Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (7 page)

I feel Mitch’s fingers leave mine as the heavy weight of his
arm settles across my shoulders. I look up at him, utterly bewildered, and see
a big, silly grin spread all across his face. He pulls me tightly against him
and plants a kiss on the top of my head.

“You’re absolutely right Pearl,” he says into his
microphone, “You can absolutely tell the difference. It’s a pretty new thing
for us. In fact, this interview is really the first time I’ve been able to know
Ellie’s heart about us. So, if we’re a little giddy, you all know why.”

The audience lets out a collective “aww,” grabbing at each
other gleefully. I look out over the crowd, utterly tongue tied. What is Mitch
doing? What the hell did Teddy write in that article?

My eyes lock with two vibrant greens orbs, staring up at me
from the back of the audience. Trent Parker’s mouth has straightened into a
firm, unreadable line. He doesn’t look pleased, and that makes two of us.

Chapter Four

I cross my arms firmly over my chest as Ellie and her lanky
beau take their places onstage. A scorching, acidic anger starts to rise inside
of me as I watch that nerdy try-hard asshole beam at her. It’s completely,
utterly irrational that I'm mad at some snot nosed kid for having the audacity
to like the same charming, adorable, intelligent girl who’s happened to catch
my eye...but I’ve never been an extremely rational person.

As Mitch settles onto a stool, cradling a stupid little ukulele,
all I can do is fantasize about storming the stage and smashing it over his
head.

“Why did you want to see these two play?” Kelly asks,
sounding bored.

“They’re our next door neighbors,” I tell her, digging my
fingers into the skin of my arms. “I thought it would be nice to come out and
support them. They’re pretty new at this, apparently.”

“Seems like they’ve got a nice little following,” Kelly
remarks, looking around at the boisterous crowd clamoring for a better look at
the stage.

“Yeah,” I mutter through my teeth.

“What’s the matter with you?” Kelly asks, narrowing her eyes
at me, “You were the one who wanted to schlep down here for amateur hour. I’d
rather be enjoying a vodka rocks in the bus, if I may be frank.”

“You always are,” I say, “That’s why I keep you around.”

“Not because I’m singlehandedly managing your entire
career?” Kelly asks, threading her arm casually through mine.

“That too,” I allow, keeping my eyes trained on the stage.
Trained on Ellie, if I’m being honest.

She’s been nervous all day, but there’s a new element to her
anxiety, now. I watch her take her place before the standing mic, smoothing
down the front of her old-school dress. She tucks her hair behind her ear with
a quick, aggravated motion. As she lifts her eyes, I can see it clearly—she’s
pissed
.

A little bubble of hope rises through my unaccountable
anger. Maybe Ellie isn’t too thrilled with Mitch’s little romantic spitball. I
have to give her credit, she’s keeping her annoyance hidden pretty well. Just
not well enough for an old pro like me. I’ve been crafting this persona of mine
long enough to see through just about anyone else’s guise. Ellie’s playing the
cool, collected songstress, but I can practically see her cracking open right
in front of my eyes.

The weirdest thing is, I now feel responsible somehow. Not
that I had anything to do with what’s bothering her, but I feel like I should
be here to comfort her. I don’t even mind feeling like I should stay and offer
what support I can. I want to be here.

Ellie’s eyes flit upwards and catch mine for half a moment,
and I see that our fleeting connection steadies her at little. I try to smile
at her encouragingly. If I can do anything at all to help her through this
performance, I’m glad to. I remember well enough what it was like to get up in
front of a crowd for the first time, after all. I guess I’m just feeling a
little sentimental. Or something.

Ellie looks over her shoulder at Mitch and nods her head, ever
so subtly. He takes a deep breath and curls his long form forward over the
instrument. His fingers begin to pick artfully, sending a high, clear melody
spinning up into the sky. Even I have to admit, the kid has skills on that
dinky little thing.

A hush falls over the crowd as he weaves through a sunny but
sad tune, clearing the way for Ellie’s voice. I watch her long-lashed eyes
flutter closed for half a heartbeat. Her chest rises beneath the fine fabric of
her dress, and a shot of longing courses through me. Finally, she parts her
lips and begins to sing, holding her hands peacefully at her sides.

The sound that comes of out her isn’t at all what I expect.
Most of these singer/songwriter types have the exact same voice, that throaty,
overly embellished wail that’s so popular these days. But Ellie doesn’t adorn
her voice with any stylistic trappings. Her tone is clear as a bell—smooth,
full, and unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. I’m so blown away by the
quality of her voice that for a minute, I forget to listen to what she’s
saying. But her words make their way to me, at last.

After four lonesome days of beaches and boats

I bumped into my shadow, and traded hellos,

She took one look at me, and wouldn’t you know—

Set me free from this sorrow, and sent me on home...

I watch her, transfixed. It’s like her soul is streaming
unfiltered through her lyrics. Word upon word tumbles from her mouth, twisting
through the air like the wispy smoke of a just-extinguished cigarette. The girl
is good, but I can tell just by watching that being “good” is of little
interest to her. She’s not singing to impress anyone, or to be the most
interesting girl at the party, or even because she can. She’s singing because
she has to.

“Wow...” I mutter, my gaze steady on Ellie’s curvy figure,
swaying before the rapturous crowd.

“She’s good,” Kelly says begrudgingly.

She catches me gaping at the girl onstage. I snap my jaw
shut and nod, but there’s no getting anything past my manager.

“She’s not really your type, is she Trent?”

“Yeah, well,” I sigh, “My type sucks, don’t you think?”

“Usually, yes,” Kelly says, “But right now I’d advise you to
stick to familiar waters, my friend. Don’t go getting all misty eyed over some
Joan Baez wannabe. As your manager and dear friend, I have to warn you that
chasing after this little girl would be...problematic.”

I scowl at her. “If you had your way, I’d be trapped in a
recording studio dungeon with a chamber pot and a pack of cigarettes, cranking
out an album a week and never having any fun.”

“Guilty as charged,” Kelly smiles, “I’ll be back at the tour
bus. Try not to be too long, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur, as Ellie lingers perfectly on the
last note of her opening number, “Get out of here, you dirty buzz kill.”

“Love you too,” Kelly says, rolling her eyes. She stalks
away, managing (miraculously) to walk gracefully through the mud in her
signature, towering heels. I turn my attention back to the stage and see Ellie,
beaming out into the crowd. She looks—and I’ve never been caught dead using
this word before in my life—
radiant
.

“Thank you all so much,” she says, picking the microphone up
off its stand and walking to the edge of the stage. “I can’t tell you how
amazing it is to be playing here tonight. I’ve been coming to Hawk and Dove for
years, as a fan. My big sister and I used to drive down from up east every
summer and spend a few days rolling around in the dirt. No pun about ‘rolling’,
I promise.”

The audience lets out a collective laugh. They absolutely
love her, and I can hardly blame them. She has this wonderful unpolished
quality about her. You can tell she’s never been media trained, never stared
down a sea of paparazzi flash bulbs, never negotiated a record deal or given
into temptation and taken some groupie up on a good offer. She’s so real, it
almost hurts to look at her for long.

I wonder if I was ever that genuine and unpracticed. I feel
like I’ve been putting on an act since I was fifteen years old, but what about
before that?

Mitch picks up his guitar, one of the several instruments
lined up onstage, and looks expectantly at Ellie. Her body tenses just
noticeably as they trade a few words. When it’s just her and the music, she
looks like she’s on cloud nine. But every time Mitch butts in...I’m probably
just imagining things. I know it would be wise to back off and let her have
this experience without subjecting her to my company.

God knows, my side is not the easiest place to spend time.
In the five or so years I’ve been a successful musician, I’ve had plenty of one
night flings, but never a girlfriend that stuck around longer than a week. I
don’t blame any of them for picking up and moving on. I wouldn’t want to get
sucked into a world of no privacy and jet setting if I had another option...At
least, not if I wasn’t at the center of it.

Not that I’m necessarily such a self-absorbed person, it’s
just that music has always meant more to me than anything else. As long as I
have my music and my career, what do I need other people for?

Ellie lets out a long, moaning wail, soaring into a second
number. The beat is fierce and ruthless, and she’s practically spitting out the
lyrics now. I watch her pace across the stage, more than a little turned on by
her powerful, take-no-prisoners attitude. The words ring out like a battle cry
across the late afternoon sky:

Plowshare baby, won’t you till the ground

We’ve been digging our heels into for decades, now?

Give it a shot, kid, and make us proud—

But don’t you make a sound...

I wonder where these lyrics come from inside of her? It is
just her engaging persona that’s leaving me hungry for answers, or is it the
girl herself? She’s definitely a performer, no doubt about that, but I don’t
think it’s her act I’m falling for.

“Snap out of it,” I utter to myself, running my fingers through
my hair. She’d probably be completely turned-off if I tried to woo her away
from Howdy Doody up there. That little introduction they gave made it pretty
clear that she’s not even on the market. And the last thing I need to do is get
myself tangled up in a little tabloid kerfuffle. As public as my life is, I do
my best not to play directly into the hands of the media moguls. I like to be
in control of what they get from me. It’s better that way.

“We’ve got one more for you today,” Ellie says over the uproarious
cheering of the crowd, “But we’ve got another performance later on in the
festival. We hope to see you there!”

“And one more thing,” Mitch cuts in, grabbing Ellie’s mic
out of her hands, “I just want to say, in front of all you, how much of an honor
it is to play with this beautiful woman. Ellie, I’m so glad you convinced me to
come down here. And...well...”

“Mitch,” Ellie whispers urgently, “What—”

But her words are cut off as Mitch pulls her against him
ungracefully, kissing her full on her surprised mouth. The audience loses its
mind, and a deep, roiling revulsion churns in my stomach.

I watch Ellie push Mitch away roughly. Her face is pulled
into a furious scowl. What the hell is going on up there? Who does that punk
think he is? I’m just about to charge through the crowd and pull her away when
she gets a hold of herself, and covers up her annoyance and outrage with a
congenial smile. Her lips are pulled into a contented grin, but her eyes are
very clearly saying, “We’ll talk about this later.” As I watch, I’m sure that I
see her gaze flick toward me for just an instant.

I turn away from the stage, shaking my head. There’s no way
I’m sticking around here to see that pimply little dweeb suck face with someone
as talented and gorgeous as Ellie. She’s way out of his league, and he’s
totally taking advantage of the opportunity. I can’t stand guys like that.

A laugh escapes my throat as the full hypocrisy of my
criticisms slaps me in the face. Who am I to talk? It’s not like any woman in
the course of my romantic life has ever liked me for any reason other than my
celebrity status.

Before I was famous, or before I was even good, the fact
that I played guitar was the only thing I had going for me. I guess I’m pretty
good looking, but plenty of guys have that going for them. For me, the music
was always the thing that sealed the deal. How could I blame this Mitch kid for
trying to play the same game?

It's not the same with Ellie though, she's not like the rest
of the groupies and hanger's-on. The women I’ve always pursued haven’t been
interesting, or at all interested in talking about anything besides how much
money I have. They’ve all been gorgeous, without question—tits out to here and
legs that go on for miles. But we’ve always been on the same page. They know I
only want one thing from them, and I know they only want one thing from me.

I get a good lay, they get to tell their friends they slept
with a rock star. It’s a win-win. Or something. But I’d never think of pulling
something like that on Ellie. I’m sure it wouldn’t work, for one thing. But
more importantly, she deserves better.

Where is this shit coming from? I quiz myself as I trudge
back up the hill to the talent campsite. I don’t even know the girl. Not
really, anyway. We’ve had one and half conversations, and not even very deep
ones at that. She seems like an interesting, complex person, but for all I know
that could just be an act. Yet here I am, speculating about what she does and
does not deserve?
Who
she does and does not deserve? I need to snap out
of this. It’s none of my business.

My tour bus is practically rocking on its hinges as I
approach. The guys must be pre-gaming hard for the first night out of the
festival. They’ve only got bunk beds in the bus, as the tiny little master bedroom
at the back is mine, but that’s never stopped them from carting women back
after an evening full of debaucheries. Looks like tonight’s headed in that
direction for sure.