Rock Bottom (37 page)

Out for a walk through the pasture, Billie chuckled. “Did you just run the one-minute mile?”

“Listen to me. Jet called again.”

“What do you mean again?” Billie laid a hand against her stomach as it flip-flopped.

“He’s called about ten times. Didn’t that idiot receptionist call you?”

The reception garbled about every third word, so she took long strides up the hill to improve it. “No. Why didn’t you call me?” Ten times?

“I just found out.”

Reaching the top of a knoll, she sat and pulled up blades of grass.”What did he say? Is he angry?” He must hate her. She ruined his show, then dropped off the map.

“He wanted to talk to you. That’s all I know.”

“Did anyone give him my number?”

“I don’t think they had it, sweetie.”

“Did he leave his?” Why hadn’t she gotten it?
Because all you had to do before was lean out the window and call his name.

“No. He said he’d try back. I told the others to tell me ASAP if he calls again.”

“Good. Thanks.” Her heart pounded. Black stars swirled around her head, made her woozy. She lay back against the hill. “God. I’m actually dizzy.”

“Deep breaths, hon. And a dose of faith.”

She rubbed her forehead. “What should I do?”

“Nothing to do but wait.”

Sure,
now
Zin turned Zen. “Right. He won’t call again, anyway.”

“If he does, should I give him your number?”

“No! Yes. I don’t know. Yes.”

“I think the yesses won.”

Zin’s smile sounded through the phone, but she wouldn’t chide her for it. Not today.

“Give him my cell. The reception’s awful here. He might not even be able to reach me.”

“Making excuses for him already?”

She hugged her knee. “Are you sure he called ten times?”

“I didn’t count exactly, no. I rounded.”

“Up from two?” Her lame joke fell flat as she clutched the grass, waiting to hear.

“No, from nine or eleven. He’s been trying to reach you, Bil.”

Her heart hung on to those words with all her strength. “Okay. I can’t call him, so I have to wait.”

“Right.”

“I miss you.”

“Are you all right? You sound a bit wonky.”

“Too much time on my hands.” Wasn’t that a song? One she didn’t particularly like, if she remembered correctly.

Before leaving to interview a new indie band, Zinta asked Billie when she’d come back to Philly.

Billie couldn’t say. Whatever her future held, she was pretty sure Philadelphia didn’t figure into it. Then again, she had trouble seeing herself anywhere without Jet.

“When did you turn into a hopeless romantic, Willamina?”

The day you met Jet
Trently
.

* * * *

Farm chores unfortunately required little thought, so Billie had plenty of time to think whether she fed the chickens, collected eggs, weeded the flower beds, mowed the grass, harvested vegetables or mucked old Mr. T’s stall. And every thought centered on Jet. Where was he? What was he doing? Why had he called? Ten times!

Nearly a week passed. She’d gone upstairs in late afternoon to lie down for a minute, and the next thing she knew, her cell buzzed. Groggy, she picked it up from the night table and an unknown number showed in the display. “Hello?”

From what seemed the other side of the world, Jet’s voice crackled, “Billie?”

“Jet?” she nearly whispered, then repeated it more loudly, scrambling from bed.

The connection scrambled and broke, and only portions of what he said came through. Hurrying to the window, she opened it and pressed against the screen, hoping to strengthen the signal. “I can’t hear you. What?”

Going downstairs would risk cutting the connection altogether, so the best she could do was stay put and listen. From the few words that came through, she pieced together “new songs” and “tour,” something about Stu and the band. Finally, the words
tickets
and
mail
came through before she lost him.

With a frustrated howl, she glared at the phone. At least she had his number now. If she only had the courage to use it.

Days later, Billie walked to the mailbox. No quick stroll, with their long lane. When she pulled the envelopes from the box, one addressed to her caught her immediate attention. Inside, a ticket for a concert at Hershey Stadium, along with a note from Jet:
Come see me backstage afterward. Show the guard this pass.
In two weeks, he’d open for the band they’d seen in LA. The concert to which he’d given her a lift in the limo. And on the way back, they’d gotten a close-up of the floor of the limo.

Her breaths came too rapidly. He’d be in central Pennsylvania! Her insides lurched, and she had to grab the mailbox while she emptied the contents of her burning stomach.

She could see him--and find out once and for all whether their relationship had been real or a byproduct of a reality show.

* * * *

Man, his nerves rattled. Jet strummed his guitar to calm himself, but nothing worked.

When Stu came in the trailer, he shot upward. “You sent Billie the ticket, right?”

“Of course.”

“And the backstage pass?”

“Yes, Jet.” His manager’s gaze slid left.

Something didn’t fit. “If she doesn’t show up…”
So help me God…

Raising his hands, Stu said, “It won’t be my fault. She has everything.”

Jet let out a breath. “Okay.” Maybe lack of sleep made him doubt. The thought of her in the audience made his palms sweat. She’d hear the songs she inspired. The songs the studio would release.

“You’re on in fifteen minutes. Don’t keep the good people of Hershey waiting.”

He wouldn’t dream of it.

* * * *

Billie ransacked the closet trying to find something to wear.

Her mother leaned in the doorway, mouth agape at the clothes strewn everywhere. “What on earth is going on?”

“Nothing looks right.” She frowned at herself in the mirror. All her hard work these past few weeks had increased her appetite, but the inches should be decreasing, not the opposite.

Her mother frowned. “Maybe you shouldn’t go.”

“I have to. Even if it’s the last time I see him, I have to see him.”

Clucking her tongue, her mother sighed. “All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And you should eat before you go.”

“I can’t. I’m too excited.” The stadium had vendors if her appetite came back, but she couldn’t think about food. How would he react when he saw her? He hadn’t said he missed her… she didn’t think. The connection had been so awful, he might have said he wanted to throttle her and she wouldn’t have known. But why hadn’t he called again?

Along the way to Hershey, thoughts tortured her. Cars waiting to get in stacked in line far from the booth to pay for parking. All these people to see Jet! Parking and walking in the thick crowd through the immense parking lot toward the stadium, she bit back tears of happiness, and fear. Once his popularity grew to its former fever pitch, he’d forget her. She’d been part of his life for a few months--and most of those, he couldn’t stand her.

What am I doing here? Alone?
He’d only sent her one ticket, so he hadn’t wanted her to bring anyone else. Doom threatened, but she handed her ticket to the gate guard, anyway. Entering the stadium, two-thirds of the seats had already filled.

The ticket gained her access to the front section, with no assigned seats. People generally ignored seating anyway, and crushed as close to the stage as possible.

Scents of hot dogs, popcorn and seafood hung in the humid air. Her stomach churned. She should have eaten a little something. Even if she had, she’d have still felt as shaky, she told herself. Standing alone, others jostled her, jockeying for a good spot. She should have brought someone. Zinta, preferably, but she was two hours away and had plans tonight, anyway.

* * * *

Stage lights brightened and the house music faded. Jet strode onstage with his guitar, and his heart leapt against his ribs. Like some rookie at his first gig.

Taking his place center stage, he unbuttoned his black jacket over his faded blue tee shirt.
Tonight will be great. You’ll see Billie.
The tour had dragged on him at first, but his energy level shot up tonight.

The band waited in place, so he took the mic. “How is everyone tonight? In the sweetest place on earth?”

The mass of bodies crowded close, cheering, waving, reaching. Girls squealed and yelled, “We love you!”

With a chuckle, he thanked the band for allowing him to appear. “Kind of last minute. But we wanted to play you a few songs from the new CD, called
Dylan in Reverse
.” He announced it clearly to signal Billie. The title was a tribute to her influence.

Squinting against the spotlight, he searched the crowd. No way would he be able to find her in this mass.

Strumming slowly, he launched into the song he’d played for her. His fingers tripped along the frets with skill and ease. Eyes closed, the grittiness in his voice conveyed intense emotion, and hoped it churned up Billie’s own. He sang as if to her alone in his Malibu studio. The only real part of that whole stint.

He hadn’t changed any part of it, but it sounded better somehow. Maybe because he took energy from the audience, and gave over every part of himself to his music.

The guitar strings resonated with the last chord, and he stepped back. The stadium roared with cheers and applause, every body in it straining toward him.

Except the one person he needed.

Where was she?

* * * *

The crowd roared, every person reaching toward Jet. Pressing against Billie. Dizzy, she drew back, fighting against the crowd pushing her toward the stage. Body after body bumped against her back, slammed her shoulder. Finally, she made it to the aisle and gripped the rail, inhaling and exhaling until her breathing eased.

Find the way backstage. Wait for him.
She located a security guard, who pointed her outside. Jet’s music echoed through the tunnel as she walked, and she wished she’d stayed to listen. She wanted to hear every song. Each one sounded better than the last.

After wandering what felt like an entire circuit around the perimeter, she came across two trailers. Security guards kept people behind steel fences, and several girls pleaded for him to let them inside.

Billie waved to get his attention. “Excuse me. I need to go in please.”

“Sorry, lady. No one goes in except the band.”

“You don’t understand. Jet told me to come.”

“I’m sure he did, honey,” the guard smirked.

“He told me too,” said a girl behind her.

Great. Bimbos in Hershey too.

Billie had to make the guard understand. “Listen.” She stopped at the sight of Stu approaching. “Stu!”

He scanned the crowd, narrowed his eyes when he saw her and ascended the few steps.

He must not have heard.
“Hey, Stu, it’s Billie! Can you tell this guard to let me pass?”

Other girls picked up her cry. “Stu, hey, Stu.”

Stu held up a hand. “Sorry, Jet’s busy. He’ll be out later to sign autographs, all right, girls?”

The bastard. He pointedly ignored her. “Will you at least tell him I’m here?”

He gave her his standard sickly smile. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

“He sent me a ticket. And this note.” She waved his handwritten invitation.

Frowning, he asked the security guard to pass it over. After scanning it, he balled it up and tossed it to the ground. “I sent them to all the media outlets. We’re building the buzz on his new release.”

Gripping the rail, she wanted to scream at him for destroying it. “Then let me interview him.”

“Do you have a media pass?”

His sly tone infuriated her. He knew she wouldn’t. That she no longer worked for
Strung Out
. “Stu, I have to see him.” She bit back the “please” hanging on her tongue.

“Look, do yourself a favor and go home. Forget about Jet. He’s forgotten about you. Julie’s seen to that.”

Her grip faltered as dread chilled her. “But you arranged that.” Didn’t he?

“I set it up for her to be on the show. I never asked him to choose her.” He shrugged, as if helpless to understand it himself.

Now it made sense. Julie had only wanted fame, but Jet must have wanted Julie. He chose her. He must still be seeing her.

Stu stepped inside and slammed the door.

Tears threatening, Billie didn’t have the strength to stand her ground against the younger women. One threw her leg over the fence.

The guards pushed the girl back. “Stay behind the line. You’ll have to wait for your autograph. You too,” he said to Billie.

“I didn’t come here for an autograph,” she blubbered.

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Stumbling backward, she struggled to make sense of everything Stu said, and everything that had happened. None of it fit.

From the stage, Jet announced the next song, “a little Jamaican flavor for your chocolate.” People whistled and clapped, and he strummed the reggae tune and sang, “
I like what I like,
ain’t
no rhyme or reason.
”

“Damn.” The song she’d helped him write. Billie half-laughed, half-cried at hearing it. She’d meant something, if only to his music.

What a fool she’d been. Trying to catch his attention in that crush of people, waving like a teeny-bopper. Coming here in the first place.

If only she could go back to that day, back to his house. She should never have left without talking to him, saying goodbye.
Too late now,
Willamina
.

Unable to stand any more, she rushed down the path to the parking lot, tears streaming down her face. When she reached her car, she turned up a local radio station to blot out his voice from the concert, from her mind. Her crying subsided after a few miles until the DJ spoke of Jet playing in Hershey. “After a few commercials, we’ll play Jet’s first CD without interruption.”

Groaning loudly, she punched at the radio buttons, settling on a hard rock station. They wouldn’t play Jet’s songs.

The announcer said, “I’m hearing good buzz about tonight’s concert. Jet made a surprise appearance and opened for a new band, then hung around to play a set with them. Incredible. Jet’s back with new material, and sounding good. We’ll keep you posted on the latest--”