The Rockstar''s Virgin

  The only person on the other couch was Alexander Kiroff. He was only twenty-seven and was the last to join the band, replacing the previous rhythm guitar player. He wore his dark brown hair long and straight, sometimes with headbands that gave him a certain Anthony Kiedis look.

  The three of them looked tired, but still proved photogenic when I caught a couple of shots of what I would call “the after-carnage.”

  “How's it going, guys?” I asked.

  We'd chatted briefly when I took photos before we left but hadn't since then.

  They looked at me with glassy eyes, still obviously pretty drunk.

  “You're the photographer, right?” asked Vince.

  I wiggled my camera and flashed a smile. “That's me.”

  “Did you get lots of good photos?” he replied.

  I nodded. “Plenty. Though I don't have any of you guys with Sean. I was a bit surprised to see you weren’t hanging out together.”

  They laughed, like they'd just exchanged some sort of telepathic private joke. I shifted on my feet, unsure if they were laughing at me or not.

  “To hang out with him you’d first have to track him down,” said Alexander. “Half the time he could be on the moon, or prancing down the yellow brick road to Oz.”

  Vince added. “Perhaps even Narnia.”

  They laughed again.

  “He's just like that,” Justin said, scratching his head. “Here one minute and gone the next. Doesn’t matter who he’s with at the time. And when he’s here, he’s not really here anyway.”

  I caught a trace of distaste in his tone. But why?

  “I thought you guys were all good friends?” I asked.

  I immediately regretted the question. The trio broke out into cackles again, and Alexander lit up a cigarette with a wry grin on his face.

  “Sean doesn't have friends,” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He's a private guy,” replied Justin. “Even more so lately. Doesn't open up to anybody, not even us.” He shrugged. “Hard to make friends when you don't tell them anything.”

  I was surprised. “He seems very open.” I thought back to how outgoing and chatty he was. To me, to his groupies, to the whole world with his music.

  “And broccoli seems like a tiny green tree,” said Alexander. “But it's fuckin' not, is it?”

  They started laughing again. This time, they were clearly ribbing Alexander for his odd comparison.

  “Look, sweetheart.” Justin sat forward to address me, his lips curved in a condescending smile. He pointed a finger in Sean’s direction.

  I turned to see the singer standing over by the wall, a doe-eyed groupie running her hand up his arm.

  “You see that? That’s not Sean. That’s the Rock Star. He drinks like Sean. He fucks like Sean. He fights like Sean. But never ever confuse him for Sean.” He chuckled and leaned back. “Sometimes, you see Sean, just a flicker here and there. Most of the time it's an accident. It's happened a few times lately.” He shrugged and took a swig of his beer. “Something's bothering him, I guess.”

  I craned my neck to get another look at the Rock Star. He was beautiful, as intricate and complex as the lines carved into his skin. From his mussed-up hair to his dazzling smile, everything about him seemed to pull you in.

  “It doesn't look like anything's wrong,” I murmured.

  It was hard to believe that Sean had a single care in the world. He looked as light as a feather in the breeze. Could there actually be something dark underneath all that light?

  “I've known Sean for ten years now,” said Justin. “Probably longer than anyone in his life, except his brother.”

  My attention snapped back to the bass player. It looked like if I ever wanted to dig for information, Justin would be a prime place to start. Even if he did claim to know little about the star, maybe there was something.

  “Keep watching,” Justin said, nodding his chin in Sean's direction. “You'll see what I mean.”

  The guys started talking amongst themselves, and I took that as a sign that our little conversation was over.

  I snapped a picture of Sean from across the room, staring a little extra long through the lens as if his exterior would flicker like a mirage. “I will.”

  Sixteen

  Sean

  My head felt like somebody had stuffed a bunch of fireworks inside of it and they were all going off, one by one. I groaned, hanging my head over the sink with closed eyes. I wasn't going to puke. I hadn't puked in years. Getting older had made it easier for me to control my drinking, but it had made the hangovers doubly bad.

  I turned the tap on and watched the water run, then grabbed a glass from the cupboard and chugged back a couple of them. It was bed time.

  We'd just kicked out the last of the partiers. I shouldn't have been hungover already at three a.m., but here I was. I pushed off from the sink and started padding toward my bedroom. The other guys had gone to bed already, and I assumed Hazel had gone back to her trailer. It was just me now. It felt like I could finally breathe again.

  My bedroom was dark. Quiet. I stepped out of my jeans as I walked inside, then flopped down in the chair by the window. Outside, the cloudy Montana sky was a muddy, dark brown color with spots of burnt orange from the glow of the streetlamps. We’d be in Chicago soon to play our first show of the tour, and after that, each new city would take me farther and farther away from home until we finally hooked around in San Diego and started heading back up the West Coast. It was going to be a long tour.

  I sighed, wondering how my brother was doing with his treatment. If it would stick this time. He was always so eager to change, to go back on the wagon and fix his mistakes. While he was in rehab, at least. Once he was out, it was only a matter of time before he'd slip again. He always promised that this would be the last time, the last hit, the last mistake. But his promises were only as strong as his will, and that had been eroded and hacked away by all the drugs over the years. The only thing left holding him upright was me and the little sliver of will still inside of him. I'd started to wonder how long it would be before that last sliver was taken away too.

  Snap.

  I turned, alarmed to realize I wasn't alone. Hazel was standing in the open doorway, and she lowered her camera slowly. Her expression was strained, like she realized what had been going on in my head and felt like an intruder.

  “Sorry,” she said softly. “Brad told me to get some final shots of the, quote, 'aftermath.'“

  “Was it a good picture?” I asked.

  Hazel brought the camera up to review the image, then smiled gently at me. “It is. It's very...human.”

  “I'm sure my people will be glad to know the disguise is working,” I joked. “Do you want to come in?”

  Hazel let the camera drop back on its cord and stepped through the open doorway. She lingered uncertainly just inside until I gestured to the seat across from mine at the little table.

  “You okay?” She dropped into the chair and rested her camera on the table.

  When was the last time somebody had asked me if I was okay? Probably my brother, some time or another. I decided to ignore the question. I didn't feel like lying, and I almost never felt like telling the truth.

  “Did you have fun?” I asked.

  Hazel gave a tiny shrug. “I suppose I did. What about you?”

  This girl sure liked her questions. So many questions. Normally, the only question the women I spent time with had was if I'd sign their tits or where I wanted to put my cock.

  And even though I knew I shouldn't, something about the depth of worry in her eyes made me want to tell the truth. For the first time in such a long time that I wasn’t sure I still knew how. So I started small.

  “No, not really.”

  I looked back out the window, not wanting to face the look of surprise on her face.

  “What do you mean you didn't have fun?” she asked. “It looked like you were. Every time I
turned around you were grinning like a hyena.”

  I laughed bitterly. “Yeah, well. I'm not famous for no reason. There's a party everywhere I step, everyone knows that. And if I'm not enjoying the party, nobody else will.”

  I looked back at her to see her digesting this thought with an expression of concern. “Are you sure you're okay?”

  There was an incredible measure of honesty in her gaze. It was, to use her term, so human. Everyone in this world was putting on a show, an act. We had to. But Hazel was real, and more than that, she had real concern for me.

  How was that possible? Even knowing that I'd only invited her on this tour so I could fuck her, Hazel managed to dredge up enough concern to ask me if I was okay, and to fucking mean it too. I wondered what it must be like to have that kind of heart, one not blackened with ash and the stains of regret.

  We were going down a dangerous path here. And it was up to me to circumvent disaster.

  “If I wasn't okay, would you kiss it better?” I smirked. “Though I should warn you, I would need kissing everywhere.”

  Hazel let out a deep sigh. Part of it was undoubtedly exasperation, but there was a tinge of amusement too. She rose from the chair, grabbing her camera in one hand. “I'll see you in the morning, Rock Star.”

  “Sleep tight. Don't let the rock stars bite.”

  I heard her footsteps recede into the distance, though I didn't watch her go. I lone crow as it crossed the sky. Just when I thought I was alone again, I heard the shutter of her camera, then my door whispered closed.

  I wondered if that final shot would look human to her as well. I smiled.

  Human. What a word to use.

  Seventeen

  Hazel

  Being a tour photographer was exhausting. That was the primary word I'd use to describe it. At times it could also be exciting, overwhelming, and even a little frustrating. But always, always exhausting.

  We'd been on the road for a couple days now, but today was the first show of the tour. I was hanging in the wings while the guys were out on stage, performing for thousands of screaming fans. It was all I could do to remember that I was here to take pictures, not to watch, mouth agape, as an incredible spectacle unfolded in front of me.

  It was insanity. Security was working double time to keep up with the crowd surfers and security breaches, fans waved signs that declared their unsinking loyalty to the band, or to specific bandmates, and I even saw a chick with Sean's face tattooed on her boob.

  It was, undoubtedly, the craziest thing I'd ever seen.

  I tried to capture every pulsing moment of it with my camera but knew I could never do the scene justice. It was no wonder that Sean had an ego the size of Texas. I couldn't imagine what playing to a crowd like this dozens of times a year would do to me.

  I took a video of the show on my phone to send to Cora, who immediately replied in all emojis. She was beyond jealous that I essentially now lived backstage and would get to see Flagship Inferno perform over and over again. I was living the life, and although I was exhausted, I was happy to be doing so.

  I headed backstage after the encore. Next would come photos with the fans, which was the part I was least looking forward to. I didn't like the way the fans all reacted to Sean and the band like they were living gods. I understood it, but it was strange for me to watch, like I was a spectator at a zoo exhibit of excited monkeys in lipstick and crop tops.

  It turned out to not be so bad. We cleared through the line pretty quickly, until there were only three girls left. They seemed like they'd been hanging back on purpose, wanting to be the last pictures of the night for reasons known only to them.

  The trio consisted of a tanned brunette with plump lips and a shredded Flagship Inferno t-shirt, a taller but less-tanned auburn-haired beauty in the shortest pair of short shorts I'd ever seen, and a willowy brunette with impossibly large blue eyes. They strutted up to Sean like they were walking the catwalk, and I noted that all of their makeup was perfectly in place – not something I could say of the rest of the girls who'd come backstage after the show.

  Sean and the girls talked in low tones to each other, but I tuned it out. I'd been tuning out all the flirtation and embarrassing gushing all night. But then one the girls piped up and asked if I could take a photo on her smartphone.

  “Of course she can,” Sean said, sending me his best panty-melting, crooked smile.

  The girl passed me her phone, and I put it up to take the photo. After they smile and posed and I took a couple, I passed the phone back.

  “You're like our resident ghost, aren't you, Hazel?” Sean joked. “Taking all the pictures but never in any of them.”

  I raised a brow in question, but before I could say anything, the shorter girl piped up. “She's a pretty hot ghost.”

  Sean smiled down at the girl. “She is, isn't she?”

  The auburn-haired girl smiled coquettishly at me, then angled her face up to Sean while stroking a hand over his bicep. “She should come with us, take some more pictures.”

  Come with them where? What was wrong with taking pictures here? I frowned and looked to Sean for some clarity. He grinned.

  “Not Hazel. Hazel doesn't like fun.”

  He kept his gaze on me the whole time, and a shiver ran down my spine as I realized what the girl had been asking. Sean began leading the three giggling girls toward the green room he’d claimed for himself. I rolled my eyes. Whether he was going back there to snort coke or fuck those girls or some combination of the above didn't matter.

  I was here to do a job. Not to keep tabs on the lead singer.

  So why did I find Sean's sudden departure a little irritating? It shouldn't bother me what he did.

  I moved over to where the other bandmates were entertaining their much smaller groups of fans and started taking pictures. Every few shots or so, though, I'd peek back at the door Sean and the girls had disappeared behind.

  After one such loaded glance, I caught eyes with Justin.

  “Getting blown backstage is just Sean's way to chill out after a show,” he said.

  “Ah.” I raised my brows and nodded in understanding. “How nice.”

  Justin grinned and slung his arm around the blonde to his left, and the two of them headed off toward one of the other rooms backstage. It looked like Sean wasn't the only one who relaxed and recharged with a blowie.

  I decided that I was finished taking photos backstage. Instead, I headed out front stage. My steps echoed across the huge wooden platform. The only people out in the audience were a few cleaners, bending down to pick up the seemingly endless scraps of garbage and detritus that littered the ground. Empty cups, signs, pieces of clothing. It was a complete mess. The magic that had coated this place only an hour before had lifted. No, not lifted – moved on. It had followed Sean backstage, to where he was now getting a magical blowjob from three girls. I wasn't even sure how that worked.

  I took a few shots of the arena. It wasn't the kind of aftermath Brad had asked me to shoot, but it was appropriate in its own way. Just like Sean said, wherever he went, there was a party. But that meant he never got to see the rubble left behind, the disaster that lived in his wake.

  Always a party.

  Always a disaster.

  Eighteen

  Sean

  I didn't know any of the names of the girls currently jockeying for my zipper while I snapped selfies on my phone. It hardly seemed to matter. They weren't expecting anything more from me than a good time, and I didn't need to know their names to give them that.

  Just as the redhead emerged as a victor in the pants war, a call popped up on my screen. It was the rehab center. Shit.

  Should I ignore it? No, the stab of worry in my side told me I couldn't do that.

  I gently pushed the girl away, taking a couple steps back. “Give me a second,” I told them. “I've gotta piss first.”

  I made it to the bathroom just in time to answer the call. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Morris, it
's Nadine James from Westhills Rehabilitation Center. How are you today?”

  I thought about the three girls outside, all drooling for a taste of my cock. “I'm good, thanks. What's this about?”

  “I'm just calling to let you know that your brother has entered a new phase of rehab and to invite you to join us for a session of family therapy. As you're the only family member listed in his file, I know it would mean the world to him if you could show.”

  I wasn't so sure about that. It was one thing to visit my brother to see how he was doing from time to time. It was another to sit down on a couch together and talk about our feelings.

  Nadine correctly took my silence as hesitance. “I understand that you two have a complicated history. As such, I think it would help Dave if you could attend at least one session.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I'm on tour, and I've got contracts and...” I sighed. “I just can't make it.”

  “I understand, Mr. Morris. Thank you for your time.”

  I was about to say something else – what, I wasn't sure – but the counselor had already hung up the phone.

  Fuck.

  I missed the old days of slamming telephones back down on the receiver. In lieu of that, I wished I had something to break. Family therapy? I could just picture it, my brother sitting down and going through all the ways I'd ruined his life right in front of me. And I wouldn't even be able to deny it.

  I realized that I'd been in the bathroom for too long. The girls were probably wondering what I was doing.

  I couldn't muster a smile, but I was at least able to bring my features back up to neutral. Then I stepped out into the room.

  The three girls were already mostly naked. One of them was sprawled on the couch, a line of coke down her inner thigh. I watched as the redhead snorted it off her, making a face as she wiped her nose. The other was seated on top of the table in nothing but a bra and underwear. She jumped down and strode up to me with a sway to her hips.