming as hell, in addition to being gorgeous and wildly successful. And he certainly made it plenty clear he’s physically attracted to me. His eyes turned into a five-alarm fire when he looked down at my boobs—which he did several times during our brief conversation.

  Dax.

  Out of nowhere, his beautiful, smiling face sitting across from me in that bathtub leaps into my mind. In particular, the way his gorgeous eyes caught fire whenever they drifted down to my naked boobs at the water line.

  I close my eyes and chastise myself. Stop it, Violet. Throughout the entire weekend, and then all day during my flight today, I’ve been consumed with endless thoughts of Dax. His blue eyes blazing at me. The way his hair felt when it brushed against my breasts or thighs. The way his laughter made my entire body vibrate with arousal, yearning... joy. The way he made love to my body, so tenderly, with so much care and attentiveness, after I told him my life story. Oh, God, we were magic together! Being with Dax felt like clicking a last jigsaw puzzle piece into place.