Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (23 page)

Chapter Eighteen

The festival finally comes into view across the plains just
as the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon. I gaze out the window, fighting
to keep my breathing steady.

I’ve been swallowing down as much high-octane emotion as
possible, but I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be able to go without a
good cry. Between Mitch’s abandonment, my dad’s sudden appearance, and the
overwhelming feelings I have for Trent, I’m firing on all emotional cylinders.

Watching the festival loom up before us is adding a whole
new feeling to my already jam-packed heart: apprehension.

I trust Trent’s judgment, and I’m sure that he only has both
our best interests at heart, but I can’t help but be terrified about this idea
of his. We already brought a storm of attention and disdain down on our heads
when we went gallivanting about together after his first concert at the
festival. I know that this little stunt of ours is going to set off a media
firestorm. The gossip blogs will be raging about our collaboration, and
everyone will have an opinion about it. But I know that I need to come to terms
with all that sooner or later.

I just have to keep reminding myself that however the media
chooses to represent me, it doesn’t change who I really am. The people who know
me the best won’t be swayed by some music blogger’s opinion. My mom and sister
will still think the world of me. And even though I’ve only known Trent for a
little while, I feel as though he knows me better than anyone.

His esteem of me won’t be altered by some fluff piece on a
second-rate gossip website. With practice, I’ll be able to ignore all the
critics, just like he does. I’m glad to have him as a guide through this crazy
industry.

The rainstorm yesterday flushed all the haze and humidity
out of the air, and the sky lightens into a clear, crisp canopy over the
festival. Even with the ugly things that have happened at Hawk and Dove this
year—with Mitch, and that skank Kelly—this place is still one of my most
favorite spots on earth. There’s something wonderfully equalizing about
pitching a tent beneath a canopy of stars with thousands of people you’ve never
met.

I hope that Hawk and Dove never loses that charm, however
successful I might become. Though of course, that success still has yet to be
determined.

“Bright and early,” Trent says, taking my hand in his,
“We’ve got all day to prepare.”

“Yep,” I say, smiling a little too widely to be convincing.

My nerves are getting the better of me.

“I know it’s scary,” Trent says, turning to me in the
backseat of the car. I can’t believe I’ve been hitching rides with Mr.
Private-Jet-Personal-Driver for the last few hours. His entire lifestyle still seems
so surreal to me.

“It is scary,” I say, “But I believe you if you really think
this is a good idea.”

Trent squeezes my hand in response as our car turns off onto
the dirt road leading to the talent campsite. It feels strange to return again,
after my dramatic exit.

Part of me worries that Mitch will be waiting for me inside
our rinky-dink little tent, waiting to tell me off again. But probably that’s
just me being paranoid. I’m sure the last thing Mitch wants right now is to see
me. I wonder, with a cloying sense of guilt, when we will see each other again?
Or if we ever will?

I feel as though I’ve seen his true colors over the course
of this trip, and they’re far from beautiful.

I don’t know whether I feel more betrayed or disappointed
that Mitch was only interested in my friendship as a stepping stone to a sexual
relationship. The fact that being friends alone wasn’t enough for him would, in
another time, have meddled with my self esteem.

But I have a lot more going for me these days than I did when
Mitch and I first started playing together. I have a greater sense of myself as
an artist, a vision for what my music should be, and a new partner who
understands my every thought. Everything’s going to be just fine, I hope.

The private car swings around and stops in front of Trent’s
tour bus. I crack open the door and step out onto the springy grass. The air is
filled with the smell of rain, and the ground is muddy beneath my feet. I don’t
envy all those poor souls who had to camp out during the storm, though roughing
it through the festival was always a source of great satisfaction for Kate and
I.

The campsite is just coming back to life after another night
of wild partying, it would seem. I gaze longingly at the craft services
tent—I’d forgotten all about that whole eating thing during that mad dash
across the country and back again.

Before Trent can reach the bus, the door swings open before
us. A large, burly projectile comes barreling out the door, slamming into Trent
at full speed. The human-shaped missile happens to be Rodney, and he’s soon
followed by Kenny and Rodger bounding after him. The three band mates swarm
around Trent excitedly, leaping all around like jack russell puppies.

I glance warily at the door, waiting for Kelly to step out
and ruin the party, but no one else materializes in the doorway.

“You’re back!” Kenny cries, hopping up and down.

“Of course I am,” Trent says, punching the younger guy
playfully on the arm, “I said I would be, didn’t I?”

“Sure, but we didn’t...you know,” says Rodney.

“My word is always good,” Trent says, “You know that, guys.”

“We sure do,” Rodger says, “And check it out! We don’t even
play until tonight. You got back with time to spare!”

“And some recovered cargo!” Rodney says, finally noticing me
standing there a few paces away.

“I’d prefer not to be referred to as cargo,” I say smiling,
“But, hello to you, too.”

 “Sorry,” Rodney says, his smile dimming.

“He doesn’t know how to talk to women. Other than groupies,
that is,” Kenny says.

“Hell, he doesn’t even know how to do that,” Rodger laughs,
“Most of the groupies aren’t very talkative.”

“Why don’t you all shut up?” Rodney says defensively. “The
only woman we’ve been hanging out with consistently for the last few years is
Kelly. Forgive me if my idea of women has been skewed.”

“Well, no need to worry anymore,” Rodger laughs, “Now you
can start your rehabilitation!”

“Why?” I ask, “What happened?”

“Didn’t Trent tell you?” Kenny says, eyes wide.

“Tell me what?” I press.

“I...Uh...Had to let Kelly go,” Trent says finally.

“You...fired her?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat.

“I did. Yeah,” Trent says, trying not to grin at my shock.

“Can you...Could I borrow Trent for a second?” I say to the
guys, beckoning my rock star to follow me around the other side of the tour
bus. We make our way around the massive vehicle and come across the sad remains
of my own little tent.

The storm all but destroyed that testament to my brief run
as Mitch’s musical partner. It looks like unnecessary hangers-on are being cast
off all over the place.

“I hope you didn’t fire her just for my sake,” I say to
Trent, “I admit, I was upset finding her coming on to you, but I can handle it.
I trust you enough, Trent, and it won't be the last time I witness a girl throw
herself at you.”

“I know,” he says, “Believe me, what she tried to pull on
you was just the final straw. She’s been running this band straight into a
bleak, commercial wasteland. We need a change of direction, and we need it
badly.”

“Are you sure?” I say, taking his hands in mine, “Doesn’t a
band sort of need a manager?”

“A band needs a manager that has its best interests at
heart,” he tells me, “That’s not what we had in Kelly. She was more interested
in making enough money to buy herself a private spa in Malibu than preserving
our artistic integrity.”

“To be fair,” I say, “A private spa would be amazing...”

“Don’t you start,” he says, pulling me against him. He tilts
my chin up and kisses me firmly. His touch reassures me, puts me at ease. But
we can’t get carried away right this moment. We have work to do, after all.

“Come on,” I say, planting my hands on his firm chest,
“We’ve got a lot to practice before tonight.”

I march Trent back around and into the bus where the guys
are lounging in various states of excited contentment. Trent grabs the nearest
acoustic guitar and leads me back to the little bedroom that I’ve already
become intimately acquainted with. Closed off from the rest of the band, Trent
and I settle down onto the still-rumpled bed and work out a game plan.

“How will you know what to play?” I ask, as Trent expertly
retunes his guitar by ear.

“Easy,” he says, “Just sing through your songs for me, and
I’ll be able to figure out the chords.”

“We’ve got, like, twelve hours,” I say, amazed by his
confidence.

“I don’t know if you’ve been told,” Trent says with a grin,
“But I’m something of an excellent musician. We’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“Just start singing,” he insists, cradling the acoustic
against his chest, “I’ll follow along.”

I set aside my reservations and decide to go with the flow.
Taking a deep breath, I begin to sing:

And if I might,

I think I’ll just sleep

In your green shirt tonight.

And spend the night

Dreaming of a porch swing

Rocking in the twilight.

So baby, sleep tight.

And rest easy knowing

That I’m doing alright...

As my simple words float out into the air, Trent begins to
pluck at the strings of his guitar. I nearly forget the words to my own song as
I watch his hands dance along the instrument. I’ve only ever seen or heard him
play hard, slamming rock music. But there’s a delicacy to this instrumentation
that takes me completely off guard.

He catches me staring at him and smiles. “You thought I only
knew power chords, huh?” he teases, executing an amazingly complicated plucking
pattern before my eyes. “Just keep singing, would you? I’m just starting to get
the feel of the song.”

I soar into the next verse, weaving through the world of the
song. Trent follows wherever I go, listening and responding to my voice as if
it were his own. And as I round back into the chorus, he comes along. His voice
harmonizes perfectly with mine, balancing and filling out my sound. The
addition of Trent’s voice and music completely changes my song—for the better.

“That was...” I breathe, as we rest between songs.

“Amazing? Incredible? Genius?” Trent suggests.

“All of the above,” I tell him, “I had no idea you were a
real—” I catch myself, literally biting my tongue before I can finish the
thought. The shadow of a scowl crosses Trent’s face.

“A real what?” he asks, coolly. “A real musician?”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, “That came out so wrong. This is
just so different from anything I’ve heard from you before. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s OK,” he says, cooling off before he explodes, “I’m
just a little touchy about that. No one considers rock musicians to be artists
anymore, you know? I mean, people worshipped Jim Morrison and Mick Jagger as
musical geniuses, but these days...I just wish I could be recognized for being
a good musician, rather than a bad boy with a penchant for trashing hotel rooms
and selling albums.”

“Well, maybe this will give you that chance?” I suggest.

“Maybe,” he says, “That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.”

“Hell, we could just break off together and start a whole
new group,” I laugh.

“That’s an idea...” he says, looking thoughtful.

“Oh no,” I say quickly, “I was just kidding. There’s no way
in hell I’m going to be the Yoko Ono in this little scenario.”

“Don’t worry,” he laughs, “I’m sure we can work it out.
Later. Right now, we’d better focus on getting your songs down pat. The world
will be watching, babe.”

“You really think so?” I ask.

“I really do,” Trent says, “Do you feel ready for that?”

“Does anyone ever?” I laugh.

“Maybe not,” Trent admits.

“What was it like for you?” I ask, “When you first started
getting popular.”

“It’s hard to say,” he starts, “I wasn’t in the best place
back then. I was drinking a lot, doing more than my fair share of drugs. Things
were pretty out of hand when Kelly snatched me up in the first place.”

“I didn’t realize...” I say, “Sorry to bring it up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Trent says, “That’s a part of my
past, no getting around it. But I’m better, now. Or at least I like to think
so. I don’t feel like I need any of that to get through the day, anymore.
Especially not lately...”

“Shucks,” I say, batting my eyelashes, “You mean I’m a good
influence?”

“You’re a nut, is what you are,” Trent grins, “But a very
talented, very grounded, very beautiful nut who does terrible things to me
every time you come into my sights.”