Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (24 page)

“Oh?” I say, edging a little closer to him on the bed,
“Every time, huh?”

“You stay back!” he says, “I can’t be held accountable for
what happens when you make those sexy eyes at me.”

“I don’t make sexy eyes,” I protest.

“Sure you do!” he cries, “You’re doing it right now!”

“That’s just how my eyes are, asshole!”

“Well...Fine. Sexy-by-default eyes. But all the same, we
need to keep working. There will be plenty of time for...other sorts of
collaboration later. Come on, lead me into your next song.”

Reluctantly, we get back to rehearsing. But every moment I
spend close to Trent is another leaves me more and more desirous of him. I’ve
never felt so insatiably crazy for someone in my entire life. If this is what
falling in love is always like, no wonder people rave about it so much in all
those songs! If things keep going the way they have been, I’ll have a few sappy
love songs of my own to write soon enough.

We spend hours in that room together, flowing from song to
song in an ever-deepening state of unity. We’ve never played together like this
before, and working with Trent this way is almost as thrilling as it was to
sleep with him for the first time.

There are more than a few similarities between music and
sex, of course—both require a keen ability to listen and respond, both can change
the way you think about the world, and both are much better when you have a
fantastic partner.

Chapter Nineteen

The little patch of sky outside the bedroom window lightens
to a vibrant blue as the hours wear on, but we keep practicing straight through
the gorgeous afternoon.

Playing with Trent doesn’t feel like work, the way playing
with Mitch sometimes did. This expression feels like such a natural extension
of our dynamic that moving from song to speech is seamless. I feel completely
in synch with Trent, as though we’re of one mind. I’ve never felt this kind of
easy engagement with anyone, and I’m eager to keep exploring it.

A knock on the door interrupts our marathon jam session, and
Kenny pokes his head into the room.

“What is it, Kenny?” Trent asks, a bit irritated by the
interruption.

“Sorry to intrude,” Kenny says, “But you guys do know that
it’s, like, five o’ clock?”

“What?!” I screech, “How is it five o’ clock already?”

“I dunno,” Kenny shrugs, “Just is.”

“Trent, we’ve got to get down to the stage!” I breathe,
springing to my feet.

“Don’t worry,” he tells me, slinging the guitar over his
back, “Everything’s under control.”

“But—”

“It’s all cool,” he insists, leading me out of the room,
“Just trust me.”

I nod, fighting to keep my chin from quivering. This is it,
the moment of truth. Time to see whether the world can stomach us. Time to see
if anyone will give a damn about what we have to share. But whatever the
reaction, at least I know I’ve found something beautiful in this surprising collaboration. 

Trent leads the way through the tour bus, and the three guys
fall in step behind us as we make our way out into the early evening.

“Are you guys...coming?” he asks.

“Of course we are!” Rodger says, “You think we’d miss it?”

“No, I just...Thank you,” Trent says, “That’s pretty cool of
you.”

Rodney hands Trent a flask, and my partner takes a hearty
slug. He holds it out for me, and I raise it to the group before taking a
swallow of smooth vodka for myself. A little liquid courage will go a long way,
right about now.

The five of us turn and head down the hill together. I have
to admit, it’s nice having a little posse to be a part of. Especially one that
knows the ropes of this whole “fame” thing.

As we approach the bottom of the hill, a crowd begins to
form. People peer up at us as we come ever closer, and I can feel my chest
growing tighter with each step. The guys spread out around me, forming a
protective little "V" to keep me from getting overwhelmed by the
crowd.

Beside me, Trent walks with long, authoritative strides,
challenging anyone to be disparaging about our joint appearance. As we make our
way to the stage, he throws his arm around my shoulders and pulls me tightly
against him. I wrap my arm around his waist, grateful beyond measure for his
infectious courage.

People are clamoring at us left and right, but we keep on
trucking until we close in on the stage where Mitch and I were set to perform.
We duck backstage, finally leaving the throng behind.

From among the intricate system of curtains and audio
equipment, Pearl the stage manager comes bustling toward us. She’s even more
excited than when we first met—which is not something I’d thought possible.

She’s beaming from ear to ear as she comes up and wraps me
in a hug.

“You sure have had a busy festival!” she laughs, eyeing
Trent.

“You could say that, yeah,” I tell her.

“We’re just about ready for you out there,” she says,
looking around the backstage world, “But where’s your partner?”

“Right here,” Trent says, stepping forward.

“No, no,” Pearl giggles, “I meant your songwriting partner.
Where’s Mitch?”

“Trent is my new songwriting partner,” I tell the stage
manager, “Mitch and I had a bit of misunderstanding.”

Pearl’s eye widen. “Oh...Oh, dear. This is rather
unexpected. We don’t really have anything set up for the whole band...”

“It’s just me,” Trent says, “We’re doing the acoustic duo
thing, don’t worry. As long as a couple of mics are set up, we’ll be fine.”

“But...The crowd is expecting to see Ellie & Mitch,”
Pearl says anxiously.

“They’re getting something better,” I tell her, “They’re
going to see the first ever performance of a whole new group...Jackson &
Parker.”

“Nice one,” Trent says.

“I don’t know how this is going to go over with these fans,”
Pearl says, biting her lip.

“Well, we don’t know either. So why don’t we find out, huh?”
I say.

“OK,” says the stage manager, backing away, “I’ll just...get
out there and introduce you, then.”

She hurries away as the rest of the band wishes us all the
broken limbs in the world.

It’s just Trent and I, standing alone backstage. I can hear
the rumble of a huge crowd beyond the curtain—I’m sure there are far more
people out there than last time. A stampede of butterflies breaks loose in my
stomach, and it’s a struggle to set aside my doubts.

What if they really do hate us as a duo? I know that I
shouldn’t care, but my skin isn’t that thick yet. There’s always going to be a
part of me that just wants to be liked, to be the best.

“Trent, this is crazy,” I hiss, squeezing his hand.

“That’s true,” he smiles, brushing my hair out of my face,
“But it’s exciting too, isn’t it?”

“What if they just despise us?” I ask nervously, “What if
they see you, me, and a guitar, and call bullshit on the whole thing?”

“Then they must not be listening,” he says, “Your music is
great, and we’re wonderful together. Just have faith in us, Ellie. I know I
do.”

“I do too,” I tell him, “This is all just a little bit
much.”

A cheer goes up from the audience as Pearl’s voice crackles
through the speakers. “Welcome to tonight’s first performance!” she says,
reluctantly enthusiastic, “I know that you all came to see Ellie & Mitch,
but unfortunately there’s been a slight change in program.”

“Unfortunately?” Trent snorts. But I can hear a groan of
disappointment coming from the crowd. I don’t know whether to feel flattered
that they were excited to see my act or terrified that they’re going to hate
what they get instead.

“Instead, I’m proud to introduce a brand new act, featuring
some musicians that you already know  and love. Please welcome to the stage,
Jackson & Parker!”

Trent grabs onto my hand and walks me out onto the stage. As
soon as the audience catches sight of us together, they lose their collective
mind all at once. A wave of sounds breaks over us as we make our way center
stage.

At first, it’s impossible to tell what the tone of that
noise is. But once the shock of its intensity has subsided, I can tell that
it’s not ire or disappointment these people are showering us with—it’s
excitement and delight. They’re happy to see us, after all!

I’m smiling ear to ear as Trent and I take our places before
the standing mics. Our setup is simple, our stage unadorned, but the crowd is
still going nuts for us. I look out over the audience—it must be three times
the size of our first crowd at Hawk and Dove.

I feel the love pouring in from all of them, and have to
swallow down happy tears before I grab the mic and say, “Hi everyone.” Another
roar of applause forces me to wait a moment before I continue, “Thank you all
for coming out to see us tonight. Even if you were expecting a different us.
Trent and I just met here at Hawk and Dove and, well...we’ve really hit it off.
We’ve been working on some music that we really think you’re going to enjoy.”

A ripple of whispers spreads through the audience. I look
over at Trent and he smiles at me, with him at my side, I feel more than brave
enough to break into song.

I count Trent off and let out a low, melancholy wail to
begin our first number. The crowd is screaming and reaching out for us as we
swing our way through the first song, an ode to foiled expectations and the
pain of realizing that no one has all the answers.

We fall right back into our place of wonderful
dual-solitude, even though there are hundreds of people watching us. It might
as well just be the two of us alone in our little rehearsal room, I still feel
that close and connected to him.

His fingers draw the most beautiful patterns up out of his
instrument, complimenting my songs in a way I never knew was possible. And when
he adds his voice to mine in breathtaking harmony, it’s like my words are
actually coming to life—taking form in the air that hangs between us and the
audience.

I’ve never been a part of anything so beautiful before in my
life. Together, we transport the entire crowd beyond this field in Kansas,
straight into the world we’re creating with each passing note and word. It’s a
true and beautiful collaboration of the purest sort.

As we wrap up the first half of our set, the audience is
practically pulsing with ecstatic delight. They can sense that they’re
witnessing something more than just the creation of music—they’re watching two
people falling in love right before their very eyes. And the fact that one of
those people happens to be Trent Parker doesn’t hurt things one bit.

I hold the microphone away from my mouth and lean toward
him.

“I think they like us,” I say with a smile.

“They love us,” he replies, wrapping his arm around my
waist. He brings his mouth down to mine in one sure, sweet motion. I press my
lips firmly against his, throwing my arm up over his shoulder. I can hear the
crowd going wild, but I don’t even care. All I care about is the feel of
Trent’s lips on mine, the sweet coolness of the breeze off the rain washed
grass, the deep pink color of the darkening sunset. I don’t know how this
moment could be any more perfect.

Trent takes a step back and slings the guitar off of his
body.

I blink at him, not comprehending at first.

“What are you doing?” I ask, “We still have half a set to
play.”

“I know,” he says, “I think you should play your song
first.”

“What?” I breathe, staring at him.

“Play the song you were telling me about earlier. The one
you were working on before you hit the road to come here.”

“You want me to play the guitar?” I hiss, “In front of all
these people?”

“Why, yes,” he laughs, “I do. Come on—you’re a real musician
now. Time to start taking some risks.”

I wrap my trembling hand around the neck of the guitar and
take it from Trent. “This is either the best or worst idea in the history of
the world,” I tell him.

“Don't be such a goofball,” he says, rolling his eyes, “Just
play your song. I’m right here, Ellie. There’s no reason to be afraid.”

I glance out across the hundreds of upturned faces. “Oh
yeah. No need to be afraid at all...”

Approaching the standing mic, I sling the guitar around my
neck. The audience is buzzing with curious chatter as I lean into the mic and
say, “I’ve been working on an original bit, lately. I’m not much of guitarist,
so you’ll have to bear with me, but I wanted to share this with you anyway.”

And as I say it, I realize that it’s true. I do want to
share my song with the rest of the world—that’s why I’m here in the first
place. Just last week, before I left for the festival, I was practicing this
little ditty in my childhood bedroom. Now, it’s about to belong to everyone
standing before me. And it’s all thanks to Trent, in the end.

I steal a sidelong glance at him and draw courage from his
assured, comfortable gaze.

I draw in a deep breath, arrange my fingers on the guitar,
and begin to sing:

Remember me just like this,

Picking feathers and burrs

Off the hem of my summer dress.

Remember how I was that day,

Laying down my bread crumbs,

Lest I go astray,

All for the sake of a man

I don’t even know by name...

 A hush falls over the audience as I delve deeper into my
song. The chords that I strum out are simple, drawing even more focus to the
words themselves. The story I weave is impressionistic, even surreal at times,
but the audience stays right there with me through the whole thing.

As I sail into the chorus, I hear Trent’s voice joining
mine, adding a gorgeous richness to my melody. He stays with me through the
rest of the song, and the audience’s response is deafening. Their adoration
carries us all the way through the rest of the set, straight into the encore.
We practically float offstage together, hovering on the overwhelming power of
their praise.

“That was amazing!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around
Trent.

“You were amazing,” he tells me, “Truly.”

“We make a good team, huh?” I laugh.

“The best,” he says, cupping my cheek in his hand, “But we’d
better not linger here too long.”

“Why not?” I ask.