Page 14 of Legendary Rock Star
And sure, I could have let everyone fail, but at least now I’d go out showing the world my talent wasn’t all washed up.
The first singer of the night passed me and patted me on the back.
No sign of Maggie yet, but I met the young man’s handshake and said, “Joe, I had a hunch about you when we met the other day.”
“Thanks, man,” he said and headed onto the stage.
I should have been listening to Joe’s rendition of my composition.
That had been my plan, but then Maggie came out.
Dressed like she was ready to hit the Moulin Rouge stage tonight.
She’d been the shy virgin who finalled. Now her natural beauty was gone in the red gloss of lipstick and unnatural color on her cheeks.
Part of me wanted to scream at whoever did this to her.
A small part of me whispered that I’d win tonight, but I shivered.
I refused to be the heartless jerk again. It was one step closer to being the alcoholic who was kicked out of the band.
I’d not go down that road again. Maggie deserved better. I didn’t want to upset her right now, but I pressed my hand against her bare arm and ignored the tremble her body sent through mine as I said, “You’re making a mistake.”
“Don’t tell me.” She hopped in her thigh-high boots and said, “I’m just hoping the songs are old enough that my version works in spite of this outfit.”
Not if she was breathless, it wouldn’t. But I held my unsolicited opinion. Even if backstage had sabotaged her, she had enough talent to wow the audience. I kissed her forehead, though the spark distracted me, and said, “I hope I’m wrong.”
She glanced up and her blue eyes were softer as she said, “You were too nice to me and everyone else. Stop helping the competition.”
Right. I was self-sabotaging. The stagehand pointed at me. That was my cue. My heart beat a mile a minute, but I went out on stage and the crowd cheered.
Accolades like that, people clapping and shouting my name, hadn’t happened to me in a while. Memories of my past life when I appeared on stage to screaming twelve-year-old girls played like those old moments were alive again.
I took my guitar—the one that had won me my first Grammy when I was eight—and strummed out a new sexed-up rock version of my song, “He rocks in the treetop…”
I imagined hauling Maggie into a back room and watching her lose her mind to an orgasm as, instead of singing “tweet” to the crowd, I belted out “hey, hey, hey…”
The female pop star from twenty years ago fanned herself and said to a live microphone, “Hot …”
At least one person on the panel understood. I continued to rock out my new version, where rocking robin was a euphemism today’s teens understood. “Rockin’ Robin… hey, hey, hey.”
The last note played and I put my guitar down, and realized I hadn’t lost the bulge in my pants entirely.
The image of Maggie and her kiss from the other night never left me, even as all three judges stood up and cheered with the crowd.
Tonight was mine. I knew it. The older British judge was the first to ask, “How in the world did you change this beloved old song this much?”
Right. My heart was almost able to handle the adrenaline coursing through me as I said to the cameras, “I have always loved composing and arranging. I just hope the crowd loves my new, slightly sultry version, where I see a robin as more of a euphemism.”
The crowd screamed again.
I knew I had this round won.
The pop star then said, “Before you go, Phoenix, the fans at home will want you to kiss the camera for them.”
I stopped. The New Year’s special when I was seven and stayed up to host the ball drop had become a viral sensation. My cheeks heated as I said, “I’ve not done that in fifteen years.”
She gave me a cocky look and said, “Come on now.”
