anyway, but nothing like how he’d soared when he’d spotted her in the crowd. The damn lights had made it near impossible to see, but that combination of alabaster skin and dark hair and eyebrows helped him find her even in a crowd.
The security guard he’d sent after her held open the door to the Green Room. A banquet table held a bunch of food, which three or four reporters were helping themselves to. A couple other photographers hung in the corners, popping flashes. He’d have to get used to that.
Arnie, his manager, came forward. “Rocking show, Rage. We’ve got a couple people to talk to.” He lowered his voice. “Not as many as I’d have liked but good ones.”
Rage shrugged. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about press or any of that as long as he got to record another album. He already understood that the process would never be as sweet as the first time, when everything was new and out in front of them. The next one would be rushed and pressured and under threats of contracts and sales goals and all the bullshit that had nothing to do with the music itself.
He perched on the edge of a chair and tried to listen to the questions thrown at him and hoped he didn’t sound stupid. At one point the door opened and some girls trickled in, no telling who they were, and the photographers shot pictures of them hanging on him. What fucking ever. This was going on too long now and he wanted his own room, where Jewel was waiting. He wanted to hear what she thought, for her to listen to him, and to be that person she’d always been — somebody on his side.
He cut his eyes at Arnie, who nodded and clapped his hands. “We about wrapped up here? These boys have to travel to LA tomorrow.”
The reporters looked longingly at the booze, and Rage gestured toward the table. “Feel free. It’s time to party!” He grabbed a beer from a bucket and acted like he was going to stick around but as soon as everyone’s attention was elsewhere, he headed straight for the door. To Jewel.
* * *
Ha, she’d conked out.
Rage closed the door quietly, relieved to find her alone. He’d half expected some girl to have snuck in here to pounce on him. But maybe the rocker myth was just that — more bullshit. Nobody was sticking keys in his pocket or staking out his car, not yet. Who knew. Maybe now that the tour had started, it would happen.
Didn’t matter. The girl he wanted with him was already in the room.
He walked up to her, curled up on a navy sofa, her brown hair spilling around her pale face. She’d always been able to sleep like that, pretty much anywhere. He’s been friends with Jewel’s younger brother Matt, and growing up it wasn’t unusual to find Jewel out cold on random furniture.
As Rage got older, he and Matt weren’t anything like each other and probably wouldn’t have stayed friends. But Rage kept the relationship going to nurture his crush. Jewel was this exotic older woman. When they were little, she was the one who picked him up and dusted off his knees. She was always the senior to his freshman, the college girl to his gangly adolescence. He wasn’t that old now, still nineteen, and he knew that. But these feelings he had for her were the oldest, most familiar of all.
Rage knelt next to Jewel on the sofa. She’d always been and still was the smartest, nicest, most level-headed girl he knew. He didn’t care so much for her mom, who’d never liked him and tried to convince Matt not to hang around with him and his musician friends. Probably she saw Rage looking at Jewel and didn’t like that either.
But here she was.
She wore a pair of jeans studded with little rhinestones and a simple pink cotton tee that read “London” across the front. He had a crazy urge to trace the letters on her chest, but focused on her face instead, relaxed and pale, with the sharp contrast of arched eyebrows and lashes.
He was about to touch her hair when the door swung open. The hot photographer sauntered in.
The security guard he’d sent after her held open the door to the Green Room. A banquet table held a bunch of food, which three or four reporters were helping themselves to. A couple other photographers hung in the corners, popping flashes. He’d have to get used to that.
Arnie, his manager, came forward. “Rocking show, Rage. We’ve got a couple people to talk to.” He lowered his voice. “Not as many as I’d have liked but good ones.”
Rage shrugged. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about press or any of that as long as he got to record another album. He already understood that the process would never be as sweet as the first time, when everything was new and out in front of them. The next one would be rushed and pressured and under threats of contracts and sales goals and all the bullshit that had nothing to do with the music itself.
He perched on the edge of a chair and tried to listen to the questions thrown at him and hoped he didn’t sound stupid. At one point the door opened and some girls trickled in, no telling who they were, and the photographers shot pictures of them hanging on him. What fucking ever. This was going on too long now and he wanted his own room, where Jewel was waiting. He wanted to hear what she thought, for her to listen to him, and to be that person she’d always been — somebody on his side.
He cut his eyes at Arnie, who nodded and clapped his hands. “We about wrapped up here? These boys have to travel to LA tomorrow.”
The reporters looked longingly at the booze, and Rage gestured toward the table. “Feel free. It’s time to party!” He grabbed a beer from a bucket and acted like he was going to stick around but as soon as everyone’s attention was elsewhere, he headed straight for the door. To Jewel.
* * *
Ha, she’d conked out.
Rage closed the door quietly, relieved to find her alone. He’d half expected some girl to have snuck in here to pounce on him. But maybe the rocker myth was just that — more bullshit. Nobody was sticking keys in his pocket or staking out his car, not yet. Who knew. Maybe now that the tour had started, it would happen.
Didn’t matter. The girl he wanted with him was already in the room.
He walked up to her, curled up on a navy sofa, her brown hair spilling around her pale face. She’d always been able to sleep like that, pretty much anywhere. He’s been friends with Jewel’s younger brother Matt, and growing up it wasn’t unusual to find Jewel out cold on random furniture.
As Rage got older, he and Matt weren’t anything like each other and probably wouldn’t have stayed friends. But Rage kept the relationship going to nurture his crush. Jewel was this exotic older woman. When they were little, she was the one who picked him up and dusted off his knees. She was always the senior to his freshman, the college girl to his gangly adolescence. He wasn’t that old now, still nineteen, and he knew that. But these feelings he had for her were the oldest, most familiar of all.
Rage knelt next to Jewel on the sofa. She’d always been and still was the smartest, nicest, most level-headed girl he knew. He didn’t care so much for her mom, who’d never liked him and tried to convince Matt not to hang around with him and his musician friends. Probably she saw Rage looking at Jewel and didn’t like that either.
But here she was.
She wore a pair of jeans studded with little rhinestones and a simple pink cotton tee that read “London” across the front. He had a crazy urge to trace the letters on her chest, but focused on her face instead, relaxed and pale, with the sharp contrast of arched eyebrows and lashes.
He was about to touch her hair when the door swung open. The hot photographer sauntered in.
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