Love at the Rock Show: Pagans & Pop Stars, #2

1

RK Does it Again

Like every other musician, ex-Beatboyz pop star RK recorded a pandemic album to get through quarentimes. His sophomore album, Home With You is half an ode to new love, half a diary of a stir-crazy artist, and 100% relatable. It runs the gamut from throwback 80’s pop beats with epic Bollywood influences to tender ballads about his mysterious new lady love. His lyrics are poignant without being sappy, his featured artists are phenomenal (Benji Omega! Doc Conjure!), and the production by fellow former Beatboy Rick Jones ties it all together with a glorious bow.

—Music Daily

Fucking industry parties.

Lights flashed in his face. People yelled his name, his old stage name, over here, look over here. Step, pose, repeat. Ugh.

Patrick Rick Jones escaped the red carpet and sighed with relief as the stairway doors closed him off from the manufactured press frenzy. Climbing the three floors up to the actual party gave him time to breathe and work off some of his anxious energy. He paused at the landing, adjusting the fancy-casual outfit that cost way too much but fit the nebulous theme of the album release party.

You got this. You won’t die if you see her. You won’t die if you don’t.

The door opened into an alcove right off the event room. A security guard gave him a look but Patrick flashed his VIP badge and a professionally non-threatening smile, breezing by.

Installing himself against the wall, he surveyed the room. The crowd spilled through the bar area to the open wall to the balcony of the boutique hotel ballroom—sorry event space. It was the kind of room that could be the site of anything from a wedding to a business merger, if you were trying to be edgy and hip. It was bright teal with flattering lighting and there wasn’t a straight line in the whole place aside from—

Was that a Tarot reader table over in one of the selfie alcoves? Why? Were they a prop? Surely, his business partners hadn’t stooped that low.

Whatever, he didn’t have time for details right now.

He kept his gaze moving, but even with all the people, he could tell she wasn’t here yet. Thank fuck. Just the thought of being in the same room as her turned him into an exposed nerve. Everything was too loud, too dim, too close, too warm. His stomach was in knots.

Parties drained his social battery within minutes but he was inevitably expected to be there for hours. Party Patrick was honed to be a tool, trained to sell a product with his face on it, to make someone else money. He smiled at a passing acquaintance and said something pleasantly banal—who knows what. He could work a whole party on autopilot, hating everything from behind his smile. One of the benefits of spending ten years in a boy band machine. But not now, not this party.

He kept his gaze roving, trying not to look at the publicity shots all over the place of his former bandmate, current business partner, and ex-friend. He could barely stand to work with Rohan, let alone stare at a fuckton of pictures of him. It didn’t matter now, after tonight’s launch of Rohan’s new album, Patrick’s contract was fulfilled and he was quitting. The thought was a lifeline as the bass thrummed under his feet, the susurration of small talk lapping around him like social-climbing waves.

The baby hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

She’s here.

He turned slowly, trying to be casual. There she was, his ex-best friend, the one that got away, on the arm of the man formerly known as Patrick’s friend.

Cazzi wore a cloth mask and make-up but he still recognized her from across the room. Even from here, he could appreciate her eyeliner, dark green witchy dress, and matching mask. He hadn’t seen her this dressed up in years, maybe ever. She looked good. She looked up at Rohan and her eyes smiled.

Patrick’s stomach tried to stage a full-on revolt. He jingled the coins he always carried in his pocket for offerings—Nana had schooled him years ago to never leave home without them because you never knew who or what you might run into—but couldn’t hear the sound they made enough to focus on it. He fiddled with his own mask. The party was in a rooftop bar with fancy garage-style doors open to the night so theoretically he didn’t need it. Neither did Cazzi, but he knew she wore it for more than COVID protocols.

She looked happy. Uncomfortable, sure but happy overall. A thousand times better than the last time he’d seen her, over a year ago.

You mean better than completely emotionally wrecked? That’s a low bar.

It wasn’t that. It was so much worse. She fucking glowed. She looked at Rohan like she loved him. Like she loved him and it didn’t tear her apart.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away. It wasn’t all happiness. He could see the nerves under her poise. The too-straight line of her back, the smile in her eyes calcifying, the way she kept her distance to Rohan exactly the same no matter how he moved. Did Rohan even notice? Did he realize how much she was putting herself out there for him, just being here?

That could’ve been you she was hovering next to. But you fucked it up.

His therapist told him to be gentle with himself but goddammit how could he when he’d fucked up so miserably? When he was currently fucking up?

This was love, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been sure. It’d been tearing him up to not know if he’d actually loved her or that the idea of loving her made it easier to justify his actions last year. He hoped his feelings would have faded by now and he’d come out of this party relieved, maybe even happy for her. But fuck, this wasn’t easy so it had to be love, right?

Say something. Tell her. Don’t leave it unfinished, you never know how much time either of you have left.

The memories of holding the phone to his ear, as his grandpa couldn’t speak, as he died alone in quarantine bubbled up. Patrick hadn’t said anything then, hadn’t known how to go through the motions of expected affection when he couldn’t forgive the man who tore his family apart with his selfishness.

The nurse said Patrick was the last call Grandpa Pat had taken.

His heart pounded so hard it made him even queasier. He was lightheaded, he was sick.

He ducked into the stairwell and down two flights of stairs.

Sitting on the landing, he put his head between his knees and tried to breathe through the shaking, through the pulse in his throat, the nausea. He patted his pockets for something, anything that could help but he hadn’t thought to pack so much as a ginger candy. Dammit all, he was a mess. Why had he thought he could do this?

Fuck, I hope she didn’t see me.

Judit Kemenes stood up from her table, straightened her Thoth Tarot deck, and tucked it away into its velvet bag. Everything ached, the pain getting sharper and her mind getting cloudier. Her wrists and fingers were banded with dull pain, her shoulders were wracked, and her hips were sore from sitting for hours. Dammit, she was too young for this shit.

She forced herself to focus. Her shift was over. There hadn’t been an instant connection with anyone who might skyrocket her career but life wasn’t a movie or a romance novel, as much as she often wished it was. Her business card stack was half gone, but her table hadn’t been exactly popular. She’d gotten more confused glances than clients even though LA people loved psychics, but she was the first to admit a card reader didn’t quite fit with the theme of Rohan’s album release party. (Honestly, she wasn’t sure what the theme was. People seemed to either be super dressed up or in expensive loungewear and the event brief had been... unhelpful.) Which made her ten times more grateful to Cazzi and Rohan for getting her the gig. Clearly, this party hadn’t needed her as much as she’d needed the money.

It’s fine, she told herself, This way you were able to keep an eye on Cazzi.

Not that her best friend needed a babysitter per se, but Judit knew half the reason she’d been invited was Cazzi wanted extra emotional support if Patrick got weird.

Patrick. Judit narrowed her eyes at the thought of him. Cazzi’s so-called best friend and once the love of her life. The guy who’d very efficiently wrecked Judit’s friend more than once with his ghosting and fuckwittery.

He was strangely absent.

Frowning, she straightened. Pain shot from her hip, down her leg. She suppressed a wince. Great, now her pelvic muscles wanted in on the pain party.

I hate you, she told them before immediately apologizing. Her therapist, back when she’d been able to afford one, told her hating her body would only make things worse.

She looked around for a chair that wasn’t the metal folding shit she’d been sitting on for the last two hours. The bar featured those tall tiny tables you were supposed to hover around. There was a balcony with a view that attracted a lot of selfies (when people weren’t trying to take a selfie at her table), a dance floor that mostly contained groups of people networking, and not one single chair.

Seriously? Were LA people too bougie to sit or was this a special torture reserved for parties only?

She spun in a slow circle, not caring if she looked weird. Weird was on brand. Cazzi shot her a puzzled look. Next to her, her boyfriend Rohan RK Kapoor raised his plastic cup at her and looked like he was debating coming over to ask if she was okay. He was a nice guy. He practically lived with Cazzi so Judit saw him whenever she dropped by. So far he’d been an absolute sweetheart and treated Cazzi like she was the best thing that ever happened to him.

She shot them both a thumbs up. She didn’t need anything but a chair, or wait—

A door caught her eye. Stairs.

She texted Cazzi that she was going to sit somewhere and headed into the stairwell. The door shut, cutting the sounds of music and networking. She exhaled in relief and headed downwards to get away from the couple one flight up that was getting excitingly well-acquainted.

It was so much quieter down here and the pressure of being around so many people lifted as she descended to the landing. She popped a 20:1 CBD gummy in her mouth, enjoying the burst of sweet strawberry flavor. There were three left in the pack.

She sat down with a sigh, relishing the peace and removing her mask. Except—

Oh no, was that someone... crying?

She listened. The sobbing breaths were below her, ragged and fast. Panic not pleasure.

Fuck.

Grabbing the handrail, she dragged herself upright. Every bit of pain flared brighter. What she wouldn’t give for some instant-release pill that made her feel like she was actually in her late twenties instead of prematurely ninety.

Hello? she called, approaching slowly. She checked the pockets of her dress. Phone, wallet, keys, deck, gummies... hmmm...

The sobbing didn’t stop. She followed the sound until she found the source, doubled over, head between their legs, breathing fast. They were hard to discern in the yellow half-light but she thought they were skinny, dark-skinned, and definitely having a moment.

Hi, she said again. Are you okay? Stupid question, but honestly what else did you say?

Their breath hitched. They raised their head, wide dark eyes catching hers. There were no tears but sweat beaded their hairline. I feel like I’m gonna die. Their voice was a low rasp through their mask and it sent a chill down her spine.

Okay. Judit sank down in front of them, about six feet away, crouching even though her hips protested. Vaccination was a requirement for entry but being close to people was still strange. Do you want me to call 911?

No! A hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, breaking the social distance between them. Not hard, but the strength was there. No, it’s not real.

Uh-oh. She fought the urge to jerk away.

What’s not real, hun? She kept her voice kindergarten teacher gentle.

A forced, tortured breath. The fingers on her wrist shifted restlessly. It’s all anxiety.

Oh. Oh.

Anxiety spiral?

Their eyes narrowed. Attack.

Been there. Not this bad but still. Want me to sit with you for a bit?

They stared at her like they hadn’t even considered this was an option.

Is that a yes?

They dipped their head slightly. She nodded and gently removed her wrist from their grip.

They made a noise of protest but she just arranged her skirt as she sat. Then she offered her hand back.

They shook their head, closing their eyes. Their breath picked up again.

Would taking off your mask help?

They shrugged, making no move to remove it.

Did you take anything?

They shook their head.

Judit put her mask back on in case that made them feel more comfortable. Does CBD help you? I have some twenty-to-one gummies.

Their eyes snapped open. Yes... please.

She passed them a gummy. Two left. They turned away to lift their mask but she could still see them chew and swallow like their life depended on it. Probably felt like it did.

She sat in silence, tracking the way they breathed and keeping her breathing deliberately slow. Eva, her semi-sister (long story), had once explained the concept of mirror neurons and people unconsciously mimicking each other with yawning and shit. She figured pretending to be super calm couldn’t hurt.

Wanna talk about it? Will that help? She asked when their breathing slowed.

You won’t tell?

Another chill went down her spine, a precognition. She would regret this.

Psychic’s honor. She held up two fingers like a boy scout... or someone out of the Hunger Games, she could never remember which.

They worried their hands together. I feel like I’m having a heart attack and an aneurysm and about to pass out or puke or... the CBD is helping but... They looked up, their gaze clearer as they met her eyes.

Whatever you feel comfortable with. We don’t have to talk about it. She really hoped they didn’t puke. This was her nicest dress. It’d survive the dirt on the floor but puke? Probably not. (Plus, puking in a mask had to suck.)

You swear you’re not going to tell anyone?

Aw man, either they were famous or a serial killer. Fantastic.

Who am I going to tell? I have no idea who you are.

Their shoulders relaxed.

What happens in the stairwell, stays in the stairwell. She smiled, then remembered she was masked. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Helps me when I’m spiraling.

They smoothed their locs back and sighed. The love of my life is here. They flinched at the words as if they couldn’t stand to hear them.

Oh?

With her boyfriend.

Ohhh.

The stir of precognition tingled in her spine. Surely not...

He’s gonna ask her to marry him, any day now. They practically live together. He’s, he was, my friend.

Some friend, Judit said. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If she was right...

"She loved me. Me. But... but I fucked up and he swooped in... and stole her."

Like she was a fucking trophy. Judit made a sympathetic noise through gritted teeth. There was no way she could have the women are not property discussion without it devolving into an argument with him right now. (This is what she got for being nice, dammit.)

I thought the pain would fade, that I was maybe deluding myself about how I felt. Then I saw her and she looked at him and... and... she’s happy. She’s in love. His voice was a gut punch and she suspected he was trying to get her to sympathize even as he visibly shook. Maybe he didn’t realize he was doing it. He hugged his knees and looked up at Judit with big brown eyes. It hurts so much.

He was very pretty, even obscured by the mask. But then, all guys in boy bands are to some degree. He didn’t look like the boy who’d graced the Beatboyz poster on her wall a decade ago. He’d grown up hot but sad. A devastating combination. But now she knew what to look for, she could tell exactly who he was. Thank goodness they’d never met (Cazzi used to be super secretive about him before their whole relationship blew up) or this would be awkward as fuck.

She could see why Cazzi fell so hard. But Judit knew a trap when she saw one. She put on her sympathetic face even as her mind raced. Was she really going to sit here and let this asshole try to sway her to his side of things? (She couldn’t just get up and leave, could she? Would it help anything if she gave him a piece of her mind? Because she had thoughts.) That’s rough. I can’t even imagine.

That was mostly true. She’d had her share of unrequited love (what pansexual romantic got through puberty without a few heartbreaks?) but she’d never had a long-running thing for someone she’d known forever. After watching Cazzi wreck herself against Patrick, Judit was A-okay with that.

Patrick drew a shaky breath, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’d stopped hyperventilating sometime in the last five minutes and now looked like he was going straight from anxiety into a depressive slump. His body barely shook but his shoulders and neck drooped. He seemed utterly miserable.

It made her soft heart sad. Dammit.

I-I lost someone to COVID, he continued. Someone I never got a chance to clear the air with and I thought—I hoped— He shrugged.

That sounded exactly like the kind of drama Cazzi was worried about. But maybe it would help them both if they actually talked?

Patrick drew another shaky breath and shook his head. I can’t let her see me like this. A man handles his shit.

Okay, no one needed that toxically masculine nonsense.

We’re in a pandemic, she pointed out. Literally, no one is handling their shit.

His eyes crinkled in a sad smile. I’ve been going to therapy for months. I should be better by now.

Boo-fucking-hoo, you can afford therapy.

When she didn’t laugh, he cocked his head. I’m not usually like this.

She shrugged, the adrenaline of dealing with a crisis fading and leaving her wrung out. The CBD was kicking in, softening her resolve and giving her munchies. Damn, she’d taken it on an empty stomach, hadn’t she? That one milligram of THC was getting her lightweight ass. Do you think there’s any food left at the party?

He looked up as if he could see from here. She smothered a giggle. No giggling at the enemy.

He glanced at the time on his phone. I doubt it. The food budget was limited... um, I’m guessing.

Wow, his acting was worse than it was in that Beatboyz movie she saw back in high school. Surely, he’d gotten better since then... oh wait. Is your gummy kicking in?

He nodded. Kinda.

She had a bad idea. But it was kind of brilliant? Like, what if she got him out of here and also got snacks? She hadn’t eaten dinner at all and forgetting to eat was not an option when she’d gotten migraines from that before. No drama at the party plus having a cute-if-emotionally-constipated guy buy her food sounded like a great idea. Also safe. (Probably.)

Hey, she said. Do you want to get out of here? I saw an ice cream place around the corner. It’s probably closed but I could use the walk.

He looked unsure.

Come on, she wheedled. Staying here isn’t healthy. You said you didn’t want her to see you like this.

It was a low blow, manipulative even. Cazzi told Judit how he’d shut her out of his emotions, to the point that he’d once dated someone for months without telling her, his supposed best friend. That had been a sore spot.

She grabbed the handrail, ordering her reluctant joints to work as she stood. He stood too, offering his hand to steady her. She took it, telling herself it was okay to accept help from the enemy when it served her purpose. Besides, she’d given him (mild) drugs so she was kind of responsible for him now.

God, he was tall. Her neck bent back looking at him but not enough to give her a crick. An acceptable amount of tall.

No, wait, not acceptable.

A loud moan echoed down from the couple above. Judit slapped a hand over her masked mouth to suppress a laugh.

Is that—?

She nodded frantically as some sort of ecstatic yipping filled the air.

Yeah, okay, I could use a walk, he said, his fingers lingering to brush hers. His eyes crinkled with mirth.

A frisson shivered up her arm.

Let me get my stuff, she said. Stay here.

She hurried up the stairs, cursing the flaw in her stoned logic. Would he stay? Or would he follow her and cause a whole thing?

Judit cleared her table, tossing everything in the tote she brought with her. Sign, tablecloth, business cards, Tarot cards—they all fit easily.

Where are you going? Cazzi asked, appearing out of nowhere.

Fuck! Judit’s hand flew to her chest. You scared the shit out of me.

Sorry, but I thought you were coming home with us. Cazzi’s eyebrows furrowed.

So, yeah, about that, Judit said, thinking fast. I met someone and we’re hungry and I think they’re out of food here.

Cazzi glanced around. I just saw a waiter—

Judit shook her head. Nope. No food here. Look, um, they’re cute and—

Oh! Ohhh. Cazzi’s eyes widened. Okay, hey, look at you, getting out. They seem safe? Do you need an escape call?

Yes, they’re safe, Judit said. No, but I’ll text you where we go and if we change locations.

Good. Cazzi’s eyes smiled. She reached into her dress pocket. Do you need condoms?

Nooo. Judit’s face went hot at the thought. If Cazzi knew she’d just offered Judit condoms to sleep with her old crush... yikes. I’m not ready for that.

You know where to get some when you are. Cazzi patted Judit’s arm. Have fun!

Thanks! Judit hugged her and dashed away before she could get further interrogated. She slowed on the stairs, panting. Dammit, her lungs were not used to this. Pausing, she glanced down.

Patrick stood on the landing waiting for her. His gaze fastened on hers, holding her in place. You’re back.

You’re surprised? Damn, even in this light, she could make out the way his elaborately decorated blazer was tailored to fit his slender form. Under it, he wore a tight, short shirt and skinny jeans tucked into ankle boots.

He shrugged, glancing away. A slender loc fell in front of his face and she fought the urge to tuck it back behind his ear.

Danger! You’re high and he’s hot.

Dammit, now she had Danger Zone stuck in her head.

Don’t be, she said, forcing herself to move again. You’re buying me ice cream. I’m stuck to you until the cone is done.

He chuckled. Oh, I’m paying?

Yep. She brushed by him, leading the way.

This was harmless. It was community service. She could be nice to him for a night. Maybe it would help him move on? Probably not, but she deserved the sweets anyway.

Next time she saw him though, she’d verbally eviscerate him. Even if he did seem sorry.

The Kenny Loggins song in her head was not convinced.

After sneaking out the back, Patrick stood awkwardly in the brightly lit store, staring fixedly at the menu. The ice cream place turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall combination ice cream/boba shop around the corner from the hotel. She—probably she, he hadn’t asked but she was dressed very femme—stood next to him, bobbing her head to a song that had been a hit when he was in high school—thankfully not one of his. Wow, were the speakers in here bad though, everything sounded fuzzy and the low end was non-existent.

Focus.

How had he gotten from freaking out in a stairwell to buying a stranger ice cream? The CBD she’d given him blunted the edges of the question. Maybe he was having a spontaneous moment.

You know what you want? he asked.

Her brow furrowed. I’m torn between ice cream and boba.

Get both?

She looked at him. You sure?

He shrugged. I’m paying. It’s fine.

I was mostly joking about that.

He smiled under his mask. Consider it payment for the listening and the CBD.

She squared her shoulders and nodded. Deal. She stepped up to the counter and ordered three different flavors of ice cream with sprinkles and a taro milk tea. Huh. Maybe she’d had some of her own CBD gummies. She certainly seemed to have munchies.

He ordered a taro milk tea too with thirty percent sugar, boba, and no ice.

They sat at a table, waiting for their order. Should he ask her name? He took her in out of the corner of his eyes, trying not to stare awkwardly. She was pretty. Her eyes were accentuated by purple liner, her figure was softer than the LA standard, her dark hair was cut into blunt bangs and long enough to hit her bare shoulders. Her dress was a halter-necked affair with swirling purples and blue skimming her curves. There was a keyhole neckline cut into it. He refused to let himself look closely.

He knew it was okay to notice someone’s beauty when you were in love with another person but he still felt like an asshole.

Order up! yelled the person working the counter.

They were the only customers so Patrick and the woman stood, grabbing their order. When they sat again, Patrick realized his mistake.

He’d have to take off his mask to drink his tea.

The woman ran her fingers over her black cloth mask and looked at him.

What if she recognized him?

It’s darker outside? she offered. If we don’t want to actually see each other.

Is it ridiculous that I want to take you up on that?

She shook her head. Let’s go.

They ended up sitting on a bench in a nearby park, away from the lights. He held her drink as she took her mask off. It was kind of ridiculous, he could mostly see what she looked like. But he appreciated that she humored him.

She glanced at him and then away. She was even prettier without the mask, her face heart-shaped and lips soft-looking, painted a color he couldn’t parse in the dark.

He took a deep breath and took his off.

Well, we did that, she said, taking a sip of her drink. No surprise, no sudden recognition.

He sipped his drink, savoring the creamy taro and chewing on the boba. I haven’t had boba in a long time. I forgot how good it was.

She hummed in agreement.

They sat in silence for a while as they worked their way through their respective desserts.

So, I guess talking about work is off the table since we’re staying anonymous, she said, once her ice cream was done. Wanna lie creatively to each other?

He raised an eyebrow.

I mean, we’re probably never going to see each other again. Might as well make up some crazy-but-impressive-sounding life stories.

You sound like one of those overly quirky girls in rom-coms. Cazzi hated that trope.

The stranger gasped in faked shock. Are you calling me a manic pixie dream girl?

He shrugged a shoulder. If the sparkly shoe fits.

Hey, you don’t know, I could run a cupcake shop/be a dog trainer/professional hang glider. You seem like you could brood admirably. I’m sure you’d love for me to liven up your life whether you want it or not while having absolutely no agency of my own.

He wanted to frown but kept the expression off his face. There was an edge to her words but he couldn’t parse why. Is that the creative lie you’re going with? Or was that your dissertation on media tropes?

She paused. Neither, you’re welcome to be the manic pixie dream girl, if you want.

You mean we can’t both be manic pixie dream girls?

She shook her head seriously. "It’s like Highlander. How can she show how not like other girls she is if there are multiple MPDGs?"

His lips twitched, the image in his head was too weird, too funny.

What? she asked.

Fuck it. I just imagined Sean Connery out in the middle of Scotland dressed like Zoey Deschanel and screaming ‘There can only be one!’

She choked out a laugh, coughing. He patted her back until she recovered. When she could talk again, she asked, Does he pull it off?

Patrick considered this, turning the image over in his mind. The make-up doesn't work but I think he’s pulling off the dress.

Fair. He’s a little craggy for winged eyeliner.

Patrick snickered, ducking his head.

They stayed on that bench for hours, talking around everything important, saying sillier and sillier things until the occasional sharpness in her words disappeared and they were both limp from laughing. It was the most fun Patrick had had in months.

He almost asked her name when she yawned and ordered a ride home. He almost, not quite accidentally, looked at her screen but he looked away at the last second.

Maybe it was better this way, to have this one night away from their worries. The perfect illusion of what could’ve been more.

He walked her to her waiting car. She turned to him before climbing in. I feel like I should say something memorable here.

Anything coming to mind?

Her hand reached for his chest then stopped, closing in a fist. Through his thin shirt, he could almost feel the heat of her. He was suddenly aware of how close she stood. Be your own manic pixie dream girl, she said with deep seriousness and rapped a knuckle against his breastbone.

They paused and both broke down laughing.

Thank you for tonight, he said,