Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (2 page)

Soon, his bad habits started catching up with him, and my
mom did the only thing she could. One weekend, while he was off paying for love
and whole lot of other drugs, she had divorce papers drawn up and made an offer
on a house for us girls. Dad didn’t even seem to notice that he’d been divorced
when he got back. Probably, he was happy to be rid of us. Joint custody was
never a question. He sold the house once we were gone and holed up in his New
York bachelor pad.

The last we heard, he’d been fired from his big, cushy job.
And he definitely wasn’t going through any much-needed twelve-step plan, or we
would have heard about it. He certainly has a few things to apologize for, not
that he necessarily deserves forgiveness.

Mom pokes her head out the front door as I step out of my
car. She’s got a calico scarf wrapped around her blonde curls, and there are
streaks of yellow paint all over her arms. I can’t help but grin back at her as
I make my way up the front walk.

“What’s today’s project?” I ask, taking the steps two at a
time.

“The kitchen!” she says happily, “I’m making it sunnier.”

“I thought you’d be building sets or something,” I say,
giving her a kiss on the cheek and earning myself a paint splotch in the
process.

“Not this time,” she says, bounding back toward the kitchen.
It was a fair guess, though. Mom’s been the drama teacher at Barton Elementary
for over a decade. She gets pretty enthusiastic about the yearly musical, and
has always been the type to take her work home with her. I can’t even count the
times I’d come home as a teenager to find a bunch of twelve-year-olds
rehearsing
Guys and Dolls
in my bedroom. It wasn’t always the most
welcome thing in the world, but it’s more than a little endearing to look back
on, now.

“Is Kate home?” I ask my mom, trailing her into the kitchen.

“She’s just about to head out,” Mom tells me, snatching up
her paint roller. The kitchen is in utter disarray—just the way Mom likes it.

As if on cue, my older sister comes hustling down the
stairs. “Do we have anything to eat?” she asks, pulling her hair into a tight
knot. Her baby blue scrubs are a little rumpled, and her eyes are still
half-full of sleep. As a night nurse, Kate is constantly bouncing back and
forth between Full-Throttle energy drinks and coma-like slumber. She’s saving
up for a place of her own, and the night shifts at the hospital pay a little
better. But even so, I can’t imagine doing what she does. I know that music is
important to people, but this girl literally saves lives every day. She should
be the one with the story in the newspaper, not me.

“There’s some quinoa in the fridge,” Mom says, scrutinizing
the wall.

“The perfect portable snack,” Kate says, rolling her eyes,
“I’ll stop somewhere along the way.”

“Have a good shift,” I tell her.

“You’re not leaving until the morning, right?” she asks,
wrapping me up in a quick hug.

“That’s right,” I say, “You know I wouldn’t leave without
saying goodbye!”

“I don’t know,” she sniffs, “Now that you’re a big, famous
musician, who’s to say if you still have time for the little people?”

“Not you too,” I groan.

“I’m kidding,” she grins, making tracks, “I’m just proud of
my little sissy-poo!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble good-naturedly, “Get lost, weirdo.”

Kate lets the front door slam shut behind her, and we hear
her second hand car rattle to life and drive off into the distance. As I watch
my mom’s emphatic, disorganized progress around the room, a powerful stab of
sadness shoots through me. In no time, Kate will have enough of a cushion to
find a place of her own. And I certainly don’t mean to move home once I
graduate from Berklee. Thinking of her alone in this house brings stinging
tears to my eyes, tears I blink away in a hurry lest she see. The three of us
girls are kind of like old war buddies. We survived the utter force of
destruction that was my father and made a new life for ourselves in this little
nest. It was terrifying, starting over without Dad, but we made it through,
stronger for the struggle.

“Whoa!” Mom cries, as I rush forward and wrap my arms around
her middle, “What’s the deal, kiddo?”

“I’m just going to miss you,” I say softly.

“You’ll be gone for a week,” she says, “I’m sure you’ll
manage to live without me.”

I let out a little laugh and pull away from her, my skin
dappled with her yellow paint. I shouldn’t worry so much about her—Mom is
nothing if not unflappable. I turn on my heel and head up to my old bedroom to
pack.

The same old posters that I put up in high school still
cling to the cluttered walls of my room. I haven’t changed a thing about this
space since I went away to college. There’s something comforting about knowing
that this little shrine to the way my life used to be still exists somewhere in
the world. When I’m away in Boston, stressing out about a vocal performance, or
some insane exam, or some one night stand gone stale, I can remember that my
poster of Carly Simon is right where I left it. It makes me feel a little better,
every time.

I sink down onto my faded quilt and take a deep breath. My
every nerve is buzzing in anticipation of this trip. Tomorrow, bright and
early, I’ll go collect Mitch from his parents’ picket-fenced shrine to
normalcy. We’ll head south, all the way down to Kansas. I’ve already resolved
to stop at as many oddities and pit stops along the way as possible, much to
Mitch’s inevitable chagrin. I can’t help it—I love the bizarre, kitschy nooks
of this country. That’s half the reason I love trucking down to the festival
every year. Every time, the whole thing becomes a little more familiar. I start
to recognize other regulars, truck stops, “natural wonders”. Only this year,
I’ll get to be one of the chosen ones. For a few beautiful hours, I’ll be the
one singing into the heavy summer air, listening to my music float up into the
clear, starry sky and out over the country.

Humming happily through a new melody that’s been stuck on my
mind of late, I rummage under the bed for my luggage. The sudden ringing of my
cell phone startles me, and I smack my head roughly against the underbelly of
the bed. Yelling out a string of creative curses, I pull myself back into the
open and fumble through my purse. Mitch’s name is blaring across the screen of
my phone. Even his ring tone sounds moody.

“Yes?” I say, answering the call.

“Have you seen it?” he demands angrily.

“Seen what?” I ask, “Mitch, what are you—?”

“Turn on a computer,” he growls. I hurry across the room to
my desk and tap idly at the keys of my laptop. “Type our band's name into the
search engine,” he tells me. I do so, and wait for the results to load. The
first hit blinks onto my screen, and I feel my jaw drop a full foot.

“Exclusive interview with Ellie & Mitch’s front woman,
Eleanor Jackson,” I read, “What the hell is this? That’s a major music blog,
isn’t it? I haven’t given any interviews to them.”

“Click through to the article,” Mitch demands. I follow his
orders and let my eyes travel down to the byline of the piece.

“By Theodore Farmer,” I groan, “That twerp Teddy sold me up
the river! God, I was doing him such a favor, too! The most exciting thing the
Barton
Bugle
ever gets to write about is parking meters and the occasional teacher
getting fired for smoking too much weed.”

“This isn’t funny, Ellie,” Mitch says, his voice raking
harshly across the line, “He’s got you saying all kinds of ridiculous shit in
this thing. Did you really say you like the Hawk and Dove fest for the drugs?”

“What?” I cry, “Of course not. Mitch, he’s just cashing in
on his one degree of separation moment. No one’s going to believe any of it.
Hell, no one will even read it, probably. No one knows who we are outside of
Barton and Berklee.”

“Really?” Mitch says dryly, “Maybe it looks like that right
now, but I’ve been checking our website’s analytics this afternoon. Our page
views have gone through the roof. Our band email is getting flooded. Ellie,
this is exactly the kind of attention we don’t want.”

“I thought all press was good press,” I say quietly.

“False,” Mitch says, “If things keep up like this, we’ll
never be respected as real musicians. We’ll just be another couple of hipster
assholes getting high and mumbling nonsense. You’re too good for that, Ellie.
We’re too good for that.”

“I made a mistake, Mitch” I say, “I’m not exactly used to
this kind of thing. Ever since we won this contest...”

“We could still back out,” he offers.

“No,” I say firmly, “We’re leaving for Kansas tomorrow. We
can stop by Teddy’s house and egg it or something.”

“Yeah. Maybe he’ll write an article about how we’re vandals
and
junkies,” Mitch sighs, “I’m going to bed. Get some rest, would you?”

“You too,” I tell him. The line clicks off, and I toss the
phone not-too-gently across the room.

I know I shouldn’t give a crap about some dumb high school
kid trying to get noticed on the Web, but this whole thing makes my skin crawl.
And I hate that Mitch is trying to make me feel reckless and irresponsible over
it. I know he’s trying to maintain his position of power within our little
duo—he’s always been the one to make the decisions, to guide our direction.
When it comes to our music, he demands control...maybe because he doesn’t have
any when it comes to our relationship.

With a heavy sigh that feels very appropriate for my teenage
bedroom, I begin to toss things into my worn leather suitcase. I summon up the
excitement that’s been building inside of me as the trip looms ahead. Whatever
happens at the festival, our being invited to play is still a huge deal. But
suddenly, and not for the first time, I wonder if going along with Mitch is the
best thing for me. He’s always been my music partner by default, and I love
what we do together, but his attitude is dragging me down.

I let my eyes skirt across the room to my guitar case. I
only have the most basic knowledge of the instrument—some chords and strumming
patterns, no plucking or anything fancy. Mitch is the instrument guy, after
all. I unfold my long legs beneath me and ease the case open, taking my starter
acoustic out into the open. I settle down onto my quilt, crossing my legs and
draping my arms over the body of the guitar. I hold it to me like I might a new
lover—tentatively, tenderly.

I arrange my fingers into a simple G chord and strum. The
sound reverberates around my little room, and I add another chord to the
pattern. I move between them, adding others when the mood strikes. The new
melody begins to sing itself through me, weaving through the assortment of
chords. With my voice, I can bring new complexity to the impromptu song,
offsetting the basic chords. An illicit little shudder runs through me as I let
my voice slide all through my range—making music without Mitch feels a little
bit like cheating.

My hands fall still, happy with the memory of movement. I
can’t quite shake the lingering tension of knowing that Mitch is angry with me,
but I’m not going to let it ruin my last night at home before we set out. I
place my guitar reverently down on my bed and head back toward the kitchen. Mom
is still hard at work coating the wall with sunny yellow. I cross to the fridge
and pull out a couple of cold beers.

“Why don’t you take a break?” I suggest, waving the drinks
in front of her.

She smiles, her forehead beaded with sweat. “Good idea,” she
says, letting her roller fall back into the tray. We trek through the front
hallway and step out into the early evening air. A few rusty lawn chairs are
arranged around the little deck, and we settle into them in unison. I hand her
a beer and clink my bottle against hers.

“To your trip,” she suggests, taking a sip.

“Sure,” I say, following suit.

“What is it?” Mom asks, her brow furrowing, “You’ve got your
serious face on.”

“It’s nothing,” I tell her, “That dumb kid from the diner
gave some information to a music blog, and I guess it’s been getting attention.
I’ve been getting attention, I mean. Now Mitch is all pissy, like he wasn’t
already dragging his feet with this whole thing.”

“Mitch isn’t excited?” Mom asks.

“Not really,” I tell her, “He thinks the festival is a waste
of time.”

“Is that what you think?” she asks.

“Of course not!” I say.

“Well...I doubt that it’s the festival he’s upset about,” my
mom says, “You know he’s been waiting for you since you two met. Waiting to be
more than friends with you, that is.”

“He can keep waiting,” I grumble.

“People are going to ask, you know,” she says, “You can’t
wander around with an asterisk between your names and not expect people to
ask.”

“We’re just friends,” I insist.

“That’s not how it looks when you play together,” she tells
me, “You look like a couple of kids in love, is what you look like.”

“That’s just the music,” I say.

“It’s the music for you, and it’s you for him.”

“You’re nuts,” I tell her, and we both know I’m dodging the
subject like a fast pitch aimed at my head. Kindly, she lets it drop. Almost.

“That article is just the beginning, Ellie,” she says
softly, “The more exposure you get, the more money that’ll start to flow in. It
can be overwhelming, becoming successful all at once. I don’t want you getting
swept up in all this attention. I don’t want you to let it change how you think
about yourself.”

“It won’t,” I tell her. But I know it’s not really me we’re
talking about. “I’m not like Dad, you know. I’m not going to turn into some
monster once I get a little money. If I get a little money.”

“I know it’s kind of backwards,” she says, “But I sort of
hope you’ll always be a starving musician. Money does horrible things to
people.”

“Well, thanks Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I’ll try and
not be very marketable.”