Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (12 page)

We pound through verse after chorus after verse, sending the
audience into a frenzy. I give myself room to roam around the stage, stalking
like a predator about to fell his prey. This primal feeling comes over me every
time I begin to sing. It’s far more powerful than I am, but I don’t mind. I’m
enough of a man to accept being overcome every once in a while. Especially when
the conqueror is as sweet as this. I let the force of the music sweep me away,
transport me to a place where no one can follow.

I turn my back to the audience, letting my eyes sweep across
the stage. Rodney, Rodger, and Kenny are out of their minds, pure conduits of
the sound. We’re all of us alone and as one with the audience right at this
moment.

As I pivot back toward the stage, I catch another glimpse of
Ellie. I nearly let the microphone tumble from my hands.

She’s dancing with abandon, all on her own. Her hips gyrate
along with our pummeling tempo, her blonde hair whips all around her upturned
face. I’ve never seen anyone move so freely to my music.

She catches me watching her, and I fear she’ll become self
conscious and stop her gorgeous, writhing dance. But instead of being drawn out
of her state by my attention, she sinks more deeply into it. We draw each other
further beyond the realm of the mundane, ever on toward transcendence.

I let an animal wail rip from my throat, and the audience
rages at an even greater pitch. I look out over the crowd, surging beneath the
clear night sky. These are the moments that I live for. This is everything I’ve
ever wanted. And I realize suddenly that Ellie is becoming a part of that
everything.

We soar through the rest of our set, revving the crowd up
more and more with each passing number. The audience grows and shifts as the
night wears on, and soon it looks like everyone within a five mile radius of
the stage has congregated to listen.

There’s sweat pouring down my face and neck, soaking my tee
shirt. As we transition to another hit, I rip the dripping garment off my back
and toss it into the crowd. A little cloud of dust arises as a dozen fans dive
for the shirt. I hear a hearty laugh and turn to catch Ellie giggling over the
scene my offering has made. I grin back at her and dive into the next number.

I’ve never felt the presence of another person so clearly
during a show. Usually, it’s just me—lost inside of the music. But with Ellie,
it’s like she’s traveling with me. I don’t need to translate or explain
anything to her, she just understands. And if this is what it’s like when music
is involved...what kind of connection would we have in other, more intimate
communications?

I snap my mind back like a dog on a leash. It wouldn’t do to
start rocking a major hard on in front of a crowd of thousands. I signal for
the guys to start our final number. We take a collective breath and throw our
entire selves into the show closer.

At this point, it hardly feels like we’re even in control of
the sound. It just happens. We’re just witnesses to what’s moving through us. I
scream out the final notes and let the adoration of the crowd all but bowl me
over. Their attention is intoxicating, but there’s another party who I’m far more
interested in connecting with.

From the wings, I can feel Ellie’s eyes on me, the heat of
her gaze. I surface from the depths of the music and make my way to her as the
guys file offstage in the other direction.

Without breaking stride, I scoop Ellie up into my arms,
picking her up right off the ground. She’s laughing with abandon, wrapping her
arms around my shoulders. There’s nothing jarring about our closeness—no
resistance or hesitation. I spin her around in the dark backstage nook, acting
for the world like a heartsick Romeo.

“That was...Trent, that was amazing!” she breathes, planting
her feet on the floor in front of me. Her dainty hands rest firmly on my
shoulders, and her face is turned up toward mine in something that looks an
awful lot like rapture.

“Thank you for being here,” I tell her, daring to rest my
hands on her waist. The curvature of her body feels so good, so comfortable
under my fingers. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to resist
her. She’s looking up at me with deliberate intention, and I can read pretty
clearly what’s running through her mind.

“Thank
you
,” she says, taking the smallest of steps
forward. “I’ve never been at a show like this before. It was so
raw.
So
intense...” The closeness of her is sending a hot, throbbing need down through
my body. If she comes any nearer, she’s sure to feel it for herself.

“I liked knowing you were right there,” I tell her, letting
my hands slip further around her body. “I could feel you, even through all the
noise and the chaos.”

“I could too,” she says softly.

Her teeth close on her plush bottom lip, and I have to
swallow down a low groan. I know that we’re caught up in the moment, and that
this isn’t how real life works. But what about my life is anything near real?
What’s the use in trying to follow rules that simply don’t apply? 

“Ellie,” I say firmly, cupping her chin in my hand, “I need
you to kiss me.”

“Wh-what?” she stammers, taken aback by my request. I
suppose it’s a little unconventional to ask for permission at a time like this.

“Kiss me,” I tell her, “Please.”

The sudden thrill of agency washes over her body, and I see
a spark of gleeful authority sizzle in her eyes. She presses her body against
mine, gasps as she feels the hard length of me against her. Her arms encircle
my neck as she offers up her lips to me.
Close enough
, I think, and
bring my mouth firmly down to hers.

Our mouths move together, and I shudder as the taste of
Ellie sends shockwaves through my entire system. She opens herself to me, and
our tongues tangle and caress as our bodies press closer and closer together. I
let my hands wander down to her round, firm ass, grabbing hold with relish. I
feel her hands running through my hair, her breasts billowing against my bare
chest.

I back her up through a partition of curtains and press her
up against the nearest wall. We’re cocooned in our own private world, even the
middle of this raging festival. Ellie wraps her long, smooth leg around me, and
I lean into her embrace.

My stiff member is pressed against her, right where we both
want it most. She breaks away from my mouth and starts to kiss my throat, my
chest. I let my hands wander all along her body—cupping her breasts through the
thin fabric of her dress, letting my thumbs glance over her nipples.

I’m tantalized by the bare stretch of thigh that reveals
itself as the hem of her skirt falls back. God I want to fuck her so bad.

I lay my fingers on her tanned, tender skin and close my
eyes as she runs her hands down the panes of my chest. Our eyes meet in the
darkened space, and I can see she’s swept entirely away.

We pause as one, our hands lingering on each other’s bare
skin. We both know where this is heading, where we want it to head...and we
both know that it can’t. Not right this second.

I straighten up before her, peering down at her beautiful
face in the half light. I’m not going to screw her up against the wall of a
concert venue as if she were just another groupie. I’ve never met someone like
Ellie before, and I have no idea how these things are supposed to progress, but
I’m pretty sure this isn’t the part where we get to have each other, we barely
just met.

She lifts her hands off my body and brushes down her skirt.

“Well,” she says, “There that is.”

“I hope you’re not offended,” I say, rather self-conscious
of the bulge in the front of my jeans.

“Of course not,” she says quickly, “This is all just...I’m
not used to this.”

“Me either,” I say.

“Yeah right,” she laughs, “You probably get down with women
backstage every night.”

“I didn’t mean that,” I tell her, “I meant that I’m not used
to actually liking someone enough to save the screwing for somewhere other than
on an amp.”

That one’s stumped her. Her mouth falls open prettily, and I
can’t help but let out a laugh. God, does this girl do anything that’s not
hopelessly sexy?

“Oh,” she says, “Right. Um...You know, it’s not that I’m not
attracted to you. Because I am. Obviously. It’s just...things feel so unsteady.
With all this attention. And Mitch is all—”

“Mitch?” I repeat, caught off guard, “What does Mitch have
to do with anything?”

“I mean, there’s some unresolved stuff going on—”

“You don’t actually have feelings for him, do you?” I ask,
Kelly’s warnings echoing in my ears.

“Not...No...” Ellie sputters unconvincingly, “But he’s
important to me as a friend. And as a songwriting partner.”

“He seems to think of you as more than that,” I mutter.

“Maybe,” she admits, “But I can’t hold that against him.”

“Neither can I,” I say, taking in the sight of her. Even
flustered, she’s still stunning.

It’s taking a Herculean effort not to wrap her up in my arms
again and carry her back to the tour bus. The surge of desire that overtook me
just moments ago does not seem to be quieting. This is going to be a long night
of pent-up need, I can tell that much already. Still, it’s worth it. I don’t
want to blow this thing on the first pass.

“Let’s get out of here,” I suggest, taking Ellie by the
hand.

“OK,” she says, happy for the subject change. “Where should
we go?”

“Anywhere,” I say, “The world is our oyster. Or something.”

“Let’s just see where the night takes us,” Ellie suggests.

“Right,” I say, leading her through the backstage universe.
I savor the feel of her hand in mine as we make our way along. “We’ve got two
great shows to celebrate, eh?”

“I don’t think you can put my show on the same level as what
you just did,” she laughs, “But I’ll take it, nonetheless.”

“You really need to get better at taking compliments,” I
tell her, “You’re going to be rolling in them soon enough. Did you see that
crowd at your show? I think you’re about to make it, my dear.”

“Is that even a thing, ‘Making It’?” she asks, as we
approach the back entrance of the space.

“Beats me,” I say with a shrug, “Most of the time, it starts
to feel just like everyday life. But every once in a while, it can be pretty
amazing.”

We step out of the backstage tent side-by-side, and are
instantly blinded by a searing wall of flashbulbs. I throw up my hand to shield
my eyes from the lights, and feel Ellie shrink back against me. There are a
dozen photographers gathered around us, snapping shot after shot. Generally, I
don’t give a damn who gets a picture of me, but I can feel Ellie cowering in
shock and embarrassment.

A sudden surge of anger whips through me, and I bowl through
the throng of paparazzi, towing Ellie along behind me. Reporters are screaming
questions at us as we make our way past, and I answer them all at once with a
flip of the ol’ bird.

Ellie and I race away from the cloud of eager gossip-mongers
and lose ourselves in the crowd. We hurry along, trying to ignore the curious
stares as we pass. I slip a pair of sunglasses over my eyes and tell Ellie to
do the same. Sure, it’s night time—but being the weird guy wearing sunglasses
at night is still a lot better than being the clamored-after rock star
disrupting everyone’s evening. Little by little, people stop noticing us.

I trot up to a nearby food tent and procure us a couple of
well-deserved beers. Handing one to Ellie, I can see she’s a little
overwhelmed. First the kiss, then the photographer ambush—the poor thing’s
getting completely immersed. I at least got to wade in the shallow end for a
while before plunging into the deep.

Ellie’s getting no such pass.

“Are you OK?” I ask, taking a wonderfully icy sip of beer.

“What, me?” she says sarcastically, “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.
Just trying to figure out how you people do this twenty four seven.”

“Don’t have much of a choice,” I tell her.

“But how do you stand it?” she asks, as we walk toward the
outskirts of the crowd, “How can it possibly be worth it to have people
hounding you all the time?”

“You already know the answer,” I tell her, “Ninety nine
percent of being a musician is nonsense, but the one percent that makes it
worth it, the music itself, is the only thing worth living for.”

“What about a little peace?” she asks wistfully, “Isn’t that
worth living for, too?”

“That’s all up to you,” I tell her, “But I’d suggest that
you decide soon whether or not you think you can handle all of this.”

“It’s not a question of whether I can handle it,” she says
hotly, “I can handle it just fine. I can deal with spats with writing partners,
and a chaotic schedule, and not knowing when I’ll be able to sleep next, or
have my next meal. I can even handle the petty gossip bullshit if I have to.
I’m just trying to figure out whether fame is really the end-all be-all that
you seem so attached to.”

“Hey,” I say sternly, “Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t
say anything about wanting, let alone needing, to be famous.”

“So you don’t like it?” she challenges me, “Some part of you
doesn’t love being famous just as much as you love the music?”

“Don’t attack me for being successful just because you’re
afraid,” I tell her.

“I’m not—”

“Sure you are. You’d be an idiot if you weren’t, and I
certainly know you’re not that.”

“I just...I don’t want to fuck everything up,” she says, her
anger giving way to upset. “If I put myself in the spotlight, open myself up to
the world, nothing’s ever going to be the same.”

“No,” I allow, “But you’ll be OK.”

“It seems lonely, living the way you do,” she says as we
walk beyond the crowd, out through the green fields.

“It can be,” I tell her, “But once in a while...like right
now for instance...it’s not so bad.”