Rock All Night(67)

56




Our encounter in the shower was a thousand times better than the one from two nights ago.

And in a wildly different way, so was the after-party.

After we got dressed (I insisted on putting on some makeup and changing into new clothes on the tour bus), Derek took me on his arm and escorted me backstage – and into the midst of a couple dozen celebrities. Suddenly I wasn’t the wallflower reporter skulking on the sidelines; I was on the arm of the most desired man in a room full of fame and fortune. Hell, the most desired man in the country. Rappers, rock legends, film stars, TV actors – all of them were looking at me like, Who’s this? A couple of the rappers playfully hit on me, then joked with Derek like they were afraid he would come after them (“Awright man, you know I’m jus’ playin’ – I wouldn’t do you like that, dawg – but daaaamn, shorty is tight”). The older rockers and movie stars were courtly and polite, but the women – especially the younger women, the ones who had probably come backstage with an agenda – threw a lot of cold shoulders my way as they ran their hands up and down Derek’s free arm, and laughed at everything he said.

I felt jealous again – but it was different from the other night. That was a gnawing feeling of deprivation, an ache that I could never belong, that I could never have what I wanted. Now I was on the inside of the circle, just me and Derek, and the others were intruders trying to force their way in. Now my jealousy was equal parts anger that they were trying to steal him, disbelief that they could be so bold to try it right in front of my face, and smug satisfaction that they didn’t have a chance.

You can try all you want, bitch, but I know who he’s going home with.

Everything I just said makes me sound terrible. I know it; I cringe to write it down. I had, even if just for a moment, turned into one of those hoochies from the other night. The gold diggers and players clawing at the king, trying to be his queen.

I could suddenly see why so many beautiful women pursued rock stars, and athletes, and movie stars. I’m sure some did it for the money – but I think it was primarily the fame. The limelight is like a drug. All that attention is intoxicating. When everybody is fawning over the man of your dreams, and you start basking in that reflected glow… it does something to you. It warps the way you see the world. It certainly did for me.

I felt like the belle of the ball – Cinderella on the arm of Prince Charming. Except Prince Charming was all tatted up and wearing sunglasses indoors.

There was champagne – and this time I drank it. There was also whiskey and pot and cocaine, in which I did not partake. But two nights ago the world had seemed cold and sharp-edged and ugly. Now there was a golden haze over everything, and not only was I in love with Derek, I was in love with life.

Somebody else noticed it, too.

Derek got pulled aside by Miles to go speak to some famous music producer, which left me alone – until Ryan walked up, all smiles.

“Somebody’s having a much nicer night than the last time I saw her at one of these things.”

I giggled back. (The champagne was taking its toll.) “A much nicer night, yes.”

“And to think, all of this was made possible by my advice,” he said sagely, in a self-mocking kind of way.


“That whole ‘let yourself go and live a little’ part? Yeah… I suppose I should thank you for that.”

He waved me off, his eyes half-closed, like Ahhhh, don’t mention it.

I smiled. “It was good advice.”

Then, with his eyes still half-closed, he put out his hand and motioned his fingers like More – more – gimme more, the same way Stephen Colbert does when he wants his audience to keep howling for him.

I grinned and played along. “It was really good advice.”

He turned his head away and kept motioning for more.

Now I was laughing. “It was an absolutely brilliant stroke of genius.”

He put out a hand like Okay, you can stop there.

“It was nothing,” he said nonchalantly, still playing up the self-mockery angle. Then he grew serious, though with a smile. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’m just a little worried about my journalistic integrity.”

He made a face and blew out air through his lips. “If you were interviewing the President or a Congressman or somebody important, then, yeah. But we’re just three guys and a crazy chick who get up on stage and play songs.”

“You’re joking, right?” I asked, stunned. “You guys are incredibly important!”

He swept his arm around at the room. “Don’t confuse the trappings with being important, Kaitlyn.”

“What about the people you inspire? What about kids who are where you were four years ago, in their parents’ basement, following their dream? You’re important to them.”

He bobbed his head modestly and nodded in grudging assent. “Well, okay, yeah, those are the people I want to be important to, so that’s fine. But believe me, you’ll be giving them a dream, too: the hope that, one day, they too will be able to get a beautiful Rolling Stone writer to question her journalistic integrity.”

I laughed and swatted him on the arm. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he grinned, and walked off into the crowd.