Page 15 of Backstage

“Put on a hat and glasses; don’t you think there are other guys like you around Manhattan?” she says, raising an angry eyebrow.

I doubt many people have a picture of their face covering an entire building in Times Square, but I appreciate that she sees me as an average person who could take the subway with a cap on his head. Usually, women expect nothing less from me than a limo to drive them around.

“It’s either this or nothing,” I say as I come closer. Lilly is really short. She barely reaches my chest.

“Yeah, right,” she looks at me sarcastically with a sneer.

“Look, don’t make me be the guy who needs to remind that you signed a contract, and you have to respect it.” I’m so mad I don’t even know what I’m saying. She’s getting deeper under my skin.

“I haven’t signed anything that forces me to get on a motorcycle,” she explains as if I were a child. What does she take me for? A guy with his brain in a jar of alcohol on his nightstand?

“Look, this is what I’m picking you up with, whether you like it or not.”

“Can’t you give me the address so I can catch up to you?” she proposes with a little composure.

“No! I’m not giving you my home address so you can pass it on to your friends,” I reply, annoyed.

She studies me for a few seconds with her mouth slightly open, as if she were shocked by my words. It wasn’t my most brilliant argument, but she could avoid treating me like an idiot.

“What do you take me for? An idiot? You don’t think I can just look at the road you’re on or out your window to see where you’ve taken me? You think I don’t know what New York looks like? Even someone who’s never been here would recognize it,” she says.

She’s right, but I don’t want to explain to her that on the bike I can outrun the paparazzi better if I need to. I don’t want to stand here arguing about my personal life, and that’s it.

“Look, I’ll call Evan and tell him you’re playing hard to get and that we’re done.” I turn around and grab my phone, knowing my manager will kick my ass if I call him about something like this.

“Hold on, hold on. Give me that helmet. And go slow, I got a guitar on my shoulders.”

Jesus Christ, if I’d known all I had to do was mention Evan, I’d have done it right away. I get on the bike, wait for her to get behind me, and only when I put the helmet on do I allow myself to part my lips and form a smile. She will pay for this, this pain in the ass, making me this nervous early in the morning.

The trip to Tribeca is a series of zigzags between the cars, accelerations in passing, driving very fast, and Lilly’s fists stuck in my ribs. Her frightened screams are music to my ears. Now I’m sure she won’t want to ride with me anymore, but I had a lot of fun making her pay for her impertinent tongue.

I enjoy the view of the typical red brick buildings renovated with a modern touch of my neighborhood, the trendy cafes, and high-class pastries’ aroma. The sidewalks are a bustle of people walking at a fast pace, men in suits swearing in a low voice as they try to get past slow tourists with their noses in the air. Manhattan is like this, a jumble of people who have the most different stories and backgrounds, but who live on the same piece of concrete. It’s a unique place in the world, and I love it for that.

“You’re crazy, asshole!” she yells as she gets off the bike in the garage.

I’m giggling, amused, as I take the helmet from her hands. “You survived, didn’t you? I wouldn’t complain if I were you,” I joke, while opening a door at the bottom of the building that allows me to cross the block through a series of corridors that allow me to move without having to go up to the street.

Lilly follows me without opening her mouth, struggling to keep up with my long strides. I don’t slow down; I don’t think she’d appreciate being treated differently because she’s a woman. On the contrary, I think she’d bite my throat just for insinuating that she’s the weaker sex. I type the personal code for the elevator, and notice she turns her head so that I can avoid the embarrassment of covering the keyboard with the other hand.

We get to my floor and the doors open onto the entrance to the living room. Her eyes and mouth are wide open in shock at the city’s spectacle and the East River view through the windows covering two sides of the apartment. It’s what made me fall in love with this place the first time I entered it. It wasn’t so much the white marble floor or the two big sofas of the same color that fill the living room; it’s what you see beyond the windows.

Like a curious child, she approaches the windows and admires the view, then looks down and struggles to hold back the surprise when she realizes where we are.

“But…we’re parked under that building,” she points her finger in the direction of the garage before turning towards me.

I put the helmets in the closet next to the front door and join her in front of the window. “The underground car park is there,” I confirm.

“But...why is that? I mean, isn’t it more practical to park down here?” Her curiosity is genuine.

I don’t know if it was the fear of riding a motorbike or the novelty of the environment she’s in but Lilly has put aside her resentment and I appreciate it, because I really don’t have the patience to argue for the rest of the day. I shrug my shoulders and sit on the leather sofa on the other end of the window.

“The paparazzi know where I live. If I want to get in and out of the house without being seen, I have to do it from a doorway that isn’t obvious. If I’d given you my address and walked in the front door, you’d be all over the nation’s gossip columns. It’s not normal for the girl in the band that won the contest to spend the day at the house of the singer of the band that organized it. Tomorrow morning you would have been assaulted by photographers in front of your house,” I explain to her when I see the sympathy on her face. Thomas is right. She’s bright, even if she’s trying not to be noticed and stay out of sight in front of people.

She sits next to me, leaning her guitar on the white carpet under our feet and looking straight into my eyes. “Is this really your life? You can’t even leave the house without someone trying to take pictures or follow you?” It almost sounds like there’s concern in her voice.

This is the first time a woman has asked me that question. Usually, the ones I meet are drawn to the spotlight. They can’t wait to make the front page of the newspaper for their fifteen minutes of fame. On the other hand, Lilly seems genuinely interested in understanding what my life is like, rather than finding out how to be a part of it.

I shrug my shoulders; I don’t know what to tell her. My life sucked until I achieved fame. Anything is better than going back to living like I did before, in the crap Evan pulled me out of.

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