Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (5 page)

“Do tell?” I smile, straightening up, “What’s your first
impression, now that you’ve met me in the flesh?”

She looks at me long and hard. “Maybe, if it develops into a
lasting impression, I’ll share it with you.”

Mitch yells something from the car, and Ellie rolls her eyes
at me. I laugh as she stalks back toward the sedan to help her partner unpack.
I watch the sway of her hips, her easy gait, the way her short haircut bounces
behind her as she moves...

I may not have ever heard her music, but I’m a fan already.

Chapter Three

I’m pulled up from a deep slumber by the oppressive, heavy
heat. I brush the sweaty hair away from my face and force my eyes open. The
walls of our little tent are glowing dimly.

The first day of the festival has hardly begun, and already
it’s sweltering. I try to roll off my quickly-deflating air mattress, but
something is anchoring me. As I glance down, I see a thin but firm arm wrapped
protectively around my belly. I glance over my shoulder and stifle a sigh.
Mitch must have rolled over in the middle of the night and made me his little
spoon without me noticing.

I let my eyes linger on Mitch’s sleeping face—he looks
downright cherubic. His signature scowl must be slumbering, too, since for once
it doesn’t seem to be occupying his features. Mitch has always been a handsome
guy, in the rakish, brooding way that some girls go nuts for. He’s had the
misunderstood musician thing down pat since before I met him. His parents
raised him rather...unconventionally.

While the rest of us were watching cartoons and going to
soccer practice, Mitch was reading Shakespeare and eating baby bok choy. His
house didn’t get cable, and he had to beg his parents to install a computer
when he started high school—and even then, he could only use it for typing up
homework assignments.

Mitch’s rebellious stage was rough. He was angry with his
parents for raising him the way they did. He felt like an outsider, and he
blamed them completely. When I met him, he was just reemerging from a good few
years of destructive behavior and deep depression. And the thing that finally
brought him back out into the world? Music, of course. Making music saved
Mitch’s life, he’ll tell you.

My heart smarts as I feel his arms close tighter around me.
Mitch can be a royal pain in the ass sometimes, but I can never hold it against
him. Beneath his above-it-all exterior, there’s still a lonely little kid who
just wants to be noticed for a minute. He’d kill me for saying it, but he acts
a whole lot tougher than he really is. I want our time here at the festival to
be good, and amiable, and maybe a little bit fun. I can be patient with his
grumpiness; I’m used to it by now. Maybe he’ll even have a good time, if he can
stand to let himself.

Delicately, I maneuver my way out from under Mitch’s arm. He
sleeps on, looking peaceful and serene. I wish the rest of the world could see
him the way I do. To most people, Mitch comes across as a temperamental artist.
But to me, Mitch is a wonderful friend. He’s helped me work through so much of
my own baggage, just by helping me express my angers and fears and joys through
music. Even though he can be a pain in the ass, he’s still a good guy at the
end of the day.

As quietly as I can, I unzip the door of the tent. Cool air
rushes into the tiny, enclosed space, and I step eagerly out into the morning.
Though our makeshift dwelling is as hot as an oven, the air outside is clear
and delicious. I fill my lungs with the fresh coolness of it, savoring the smell
of the morning. All around us, giant tour busses and RVs stand silently—like
big metal cows sleeping for the night. I look out from atop our hill, down
across the sprawling festival below.

Here and there, tiny patches of movement catch my eye. I
wonder if the people still wandering around the huge general campsite have even
gone to bed yet? I’m not used to the up-all-night, raging type of musical
atmosphere. Ellie & Mitch fans tend to be bookish, nerdy, and academic.
We’re more likely to get stoned in someone’s backyard and talk about the cosmos
than snort coke off toilet seats, or whatever it is that famous musicians do. I
can handle myself just fine around more adamant drinkers and druggies, and have
always been just fine at Hawk and Dove. I just hope that doesn’t change, now
that I’m going to be performing.

A sudden familiar smell catches me off guard. Someone else
must be awake in this little city on a hill. I turn around and notice a thin
ribbon of steam rising from a tent across the site. As I reroute towards the
fine smell of good coffee, I see that it’s a craft service tent. I remember
someone telling me that our food and drink would be complementary while we were
at the festival, but I never dreamed that they’d be able to accommodate my
early bird ways so well!

I’m sure that my eyes are as big as saucers as I approach
the lofty food tent. A couple of industrious souls are setting out fresh trays
of pastries, bagels, and toast. I spot a brigade of waffle irons, bowls of
fresh fruit, and a whole array of cereals and goodies. There even looks to be
an omelet station off in the corner. This is certainly a far cry from the way
I’m used to eating during the festival. In years past, I’ve spent five days
munching on Pop Tarts and peanuts, exclusively. This will be a welcome change
of pace, I must say.

“Would you like something?” asks one of the people setting
up.

“A coffee would be fantastic,” I tell her. She nods and
starts to turn, before a voice from over my shoulder stops her.

“Make that two, would you?” croons a rich baritone.

I look over my shoulder and swallow hard. Trent Parker is
standing three feet away from me, looking sleep-rumpled and terribly sexy. All
six feet of him are perfectly balanced, from his scruffy brown curls to his
worn out sneakers. He looks strong but not bulky. His muscles look natural and
fine, not bulbous and gym-manufactured. His jaw line is like a straight razor’s
edge, though it’s covered in dark stubble. His full lips are curled into a
subtle half-smile, and his vibrant green eyes are smiling, too.

I had a hell of a time yesterday trying to keep my cool when
we met. I’m no super fan, but running into someone so famous had been a little
disorienting. It didn’t help that he is even more attractive in real life than
he is in any picture. There’s this charming, open quality about him in real
life that doesn’t seem to come across in print or on the web. He’s got quite
the bad boy reputation, Mr. Parker. And while I’m not one to get intimidated
easily, I can’t say that I’m not a tiny bit star struck. He’s a wonderful
musician, after all. And above anything else, I find talent to be incredibly
sexy. I give him my best,
it’s-cool-we’re-totally-equals-right?
smile.

“You’re up early,” I say, keeping it light.

“I don’t sleep much,” he shrugs, slipping his hands into his
back pockets. God, what I wouldn’t give to be those hands right about now.
“What’s your excuse?”

“I’m an early bird,” I tell him, “Always have been. I’ve
been waking up at five in the morning for as long as I can remember. It
certainly wasn’t welcome come Christmas morning, I can tell you that much.”

He laughs easily. “I can imagine. Your boyfriend must not be
too happy about it either.”

I can feel my brow furrow. “My...? Oh, you mean Mitch?”

“Yeah,” Trent says, “That squirrelly kid who yelled at me
yesterday.”

“He’s not squirrelly,” I say, “And he’s just my band mate.
Well, not just. He’s my friend too, obviously. But he’s not...We’re not...”

“Together?” Trent suggests.

“Right,” I say quickly. Why am I babbling in front of this
person? I try to redeem myself as we wait for our coffee to brew. “This is your
first time playing at the festival, right?” I ask.

“It is,” he tells me, “Just like you.”

“But I’ve at least been here before,” I say with a grin, “If
you need someone to show you the ropes...”

“You’re too kind,” he laughs, “But I think we’ll be OK. My
band mates and I are very adaptable.”

“I’ve heard you described otherwise,” I tell him.

“Oh?” he says, “What have you heard?”

“Well,” I say, turning toward him, “I’ve heard you guys tend
to not give a damn about who or what gets broken when you roll into town. I’ve
heard that the only thing harder than your heads are the parties that you
throw.”

“You can’t leave a ‘harder’ joke open like that,” he warns.

“Forget it,” I say, “I’m sure you’re all perfectly lovely in
real life.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Trent laughs, “But we’re not
terrible guys, once you get to know us. At least not to each other.”

“How about to women?” I ask.

“Is that something else you’ve heard about us?” he asks,
looking at me intently.

“I mean...Yeah,” I say, sorry to have started in on this
weird critical kick, “Your reputations precede you, is all.”

“It’s one of the perks of the gig,” he says sarcastically.

I’m about to press him further when two steaming cups of
coffee materialize in front of us. I grab mine eagerly, breathing in the dark,
roasted aroma.

“It’s the good stuff,” I moan.

“Should I give you and the coffee a little privacy?” Trent
laughs.

“Maybe,” I kid, “I tend to get carried away.”

“Is that so?” he asks. I feel his eyes lingering on me, and
I feel suddenly exposed before him. And much to my surprise...I kind of like
it. Is Trent Parker, international rock star and bad boy of every girl’s
dreams, actually hitting on me right now? Maybe I haven’t actually woken up yet
this morning, maybe—

“Ow!” I yelp, as hot coffee singes the tip of my tongue.
Clearly, I’m awake after all. And clumsy as ever. Trent winces kindly on my
behalf while I wag my tongue around like an idiot, trying to cool it off. I’ve
never been good at the whole sexy vixen thing, but this has got to be a new
sort of low.

“Hope that won’t interfere with your singing,” Trent says. I
can see that he’s trying hard not to laugh at me.

“Our first little show is tonight,” I tell him, “So if I
show up with a bandage on my tongue, you’ll know why.”

“You’re playing tonight?” he asks, “You must be excited.”

“There will probably only be three people at our stage,” I
tell him, “But still. It is exciting. We’ve never really played anywhere
besides campus and hometown bars.”

“I started out in bars too,” he tells me, “It’s nothing to
feel embarrassed about.”

“Thanks,” I smile, “I’ll take your word for it, that’s for
sure.”

We wander away from the food tent together, our steps
falling in line with each other’s. I’m certainly in no hurry to scamper away,
and it doesn’t seem like he is either. If someone had told me a year ago that
I’d be strolling around the Hawk and Dove talent campsite with Trent Parker, I
would have had them committed. I feel like I’ve snatched someone else’s body,
that the authorities are going to arrive any minute and arrest me for
impersonating a successful musician. So, before the clock strikes midnight and
my VIP pass turns back into a pumpkin or whatever, I’m going to enjoy myself as
best I can.

“So, Ellie,” Trent says coming to a stop on the crest of the
hill, “How do you usually spend these early morning hours?”

“It depends,” I tell him, “I’ll run or do yoga every once in
a while. Mostly I just sit with myself. Or write, if I’m in the mood.”

“Ah. You’re the writer of the duo, huh?” he asks.

“That I am,” I tell him, “Do you write your own stuff?”

He looks genuinely offended that I asked. “Of course,” he
says, “What did you think?”

“I don’t know,” I try to backpedal, “A lot of musicians
don’t write their own songs, necessarily.”

“A lot of pop stars don’t write their own songs,” he
corrects me, “I’m not Kelly fuckin’ Clarkson.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’ve been writing my own songs since I was fifteen,” he
says hotly, “And I still do. Just because I’m successful, doesn’t mean I’m
selling out. So—”

“OK, OK!” I say, cutting him off, “Take a breath, would you?
It was an honest question. And in the future, I prefer to not have people
jumping down my throat before the sun is even up. Or really ever, quite
frankly.”

He stares at me for a long moment, and the anger drains
rapidly from his face. In its place is utter embarrassment, and, if I’m not
mistaken, a little bit of wonder. Clearly, Mr. Parker is not used to people
speaking honestly with him.

“Sorry about that,” he says gruffly, “Haven’t had my full
cup of coffee yet, is all.”

“It’s cool, I'm with ya on that,” I say.

“It’s not,” he insists, “But it’s nice of you to say so.”

“I’m not
nice
,” I tell him, “Not really. But I try to
be kind, when I can be. And understanding.”

“I think being kind is a lot more important than being
nice,” he says, looking at me with a steady, unwavering gaze. Those bright
green eyes of his are shining, even in the dim light of the morning.

I take a sip of coffee so he won’t notice how tongue tied
he’s making me. I’m not usually one to get tripped up talking to boys. But then
again, Trent Parker isn’t some boy—he’s a man, through and through. Before I
can stop them, my eyes skirt down across the panes of his chest, his tapered
waist...It’s like he’s become my new center of gravity, I can’t help but feel
drawn to him.