Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) (6 page)

It must be the rock star thing, I reason. I’m just not used
to being around famous people yet. I drag my eyes back up to his and force a
big, goofy smile across my face.

“Well,” I say, “I’m going to head back and try to wake Mitch
up. I want to get a little practice in before the day kicks into gear.”

“Right,” Trent says, “Good deal. I’ll see you around, Ellie.
It was nice having someone to wake up with.”

I stifle a little sigh, thinking about what it would be like
to really wake up to Trent Parker. “Yeah, you too,” I blurt nonsensically, “I
mean, see you later. Have a nice day.”

I turn and hurry away from him, my cheeks burning. So much
for playing it cool. He probably thinks I’m a drooling groupie, rather than a
fellow musician. Well, so be it. I don’t need him to like me...though I
certainly wouldn’t mind it if he did.

The tent is far too hot for productive thought, so I make
myself comfortable on the trunk of my sedan. I sip my coffee as the sun peeks
over the horizon, sending ribbons of yellow and orange spinning through the
clouds. There’s nothing like a Hawk and Dove sunrise. Nothing. Memories of all
the years past start to well up and swirl in my mind.

I feel a stinging pang of nostalgia, thinking of coming here
with Kate. We’d set up camp among the masses, always with a handmade flag
hanging over our site so we could find it at the end of the night. There aren’t
any showers in the main part of the festival, so by the end of five days we
would be absolutely caked in mud. That first shower after a fest was ecstasy. 

Suddenly, I find myself wishing that I were back down the
hill instead of up here among the stars. There are bathrooms and showers and
probably saunas set up here. I know I shouldn’t be complaining, and I know how
lucky I am to be here, but I’m feeling that same longing that comes over me in
Barton when I visit from school. I feel like I’ve outgrown the pocket of air
that I left behind here. Surely I haven’t changed that much, just because I
happened to win some kind of contest? I’m sure that once we get down into the
thick of things, I’ll feel better. No one’s going to know who I am, or care
that much about our little band. It will be just like old times—dirty, boozy,
and full of great music.

At least, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself,
anyway.

Little by little, the festival begins to wake up and greet
the day. Watching from up here is amazing—it’s like the whole festival is one
big, shaggy animal with a million little eyes. I see people crawling out of
their stuffy tents and rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, techies and stage
hands swarming all over the stages, setting up for the day. Even behind me, in
the talent camp, people are finally starting to show their faces. I feel my
heartbeat pick up as I spot celebrity after celebrity. Huge names and minor
stars alike line up for their breakfasts, looking a little bored. I can’t
believe I’m up here with them.

A flash of gold catches my eye from around the corner of
Trent’s tour bus. We’re next door neighbors, after all, just a stone’s throw
away. I peer over the roof of my car and catch a glimpse of a gorgeous,
impeccably dressed woman stepping out of the bus. Her blonde waves are artfully
tousled, and her careful “natural” makeup is flawless. Trent follows close
behind her, and I feel my heart tighten in my chest. I shouldn’t be surprised
that he’s traveling with someone, of course, but I can’t help but feel a little
let down.

There’s a rustling inside my tent, and I watch as Mitch
stumbles through the unzipped flap, panting. His hair is matted with sweat, and
his cheeks are bright red. I stifle a smile, trying not to notice how silly he
looks. Mitch is not a guy who likes to be giggled at. He looks over at me with
a dazed sort of annoyance.

“It’s, like, a thousand degrees in there!” he gasps.

“Fahrenheit or Celsius?” I ask primly.

“Pick one!” he grumbles.

“You’ve got plenty of time to beautify yourself,” I tell
him, “We’re not playing until this afternoon, remember?”

“How could I forget?” he sighs.

“You
are
going to try to sound good, right?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says, looking around for the source of my
coffee. His eyes fall upon the craft services tent, and I watch his eyebrow
arch critically. “Naturally...” he sighs.

I follow his gaze toward the beautiful blonde from next door
and see that she's resting her manicured hand protectively on the small of
Trent’s back. My blood runs red hot for a split second, but I shake the feeling
as fast as I can. What is the matter with me? It’s not like he’s mine. I can’t
possibly be jealous of some woman I’ve never met for being with a man I could
never have.

“Shouldn’t be surprised that the asshole's walking around
wearing women as accessories,” Mitch grumbles.

“It’s one woman,” I correct him, “And you just don’t like
him because he’s famous.”

“I don’t like him, and he happens to be famous,” Mitch
insists, “The dislike is purely for him, not just the idea of fame. Though that’s
disgusting too.”

I roll my eyes and ignore him. I try not to indulge him when
he gets all preachy like this, it only encourages bad behavior.

“Why don’t you get yourself ready so that we can practice?”
I say.

“OK, Mom,” he mutters, stalking off toward the glamorous
shower station.

I watch him walk away, weaving through famous musicians
without so much as a second glance. He’s a strange, wonderful creature, this
partner of mine. I just hope that he can hide his disdain in front of our tiny
little audience today.

The morning passes in a bustle of motion and excitement. As
the sun creeps higher in the sky, my fingers begin to tremble unaccountably. I
hardly ever get nervous before I perform, and we’re sure to have a pretty small
turnout. They’re basically humoring us by letting us play at the festival at
all, and I’m perfectly aware of it. Still, as small as it is, it’s still a
dream come true for me to be among the performers, here. I feel like I’m
joining some elite club, even if it’s only as a junior member. I’m practically
bouncing by the time we have to start heading down the hill. Mitch can see
right through my barely collected exterior. He shakes his head at me as we
gather our things.

“Would you calm down?” he says, “This is not the defining
moment of our lives.”

“Just let me enjoy it, sourpuss,” I say, socking him lightly
on the arm.

“If I must,” he sighs.

We sling our various instruments over our shoulders and
begin our trek down into the heart of the festival. Out of the corner of my
eye, I see Trent leaning against his tour bus, watching me go. There are three
scruffy men and the same gorgeous woman clustered around him, but I can swear
that he’s looking right at me. I turn away quickly, certain that I’m imagining
things.

Mitch and I walk down the hill together in our usual
performance attire. Mitch is wearing gray wool slacks, red suspenders, and a
square brown tie. I once suggested that he add a fedora to his look, and he
didn’t speak to me for a week. For my part, I’ve got my favorite vintage dress
on. It’s a beautiful sea foam number from the sixties with a big, billowing
skirt. My hair is combed and tucked behind my ears, and my face is scrubbed
clean but for a streak of red lipstick. If not for the array of instruments, we
could very well be dressed for a picnic, but a very stylish one.

We make our way through the densely packed crowd, and
something doesn’t feel quite right. We’re dressed rather differently than the
average festival-goer, but there are costumes of every sort all around us. As
we pass, eyes linger on us, conversations fall away into silence. I can hear
excited chatter spring up around us, words whispered behind hands flit by my
ears.

“
That’s Ellie & Mitch
,” I hear someone whisper.
Mitch and I trade a baffled glance—do people actually know who we are? Since
when?

As we continue, the crowd seems to part for us. People are
staring unabashedly as we pass, staring after us like we’re the last specimens
of an endangered species. This doesn’t make any sense...how is it possible that
we’re being recognized? We’re the least popular act in the entire lineup. Sure,
we have tiny groups of admirers in Barton and at Berklee, but we’re far from
home, and still people are acting all funny as we go by. What gives? Maybe
they’re just impressed by the instruments. Maybe it’s all just a fluke or
something.

We skirt around a large, unmoving group as we come up to our
tiny stage. As a festival organizer waves us over excitedly, it clicks. That
large, unmoving crowd is standing in front of our stage. They’re here to see
us! But how...?

“You must be Ellie!” the organizer squeals, shaking my hand
vigorously. She’s a couple years older than us, and very perky. “And you must
be Mitch!”

“That’s right,” Mitch answers, frowning as the woman pumps
his hand.

“I’m Pearl, your stage manager,” she says, smiling a big,
toothy grin. “You about ready to go?”

“Pearl...” I say, “Who are all those people out there?”

“Why, your fans of course!” she exclaims.

“But...we don’t have any fans,” I say, mystified, “Do they all
have the right stage? Maybe they’re trying to find someone else’s show?”

“Nope!” Pearl says, “They’re all here for you! It was such
good timing, that article coming out when it did. You two went a little viral,
didn’t you?”

“What article?” I say, “Teddy’s article?”

“I suppose!” Pearl says.

“Mitch, what was in that article, besides a falsely quoted
endorsement for drugs?”

Mitch shrugs. “I don’t know, I didn’t read the whole thing.”

“Let’s just get set up,” I say, lugging our instruments
toward the stage.

“Don’t be silly!” Pearl says, as two men appear to take our
stuff off our hands, “We’ve got stage hands to do that kind of thing.”

I watch, amazed, as the men take our instruments out onto
the stage for us. Mitch and I have been a total DIY operation for as long as
we’ve been playing together. This whole being-pampered thing is totally
foreign. I can’t tell whether I’m excited or uncomfortable all of sudden,
though I have a pretty good idea which way Teddy is leaning.

With mounting anxiety, I look out into the jostling crowd. I
feel eyes all over me, eyes of people that I’ve never met before. I suppose
this is what famous musicians feel like all the time, but I’m not a famous
musician. I’m just Eleanor Jackson from Barton. I’m not anyone special.

I feel like I’ve led these people on, somehow. That they
must be mistaken. I let out a gasp as I see a very tall figure saunter up in
the back of the crowd. Trent’s decided to come watch the show. He’s got big old
aviator sunglasses on, but I can tell it’s him. That blonde is still hanging
onto his arm, too. Perfect. He catches me looking at him and gives a little
wave. I avert my eyes quickly, pretending that I wasn’t staring. Mitch raises
an eyebrow at me when he sees the source of my caginess.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting all swoony over that asshole?”
he asks, not very kindly.

“I don’t get swoony,” I tell him angrily, “I’m just a little
confused. And a little nervous.”

“You don’t need to be nervous,” Mitch says, taking my hands
in his, “This is just like every other show we’ve ever played.”

“Not exactly,” I laugh.

“Well, try to think of it that way,” he urges, “You’ve got
nothing to worry about. Your voice is beautiful. These people obviously think
so, or they wouldn’t have come.”

“Maybe they just like your suspenders,” I suggest.

“Well...they are excellent suspenders,” Mitch admits,
cracking the rare joke.

“Are you guys ready for me to introduce you?” Pearl asks
excitedly, “We like to do a little Q and A before a new act takes the stage. Is
that OK?”

“Sure,” Mitch says, “Whatever.”

“Super!” chirps Pearl. She dashes through the curtain, a
pretty arbitrary divider since both the backstage and audience are open air. We
watch her tap the mic and address the audience.

“Hello everyone!” Pearl says, her voice amplified in the
afternoon air, “It’s my pleasure to introduce a brand new act to you today.
You’ve probably been reading all about them the last couple of days, as their
most recent song, ‘Patch Me Up’, has been all over the Web. Please give a big
Hawk and Dove welcome to the adorable and magnificent duo, Ellie & Mitch!”

“Adorable?” Mitch hisses.

I grab onto his hand and drag him through the curtain. A
huge wave of applause washes over us as we step out onto the modest stage. For
a moment, I’m caught like a deer in headlights, totally frozen before this
unexpected wash of praise. I look over and see that even Mitch is startled by
the attention. We’re used to playing in tiny little bars and dorm rooms. This
is another animal completely. I don’t think I could have fully imagined the
sensation of walking out before a big group of people who are actually gathered
to listen to me...it’s absolutely wonderful. And terrifying.

“We’re so glad you two could be here!” Pearl says.

Mitch and I take our places before our microphones. My
fingers tighten around his—I’m too nervous to let go. I lean into the mic,
smiling. “We’re glad to be here!” I say brightly.

“I hear that you’re a veteran of the festival yourself,
Ellie,” Pearl says.

“Oh yeah,” I say, “Big time.”

A cheer goes up in the crowd as Pearl goes on. “Well, you
two have become quite the internet darlings over the past week or so. That
interview you gave, Ellie, gave such a wonderful account of the way you two
met, fell in love, and started making this excellent music together.”

“I—What?” I splutter.

“Everyone here loves to see a couple on love making music.
It always adds so much to the sound, don’t you two agree?”