Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (4 page)

“You look like you’re about to start drooling,” she
shudders, “Did you hear anything I just said to you?”

“Not even one word,” I tell her honestly.

“Typical,” she sniffs. “Well, if you can bear to be
interested for a moment, we’re closing in on the festival grounds. Gird your
loins, would you?”

She turns on her heel and walks away as I pull myself to
standing. Through the window, I can see the festival looming up on the horizon.
Giant staggering tents and stages rise up out of the plains like titans. Alone
in the back of the bus, I let myself smile a little. Maybe this will actually
be what I’ve been needing for so long.

“Trent!” a chorus of drunken, merry voices cries. My band
mates come staggering back toward me, blundering around like rambunctious
puppies. The Three Stooges look like refined gentlemen compared to the guys I
play with, but I can’t help but love them all. Having grown up with three older
brothers, the easy friendship of guys is where I’m most comfortable. Ever since
I started getting famous, women haven’t approached me with the most unbiased of
views. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to pass on banging a hot chick just
because her motives boil down to “he’s famous”, but I’m definitely not going to
be friends with someone like that either.

My drummer Rodney is leading the pack, his thick, stocky
body is blocking the doorway entirely. Rodger, the bassist, is clamoring behind
him, all angles and long limbs. Kenny is jumping up and down like a damned Jack
Russell, but his enthusiasm is contagious. Kenny’s always been like a kid
brother to me, and this is his first big music festival. Hell, it’s our first
festival as a group, too. We’ve been playing together for three years, ever
since my record label insisted that I do more than just play solo. I was
reluctant to bring on new meat at first, but needless to say, the guys have
grown on me.

“Hello, Kansas!” hollers Rodney, grabbing my by the arm and
pulling me into the main cabin, “Who knew the corn states could be so awesome?”

“I thought we’d never get here,” Rodger moans, “Why didn’t
we just take the jet?”

“I wanted us to have the road trip experience!” I say,
shoving him roughly, “We’re getting too pansy assed, lately. It’s been bottle
service and private jets for our entire tour. Let’s get a little dirty out
there, don't be a bitch.”

“What, did you bring a tent Bear Grylls?” Rodney asks,
rolling his eyes.

“I did,” I tell him.

The guys stare at me like I’m a lunatic.

“What? We have a fuckin tour bus, and you bring a tent?”
Rodger asks.

“I told you, I want to experience the festival,” I tell him,
“Take a breather, you know?”

“He just doesn’t want us around to scope out all the
festival ass he’s going to be getting,” Kenny laughs.

“Sure,” I say, trying to placate them, “Whatever. I’m going
be enjoying myself, roughing it like a real man, while all you assholes sit
around in the air conditioning like a bunch of—”

“Watch it!” Rodney says, “You don’t want to be down a band
when it’s time for you to play, do you?”

“I don’t indeed,” I say, “I also don’t want to be anywhere
near sober. So let’s drink.”

The guys rally around the nearest bottle of whiskey, and I
pour out four generous shots. We raise our glasses to each other and slug back
the booze. I close my eyes, savoring the burn at the back of my throat. Now
this is the right way to kick off a vacation. I’m about to pour us a second
round when Kelly barges back into the cabin.

“Save it,” she says shortly, “We need to make sure that camp
is set up. I have plainclothes security guards circling the perimeter.”

“Kelly, no need to call in the secret service,” I say,
“Would you try and ease up, a little? Change into something more...casual.”

Our manager glances down at her impeccable skinny jeans and
flowing white top. I’ve never seen this girl in anything but three inch heels.
She’s a few years older than I am, and she’s singlehandedly responsible for
finding me in LA. One night, after I finished an acoustic set at some hole in
the wall bar, she approached me out of nowhere. She was just setting out as an
independent manager, and wanted to take me on as one of her first clients. I
agreed, thinking that it would go nowhere. But after a couple of years being in
the right place at the right time, her connections and my following paid off.
The way she tells it, I owe my success completely to her. I personally wouldn’t
go that far, but Kelly will never let me forget that she discovered me. And
it’s finders keepers for her.

“Let’s get a move on,” she chirps, beckoning for us to
follow her out into the early evening air.

I step out of the tour bus and take a deep breath. Green
plains stretch out for miles all around us. We’re parked in the talent
campsite, the whole place is a maze of tricked out busses and RVs. The five of
us move around the bus, and take in the view of the festival from afar. The
event is splayed out across the field like it’s always belonged there. It looks
like a little city that’s cropped up out of the ground. I can see people
milling and seething all over, tens of thousands of people.

There’s one big stage in the middle of everything, rising up
into the dusky sky. This is the epicenter of the entire event, where the big
names play. We’re playing there ourselves, along with some wrinkled classic
rocker and a hip hop dude who’s always making an ass out of himself in the media.
Smaller stages are spread out in ripples around the main playing space, and
even tinier spaces are tucked into corners and crevices all around. Hundreds of
acts play every year at this festival, even if it’s only on a tiny little stage
that only three people end up coming to. Spread out between all the vast and
various playing spaces are food trucks, people selling handmade clothes and
crafts, the works. The festival’s like a marketplace, a music hall, and a rave
all wrapped into one.

“Would you look at all that mud?” Kelly says in my ear.

“That would be what you notice first,” I say, rolling my
eyes, “Why don’t you try and enjoy it here, Kel? You’re stuck here for five
days, whether you like it or not.”

“You know that I’d do anything for you Trent,” she tells me,
her eyes hardening, “Even if it means rolling around in the dirt all day so
that you can feel like you’re reconnecting with the people, or whatever the
hell you call this.”

“You’re a doll,” I tell her, breezing past.

I rush back into the bus and gather all my old camping stuff
up into my arms. I haul it down onto the grass next to our tour bus as my band
mates shower me with snarky remarks. There certainly aren’t many tents going up
in our little campsite, but what the hell do I care? Those elitist assholes
don’t know what they’re missing. I’m glad that there aren’t any photographers
allowed up here, however. The last thing I want making the rounds is a picture
of me acting like a boy scout. It would be terrible for business.

Finally, when I’ve got the tent up, I unroll a thick blanket
and drape it from a pole above the entrance. I stand back and check out my
work, pleased with the result. There are a few celebrity types looking at me
strangely from inside their fancy busses, but I couldn’t care less. I’m going
to do this the old fashioned way, and they call all just kiss my—

“Hey,” says a mopey voice from behind me. I peer over my
shoulder and see a lanky guy, no older than twenty by my guess, glaring at me
like this is the gunfight at the OK Corral. I’ve never seen the kid before in
my life, and for a second I’m worried he’s some kind of deranged fan who
wandered up from the general campsite. But he’s got a badge that tells me he’s
with one of the acts. From the looks of him, he probably plays the jaw harp in
some eighteen person jam band that sings exclusively about the rays of the sun
or some bullshit.

“What’s up?” I ask him, “You’re not looking for an autograph
or something, are you?”

“Not on your life,” the kid says, rolling his eyes dramatically,
“I make a point of not listening to commercial drivel like the stuff you put
out.”

“You’re too kind,” I sneer, “I’m sure I’ve got nothing on
whatever emo, navel-gazing mumblecore genius you have going on. Please tell me
your band has a synth?”

“We—No—” he splutters. I love picking on pretentious little
shits like him.

“Spit it out, junior,” I tell him, “I still have about half
a bottle of whiskey to put away before this night kicks into gear.”

“You need to get your stuff out of here,” he spits.

I gaze around at my modest little camp and pull an
exaggerated pout. “But I just got here, Boss. How come I have to leave?”

“Could you be more obnoxious?” he asks, appalled.

“I think you’ve seen pretty good evidence that I could be,
yes.”

“God, you’re even more of an asshole in real life than I
could have—”

“Mitch!” a soft, lovely female voice calls out.

I peer around the lanky twerp and see a long-legged girl
stepping out of a beat-up sedan that’s parked up on the grass. She winces as
she straightens out her lean body—I bet she’s been stuck in that jalopy all day
long, trekking to Kansas. She swipes her short blonde hair away from her
forehead, revealing a pair of big, wide set eyes and an adorable button nose.
Her full lips are pulled into a scowl as she approaches the kid who’s been hell
bent on pissing me off as thoroughly as possible.

“What are you doing?” she demands, squaring off against the
punk.

“Don’t worry about it. Why didn’t you wait in the car like I
asked?” the boy hisses.

I fold my arms, watching the lover’s spat unfold. I’d be
lying if I said it wasn’t a little enjoyable.

“Don’t tell me to wait in the freakin’ car. This isn’t a
family road trip,” the girl snaps.

“You’re right,” the guy says, “It’s a freak show, is what it
is. We should really just get back in the car, turn around, and—”

“Enough of that,” she says, lowering her voice, “I swear, if
you don’t stop with the paternalistic, macho, elitist—”

“Do you guys want me to leave?” I ask, “I’d say you could
borrow my tent, but I’d like to break it in myself. You understand.”

The girl opens her mouth to reply, but as her wide eyes
focus on me, the words fall right out of her mouth and into the air. I smile,
not without a bit of sadness, as recognition sweeps over her face. It was nice,
watching her move across the grassy plain without self-consciousness. People
tend to close themselves off around me, become versions of themselves. It’s
always such a pity.

But as I keep my eyes trained on her face, the moment
passes. Her body shakes off its knowledge of my celebrity, right before my
eyes. There’s no shift, there’s no facade that goes up. She smiles at me as
herself—now I’m the one that’s speechless.

“You’re Trent Parker,” she says simply, taking a step toward
me.

“That’s right,” I say, offering my hand. She stops short,
and I realize what an awkward gesture it is to offer a handshake at a music
festival. But she’s a good sport about it. She places her hand in mine and
shakes firmly. She’s strong, but pretending to be a little stronger than she really
is. Compensating, just a little. My skin smarts as she takes her hand back—the
contact was too brief. A sudden, hot longing for her stabs me between the ribs.
I’ve always been a sucker for stubborn girls.

“I’m Ellie,” she says, “This is Mitch.”

Mitch glares at me, not too pleased about having Ellie take
over the proceedings. Whatever they are, anyway. I wave cheerfully,
infuriatingly, at Mitch—his cheeks light up with every shade of red you can
imagine.

“Can I help you two with something?” I ask, “You need a
mediator?”

“What? Oh, no,” Ellie laughs. Her laugh is rough, clumsy,
not at all the practiced little trill I’m so used to hearing in LA. There’s
something genuine about her—not wholesome, certainly not naive, but kind of
unpracticed. She must be new to the music scene. No one stays this interesting
for long in our business.

“Are you looking for your campsite?” I ask. “I don’t really
know my way around.”

“That’s the, uh, thing,” she says, grinning sheepishly,
“You’re sort of...in our spot.”

I look around at my tent and gear, the little kingdom I’ve
set up for myself. Ellie points at a numbered marker in the ground, a feature
of the landscape I just now notice.

“Oh,” I say, disappointed, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s OK,” she says, “We don’t have a lot of stuff. We could
probably share.”

“Isn’t that your bus?” Mitch asks flatly, “Do you really
need an entire extra site? Consumerist bullshit—”

“Would you stop it?” Ellie hisses.

“It’s fine,” I laugh, “I don’t know who I was kidding,
setting all this up. You guys just go ahead and set up. I’ll get everything
cleared away.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Ellie shoot Mitch a look.
He stalks on back to the car to get their things. She watches me quietly as I
start to break down my stuff. I can feel myself performing for her, turning all
my best angles her way, tensing the muscles in my arms more than necessary. I
know I’m preening, but I can’t stop myself. She’s not the type of girl I
usually pursue, but she’s the kind that never fails to catch my eye.

“Sorry about that,” she says, “He’s just annoyed that we’re
here in the first place.”

“So’s my manager, if it makes you feel better,” I tell her.
“So, are you two a band or something?”

“Yeah,” she says, “Ellie & Mitch.”

“That’s your band’s name?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, a little defiantly. I like her more every
minute.

“I can’t say I’ve heard of you,” I tell her honestly.

“No one has,” she shrugs, “We won the New Voices contest is
all.”

“Aha,” I say, “Well, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she says, grinning, “I’ve heard a thing or two
about you, you know.”