ROCKSTAR

by Lauren Rowe

  “Yeah, when I wear a hat and sunglasses, people get the message. Plus, I’m just the drummer. I’m not Dean. I swear, that dude can’t go anywhere without getting stopped every five seconds.”

  “But you’re the best drummer out there. And you’re a hard guy to miss.”

  C-Bomb puts down his pint. “Yeah, but your average person, someone who’s not a diehard fan, needs to see my hair and tattoos to recognize me. Or they need to see me in context, with one of the other guys. I mean, if you were Clay, there’d probably be people at our table right now. And if you were Dean, forget about it. They’d have to shut this pub down. Dean couldn’t be here, just hanging out, without a couple bodyguards. But I can walk around, especially with some random guy nobody recognizes, as long as I cover my hair and tatts. If I took off this hat and strutted around like ‘Yo, I’m C-Bomb, motherfuckers!’ I guarantee there’d be people buying us beers and asking for selfies in three seconds flat.”

  “Show me,” I say.

  “Show you what?”

  “Take off your hat and jacket and strut around. I wanna see how fast you get recognized. I’ll time you.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But only because you’re the little brother I’ve never had. Just let me finish my beer first, because the minute I turn into ‘C-Bomb,’ someone is gonna buy me a drink and I wanna be ready for it when it comes.”

  He finishes his beer and stands. Takes off his hat and sunglasses and puts them on the table. Finally, he removes his jacket, displaying his most famous tattoo—the letter “C” inside a round, gray, cartoonish bomb with a fuse—and then he winks at me, turns, and struts across the small pub toward the bathrooms.

  Three steps. That’s how far C-Bomb makes it before a woman pops up from the bar and approaches him. She asks him if he’s “that drummer” from Red Card Riot. He says he is. She asks for a selfie and gets it and, soon, he’s swarmed by people, men and women, all of them wanting selfies.

  As all this is going on, the bartender catches my eye and shoots me a look like, Must be nice to be him.

  I nod, even though I’m honestly thinking, I wouldn’t want to be him.

  I realize I’m in the minority in this world—in our celebrity-obsessed culture—but the whole idea of fame is baffling to me. The idea that some “chosen” people get exalted to godlike status, not out of respect and admiration for their character or good works or talent, but because their faces have become a brand, drives me fucking insane.

  Finally, when C-Bomb returns to our table, he’s got a new drink for me, as well as for himself, both supplied by a fan, plus four pretty girls in tow. C-Bomb and the women sit down at our table and we begin to chat. An hour later, when C-Bomb and I get up to go, two women rise and flank him—and it’s clear they’re planning to join C-Bomb back at our nearby hotel. A third woman in the group hugs me goodbye, theoretically, but, as she does, she whispers in my ear that she’d love to come to my room.

  “I’ve got a girlfriend,” I say, even though I don’t. But the thing is, I’m not all that attracted to her. Plus, I’m pretty drunk, so, even if I were attracted to her, I’m not sure I could get it up right now. Moreover, I promised to video chat with my family tonight on this app where we all talk at once like we’re The Brady Bunch. Also, Violet. I’ve been thinking about her all day. So much so, the idea of drunk-dialing my family appeals to me more in this moment than hooking up with anyone who isn’t my Hitwoman Elvis Disco Momma.

  “Okay, well, good luck on your tour,” the woman says. “Your girlfriend is a lucky girl.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Great to meet you, British Girl.”

  I follow C-Bomb and his new friends to the hotel and into the elevator. I say goodbye to them when I get off on my floor, which is several floors below C-Bomb’s gigantic suite on the top floor. And then I stagger drunkenly down the hallway to my tiny room and call my family. I tell them about the past few days of rehearsals. The museum with C-Bomb today. I tell them about the interviews we’re going to be doing on BBC radio tomorrow, which, apparently, is a super big deal. And, finally, I tell them I’m tired and gotta go.

  “Tired or drunk?” my father says.

  “Yes.”

  Finally, blessedly, I strip off my clothes and sniff my Violet-scented pillowcase and work on a song about Violet called “In This Bathtub.” And then, I jerk off, naked, to fantasies of Violet—hey, I guess I can get it up!—and, finally, roll over, smash my face into my Violet-scented pillowcase, and pass the fuck out.

  Chapter 16

  Violet

  “Huh?” I say. “I’m sorry, Ashley. I was daydreaming.”

  “It’s okay. I daydream all the time, too,” Ashley says.

  “What do you daydream about?” I ask.

  She looks out the window of her hospital room. “That I’m outside, playing like a normal kid.”

  I slide my hand in Ashley’s. “Aw, honey. You’ll be out there in no time, running around and feeling great.”

  Ashley sighs and absently touches the knit cap covering her bald little head.

  Oh, my heart. Every time I do this, it breaks for what these poor kids have to go through, every bit as much as my spirit soars when I get to deliver costumes. It’s a constant push and pull of emotions, this thing I do. Honestly, some days, I want to quit, just so I don’t have to subject myself to the pain of seeing kids like Ashley, ravaged from cancer. But the desire to quit doesn’t last long. If I push through, that feeling is always supplanted, sooner or later, by a thumping need to provide hope and joy, any way I can.

  My sketchbook in hand, I ask, “If you were outside right now, what would you do?”

  Ashley shrugs her scrawny shoulders. “I’d play with a puppy.”

  Oh, God. She’s so beautiful and innocent. So hopeful. She’s been in here for two months straight, her parents said. And she’ll likely be in here for a solid month more, due to complications from her treatments. But by the way she’s smiling at me right now, just thinking about a puppy, you’d think Ashley’s life was all rainbows and unicorns.

  Ashley says, “When I get out of here, my mom and dad said they’ll get me a puppy. Any one I want.”

  Emotion rises inside me, but I push it down. I glance at Ashley’s parents in the corner of the room. They look emotional. “How wonderful.” My eyes are stinging, aching to well up with tears, so I do what I always do in times of stress: I begin drawing on my sketch pad. As I sketch, I ask, “What kind of puppy will you get?”

  “Any kind. Just as long as it likes to run and play.”

  My throat feels like it’s closing up, so I take a deep, steadying breath. “What’s your favorite color, Ashley?”

  “Pink.”

  I pull out a pink colored pencil and run it lightly over my sketch. “What color should your puppy be?”

  “Brown.”

  “Aw, a brown puppy. Cute.” I pull out my brown colored pencil and fill in the puppy shape. “Okay, honey. Now, this is just a rough sketch, just to give you an idea what your superhero hospital gown might look like.” I turn my sketch pad around and Ashley “oohs” and “aaahs” and tells me my design is wonderful. I turn my pad toward Ashley’s parents in the corner and they gasp.

  “So adorable,” Ashley’s mom says. But it’s clear the poor woman is going to cry if she says more, and that Ashley’s father is in the same boat, so I turn away from them and focus on Ashley again.

  “Can I have it?” Ashley says, gesturing to my drawing.

  “Of course. Let me take a quick photo of it so I’ll have it as a guide when I make your hospital gown.” I take the photo. “What should we call you when you’re a superhero?”

  “Ashley.”

  I giggle. “Right. But you know how there’s Wonder Woman and Superman? If you were a superhero, what would you be called?”

  “Puppy Girl!”

  “Perfect.” I write the phrase at the top of the drawing and hand it to her. “Okay, Puppy Girl, it’s time for me to go, honey. Thanks
for hanging out with me for a bit. I’ll bring your superhero costume as soon as possible.”

  Ashley beams a darling smile at me. “Thank you for coming. I had fun.”

  “Me, too. So much fun.”

  My heart clanging, I kiss my fingertips and then press them against Ashley’s little arm. And then, after hugging Ashley’s parents, I briskly exit the room.

  In the hallway, I stand in place for a moment, catching my breath. And then I shuffle toward the nurse’s desk to turn in my visitor’s badge. When I arrive at my destination, I find three nurses huddled together, their backs to me, looking at something on one of their phones.

  My breathing hitches. Dax’s unmistakable voice is wafting at low volume from the nurses’ huddle. I peek over a nurse’s shoulder and there’s Dax’s stunning face as he walks in slow-motion in a hipster suit and tie down an airplane aisle. Dax is singing:

  All my life, been looking low and high

  Aching to find the ones to call my tribe

  But now I know

  We’re not many, not few

  People like us,

  Baby, there’s only two

  It’s us against the world, baby

  Me and you

  “He’s so gorgeous,” one of the nurses whispers.

  “His voice!” the other one says. “It’s like he’s singing straight to my soul.”

  “I’m obsessed,” the third one says. “I swear I’ve watched this twenty times.”

  “Fifty for me,” the other one says.

  “Can you imagine being that woman?” the first one says.

  I clear my throat and the women lurch apart.

  “I’m heading out,” I say. I slide my visitor’s badge onto the counter. “I’ll be back next Wednesday. Same as always.”

  “Thank you so much,” one of the nurses says. “The kids always love it when you come.”

  “I love coming. It makes me feel like I’m helping in a tiny way.”

  “Oh, you are. You always make everyone smile.”

  I smile weakly and say goodbye. And then I turn and head down the hall to the elevator.

  Oh, God, those lyrics. That face. That voice. I miss him. I want him. I can’t stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try. When will this acute ache I feel for Dax ever go away? Or am I going to spend the next eight freaking months feeling like my heart is cracked?

  Holding back tears, I ride the elevator down. My chest tight, I stand in the lobby and get bundled up for the chilly weather. My gloves on and neck wrapped in a scarf, I head out and walk the few blocks to the bus stop... And by the time I sit on the bus stop bench, I’ve got tears streaming down my face. I want Dax so badly... and with each passing day... and each time I’m reminded he’s every woman’s fantasy, I become more and more wrecked by the growing certainty I’ll most likely never get to see him again.

  Chapter 17

  Dax

  “Yeah, we’ve done basically the same stuff as last week,” I say. “Rehearsals and promo appearances by day. A little bit of sightseeing when we can squeeze it in. Pubs at night. We don’t wanna get over-rehearsed, so we’re taking these last couple days off before the first show to relax.”

  I’m video-chatting with my entire family again. It’s the fourth time in twelve days. Yet again, thanks to that nifty app, we’re video-chatting, all of us at once, like we’re on the opening credits of The Brady Bunch.

  “Actually, the reason I called is I have some amazing news,” I say. I pause for effect, a wide smile splitting my face. “I just found out ‘People Like Us’ cracked Billboard’s Hot 100! We’re number ninety-two, baby!”

  Predictably, my entire family goes ballistic.

  “But the tour hasn’t even started yet!” my mom shrieks, clutching her cheeks. “I thought Reed said it would take at least a month!”

  “Things are happening way faster than Reed predicted, thanks to that music video going batshit viral.”

  Oh, God, that video. It’s exploded beyond our wildest expectations—which, in turn, meant radio stations started playing the single on heavy rotation, and downloads and streams went through the roof, and promo requests started flooding in. And then Billboard put us on their chart.

  “I watched the video, even though you told me not to,” Mom says.

  “Mom.”

  “I know. I couldn’t help it. Even Aunt Jeanie had seen it. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

  “And?”

  She makes an adorable face. “I’m scarred for life.”

  Everyone laughs, including me.

  “It was pretty racy, honey. I mean, you did a great job in it. You’re very, very handsome in it. I can see why it put you on the map.”

  “That was Reed’s master plan.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s clear to me Reed Rivers knows exactly what he’s doing,” Mom says. She smirks. “And so do you, apparently. Good lord, Daxy.”

  Everyone hoots with laughter.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I say. “Reed just scheduled a shoot for the second video during the tour, and I’m definitely keeping my clothes on next time.”

  “What a novel idea,” she says.

  “Just forget you ever saw the video, okay, Mom?”

  “I already have.”

  “Ditto,” Dad says, and then he makes a face of pure torture that makes everyone laugh.

  “Has anyone recognized you yet, Daxy?” Kat asks.

  “Yeah, actually. A woman recognized Fish, Colin, and me in a pub the other day. She was about our age, maybe a little older. She came over to where we were sitting and she goes, ‘Hey, you’re the bloke from that music video!’”

  Everyone marvels.

  “She did not say ‘bloke,’” Ryan says. “That’s blatant poetic license.”

  “Swear to God, she said ‘bloke.’”

  “So rad,” Keane says.

  “You’re the bloke?” Colby says. “Not blokes? What about Fish and Colin? Weren’t they there, too?”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t recognize them at first. Just me. But when I told her who they were, she asked for selfies and autographs from them, too. We invited her and her friend to sit down and have a beer with us.”

  “Wow, that’s so rockstar!” Kat says. “Our Rock Star is actually a rockstar!”

  “Yeah, except for the part where the three of us kept saying, ‘Wow! You’re the first person to recognize us from the music video! Can we have your autograph?’”

  Everyone laughs.

  “She was really sweet,” I say. “We had a great time talking and laughing with her and her friend, comparing our accents and talking about slang and stuff.”

  “Oh, that sounds fun,” Mom says.

  “It was.”

  I’m telling the truth. It was lots of fun. Of course, I’m telling my family the G-rated version of this story. In truth, after the first woman and her friend sat down at our table and chatted us up, we were having so much fun, comparing words and accents and slang, those two wound up calling a couple more friends who came down to the pub, too. And before we knew it, we were having ourselves a genuine party. So much so, I drunkenly texted C-Bomb to get his “arse” down to the pub and he shocked us all by actually showing up twenty minutes later. And not alone, either, but with Clay and Emmitt and four bodyguards. Which, of course, blew the roof off the tiny pub and made us look like such ballers, we couldn’t believe it.

  At that point, the bartender started blaring Red Card Riot songs—and then “People Like Us”! And then C-Bomb bought drinks for everyone in the entire place, and the place went nuts, like England had just won the World Cup.

  A little while after that, we all wound up moving our drunken party to C-Bomb’s huge suite at our hotel. And then Fish disappeared with one of the girls from the pub for the rest of the night, which made me so fucking happy, I couldn’t stop smiling about it.

  We partied like it was 1999 that entire night until the sun came up. Which was a very bad idea, actually, since
Fish, Colin, and I had rehearsal that whole next day. But, fuck it. It was worth it. It was our first rockstar moment followed by our first night of genuine rockstar debauchery. I was on such a high by the time the sun came up, just from laughing and having so much fun, I wound up taking this one girl back to my room and fucking her.

  It was the first time I’d had sex since Violet. The first girl I’d kissed since Violet. And, goddammit, all it did was make me yearn for Violet all the more. Truth be told, while I fucked that British girl, I felt horribly guilty about it, like I was betraying Violet. And, frankly, that pissed me off. I’m a single dude! And not only that, I’m the one who wanted to keep in touch with Violet! I’m the one who wanted her number! In fact, if I’d had Violet’s number that morning, there’s no doubt in my mind I would have said goodbye to that British girl, headed to my room, and had drunken FaceTime sex with Violet. I truly believe I would have done that. But the thing is I didn’t have Violet’s number because she refused to give it to me. A fact that’s made me crazier and crazier with each passing day.

  All I can think is that Violet must not have felt the same fireflies I did, no matter what she said. Or, at least, she didn’t feel them as intensely as I did. Because if she had, she never would have been able to say goodbye to me, no matter what. Man, it hurts to admit that to myself—that Violet probably didn’t feel the same thing I did. It hurts far more than Julia Fortunato from summer camp ghosting me ever did. But what can I do about it? Nothing. So, fuck it, Violet doesn’t want me the way I want her? Okay, then, I fucked a British girl. And then proceeded to feel guilty as hell about it, even though there was zero reason for me to feel that way, since I’m a single dude.

  And the worst part of all is I felt guilt and remorse for what turned out to be highly mediocre sex! I mean, come on. At least if I was gonna feel like I was doing something against my moral code, let the sex be smoking hot. Let me feel flow. But, nope. It was nothing like sex with Violet. Not even close. With Violet, I reached flow every time we fucked. Every. Single. Time. But with that British girl, every minute ticked by in exactly sixty seconds. Sometimes, ninety. There was no magic with her. I felt no butterflies, let alone fireflies. Which is why I came away from the experience feeling almost desperate for Violet. Which, obviously, was the exact opposite result I was going for.