Rock All Night (The Rock Star's Seduction #2) (31 page)

It wasn’t like she wouldn’t talk to me. She already had, back on my very first day on the tour bus:

To fuck hot chicks.

I… what?

To fuck hot chicks.

What are you talking about?

Why I do it. To fuck hot chicks.

That wasn’t what I was going to ask.

Oh. Well, that’s the answer, anyway. To fuck hot chicks.

O-kaaaay… moving on. What’s the best part of being a rock star?

Fucking hot chicks. I mean fucking chicks that’re hot. Not chicks who are fuckin’ hot. I mean, I want ‘em fuckin’ hot, but if you don’t get to fuck ‘em, what’s the fuckin’ point, right?

She was perfectly willing to be interviewed… if you can call that an ‘interview.’

No, I wanted more. The
real
person, not the caricature. What Killian had given me on the ride out to the desert.

Which Riley was apparently willing to give me, too. But just like Killian, she had a price.

With Killian, it had been participating in a psychedelic holiday.

With Riley, it was a bit more… Rileyesque.

“I really need to do an interview with you,” I told her one afternoon, after her morning hangover had faded to where she was semi-coherent.

“Okay, shoot,” she said as she took a pull from a bottle of Jack.

“No, I’m serious. A real interview. One where you actually talk about real stuff, and not just – ”

“Yeah, yeah, I said okay, let’s fuckin’ do it,” she said crossly.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Had I hit on exactly the right moment to ask her? Had all her defenses dropped by the wayside long enough for me to get to know the real person beneath the insane punk-rock-chick-drummer persona?

“Okay… what’s your first memory of – ”

“Tits.”

“…what?”

“Tits. That’s my first memory.”

I sighed and hung my head as she continued on her reverie, holding her hands out in front of her like the ‘huge… tracts of land’ guy in
Monty Python’s The Holy Grail
. “Big ol’ fuckin’ tits – firm ones, big as my head, with – ”

“RILEY.”

“What?”

“I SAID A REAL INTERVIEW.”

“That’s what I’m givin’ ya, Blondie.”

“No you’re not. You’re just talking about your favorite subject, is all.”

“After pussy. Favorite subject,
after pussy
. We could talk about that instead, if you want. Maybe, say…
your
pussy? My pussy? Bumpin’ pussies?”

I just scowled at her.

She gave me an impish little smile, then stopped drinking long enough to fish a cigarette out of a pack, light it up, and take a drag. “You fucked Derek.”

I scowled at her harder. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

“Ooooh, Blondie gettin’ a backbone!
Hawt!
But that’s not what I’m talkin’ about.”

I stayed silent, waiting to see where this went.

“You fucked Derek, and he gave it up. His story, I mean. That’s all I want.”

Now I wasn’t scowling, I was frowning in confusion. “…what?”

She gestured with her cigarette, as though pointing to a series of invisible blocks in a logical arrangement. “You fucked Derek… you got his story. You want my story… you fuck me. That’s the deal.”

She settled back in her chair and grinned with glee as shock and revulsion washed over my face.

“I am NOT sleeping with you for a fucking interview!” I shouted.

“It doesn’t have to be a fuckin’ interview. We can do it after we’re done fuckin’.”

“I didn’t sleep with Ryan or Killian for an interview!”

“If you haven’t figured it out yet, Killian doesn’t really give a damn about fuckin’ you –
or
anybody else. And we both know Ry
wants
to fuck you, he’s just too nice to put it out there. Plus he knows he’d lose out to D.”

My stomach turned when she said that.

Mostly because I knew she was right.

Furious, I got up from my chair to go.

“C’mon – think of it as… what’s that Hannibal dude say? ‘Lend me a quid, Clair-eeeeeeeese…’”

I narrowed my eyes. “I think you mean ‘quid pro quo.’”

“Oh yeah. ‘Quid pro quo.’ Just think of it as… ‘quid pro coochie,’” she said, and snorted like a three-year-old hearing her favorite poop joke.

I sighed in disgust and walked out of the room.

“Quid pro coochie, Clair-eeeeeese!” she yelled after me, then started laughing maniacally again.

Poor Ryan.

I wound up discussing the Riley situation with him. Actually,
venting
to him is a more accurate description.

Derek was no good for that; he was more of a ‘Bulldoze through it or quit bitching’ kind of a guy, so trying to get any sympathy from him was like extracting water from a stone.

I’d already had one bad experience with Killian’s weird, so-not-comforting take on Aesop’s fables.

Miles? I’m laughing right now as I type this.

And Riley was the source of the problem.

Which left poor, longsuffering Ryan to listen to me rant. On several occasions.

He was sympathetic every time, and very kindly never pointed out the obvious – that I was just using Riley’s obstinacy as an excuse to procrastinate.

After I complained to him for fifteen minutes, I would usually feel a little better, after which I would go along my way and find other reasons to avoid writing the article.

After a half-dozen encounters with Riley, ranging from annoying to infuriating, I had written off ever getting any sort of a real interview from her.

Until I heard her talking to Ryan.

I didn’t think
anyone
had that kind of influence over her.

I was wrong.

It all happened during the band’s stay in Seattle. Ryan and Riley were in the kitchen together, which was separated from the rest of the penthouse. Anybody inside the kitchen couldn’t see much of the rest of the suite, which is why they didn’t know I was there.

And no, I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping.

Although I didn’t exactly announce my presence, either.

Derek was in his room writing lyrics, and Killian was off in his getting baked or taking a nap or God knows what. I was attempting to avoid writing the article when I walked in and heard their voices over the sound of pouring drinks – ice clinking against glass, the
glug glug
of liquid.

“Riley, I need you to do me a favor.”

She sighed theatrically. “Alright, fuck it. Whip it out, I know it ain’t been sucked in awhile.”

“UGH.
Gross,
” Ryan groaned, mirroring my own thoughts exactly.

Riley cackled. “Just kiddin’, Ry. I love you man, but you got one part too many, dude.”

“Well, we can both be glad about that, then. But I need your help.”

“Need me to get some chicks for you? Tired of moonin’ over Blondie?”

As soon as I heard my nickname, I froze in my tracks – still out of sight. More than anything, I didn’t want to see the look on Ryan’s face if he found out I had heard
that
comment.

“I’m serious.”

“So’m I. You need to get the fuck over that shit, man. You’re too fuckin’ good for her, anyway.”

My heart alternately swelled a little at her sweetness towards Ryan – and prickled at her bitchiness towards me.

Ryan used his ‘stern dad’ voice. “Riley…”

She huffed in annoyance. “Fine. What.”

“I need you to do the interview with Kaitlyn. A
real
interview, not some cutesy crap.”

I frowned in surprise.

What?

“Hahaha! That’s a good one, Ry.”

There was a long silence from the kitchen. I could almost see Ryan’s look in my mind’s eye: head tilted down, the
I’m not kidding
expression.

Judging from Riley’s reaction, my imagination was spot on.

“Aw, man –
seriously?
Come ON.”

“I really need you to do this for me.”

“Bullshit – this isn’t for
you!”

“It
is
for me. You’d be doing this for me, not her.”

“Fuck that! This isn’t gonna make her fall in love with you, or whatever the fuck you want!”

“I know that. I’m not asking because of that.”

“You’re askin’ cuz you’re totally fuckin’ in love with that bitch, and she goes after the fuckin’ moron instead of you! Seriously, man, why do you do this to yourself?”

Again, mixed emotions: my heart broke for Ryan, while my stomach raged on Derek’s behalf… and a little bit on my own, too.

“Riley… please? For me?”

“God dammit…” she grumbled. “…quit lookin’ at me like that…”

“Thank you.”

There were a couple of seconds of silence. Somehow I knew instinctively that Ryan was hugging her, and it made my heart hurt even more.

I must have been right, because after a couple of seconds, Riley started groaning again. “Aw, cut it out, don’t get all fuckin’ mushy on me…”

“And don’t hit on her, okay? Don’t get her drunk and make passes at her, alright?”

“Maaaaan – ”

“Riley, I’m serious.”

“Does this chick even know how much you’re into her?”

Now I do,
I thought, and I felt sick to my stomach that I was listening in on something so achingly private.

“And don’t tell her that, either, okay?
…okay?
”

“Okay, OKAY! Why are you doing this, anyway? Is it cause you want her to get the hell out of Dodge so you don’t have to watch Derek banging her?
That
would be a halfway decent reason.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because I want her to succeed. It’s important to me.”

My heart broke a little more, and for the first time ever, I wished that maybe I hadn’t met Derek first.

Riley sighed heavily. “For you.
Only
for you.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Hell
yeah
you owe me one.”

Before they could come out of the kitchen and discover me, I silently slipped out of the suite and back into the hallway.

When I came in five minutes later, I pretended I didn’t know anything.

Out of the blue, Riley told me – in a very annoyed voice – that she’d had a change of heart, and that maybe we should actually go ahead and do the interview for real.

I acted shocked, then suspicious, then warily happy – after extracting numerous promises of no ‘quid pro coochie.’

She grumpily agreed, and threw a couple of not-so-subtle scowls at Ryan.

He just smiled mysteriously over in the corner.

I avoided looking at him too much, for fear of giving myself away.

It was one of the toughest lies I’d ever pulled off, but I did it.

I felt terrible about it.

But I still should have been nominated for an Oscar.

After the show at the KeyArena, the band had a break for about 36 hours before they had to hit the road again. Riley took me out the next night after the show, grumpily insisting that she wanted ‘to get this over with.’

That was how I ended up drinking with Riley in a lesbian dive bar in Seattle.

It didn’t start off promisingly.

I was getting out the Zoom digital recorder when she barked, “If we’re gonna do this, I gotta be drunker’n a motherfucker. So I’m doin’ shots.”

I already had my reporter hat on. “Do you think maybe that’s just a way of numbing yourself to the – ”

“And you’re doin’ ‘em too.”

I stopped talking and just let my mouth hang open for a few seconds.

“Nunh-unh,” I finally managed.

“Yeah you are,” Riley insisted. She pulled off her thrift-store parka with its fake fur collar, slung it next to her in the wooden booth, and flagged down a heavily tattooed waitress with a Betty Page haircut.

Imagine this: you have just taken up boxing. You’ve worked the bag, done a lot of jump-roping, maybe even sparred a little. With an 87-year-old man.

Then you find out your first real fight is with Mike Tyson.

Not current-day Mike Tyson. Noooo. Time-travelling Mike Tyson, who has come here from the past, in his prime and fresh from biting the ear off of Evander Holyfield.

That was what I felt like when I heard Riley wanted to do shots.

“NO.”

“Then we’re not doin’ the fuckin’ interview.”

“But – but – ”

I wanted so badly to whine,
But Ryan made you promise!

But I knew that would torpedo the whole thing.

“Riley, you’d drink me under the table in half an hour. I will literally
die
from alcohol poisoning if I try to keep up with you.”

She considered that. “Okay, we’ll go three for one. I do three shots, you do one. And you can do little girly shots, with umbrellas and shit.”

That was actually a pretty good offer.

But I was still nervous.

“Four for one,” I countered.

She shook her head in disgust. “You are such a pussy, Blondie,” she muttered, before ordering her first round of Four Horseman – Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, and Jameson.

And a shot of amaretto for me.

The first thing I asked her – after she’d downed all four shots – was how long she’d known she was gay.

“Forever,” she said, and belched.

“What’s your earliest memory, though?”

She stared off into the distance and actually gave it some thought. “There’s actually two things I remember. One was Mr. Hopkins.”

“Mr. Hopkins?”

“Yeah. He was this old asshole I had to live with when I was little.”

I frowned, but thought better than to ask about it now. After all, she was actually
talking
, and she hadn’t even propositioned me yet.

“Anyway, he said, ‘Riley, one day you’re gonna grow up and get married and have kids of your own.’ I was, like, four or something, and I didn’t know shit about sex… but I saw all the men and women who were married on TV, and I just knew that was never gonna happen for me.

“So I was like, ‘Nunh-unh.’

“And he was like, ‘Oh yes you are.’

“And I was like, ‘Nunh-
unh.
’

“And he got really mad and was like, ‘
Yes
you ARE.’

“And I was like, ‘NUNH-
UNH.
’”

Maybe it was the shot of amaretto, but I was totally charmed by the thought of four-year-old Riley (who still had a multi-colored mohawk in my daydream) standing her ground against the patriarchy.

Then she finished the story.

“And when I wouldn’t agree with him, he beat the shit out of me.”

I stared at her, my mouth agape.

Riley frowned. “What?”

“He… spanked you?”

She looked at me like I was an idiot. “No, he beat the shit out of me.”

“With… his hand?”

“No, his belt.”

It took me almost ten seconds before I could finally speak.

“But… you were
four.
And you didn’t DO anything.”

She shrugged again. “I told you he was an asshole.”

“Who
was
this guy?”

For the first time, she looked visibly uncomfortable. “He was my foster mom’s dad. So, like, my foster grandfather. Or something.”

“…oh…”

“They weren’t all bad,” she said hurriedly. “My foster families, I mean. Some of them were pretty good. He was just a real dick, that’s all.”

SOME of them?

She gave a curt laugh. “I didn’t give a shit, though. I just gritted my teeth and took it. Fucker never made me cry, not once,” she said proudly.

The next round of shots came a few seconds later. I bolted my amaretto as quickly as I could, steeling my courage.

“What… what about the other one?”

“The other one what?” Riley asked as she tossed back the Jim Beam.

“The other memory. About how you knew you were gay.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” She grinned. “I was in kindergarten, and I had to ride the bus. And there was this little girl in my class who rode the bus, too. Mandy Parker. She was, like, the prettiest girl in school. Blonde hair, always wore these really pretty dresses. And this boy – I think he was in first grade – he kissed her on the bus ride. And I got really, really jealous.”

“Of Mandy kissing somebody?”

“No, of the dude – cuz he got to
kiss
Mandy.”

I laughed out loud.

Much better story than Mr. Hopkins.

And then, unfortunately, she finished it again.

“So I punched the kid in the mouth when we got off the bus, and then I kissed Mandy, which she didn’t like so much. That was the first time I ever got suspended.”

I stood there staring at her.

“What?” she asked belligerently.

“You got suspended in
kindergarten?”

She beamed with pride. “Yeah.”

“…do
any
of your stories have a happy ending?”

She seemed a little bit thrown by my question. “…that’s not a happy ending?”

I flagged down the tattooed waitress. “I’m going to need another shot,” I told her.

“I’m not even finished with my second round yet,” Riley pointed out.

“Do you have a lot more stories like the ones you just told me?”

“I guess – why?”

I looked at the waitress. “I’m gonna need a
lot
more shots.”