Encore: A Standalone Rockstar Novel

by Selena Laurence

  Ross Macalester is an amazingly down-to-earth guy, given his lifestyle. It’s pretty hard not to like him. But I remind myself, I can’t like him too much. He’ll be gone tomorrow, and I’ll still be here—sexless as it were.

  I glance in my rearview mirror, and that stupid smile is still on my face. Oh well, I think, what’s it going to hurt to be all girly and sexed up for one more day?

  I walk in and go straight to the shower, focused on making sure everything appears normal by the time Quinn gets home. I’ve just come out of the bathroom and tossed on a robe when I hear the hacking, wheezing sound from Quinn’s bedroom upstairs.

  "Hold on, Chuck!" I yell as I wrap a towel around my wet hair. I make my way upstairs, grabbing dirty clothes and dishes strewn around the loft as I go, until I reach the giant glass terrarium in the corner of the room. There inside, is a five-foot-long iguana, who blinks up at me and coughs some more.

  He’s not sick, it’s something they do to expel sodium in their system, I guess. But I think Chuck has learned to use it to get someone’s attention. He feels that having the run of Quinn’s room is pretty much his inalienable right, and so he lets us know when he’s being deprived.

  "Come here, monster," I say as I reach in and lift him out of his home, placing him on the floor, where he ever so slowly begins to explore. It’ll take him most of the day to make his way around the room. We’ve iguana-proofed it, but each time Chuck is out, we have to take away the ladder from Quinn’s loft bed so Chuck can’t climb up there, and we have to put a gate up at the stairs. It took six months to find a gate that Chuck can’t climb, but we did.

  I do a visual sweep of the space to make sure there isn’t anything Chuck could get hurt with, then take my treasure trove of cereal bowls and dirty gym clothes downstairs, closing the gate behind me. I hear Chuck hacking as I go. "I’ll check on you in a bit, big guy. Why don’t you try to climb the curtains? That always keeps you entertained."

  After starting up the laundry and loading the dishwasher, I finally sit down and call Ali. This is going to require more than a text discussion.

  "Oh my God. I cannot believe you left with Ross Macalester!" she says for an opening.

  "Why does that make me feel like I’m actually back in high school?" I ask as I take a sip of the coffee I just brewed.

  "I don’t know, exactly, but spill, because Dex is at the office for a couple of hours this morning, so we won’t get interrupted and I need to hear this."

  "Well, you saw that we’d been hanging out, as the kids would say."

  Ali laughs. "Tell Quinn that. 'I hung out with this dude from high school last night’."

  "Ugh. He’d be horrified, mostly because I used the term hanging out. But we got along really well, it was comfortable, almost like twenty-five years hadn’t gone by." I go on to tell her how he asked me to come back to his hotel. And how cute it was that he thought he’d overstepped.

  "So how was it?" she asks, then. "Was it familiar? Did he remind you of the first time?"

  I think about that for a moment. I’m not quite sure how to explain it all, and I’m only willing to share so much, because while it was great sex, I respect Ross, and I’m not going to engage in super personal gossip about him. He has a right to privacy, just like I hope he’d give me.

  "There were things that are familiar about him, but twenty-five years makes a big difference."

  "He’s had a lot of experience in those twenty-five years, I bet," Ali teases.

  "All of it good," I concede.

  She gives a little squeal. "I’m proud of you, Carly. That took guts, and confidence, and you just went for it. Well done!"

  I roll my eyes, though she can’t see me. "I’m not sure about all that, but he’s a really good guy, and we had a great time."

  We talk about the reunion, then, and gossip about how everyone we hadn’t seen in the intervening years turned out. By ten a.m., I hear Quinn’s car pulling up outside.

  "Q’s home," I tell her. "I’ll probably need to get him something to eat before he goes to work."

  "Tell him to wash his hands after he retrieves the boats from the Tunnel of Love. I remember what goes on in that ride."

  Quinn works at our local amusement park. It has a game arcade, laser tag, a small river with paddle boats, including the infamous Tunnel of Love, and putt-putt golf.

  "Will do."

  "Oh! And you guys come for dinner tonight. Dex’s mom gave us half a deer and we’ll never be able to eat it all. I’ll make venison burgers or something."

  "No can do," I tell her. "I agreed to have dinner with Ross tonight."

  There’s nothing but silence on the other end of the call.

  "Hello?"

  "I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say you’re going on a date with the one-night stand rockstar."

  "Nope. Not a date. Just dinner. He leaves tomorrow and just thought it would be nice to catch up a little."

  I hear a strange strangling noise on the other end.

  "Are you…laughing at me?"

  Quinn opens the front door and starts shouting ridiculous things at Chuck. "Chuck! Daddy’s home! Let’s go toss the ball around in the yard before you have to go to little league practice."

  I shake my head and smile, even as I’m about to get peeved with Ali.

  "Sister," she begins with her scolding voice. "You just spent about twelve hours catching up—in every conceivable way, is my guess. No one buys that line. God, I would have expected something better from a rockstar." She laughs and I scowl. "But props, my friend. You were obviously worth a repeat."

  "No one says props anymore and that’s not what this is about," I say, trying to keep my voice down as I hear Quinn making cooing noises at Chuck up in his room. "We’re old friends, as well as the, you know,—" I feel my cheeks heat "—other stuff. Besides, I told him it was a school night."

  Ali gives one more contemptuous laugh. "Ok, hon. You hold on to that, but make sure you also remember that he leaves tomorrow, and you probably won’t see him until the fiftieth reunion."

  I roll my eyes. "I’m a grown-up, here, Al. I have no teen fantasies about long-term with the rockstar. That’s completely ridiculous."

  And it is. He’s an amazing guy, but I’m a divorced mom in Grove City, Illinois. I sell houses that would probably fit in the backyard of his Beverly Hills estate or whatever. No Ross Macalester for me.

  An hour later, I'm watching my teenager scarf down an entire box of Mac and Cheese, a bowlful of Fruity Pebbles, a blueberry and banana smoothie with a few leaves of kale snuck in—because I insisted—and a six-inch-long roast beef sandwich. As the mother of a teen boy, I only buy cereal in the largest boxes, I only buy bread that's hoagie rolls, I only buy milk in gallon containers, and I spend a lot of time making smoothies, in an effort to inject vegetables and fruit into my kid's system.

  "Mwahdunfugmuhsockyoonay," Quinn says around a mouthful of bread and roast beef.

  I pause unloading the dishwasher and look at him over my shoulder, where he's sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over his food like someone might try to steal it from him.

  "What?"

  He holds up a finger, telling me to wait, then takes a big swig of smoothie to wash down the enormous mouthful of food he's just put away. I shake my head in disbelief.

  "You don't have to devour it like you're a pig in slop, you know. Trust me, I'm not going to take it away. If I ate even half that sandwich, I'd gain five pounds overnight."

  "I'm hungry," he insists. "Dad only ever has cereal and frozen dinners. Have you seen how tiny those things are? I ate three of them last night and it was like I'd eaten one of those baby bags of chips they give you in elementary school lunches."

  I just shake my head and keep unloading the dishwasher.

  "But what I was trying to say," he continues, "is since it looks like you've been doing laundry, would you pretty please wash my soccer uniform for the game tomorrow? I'll do my other stuff, but that has to get done today."


  I have my back to him, so he can't see me smile. Quinn will be a senior next year, so my time with him is precious. I know he needs to be able to take care of himself, so I do what parents do—make him learn to wash his own laundry, make him clean up the kitchen and stop off at the grocery store for me. But there's also a part of me that lives for doing those same things for him. Getting his clothes clean and folded, watching him eat a meal I put together, listening to him and his friends doing their stupid boy things when they're all sleeping in his room upstairs.

  Sometimes, late at night, I lie in bed and try to imagine what my life will be like for the next forty years after Quinn goes to college and is on his own. And bits and pieces come to me, but there's always this hole in the center that I haven't figured out how to fill. For now, though, I just soak up these little moments that won't be here in a few years—making him a sandwich, washing his soccer uniform.

  "Yes," I say with feigned exasperation. "I will wash your soccer uniform. In fact, I might have already, since when I went to let Chuck out, I found it wadded up on the floor of your room."

  He stands next to me, dirty dishes in hand, a big grin on his face. "Thanks, Mom," he says, handing me the dishes. Then he bats his eyelashes at me.

  "Go to work," I command, trying not to smile back.

  "You love me," he gloats, nudging my shoulder with his arm. His shoulder now sits several inches higher than mine. He's five foot ten and not done growing. All skinny limbs and floppy hair. His eyes are mine, but that hair is all Greg’s.

  "I love your paycheck because then I don't have to give you allowance."

  He snorts. "Fine. I'll go to work, but just so you know, I have more homework tonight."

  "All right, come straight home after your shift, then, no dallying chatting up the girl that works the front counter."

  "She friend-zoned me anyway," he mutters. Poor kid. He's got good friends, great grades, and is the starting wing for the soccer team, but he hasn't figured out girls yet.

  "I'm glad you're the kind of guy girls like as a friend," I tell him. "The rest is just meeting the right girl."

  "God, Mom, whatever," he says, rolling his eyes. "See you at eight thirty."

  "Ok, have a good shift. Oh! And Aunt Ali says to wash your hands after you bring in the boats from the Tunnel of Love."

  He laughs on his way to the front door. "Mom. No one ever touches the insides of those things. Do you know what people do in there? Gross."

  Then he's out the door, leaving me shaking my head and toughening my heart. Because of all the men I've known in my life, Quinn is the one who will break it the most.

  9

  Ross

  It's noon by the time I meet up with Craig at Dolly's Diner on Main Street. We used to eat breakfast here every Sunday morning in high school. My parents weren't too religious, and his realized trying to get him to go to church beyond the age of fourteen was a hopeless task, so while the Bissettis were at St. Katherine's mass, Craig and I were at Dolly's shoveling bacon and pancakes in our faces and dissecting the football game or party from the night before.

  He slides into the booth opposite me and rubs a hand over his forehead. He's got some extra baggage under his eyes and he groans. "Dude. Why did you let me drink like that?"

  "Me? I was across a table from you and you had your wife there. I thought at your age, you guys could handle your liquor."

  He chuckles as one of the waitresses pours his coffee, while she keeps stealing glances at me. She's made me, and eventually I'm going to have to address the situation, but I'm trying to get some caffeine in my bloodstream, first. I'll admit it, I fell back asleep after Carly left my suite, and I didn't wake up until the concierge rang to tell me my rental car had finally arrived.

  "Deanna and I haven't had a night out in about six months, and our usual date nights are a quick dinner at a cheap restaurant so we don't feel guilty spending the kids' college money. I haven't had that much to drink in years."

  "Doesn't seem to have been too successful," I murmur with a smirk as I sip my coffee.

  "Yeah, admittedly, we were both so hammered last night we just passed out. No getting lucky for Daddy."

  I try to muster up some sympathy for my friend's sexless evening, but it's tough when the mere word sex conjures images of Carly in my bed, all satiny smooth skin and softly rotating hips.

  "But this morning was another matter," Craig continues with a grin. "I left her naked and really happy. Kids won't be home until two this afternoon, so she gets to have a couple hours to herself. I'll have a happy wife for a few days, now."

  I give him a little fist bump. "Nicely done, man. Happy wives mean happy lives." I throw his oft-repeated quote back at him. I know it's true. Men are selfish creatures—because we've been allowed to be—and it's easy for us to think all that matters is our own happiness. But I've watched my parents' marriage my whole life, as well as Craig's, and it's pretty obvious that the real key to a man's happiness is the happiness of his woman. Some men might think they're happy when they get to do whatever they want and shit all over the women in their lives, but they're too stupid to see that it's a fleeting happiness. Like a hunger that can't be satiated.

  And I should know. I fed that hunger for years. Focused entirely on myself—my career, my sexual urges, my music. I thought that fans and money and sex equated to a happy life. But twenty years later, I'm facing the reality that fans aren't friends, sex isn't love, and money can't buy either of the other two. I'm a forty-three-year-old man who has only one true friend, a daughter who despises him, and three houses, but no home. All the Grammies in the world can't change that.

  Craig opens up the menu, glances over it for ten seconds, then closes it back up. The menu items haven't changed in twenty-five years, he'll get the pancake special, I'll get the pancake meal, and we'll both drink four cups of coffee. It's tradition. Some traditions shouldn't be screwed with.

  "So, I've told you about my night..." he pauses and raises one eyebrow. "Maybe you should tell me about yours."

  I can't help the smile that creeps across my face as I shake my head.

  "You know I don't kiss and tell."

  "Ha! So there was kissing, then. And I'm sure a lot more."

  I just stare back at him. He knows I won't talk, but we communicate quite a bit with our gazes.

  "She's a great gal," he tells me.

  "She is."

  "Single. Successful career. Has a real nice son, from what I've heard. I'm friends with the soccer coach. He talks a lot about what a likeable, well-mannered kid Quinn is."

  I nod. "Yeah. I'm sure she's a fantastic mom. My guess is, she's good at everything she does."

  He takes a sip of coffee, feigning a look of thoughtfulness. Craig's a doer, not a thinker. Thoughtful really isn't in his repertoire.

  "Maybe you should try to see her again," he suggests. Mr. Casual.

  "As a matter of fact, I'm having dinner with her."

  His eyes widen. "Well. Imagine that."

  I nod. "I uh, I think she's great."

  He leans forward, elbows on the table as the door to the diner opens and closes over and over. I realize the place has really filled up since I arrived thirty minutes ago. In the back of my head, there are warning bells sounding, but I'm too focused on discussing Carly to listen.

  "So why don't you stick around for a while? Get to know her," he says. "Maybe it could be more than a one-night thing."

  All the joy I'm feeling fizzles like a candle that's been doused. "I need to go to L.A. Sara isn't speaking to me and Christine thinks it would really help if I could spend a few weeks there, just doing the normal stuff—going to her school events, meeting her friends. I'm gone so much, she barely knows me, and I'm realizing that I'm probably already too late."

  I look up at him, and I can see the sympathy in his eyes.

  "I blew it. I let her entire childhood go by, only stopping in for a day here and a weekend there. I thought, as long as she had the best
schools and neighborhood that money could buy, then I was doing my part."

  I sit back in the booth, running a hand across my beard and squinting into the sun that's shining through the windows. "I'm a fucking moron, but if I don't at least try now, I'll hate myself forever."

  He nods. "I get it. And you're right, you have to at least give it one last shot. But remember, she's a teenager. Just because she hates you right this minute doesn't mean she always will."

  "Um, excuse me?" The waitress is back, holding a pen and a t-shirt in her hand. I quickly realize that it's one of Odyssey's concert t-shirts. Well, shit.

  I smile at her, and then glance around and realize that most of the people in the diner are giving me covert glances, the hum of group energy directed my way now becoming louder.

  Craig becomes aware of it the same time I do. "Oh shit," he mumbles, picking up his keys from the table. "Want me to bring the car around?" he asks.

  I shake my head slightly.

  "Hi," I say to the waitress, who's about thirty-five. Not old enough to have gone to school with us, but old enough to be in my fan base. "You want that signed?"

  She nods, a look of awe on her face. "I'm your biggest fan."

  If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me—well, I sort of do, I guess.

  "I'm happy to, but I'm wondering if you could do me a little favor, first..."

  A few minutes later, the closed sign has been turned, the front door has been locked, and one of the bus boys stands guard to let people out once they're finished with their breakfasts. Next to him is a big basket of cell phones, and all it cost me was the price of a few dozen pancakes. The manager and I came to an arrangement quickly—I buy everyone's breakfast, he closes the diner to further guests until Craig and I are done eating, and everyone gives up their cell phones so they can't blast my presence here to the entire town.

  It's a win-win, something I sort of specialize in when it comes to fans. Now, if Craig can adjust to having everyone watch him eat, it'll all be good.

  "I got to hand it to you," Craig says around a mouthful of caramel apple pancakes, "you're creative when it comes to controlling the mobs."