Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (21 page)

“I don’t have an act anymore,” Ellie says sadly.

“We can figure that out along the way,” I tell her
earnestly, “But I’ve got a cab idling outside, and a jet waiting to take us
back.”

“A jet? Good grief,” Kate snorts.

“Will you come back with me?” I ask Ellie, taking her hands
in mine. She looks around at her mom and sister, weighing her options.

“Trent...this whole thing is so huge,” she says, “I don’t
know whether or not I can handle being a famous musician. It’s hardly been a
week, and people are already trying to tear me down.”

“There will always be people trying to tear you down in
life,” I tell her, “That’s the story every time. Whether you’re a rock star, or
a school teacher, or a college student in Boston, the world will always be
pushing you to the edge. But Ellie—you can handle it. You were born for it. You
know as well as I do that music is your life, what you have to offer the world.
I know you’re scared, but it’s going to be OK. I’ll help you. I promise.”

She takes a deep breath and holds it.

My entire body is tensed in anticipation. I’ve never been
more keenly aware of needing someone as much as I need her.

“OK,” she says finally, “Let’s do this thing.”

Chapter Sixteen

“I can’t believe this is our ride,” I breathe, as we make
our way toward Trent’s private jet.

The plane is waiting for us in the middle of a tiny local
airport, looking as out of place as my rock star escort in my little hometown.

Seeing Trent here in Barton is as surreal as anything that’s
happened to me in the past week. Watching this incredibly famous person stride
through the front door of my childhood home and meet my family finally forced
me to accept that whatever crazy ride I’m on right now is real and true. As
insane as this all is, I’d do well to sit back and enjoy it.

Trent offers his hand to me and helps me up the stairs into
the plane. “What, are you telling me you’ve never flown in a private jet
before?" He says with a grin, "Gee, how the other half lives...”

“Well, maybe in a couple of years, when I’m the most famous
leftover half of a folk duo America has ever seen, I’ll be able to get myself
one of these puppies,” I say, stepping into the jet.

“Dream big, babe,” Trent replies as the door closes behind
us, “Dream big.”

I look around the inside of the plane, shaking my head in
wonder. I’ve been so continually floored by every extravagant detail of Trent’s
life that I’m out of words for my amazement. The jet is even fancier than the
tour bus, with deep, cushy seats lining the windows, a big screen TV, a
built-in bar, and door leading back to more private rooms.

“I’m assuming that the Jacuzzi is back there?” I say,
gesturing toward the rear of the plane.

“Ah,” Trent says, “We had to remove the Jacuzzi when we put
in the laser tag arena. My apologies.”

“I suppose this will have to do then,” I sigh dramatically.

“You’re too kind,” Trent says, taking my hand in his. A
crackle of excitement skirts up my arm, even at this slight touch. It’s like my
body is hardwired to respond to Trent’s every move.

So much happened so quickly after we spent that night
together that my body’s had no time to come down from the high of sleeping with
Trent. I feel like I’ve been suspended in this state of hyper-awareness and
sensitivity, just waiting until we could be together again.

I thought that giving myself up to my desire would sate my
need for a while, but if anything it’s only gotten more intense, now that I
know what it’s like to be with Trent that way.

I grasp his fingers just a little tighter, wondering if he’s
feeling the same way. If his flying after me despite my behavior is any
indication, we might just be on the same page.

“Come on,” he says, pulling on my hand, “You’ve got to sit
down for takeoff.”

I allow myself to be towed over into an enormous plushy
chair. Trent is kind enough to give me the window seat, since this whole thing
is still novel for me. I can’t help but be as excited as a little kid as the
plane roars to life. I haven’t been on a plane for years—not since our trip to
the Grand Canyon when I was fifteen. I can’t imagine a life where flying across
the country wouldn’t be thrilling, but that’s Trent's day to day.

“How quickly do you get used to all of this?” I ask, as the
jet rolls around toward the runway.

“Honestly?” he says, “Far too quickly.”

We pick up speed, and I grab onto Trent’s arm as the jet
lifts off. My hometown falls away beneath us, shrinking down to the size of a
kid’s block city in no time at all. The place looks so insignificant from up
here—just another woodsy corner of the country with nothing spectacular about
it. But maybe being a little unremarkable isn’t such a bad thing.

My nose is practically pressed up against the window as we
sail through the dusky sky. My race home took up most of the day, so we’ll be
enjoying the view of the darkened world as we fly back to the festival. Bright
lights dot the landscape below us, clustering around town centers and bigger
cities than mine. Soon, they’ll give way to huge swathes of black as we fly
over the plains and mountains.

“Night flights are the best,” Trent tells me, peering around
me through the window. “You really feel like you’re in a world apart.”

“You must always feel that way,” I say, turning to face him.

“True,” he says, standing up from his seat, “But when you
think about it, doesn’t everyone?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, everyone’s reality is a bit unique,” he says,
crossing to the bar and taking two glasses down from the rack, “Mine just
happens to be unique in a terribly specific way.”

“That’s one way of spinning it,” I say, going to join him.

“It makes me feel less lonely, to think of it that way,” he
tells me, “Let me have my coping mechanisms, would you?”

“They’re all yours,” I smile.

“Thank you,” he says, “Now, for the much more important
question...Would you like whiskey or vodka, and how much?”

“Whiskey,” I answer, “And I’ll let you decide how much.”

“Very well,” he says, pouring two generous splashes of booze
into our waiting glasses. He hands me my drink—the smoky scent of the fine
booze is a welcome relief after the day I’ve had. I raise my glass to him,
trying to formulate a toast to encompass everything I’m feeling.

“...To you,” I say finally. It’s the only thing there is to
say. “Thank you, Trent.”

“For what?” he asks, clinking his glass against mine and
taking a sip.

“For...everything,” I say simply, “Everything that’s
happened. Everything that might happen.”

“I’ll gladly drink to that,” he says with a smile.

We raise our glasses to our lips, eyeing each other across
the bar. Those green eyes of Trent’s bore right through me, rendering every
defense useless. There’s no hiding anything from him, that much I know for a
fact.

There’s something shared between us that can’t be ignored or
set aside. It’s a level of understanding that I’ve never felt with anyone else.
I don’t need to put words to it—it’s far more intuitive than that. Even though
our lives have been completely different, it’s as though we’re occupying the
same little sliver of reality. I don’t understand it, but I feel it wholly.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that little family drama,” I
tell him, perching myself on a bar stool, “That’s really not how we are,
usually.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he says, leaning into
the bar. The muscles in his arms glide and ripple beautifully as he rests his
weight on them, and I’m so distracted by them that I almost don’t hear what
he’s telling me. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t exactly have a
stellar relationship with my father, either.”

“Really?” I ask. I know so little about Trent’s life before
stardom that I’m instantly intrigued.

“Really,” he says, “I mean...it’s nothing scandalous. I
don’t want you to think I’m belittling what you and your family have gone
through. I don’t have any cause to complain about my own family. We were pretty
functional, overall.”

“But...?” I prompt.

“But...You know. My parents and brothers aren’t exactly
artistically-minded. They’ve always been perfectly content to lead average,
run-of-the-mill lives. My parents have been in the same tiny house for decades,
my brothers all went out an found honest nine-to-five jobs. I’m the only one
who really strayed from that path.”

“Well, they must be impressed by everything you’ve done,” I
say, “I mean, you’re one of the best rock musicians in the world. They have to
appreciate that kind of excellence, right?”

“You’d think that,” he says, taking another sip of whiskey,
“But I’m afraid that’s not really the case.”

“Well, the money must help a little, right?” I say, trying
to lighten things up.

A pained expression crosses Trent’s face. “No. No, my
family’s never accepted a dime from me. They don’t really think of it as honest
money, to tell you the truth. I suppose they’re glad that I’ve done well for
myself, but they don’t respect my success. They don’t understand the drive to
create, and to share what you’ve made with the rest of the world. They’ve never
understood that part of me because they can’t comprehend it. It’s not something
I can make them experience with me.”

“That must be so hard,” I say.

“It’s gotten easier,” he tells me, glancing out the window
at the nearly black sky, “When I first started playing music, I thought it
would be something that my family could appreciate. I think if it had stayed a
hobby, something I did after work and on the weekends, they would have been a
lot more receptive. But once I started centering my life around playing my
guitar, they started to disapprove.

They didn’t think it was responsible, or fair. My brothers
were all off working crappy, thankless jobs while I moved out to California to
be a musician. Even once I started getting noticed, they thought it was a
fluke. As though I hadn’t earned it. Regardless of the fact that I’ve been
working for this for over a decade.

It’s pretty shitty to know that there is absolutely nothing
I can do to impress them, or make them respect my work. And my dad’s the worst
of all...”

He looks up at me, catching himself mid-rant. His features
rearrange themselves, and the anger subsides just a bit. “I’m sorry,” he says,
“I don’t mean to go off on you. I guess I’ve never said any of this out loud
before...”

I reach for him, laying my hand on his forearm. “It’s OK,” I
tell him, “Thank you for talking to me about it. I was starting to feel like I
was the only one with a less than perfect home life.”

“That’s the thing though,” he says, frowning, “There’s
nothing about my family that’s messed up, necessarily. I was loved as a kid,
and fed, and cared for...So why isn’t it enough? Why do I also have to feel
validated by them?”

“I don’t know why, Trent,” I tell him, “But I can tell you,
from personal experience, that the feeling isn’t imaginary. I know what it’s
like to feel like there’s nothing you can do to make yourself feel at home, and
wanted, and loved as yourself. The only time I’ve ever felt understood and
accepted for who I am was...is...Well, to be perfectly honest, it’s when I’m
talking to you.”

He lifts his brilliant green eyes to mine, and a new shade
shines through—it looks to me like hope. Trent reaches across the bar and tucks
a loose lock of blonde hair behind my ear, letting his fingers brush against
the skin of my cheek.

All of a sudden, he actually looks his age. Looking at me,
Trent’s world-weary rock star mask falls away. He’s all youthful hope, and
earnestness, and intent concentration. But there’s something else in his gaze
too...something that sets my knees to trembling. I can see that he’s been
waiting, too—brought to life by being with me and waiting to feel that
connection once again.

“I have no idea how this happened,” he laughs, leaning
toward me, “I know we just met...But it doesn’t feel that way, does it?”

“No,” I say, running my hand down his muscular forearm, “To
tell you the truth, I’ve lost track. So much has happened, so much has changed.
The only thing to do is let it happen, I suppose.”

“That sounds like a solid plan to me,” he says, smiling
wickedly.

I can’t help myself any longer. With a rush of unstoppable
need, I bring my lips eagerly to Trent’s, leaning across the bar toward him.
His firm mouth meets mine, moving with a desire paralleled only by my own.

He takes my face in his hands, and I open myself to him. A
shudder of illicit delight runs through me as his tongue glides against mine.
There’s no hint of strategy or technique about his kiss—he’s simply listening
to my body, responding to what I want and need. Who knew that the act of
listening could be so sexy.

Charged by the power of his kiss, I lift myself off the
stool and swing my legs over the side of the bar. Trent’s eyes flutter open,
gleaming excitedly. I close the space between us, sliding my legs around his
tapered waist. I’m balanced on the edge of the bar, straddling Trent as he
slides his arms around the small of my back. I let my fingers trail through his
messy curls, down against the stubble on his fine jaw. My lips find his once
more, and our mouths move against each other insatiably.

Trent pulls me tightly against him, and I groan as I feel
the hard length of him press up against the throbbing, wet place between my
legs. I throw my arms excitedly around his shoulders, grinding against him. He
presses against me, letting me feel how stiff he’s grown for me. I bring my lips
to his neck, flicking my tongue against his skin as I let my hands wander down
to the front of his jeans.

His eyes close rapturously as I stroke him through the thick
fabric. I need both hands to tend to him properly, and I sigh in anticipation,
remembering how good it felt to pull him in, deep inside of me. My hands move
quickly, running along the full length of him as I kiss him hungrily. I can
feel his quickening breath hot against my skin. I love knowing that I can do
this to him.