LOW: A Rockstar Romance (3 page)

Chapter 3

Zoe

I yanked the slim black pencil skirt upward. It made it to mid-thigh and then just stopped.

"No," I muttered, yanking harder. "No, no, no. Fit, dammit."

There was a sharp, popping noise. Swallowing hard, I whispered, "Please?"

But the black pencil skirt refused to acknowledge my begging and instead slipped slowly back down to the floor.

"Motherfucker," I breathed. Then quickly checked over my shoulder to make sure my brother wasn't in earshot.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Jason mid-air while I dove into my bed.

"Bitch?" He sounded out of breath. "You okay?"

"Are
you
okay?" I asked.

"I am decidedly
not
okay at the moment, no."

"Anything I can do?"

"Front me the money so I can put out a hit on my boss?"

"Darling, you know I would, but I am flat-fucking broke."

"I figured as much," he sighed. "Well, just come visit me in prison once I actually do murder her."

"Of course," I promised him. "Is this murder for any particular reason today or is this just generally what she has coming?"

"Fucking twat is keeping me
late,
" he whined. "And Scarlett's thing is tonight!"

My heart sank right down to my toes. "Oh no! You can't come?"

I could hear the wind blast past the mouthpiece and knew he was emphatically shaking his head. "She's a prune-faced old harpy who wouldn't know fun if it licked her shriveled cunt," Jason exploded. Whenever he was angry, his swearing got very creative. I had to hide my laughter behind my hand. "
Apparently
, there's some pressing need for my nicely rounded ass to be parked in my desk chair this evening on the fucking
off chance
we get this grant she applied to. Which, I must add, we have no more chance of getting than I do of getting Channing Tatum to strip for my birthday."

"Channing Tatum will
totally
strip for your birthday someday," I soothed. Then I sighed heavily. "So you're not going with me? This is the worst news I've had in the past five minutes."

"What was the other bad news?" Jason asked, instantly supportive.

"Well," I stared accusingly at the black skirt that puddled on the floor of my bedroom. "It appears that a full year of lying around my house and eating my feelings of inadequacy has finally caught up with me."

"Uh oh."

"Yeah, uh oh. Nothing fucking fits, Jason. I am encased in a protective layer of sadfat."

"Okay that may be true, but your tits have never looked better, Zo."

I laughed. "You're just saying that."

"I am. I have no idea how tits should look. I assume round is the preferred shape. And yours are...."

"Round? Gee thanks." I sighed heavily. "I know it's a rockstar bacchanal, but I have to assume they'll frown on me showing up completely naked."

"So go buy something!"

"Excuse me? Were you not listening when I mentioned that I was flat-fucking-broke? I can't go."

"Over my dead body!" Jason thundered. "One of us has to go and report back on the rockstar debauchery. And since I can't on account of my
thundercunt
of a boss, it's on you, babe."

"Broke. Jason. I am broke."

"Bullshit. This is what credit cards are made for."

"I have like the tiniest bit of wiggle room left and I was saving that for an interview outfit."

"Blow it," Jason said decisively. "Seriously. You need tonight and you need to look hot as fuck while you're there. Listen, darling, I've seen this movie. The plucky young heroine spends her last dime on a killer outfit and uses it to take the whole place by storm." His voice rose higher as he got more and more excited. "This is your moment, the musical montage where you try on a bunch of outfits and come out in the one that turns you from frumpy to fabulous."

"This isn't a movie, Jason!" I laughed. "This is my life."

But Jason was too far gone. "You have to do this. For me, bitch. If you love me even just a little bit...."

"I am offended that you would even use the words 'little bit' to describe my love for you," I pouted.

"Whatever. Zoe Chandler, I command you. I am pulling rank as your gay best friend and full on
ordering
you to spend your last pennies on a slutty dress and then going to this party and dancing like the fabulous creature that you are."

"Holy shit, you're dead serious."

"I am. I will not speak to you if you don't."

"Bullshit. You could never not speak to me."

"
Try me
,
bitch,"
he thundered. "You have three hours before this party starts. Get off the phone with me and go, now!"

"I'm watching Max!" I protested. "Oh shit, wait, my mom just got home."

"Out of excuses, bitch," he said smugly. "Go buy the dress."

"You're a pain in my ass, hooker," I seethed.

He laughed. "You wouldn't have it any other way."

Chapter 4

Low

I've been in a lot of limos, but this was the first one I ever rode in alone.

The driver, a big guy who looked liked a football player gone to seed, with watery, shifty eyes magnified by Coke-bottle lenses, stood next to the door, scrupulously avoiding eye contact until I was right up in front of his face. Then he wordlessly opened the door for me.

"Uh, hey dude," I said. "Name's Low." Then I grinned, proud of myself for not tripping up over the new moniker. "We gonna party tonight?" I asked.

"No sir," he replied, in the blandest voice I had ever heard.

He sounded bored out of his mind.

I could fix that.

"Nah, we need to! It's just you and me on the way to this thing, right? You don't have to pick anyone else up?"

"Orders are for you to come alone."

"Well, I'm not exactly alone, am I? What's your name?"

"Neal, sir."

"Nice to meet you, Neal, and don't ever call me sir again." I held out my flask. It was almost a twin to the one Keir liked to carry. He'd bought it for me for my birthday two years ago. Sort of an unspoken acknowledgment of my status as unofficial Wilder brother. Or rather, the redheaded Wilder stepchild.

And tonight it was filled with Gentleman Jack - because I was feeling fancy and shit - but I had no intention of drinking alone. "Have a drink," I encouraged him.

"Sir, I'm driving. And working."

"Oh." I felt like an idiot. "Makes sense."

Neal opened the door and I slunk into the back, feeling like a tool.  I reached into my back pocket, suddenly seized with the desire to call Keith, cancel this bullshit and get out of the limo. It would feel fucking fantastic to slam the door on this whole ad nonsense. If I bailed on the party, then the whole thing would go down in flames and I could go back to being Twitch, drummer and background dweller, with nothing riding on his shoulders except music.

I sagged back into the leather seat and sullenly opened my flask. I couldn't do that. Of course I couldn't do that to my bandmates. I might be a screw-up, but I always showed the fuck up and did my job.

Somehow,
this
had become my job.

I took a swig, and then slid forward and tapped the glass. "Yo, Neal!"

"Yes sir."

"Stop calling me sir and put some music on."

"Of course, what would you like to hear?"

I waved my hand. "What do you want to hear, man? If you won't drink with me, we've gotta get this party started some other way."

"I don't really listen to music, sir."

I sat back. "Oh, Neal," I exhaled. "You wound me."

Was it my imagination or did I just see a ghost of a smile in the rearview? "I'm sorry sir. Used to. Blew out my eardrums going to punk shows in the seventies and now I've got wicked tinnitus."

"My man!" I reached over the seat. "High five for that!"

Neal shot me a baleful look, and the sort of limply slid his hand across mine.

Hell yeah, motherfucker. I'm going to make you laugh if it kills you. Or me.

"I hope you wear ear protection onstage, Mr. Stowe," Neal pleaded. His voice was anything but bland now.

At least he'd stopped calling me 'sir.' "Oh yeah, of course, Neal. Though I sometimes forget."

He swiveled at a stoplight, his face stricken. "You need to wear earplugs all the time, okay? Promise me that."

"Okay Neal," I smiled. "Thanks for looking out."

He nodded once and then turned back to the road. "I used to love going to shows too. Broke my arm in the pit once."

"Badass."

He grinned proudly. I could see it in the rearview. I took another swig, feeling more confident by the second.

Which was fucking good, because I needed every ounce of confidence once I saw the crowd that gathered outside of Sound Exchange, a huge, four-level nightclub that usually hosted the type of club-goers that made
me
star-struck.

"Fuck," I whispered, as the crowd surged forward. Eager faces pressed against the glass. They were all looking to see who rolled up just now. "They're gonna be pissed when they see it's just me in here," I sighed nervously to Neal.

Neal twisted around. "Think you're the one they want to see, Low."

I gave him a wan smile. "Least you didn't call me sir that time, huh?"

"Should I open the door, Low?"

I took another swig and then nodded.

The crowd was an animal, a massive thing taking a collective breath with hundreds of lungs simultaneously.

And then the screaming started.

I reacted on pure, adrenaline-fueled instinct. The terror sharpened my senses, so I felt like I was moving in slow motion, each smile precise, and each wave perfectly executed. I had seen this happen to Maddie, to Rane and definitely to Keir, so I knew exactly how to wave, point and grin at the crowd that pressed in close all trying to touch me. This I could handle.

What I couldn't handle was the massive, two-story banner that hung down from the roof over the entrance to the club. The banner with my own Photoshopped  face on it, glowering down at me.

Seeing that? It should have been a triumph, but instead, it added to the feeling that this, all of this, was just pretend. That any moment I would wake up and be myself again, the goofy, somewhat dim-witted drummer for a successful rock band.

A big security guard came rushing down. He was taller than my six foot five frame by at least a couple more inches and he weighed probably double. I usually don't like being smaller than other guys, makes me feel odd, but I was grateful this guy was big enough to part the crowd with an elbow and make way for me to get into the building. I cast one more look over my shoulder to watch the crowd close behind me, shutting Neal and my escape away from my view.

Arriving alone like this was weird. When you're a twin, you're rarely alone, you have someone there right beside you all of your life. But this kind of thing - parties, crowds, mingling - this was all way beyond what Piper could handle. I looked down, imagining her swearing at the people who were jostling me right now and had to suppress a grin. If she ever got over her fears, she'd be so much better at this than I could ever be.

The security guard opened the massive, wood-carved door, and unleashed a wave of sound pulsing from the dance floor. "After you, sir," he glowered.

"Don't call me sir," I muttered automatically. I took two steps into the entrance and then stopped short.

My face. My face was fucking...everywhere. All the print ads for all of the different markets were blown up and hung on the walls like Twitch/Low wallpaper.
Be Hungry, Be Ruthless
the tagline read.

And the girls who writhed and posed and danced underneath my face seemed to have taken that advice to heart. I passed through the throng of them, feeling the way their eyes bored into my back. 
Fuck,
I realized,
if I just went up to any one of these chicks and tapped them on the shoulder, I'd be getting a public blow-job in seconds.

This ain't so bad.

Is this what it's like in the spotlight?

The thought was both terrifying and appealing.

I needed a drink.

I put my head down, intent on getting my ass to the bar as quickly as possible. And I was nearly there, when someone planted herself directly in my path.

"Low?" A blonde chick with a pretty face and a way too skinny body gave me an eager grin. "Can I get a picture with you?"

Now I was fucked. Because as much as I wanted that beer, I couldn't do anything because a pretty girl had asked me for something. And now I'd do pretty much anything to make her happy.

"Sure, baby," I drawled.

She squealed and gestured to her friends, who crowded around her. I ducked down to fit with them and she held out her phone. "Shit, I can't fit...Shiloh, get your head in the picture!" She shot me a weary grimace. "I'm sorry, Low, I'm so sorry..."

"Don't worry about it. Here, gimme your phone, I promise I won't steal it."

"Um okay."

I stretched my long arm up above our heads. "There, Shiloh fits now. Say cheese ladies!"

I snapped the shot and then looked at the screen. "You all look beautiful," I told them. "Hey, get together, I'm a photographer, you're all models, make love to the camera for me!"

They whooped and posed and I ducked below them and then stood over them, trying several angles before I found the one. "You all look beautiful," I told them again, looking at the shot I'd just got.

"Holy shit, thank you!" Shiloh called when she saw herself.

"You look so hot!" the strung out blond told her friend.

"No you do!" another friend squealed and then all at once they all descended on the phone, scrolling through the shots I had taken with gasps and screams so loud I could hear them over the pulse of the music.

I grinned. Making them feel beautiful made me feel way more confident. I squared my shoulders and said my goodbyes, then headed back to the bar.

Only to see Keir already there, leaning against the rail and grinning like a jack-o'lantern.

"What?" I asked, by way of greeting."

"You," he said, slapping me on the back. "You're a fucking model. What the shit is this?"

"No idea," I said, shaking my head and accepting the beer he handed me. Then I did a double-take at the bottle of Labatt Blue in my hand. "Oh shit, where'd you find the Blue?"

"Had it ordered in special. Imported straight from Buffalo." He tapped the bar twice with his knuckle and then looked out into the crowd.

"Thanks, man." I took a deep, satisfying pull and stared out into the crowd, all gathered here for me. And maybe I had had a bit too much Gentleman Jack in the limo, maybe I'd drunk Neal's share too, because the crowd started to blur together, a sea a faces with wide open, grimacing smiles. The lights and sounds all streaked together.

Twin comets in red and blue hurtled out of the crowd and I almost fell off my fucking stool when they nearly crashed into us.

The one that landed on Keir's lap resolved itself into the red-clad shape of Scarlett Sawyer, his fiancée, the girl he'd loved for longer than Ruthless had been together. I looked away when things started getting hot and heavy with them, and straight into the eyes of the blue comet, no,
angel
, that had plummeted to earth next to me.

"Hey," she said breathlessly. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wild and she was the most beautiful fucking thing I had ever seen. "You're Lowell, right? Thanks for letting me come to your party. You have
no
idea how badly I needed this."