Marrying the Rock Star Read online

  The place is full of groupies, girls that would be willing to do almost anything to have a night with me. I know that because I’ve been there with them, taking what I want, giving them as much as I know how.

  I’ve had women throw their underwear at me. Promise me their virginity. Offer me money to fuck. Let me take them any way I want.

  Those are just the normal things.

  I’ve had groupies beg me to come inside them. I’ve had groupies beg me to sing my songs while they suck my dick. I’ve had groupies sneak into our fucking tour bus and try to fuck me in my sleep.

  Well, that last one only happened once. We learned really fast to lock the fucking doors at night.

  But tonight, I don’t see any of the other girls. Some of them are pretty hot, or at least that’s what Landon keeps saying. Even Nathan has a girl on his arm. For me though, the only girl in the room is Delia.

  “I guess you can’t flirt, huh?” she asks as I kick back on the couch with her.

  “Guess not.” I sigh, shaking my head. “The old ball and chain, huh?”

  “Asshole,” she says, laughing. “I don’t care if you go fuck one of them.”

  “Nah,” I say. “It’d ruin the whole thing.”

  “Good. You could do better.”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “Haven’t I already?”

  She laughs, sipping her drink. “No, I mean, for real. These girls are just groupies. Star fuckers.”

  “I know,” I say. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You can’t even have a real relationship with any of them. There’s a power dynamic going on.”

  “Power dynamic,” I repeat. “And there’s not one between us?”

  “Not really,” she says. “I remember you before you were famous. We actually know each other.” She nods her head at the pretty girls all sitting around, talking to each other and eyeing up the band. “Those girls only see Chase the famous rock star. That’s all they care about, is that image and power. They’ll do whatever. You can’t really have a real relationship with someone willing to throw herself at you.”

  “That’s a good point,” I admit. “I’ve never really wanted a relationship though.”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “Of course not. You’re a rock star, after all.”

  I lean over toward her, putting my arm around her shoulders. “But you tamed my wild ways.”

  “Yeah, right. As soon as your reputation is fixed, we’ll divorce.”

  “Guess so. That’s the plan.”

  “And it’s back to fucking groupies.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug a little. “Maybe not.”

  She gives me a look and slips away. “Doesn’t really matter to me,” she says. “Just as long as you follow through with our deal.”

  That irks me for some reason. “Of course I will.”

  “Good.” She stretches and stands. “I’m going to get a drink. You need anything?”

  “Nope.”

  She disappears across the room, leaving me alone on the couch. I sit there, watching people percolate around.

  Her words keep playing through my mind. I can’t ever have a relationship with any of these women because of the power dynamics. On some level, I’ve always known that’s true.

  It’s always been empty fucking, and that’s been good enough for me.

  I was having a good time. I was playing bass, making money, touring the country and the world, and fucking any woman I wanted. It was the fucking dream.

  At least until I saw Joss and Grace.

  That’s when doubts started slipping into my mind. Maybe the doubts were always there, even before Joss and Grace got together. But seeing them made me realize something.

  There’s more to this life than just meaningless sex. At some point, all this fame is going to go away, and what will I be left with? My fans aren’t going to be young and hot forever, and they’re definitely not going to stick around when we start our inevitable slide into old age and old guy rock.

  No, I need something more than this. I need a woman to make me happy, because all this empty pussy hasn’t been doing enough.

  I’ve been skating by, passing through. I need to start really living life.

  Fortunately, I don’t have too long to think about how pathetic I am for being miserable and alone, despite having gotten married a few hours earlier. Karl calls us up to the stage and we gather together.

  “When do you want to make the announcement?” Joss asks me.

  I shrug. “Before the encore.”

  “Very end, huh?”

  “Actually, I was hoping something else, too.”

  He hesitates. “What’s that?”

  “I want Delia to play the encore.”

  The guys look at each other. I can see the skepticism in their eyes, and I can’t blame them.

  “Are you sure?” Nathan asks. “Is she ready for this?”

  We stop next to the stage. We can hear the low rumble of the crowd. There are probably thousands of people out there. It’ll be the biggest crowd she’s ever been in front of, by far.

  I hesitate a second. I should probably warn her.

  But she can do this. I know she can.

  “Let’s do it,” I say, projecting confidence.

  Nathan shrugs. “Whatever, man. If it goes bad, it’ll fall on you.”

  “Good.”

  Joss looks concerned, but he sighs. “Fuck it. You guys ready?”

  We’re ushered out onto stage a minute later, the crowd screaming, a roar filling the world.

  There’s nothing better than getting on stage and performing. I pick up my bass and start the opening song after Landon counts us down. It’s a thumping, upbeat song, and the whole crowd’s singing along.

  It’s like being swept up by a wave. There’s nothing you can do except let it happen and wait to surface for air. It’s drowning in music, and instead of terror, it’s pure bliss.

  This is why we do it, this moment where the music falls and it bowls over the crowd.

  We feed off each other. We’ve gotten good at this, a comfortable little rhythm. It’s our third tour, even bigger than the other two. We’re playing the biggest venues around, even a few stadiums. Our sound is getting bigger and bigger, filling in every single space available.

  I forget all about myself. I forget about Delia. I forget about the world. I’m in the zone, keeping time with my bass, following Landon’s lead. I don’t even need to look at him anymore, though. We’re just perfectly in sync these days.

  The concert comes and goes, almost like a single note plucked on a guitar. It feels like it’s over as soon as it starts, and the only thing that tells me any time has passed is the slight ache in my fingertips and the sweat on my skin.

  Joss looks over at me as the last notes die out. I hesitate but walk over, coming front and center.

  Not my usual spot on the stage.

  There’s a low murmur in the crowd. I take the mic from Joss who steps aside. I leave my bass slung over my shoulder like a weapon.

  “I know I’m not usually the guy that does the talking,” I say into the mic, my voice magnified to booming, explosive levels. “But tonight, I have a very important announcement.”

  There’s a murmur, a buzz. I can feel the excitement. People want more music, and they’ll get it. But not what they’re expecting.

  “Earlier today, I got married.”

  There’s a palpable gasp from the audience replaced by screaming cheers. I stand back to bask in it for a second, grinning like a moron.

  “Her name is Delia,” I say to the ground. “We’ve known each other a long time. We’ve been keeping our relationship private but now that we’re married… well, it’s time you all met her.”

  More cheers, screaming. I can feel the energy reaching a peak.

  “Do you all want to meet my wife?”

  The crowd goes insane. I have to step back and gesture at the side of the stage. I know Delia’s back there somewhere, waiting.
r />   She comes out a minute later, still wearing her white dress. I bet Karl made sure she didn’t change.

  She looks radiant. She’s fucking glowing, like she belongs on the stage. She’s so nonchalant, so easy. There’s a calm, simple presence about her that I find so attractive.

  She walks over and I put my arm around her. The crowd screams as I kiss her, a single little kiss, but it feels incredible. Desire tingles down my spine.

  “You’re going to play something,” I whisper in her ear.

  “What?” she says, staring at me, eyes wide.

  “You’re the encore. Can you do it?”

  Only a moment of hesitation. “If I can play Nathan’s guitar.”

  I grin and nod, turning back to the mic.

  “I have one more surprise for you all,” I say. “My wife here’s a musician, and I want you to hear what she can do. Are you people ready?”

  More cheers and screams. I step aside and go over to Nathan.

  “She needs your guitar,” I say into his ear.

  He glares at me. “No way.”

  “Either that or we stand here discussing this in front of a bunch of excited fans.”

  He groans and hands it over. I carry it to Delia. She takes the guitar reverentially and slings it over her shoulder like she was born with it.

  I step aside and sit on an amp. We watch as she approaches the mic and looks out at the crowd. Thousands of fans cheering and shouting answer her gaze.

  I wish I could know what she’s thinking. I bet it’s the most overwhelming thing she’s ever seen. I know I had trouble getting used to it at first.

  “This song’s called Make Me,” she says into the mic, her voice soft and lilting.

  She starts to play. It’s a plucking, quick little melody, strummed and smacked with her fingertips and palms. There’s a bit of funk, a bit of country.

  It’s just Delia and her guitar.

  When she sings, I swear the whole place goes silent. Her voice is what I remember most about her. That singing voice is incredible, sweet and light and airy with a slight warble. It’s distinctive and beautiful.

  She plays her song, and nobody makes a sound until she finishes. The last notes slowly fade, and the crowd erupts again.

  I walk over and put my arm around her shoulder. She laughs as people take pictures. We walk off the stage together after she gives Nathan back his guitar.

  “Holy shit,” she says once we’re clear. “That was amazing.”

  “You were perfect.”

  She laughs, shaking her head, clearly riding that high. I know exactly how it feels.

  “Seriously, Delia,” I say. “You were perfect.”

  “I didn’t think I could do it. Seriously, I thought I might run away or something.”

  “You didn’t. You killed out there.”

  She turns to me and suddenly pushes me back against the wall of the hallway. She advances on me, eyes wild.

  I think she’s going to kiss me. I’m about to pull her against me if she’s not. Instead, she puts her finger in my face.

  “Don’t ever throw me up on stage like that again, you hear me?”

  I blink. “Sorry.”

  “You should be. I could’ve froze. I almost did. You freaking asshole.”

  “But you didn’t.” I gently lower her finger. “You were amazing.”

  “Damn straight.” She nods, glaring at me, and walks away.

  I let out a breath.

  God damn. I don’t know why I had to go and marry one of the strongest, most talented women I know, but it’s not going to make this any easier.

  Then again, I don’t think I want easy. I’d take hard with Delia over anything else any day.

  7

  Delia

  I can’t decide what was a bigger rush. Playing my music in front of thousands of people on the biggest stage I’ve ever stepped foot on with my dream vintage guitar.

  Or kissing Chase.

  You’d think there’d be a clearcut winner, but there really isn’t.

  That kiss is what made me want to follow through with this. Part of me kept thinking that I could back out, I could refuse to sign the marriage license. The ceremony really doesn’t mean anything unless we fill out the paperwork.

  But then he kissed me, and everything changed in an instant.

  I don’t know how to explain it. That kiss was like coming home to a friend I’ve been missing for so long, but didn’t even realize I needed.

  It just felt right. I thought it was going to be awkward or weird. I mean, I haven’t seen Chase since before college. It’s been nearly seven years since we were last friends. We’re practically strangers.

  Except we’re not.

  Everything comes flooding back, whether you want it to or not. Especially during a kiss like that.

  After the concert, I’m still shaking from the adrenaline. The guys all take me out to some local bar where Joss tells me about his fake marriage to his current wife, which is a totally crazy story. Of course, the press doesn’t know about the details, and I’m sworn to secrecy.

  I keep stealing glances at Chase the whole time. He seems happy, genuinely happy. His smile is easy and free and I find myself smiling along.

  “Having fun?” he asks me. I’m standing at the bar, waiting for a drink.

  “Yeah, I am,” I say.

  “You sound surprised.”

  I laugh a little. “I thought this would be weird, honestly. I mean, our situation is…”

  “Not totally unprecedented in this little group, as it turns out,” he says, laughing.

  “Exactly. You guys are way crazier than I realized.”

  “Regretting it already?”

  “Not at all.” I lean toward him, looking up into his eyes. “Thanks for earlier.”

  “I thought you were mad.”

  “I was. And I am.” I take a breath and let it out. “It’s complicated.”

  “I know.” He smiles at me, gesturing for the bartender. “But you nailed it. I knew you would.”

  “How did you know? I didn’t know.”

  He orders our drinks and when the bartender leaves to fill them, he cocks his head at me.

  “You have a lot of talent,” he says. “There’s a reason you’re still in the business. You’re really, really good.”

  “Why haven’t I made a second record yet, then?”

  He chews his lip. “It’s politics. You know that.”

  “It can’t just be politics.”

  “But it is.” The bartender returns with our drinks. “Label people don’t care about what makes you special. They don’t care about talent or presence or that ineffable whatever. They care about the ability to sell records and to fill stadiums. That’s it, nothing more.”

  I pick up my glass and sip it, stalling for time. I know he’s right, but that just makes me wonder.

  Do I have those qualities? I mean, I can be as talented as anyone else, but if I can’t get people to want to listen to my stuff… none of it matters.

  “Come on,” he says, steering me back to the party. “Let’s have some fun, okay?”

  I nod, but I don’t really feel up for it anymore. I return to the ground but as soon as I finish my drink, I’m already starting to make excuses.

  Chase walks me outside. We stand on the sidewalk, waiting for a cab.

  “Listen, you should stay,” I say to him.

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll get you back to the hotel.”

  “Seriously, Chase,” I press. “Stay and have fun. I’m fine. Karl gave me a room key before we left.”

  He frowns a little. “Honestly, I’d rather leave with you.”

  “I know.” I smile at him and really mean it. “But I just need some alone time, if that’s okay.”

  “Okay,” he says, “I get it.” He manages to flag a cab and when it pulls over, he opens the back door. I slip inside. “If you need anything, just call.” Before he closes the door, he drops a couple bills in my lap, tells the
cabbie where to go, and walks off. I don’t even have time to thank him.

  The cab pulls into traffic and I watch Chase disappear back into the bar.

  I feel a strange melancholy. I don’t know why. I guess it’s because of what he said back there, and it’s making me examine my career more closely than I want to.

  He’s right that being a musician isn’t only about having talent. There are a lot of talented people out there, and I’m just one of many. Plenty of highly talented people never succeed as professional musicians.

  It’s about that extra thing, that ability to get people to come to shows, to craft songs that people want to sing. Maybe it’s an ineffable trait, but I don’t know.

  Playing my song on that stage made me see something. I’ve been desperately trying to please everyone around me, desperately trying to write that one song that’ll get me attention. But tonight I got up on stage and played a song I almost never perform. It’s a song I wrote for myself, for no other reason than I felt like writing something.

  And it killed. People loved it.

  Maybe I’ve been doing it all wrong. And maybe Chase is wrong, too.

  The cab pulls over in front of a pretty nice hotel. I climb out, tipping the cabbie generously, since it’s not my money. I turn toward the front doors and as I approach, a man in a white button-down shirt approaches from off to the side.

  “Delia?” he calls out. “Delia Reed?”

  I hesitate, frowning. I don’t recognize him at all. He has curly brown hair, stubble, a mustache. I’d guess he’s in his mid-forties.

  “Yes?” I say. I don’t know why. I should just keep going. But for so long I’ve stopped whenever someone calls my name.

  That’s a habit I need to kick.

  “How’s marriage treating you?” he asks. It takes me a second to realize that he’s holding a camera and a recorder. He snaps a couple pictures, the flash stunning me.

  “Uh, okay,” I say.

  “Did you know that Chase has slept with over two hundred women?”

  I nearly stumble. “Two… hundred?”

  “Two hundred,” he repeats, snapping more pictures.

  “That’s…” I hesitate a second. I’m about to call it crazy, but maybe it’s not?