ROCKSTAR

by Lauren Rowe

  In the big picture, it was a good experience, though. Because it made me realize I’ll never be able to recreate that night with Violet—that feeling—with someone else, so I shouldn’t even try. This is gonna be a long eight months if I keep feeling guilty for doing things a single guy has every right to do. Especially since Violet was the one who rejected me. If I don’t figure out a way to move on from Violet, then I’m just gonna be miserable and lonely throughout this entire tour. Maybe even for my whole life. And I don’t want to be miserable or lonely. I want to be happy. I want to have fun.

  And that’s why I’ve officially decided to unplug my body and mind from each other for a while. When I get back to L.A. in eight months, if I’m still thinking about Violet by then, I’ll contact her through her friend. Even if she’s gonna wind up rejecting me again, I need to find out if she felt fireflies, the same way I did. I just have to know.

  But, until then, I’m putting Violet out of my mind, and that’s that. I mean, of course, I’m still going to sniff that pillowcase now and again, simply because it gets me off. And, obviously, I’ll continue writing songs about Violet, if they come to me, simply because I’d never turn away the muse. And it goes without saying I’ll think about Violet every time I jack off, just because she’s literally the sexiest creature I can imagine. But, otherwise, I’m going to put Violet out of my mind and stop looking for anyone to touch my soul when they touch my dick. For the next eight months, my soul and dick are gonna be two totally separate things.

  “Have you done any more sightseeing?” Mom asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.

  “Yeah, a bit.” I tell them about a recent trip I made with Fish, Colin, and C-Bomb to Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, and they ooh and aah. Mom asks me if I’ve seen Harry and Meghan and I tell her the royal family doesn’t actually hang out in front of palaces, greeting tourists. For a split-second, I have a fleeting impulse to tell my mom about the Harry and Meghan Christmas ornament I put in the mail to her yesterday—a little something for the Christmas tree I won’t be seeing this year. But I bite my tongue. Better to surprise my mother with that little token. Same thing with the “Mind the Gap” T-shirts and onesies I sent along for all my nieces and nephews.

  “And how’s it going with the guys from Red Card Riot?” Kat asks. “Sounds like you’ve bonded with C-Bomb. How about the others?”

  “They’re all great. C-Bomb’s the one who hangs out with us the most, though. He’s already become a surrogate big brother to me. But last night, I finally got the chance to hang out with Dean Masterson. We talked about music and songwriting, and I somehow kept my cool, at first. But then, unfortunately, when I got a few too many whiskeys in me, I couldn’t stop telling him how much he inspires me.”

  “I’m sure Dean thinks you’re adorable,” Mom says. She pauses. “Sounds like you’ve been drinking a lot, honey. Do you think maybe you’re overdoing it?”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. It’s just how it is on tour.” I’m about to shout “Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, baby!” But I stop myself. Know your audience, dude.

  “Just watch yourself,” Dad says. “You’ve got a job to do, son.”

  “I’m well aware,” I say. “I promise, I’ll keep my head on straight.”

  “Good boy,” Mom says. “We know you will.”

  “Well, I gotta go, fam. Time for my one-on-one call with Theo before I hit the sack.”

  I tell everyone they’re the ones I love the most, and we say our goodbyes. I call my nephew, Theo, and listen to his latest song. And then, since the guys have been razzing me lately for acting like a hermit-introvert and being a buzzkill, I head downstairs to meet C-Bomb, Clay, Fish, and Colin in the lobby of our hotel, and we five head out into the wet London night to party like rockstars till the break of dawn.

  Chapter 18

  Dax

  “You boys ready?” the stage manager says to Colin, Fish, and me from the doorway of the green room, and we nod like it ain’t no thang, even though we’re all shitting bricks.

  After two weeks in London, and a lifetime of dreaming, we’re about to walk onstage in the first arena of the tour to play our set for whatever RCR fans happened to have arrived early enough to catch the opening band.

  “Ready,” the three of us goats reply in unison.

  The stage manager smiles. “Follow me.”

  Before we follow her, Colin, Fish, and I quickly huddle up. We make little goat sounds and put our hands in the middle. “One, two, three, goats!” Finally, we follow the woman through the expansive backstage area.

  “How full is the arena?” Colin asks the woman as we walk.

  “About a quarter full. But don’t worry. As the tour progresses, you’ll get bigger audiences.”

  “No need to apologize,” Fish says. “Even at a quarter full, this will be the biggest audience we’ve ever played.”

  “By far,” Colin says.

  Colin and Fish chuckle, but I can barely breathe, let alone laugh. This is it. My lifelong dream—the thing I’ve wanted since I was two years old—is about to come true. God, I wish my family were here to see me do this.

  Violet.

  Out of nowhere, she flickers across my brain. What I wouldn’t give to have her sitting in the front row tonight, looking up at me as I sing “People Like Us.”

  We reach the wings of the stage and I peek out. Wow. It looks pretty empty out there. But I don’t give a shit. There are humans out there, somewhere. Real people with ears and hearts and souls. They came out tonight to hear Red Card Riot, but they’re about to find out 22 Goats isn’t the booby prize they’re assuming.

  The stage manager tells us it’s time, and Colin, Fish, and I spontaneously put our hands into the middle again—our way of saying, All for one, and one for all.

  The lights in the arena dim.

  The crowd titters and cheers in anticipation...

  I hit my glowing mark on the darkened stage. A roadie hands me my guitar. Colin settles behind the drum kit. Fish gets handed his bass.

  I hear the stage manager’s voice in my ear monitors. Colin counts us off, exactly as we’ve rehearsed... Right on cue, the lights above me flash to life and blaze like the sun in my eyes.

  I come down hard on the strings of my electric guitar, and, like a match scraping against flint, my soul ignites. I lean into my microphone and begin to sing, and, holy shit, it’s my voice filling this huge arena. The sick sounds of my guitar. Every cell in my body is vibrating like a tuning fork, telling me I’m doing what I was put on this earth to do. I’m channeling the gods right now. I’m no longer mortal. I happen to catch sight of some random dude’s face in the front row, and by the awed look on it, I can suddenly see my future as well as the microphone in front of my face. My band is going straight to the top—and I’m never going back to my old life again.

  Part II

  The After

  Chapter 19

  Dax

  The room is spinning like that tilt-a-whirl ride at the fair—the one that always made me barf as a kid. I’m sweating profusely. Shaking. If I could, if I had arms, I’d grip the mattress beneath me, just to keep myself from hurtling into the walls and ceiling as the room spins out of control, as the empty booze bottles and glasses and cups strewn everywhere in my hotel suite swirl and crash around me in a violent tornado.

  “My arms,” I grit out frantically. “Where are my fucking arms?”

  “Dax,” a voice next to me says urgently. “You’ve got arms, man. Enough with that ‘no arms’ shit, okay?”

  I turn my head and discover Fish, looking rumpled, lying next to me on top of the bedspread. His shaggy hair is a riot. His eyes are bloodshot. And he’s looking at me like I’ve shredded his last nerve.

  Fish says, “You can still play guitar. You’re okay. You have arms.”

  He waggles something in the air in front of me, and when I look down to see what it is, it’s attached to my shoulder. An arm. Attached to me. I grip my hands and forearms for a
long moment, shuddering with relief that they’ve somehow gotten reattached—until the sudden tilting of the room makes me grip the bedspread so I don’t whip off the bed and crash into a wall.

  A loud knock in the other room sends shooting pain flashing through my head like a fiery spear. I sit up, shouting that I’ll get the door, but Fish hurls himself across my torso, pins me down, and says I’m not going anywhere.

  I hear Colin’s voice in the other room, urgently greeting someone. I hear the words “birthday party” and “won’t stop freaking out.” But before I can make out more, a sensation of acute seasickness overtakes me. I feel like I’m on the Titanic and it just tilted ninety degrees before going down. I push Fish’s lanky body off me without much difficulty and leap out of bed and stagger to the bathroom, inadvertently kicking empty Solo cups and a booze bottle as I go.

  When I get to the toilet, I drop to my knees and pray to the porcelain gods. As I hurl, I hear a voice in the bathroom doorway behind me—a voice I know as well as my own. It’s my oldest brother, Colby. My Master Yoda. He’s saying my name like he’s deeply concerned.

  Another voice. This one belonging to my second oldest brother, Ryan. He says, “Happy birthday, dumbshit. Mom would be so proud.”

  I turn around to greet my brothers—to tell them the great news that I have arms again!—and immediately discover my head-swivel was far too ambitious a maneuver for my revolting stomach to bear. With a loud heave, I whirl back around and barf again.

  “His hair,” Ryan says. “Oh, God, pull it back, Bee.”

  As I groan in agony, I feel Colby’s hands pulling my hair away from my mouth and rubbing my back. He whispers, “You’re okay, Baby Brother. You’ve got arms and you’re safe. We’ve got you.”

  Relief registers throughout my entire body, even as I continue hurling. Colby. Now that he’s here, I’m gonna be okay. I feel like I’m dying at the moment, true, but I know he’ll take care of me, like he always does. And not just because he’s a first responder—a firefighter-paramedic in Seattle—but because he’s my Colby. The one I love the most.

  Colby slides his fingers to my neck and holds them there. “Your heart is racing, Dax. What’d you take?”

  But I can only hang my head and barf.

  I hear Ryan in the other room, barking orders. He’s telling people to clear the fuck out. He’s shouting that the birthday party is over. Yelling at Colin to get “this fucking place cleaned up.” He’s in full-on Ryan the Fixer mode. And, clearly, he’s pissed as hell.

  “Daxy, answer me,” Colby says, his fingers checking my pulse again. “What did you take and when did you take it?”

  “She said it was molly, Bee. But molly’s never made my arms melt off before.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I don’t know. She had the same hair as Violet, and I just wanted it to be her. Why didn’t she give me her number, Colby? Why didn’t she want me?” I groan loudly. “I just want to feel fireflies again! That’s all I want. So, I kissed the girl with the hair and knew right away, she wasn’t Violet. Same as the others. Because nobody’s ever Violet, not even when they have the hair!” I choke down emotion. “I would have called her every night of the tour, if only she’d given me her fucking number. I would have FaceTimed her, rather than fuck anybody else. It killed me not to track her down. I almost tried on the East Coast. But then I remembered she didn’t feel fireflies the way I did.” I shudder violently and bow my head. “So I took the pill from the girl with the hair, and then the room started spinning, and my arms melted off, and there were these weird goblins crawling on the ceiling—”

  “Tell me what it looked like.”

  “Dark with bangs. Like Uma Thurman.”

  “Not the girl’s hair. What did the pill look like?”

  “White, like her pantsuit. She was ‘Elvis reimagined’ and so hot. No, she was intriguing.”

  Colby sighs. “Jesus, Dax. I thought you were smarter than this. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to scrape dead people off the ground after they’d taken a little white pill?”

  “She said it was molly.”

  “Goddammit, Dax. A bunch of kids just dropped dead in New York after taking what they thought was molly.”

  “I don’t need your ‘disappointed dad’ energy right now, fucker. I think I’m dying and I need to feel happy so my arms stay attached.”

  Colby sighs. “I’ll hold onto your arms so they stay attached, okay? All you need to do is sleep. Ryan? Help me get Daxy into bed.”

  Ryan mutters something about wanting to pummel me, but he complies. While Colby takes one of my arms—my beautiful arms!—Ryan takes the other and they physically drag me like a paraplegic to the bed, my chin hanging against my chest.

  “Are you in L.A. for my birthday?” I mumble.

  “The whole family is here for the weekend, remember?” Ryan says. “We’re taking you to dinner tonight for your birthday, going to your show tomorrow night, and then attending the wedding on Sunday night.”

  I can’t process any of that. Dinner? Wedding? Huh?

  “We’d just landed when Fish called,” Colby says. “So Ryan and I ditched the rest of the family at the airport and raced straight here.”

  I curl into the fetal position on the bed and close my eyes, aching to slip away, but a second later—or has it been an hour?—a female voice jerks me to consciousness. When I open my eyes, I see a middle-aged Asian woman. Very pretty. She introduces herself as a doctor. She takes my vital signs, and asks me a bunch of questions. Finally, she says to Colby, “He’s going to be okay. He just needs fluids and sleep.”

  I close my eyes, intending to fade to black, but a sudden panic wrenches my eyes back open. “Colby?”

  He’s in the doorway, escorting the doctor out. He turns around. “I’m just going to call Lydia to tell her I’m staying here with you all day.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “Don’t worry, Daxy. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, either,” Ryan says dryly from an armchair in the corner. “Just in case you were wondering.”

  Panic floods me. “I can’t do a family birthday party tonight.”

  “I’ve already handled it,” Ryan says. “I called Kat and told her the situation. She’s telling Mom and Dad you’re hung over from too many tequila shots for your birthday.”

  “Just sleep,” Colby says. “Ryan and I will both be here when you wake up. And so will your arms.”

  I sigh with relief and close my eyes. “Thanks for coming, Master Yodas. I love you the most.”

  “We love you the most, Daxy,” Colby whispers. “Sleep.”

  I close my eyes. “Will you call Violet’s friend with the blonde hair and get Violet’s number? I’m finally in L.A. That was our deal. I just had to make it to L.A. She might not want me, but I have to know...” I trail off midsentence as the world fades to black.

  Chapter 20

  Dax

  When I wake up, it’s the dark of night outside my hotel window. The sheet underneath me is covered in sweat, but, thank God, the room isn’t spinning anymore. Oh, and I’ve most definitely got arms.

  Colby is asleep next to me, fully dressed on top of the covers. Ryan’s passed out in a chair, his laptop open on his lap. The glowing numbers of the clock on the nightstand tell me it’s just after eleven. Which means I’ve slept literally all day.

  I get up and take a piss, gulp down water straight from the faucet, and look at myself in the mirror. I look like roadkill.

  When I crawl back into bed, Colby and Ryan are both awake. They ask me how I’m feeling. I tell them I’m feeling human again. Shitty, but human. And hungry as hell.

  “You got arms?” Ryan asks.

  “Yep.” I pat my biceps. “Welcome to the gun show, fuckers.”

  “Don’t get too cocky with those things,” Ryan says. “Or I might rip them off your body and use them to beat the living hell out of you for scaring us.”

  I
smile.

  He winks.

  “I’ll order room service,” Colby says, picking up the hotel phone.

  “Good,” Ryan says. “Let Daxy dazzle us with how brilliantly he uses his fancy new arms to shovel food into his mouth.” Ryan gets up and drags his chair next to my bed. When he sits again, he leans forward and levels me with an intense blue gaze. “So, here’s the deal, Rock Star. The walking-cliché rock-star thing you’ve been doing for the past several months? It stops now. You wanna drink a bit too much booze and smoke some weed with your buddies, now and again? Godspeed. You’re twenty-three, rich as fuck, and everybody’s celebrity crush. We get it. But everything else—the kind of shit that makes you think your arms have melted off?—that’s firmly off the table from now on.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t party nearly as hard as you think. I was celebrating my birthday and the end of the tour last night. It was a special occasion.”

  Our food order placed, Colby sits on the edge of my bed. “Quit the bullshit, Dax. Are you in trouble or not? If you are, we’ll get you help.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Are you addicted to something? Booze? Coke? Something even harder?”

  “I’m not addicted to anything. Yeah, I’ve been partying too much lately. But that’s only because there’s nothing else to do on tour. And no downtime.” I suddenly realize I’m dying to tell my brothers about my insane life. “I’ve got to be ‘on’ all the time. Everywhere I go, I’m bombarded with requests for selfies and offers of blowjobs. Fans grab at me—and not just my arms and back—they grab my ass and dick, too, if there’s a crowd.” I gulp at the air. “And you wouldn’t believe how fucked up my body clock is these days. I can’t get into any kind of rhythm or sleep pattern, because travel is constant and time zones are fucked up and the hours we keep are crazy. There’s never time to recharge. Never time to write. And if there is a moment of peace and quiet, I can’t use it to write because I’ve got horrible writer’s block. It’s like I need Viagra for my soul. I know Reed wants the second album recorded as soon as possible, but I’m not even close to done with the songs for it yet. But how could I be? It’s always people, people, people—”