Oops! I Married a Rock Star Read online

  Fake people turn me off. Killian mocks me for doing shallow girls, but at least they don’t hide the fact that they only want me for my face, dick and fame. That’s preferable to pretending like they’re in love or looking for something really meaningful and deep.

  Because shit like that doesn’t exist. When I tried for it, I ended up with a clusterfuck named Ashley, who played mind games and eventually cheated on me.

  “Isn’t that seriously the most wonderful thing ever?” the platinum blonde gushes as she loops her toned arm tighter around mine. Her designer dress is garish, and her perfume envelops me in a miasma of moneyed poor taste.

  She latched on to me less than a minute after I walked through the reception hall door. It happens when you’re in a successful rock band. And have a pretty mug from a supermodel mom. A few other women tried to dislodge the blonde from my side, but they failed. So I’m still in her clutches.

  “Uh-huh.” I barely glance at the picture, which is a riot of color. The plate below it says that it’s named Latent Vainglory.

  Of course it is.

  The woman presses her bountiful tits against my arm, but I’m not really feeling it. I’m trying to imagine being in bed with somebody who fakes an understanding of the abstract art around us. If my libido had eyes, it would be rolling them hard right now. Besides, she’s so breathless, she probably needs a ventilator more than sex.

  A mild sense of regret weighs me down. I could be rolling around with that hot brunette I met backstage yesterday right now…

  Max definitely owes me one.

  “Just look at that portrait,” the blonde continues, pointing at another piece.

  That’s a portrait? I grab a bubbling flute of champagne and down it, praying alcohol improves her appeal. But I’ll probably need something stronger. Like a case of vodka, topped with LSD.

  “Genius, right?” she says.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her hold on me grows tighter. Should I tell her that I like non-abstract art by old, dead Europeans? They drew a lot of nude women. Even Liberty in Liberty Leading the People is topless as she leads the mobs to topple Charles X. And her tits are perfect in the painting, round, pert and just big enough to fit into a man’s hands. Plastic surgeons should study them before inserting silicone into hopeful women’s chests.

  “Look just how exquisite the woman’s features are,” the blonde says.

  What the fuck? The subject of the portrait has the most amorphous features ever. They’re so ordinary I find it hard to even pretend that they’re holding my attention. She could be naked and begging to have my babies and my gaze would still skim right past her.

  But the blonde is acting like there’s a fist-sized diamond glued to the center of the canvas. I shake my head. She’s totally faking it to look “cultured.”

  “The title is perfect, too. Rapturegaze: Self-Portrait. I feel rapturous just looking at the girl,” the blonde adds.

  It’s not the girl making you feel that way. It’s the coke you probably snorted before coming here.

  The subject in the portrait has no discernible expression. The only sense of joy or elation comes from the colors and the placement of everything around the female model.

  “Just the sort of thing everyone would want to hang in their home,” I say.

  “Oh yeah. I would absolutely have it in my room. I want to buy it, but apparently it isn’t on sale.” She sighs dramatically.

  “Heartbreaking.”

  “I know,” she says.

  A couple drifts nearer. The woman is sallow and wispy looking. The man is fleshy, balding and sporting a goatee. Neither one looks like they’ve seen direct sunlight in a month. “And so I said, ‘Reading Chomsky and Lacan? Hardly. More like you’ve been reading Chomsky in the can.’” They both titter.

  I unloop the blonde’s arm from mine. “That reminds me. I really need to use the bathroom.”

  “You know where it is?” Her eyes are crazy bright, like she’s a starved dog spotting a helpless T-bone.

  I’m not doing you in the bathroom, lady. You just don’t inspire that kind of lust. “I do, thanks.”

  And I make my escape.

  I go into the quiet hall outside the gallery and inhale deeply. So much better. Peaceful, and without that suffocating pretension. Think I’ll hang out here for a bit. The reception or party or whatever they call this boring, fancy-schmancy shindig should be winding down soon.

  Chapter Three

  Becca

  Faces move around me, as indistinguishable and interchangeable as plastic bags bobbing in the sea. The people attached are all wearing formal suits and dresses, making it even more difficult to tell them apart. Catherine Fairchild Davis, the woman running this show, likes her events fancy.

  My hands grow damp with nerves and anxiety, but I don’t dare wipe them on my skirt. The red Dior with a sexy side slit was ridiculously expensive and deserves better treatment.

  So I do the only thing I can: I paste on a smile and pretend like I have everything under control.

  Where is Jeff?

  My boyfriend said he was coming but hasn’t shown up yet. His flight should’ve landed hours ago. I should’ve asked him to make the trip with me, but some work deadline prevented that.

  Except I’m not sure if I really believe his excuse about the deadline. He’s been working late a lot, and I’ve seen him with a woman…or it could have been a lot of women. I can always tell it’s him, no matter what he wears or how he styles his hair. He has a unique laugh, a breathless burst of sound that gets interrupted by his breath hitching every few seconds.

  Tasha says it’s more like a bray than a laugh, but I sort of like that it’s unusual, especially because it makes it easier for me to spot him.

  The problem is that I can’t always trust what I see with my own eyes. The women could’ve been somebody from work he introduced me to at an office party. They could be merely wearing a professionally friendly expression rather than an “I want to lick you all over like candy” expression.

  Since I didn’t know for sure, I couldn’t confront him about them or demand that he explain what was going on. It would be awkward if I accused him of cheating when he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Tasha said to trust my instincts. Nice, supportive advice from my best friend, but it isn’t easy. My instincts don’t really work with people.

  I wish she could be here with me, but that didn’t work out. She’s launching her brand-new all-organic and vegan cosmetics this weekend, and can’t get away, no matter how much she wants to. Just bad timing.

  “This is truly an amazing show. And for such a beautiful talent.” Flattery flows into my ears like oil down a dipstick. A large, soft hand reaches over and wraps around my arm.

  I shudder. Isaac Grubman, easily identifiable by the red ascot tie he’s wearing. He’s a trust fund art collector, and has been sticking close by since the show started. Another reason I wish Jeff were here.

  Isaac leans over, his breath fanning my ear. Goosebumps rise at the lack of personal space, so I pull away. “Thank you.” I don’t want to create a scene here, but I’ll find a way to deal with him later.

  “Come now. Don’t be cold when a man is complimenting you.” He reaches over and runs a hand down my back. “That isn’t how a good girl like you should be.”

  “I said thank you.” Would it be bad if I accidentally puked on him? Everything about him—from his cologne to closeness—is making me nauseated.

  “Yes, but you should say it with more sincerity.”

  I take two steps back, putting some distance between us. “I couldn’t be more sincere.”

  “But—”

  “Hi, Bean!”

  Max! I turn toward the happy, booming voice of my older brother. I would’ve never realized it was him, though. He’s in a suit, and I can’t remember a time I’ve seen him this dressed up.

  I beam, thrilled to see him and also happy to have an excuse to tell Isaac to get lost. “That’s my brother. Would you like to say hello?”

  “You know, I just saw someone I’ve been dying to talk to,” Isaac says. “Later, perhaps.” He moves off.

  Guess he doesn’t have the guts to put his hands on me in front of my brother. But then, Max can be imposing—all that height and breadth. I also hear that he has the meanest scowl ever. And it probably doesn’t help that he doesn’t talk much.

  His band Axelrod just wrapped up their final concert in New York yesterday. I didn’t think he’d be able to come, even though I sent him a note about the reception.

  He gives me a tight hug. “So proud of you,” he says.

  “Thank you.” I tighten my arms around him, grateful for his support, since I know how busy he is. And four whole words. Nothing from him could show his love and support more clearly.

  Max is the strong, silent type. His preferred style of communication is grunting or snorting, depending on his mood. He only makes the effort to speak when something’s really important or when he’s with me. He knows I struggle with deciphering his grunts, and I’m terrible at reading facial expressions. Prosopagnosia, otherwise known as face blindness, is a bitch to live with at times. My brain can register eye color and distinguish various shapes, but when it comes to putting everything together to recognize who’s who, I…just can’t. It’s nearly impossible for me to link names to faces, and to discern the changes in people’s faces that signal their feelings. It’s better not to even try, rather than mess up and offend somebody.

  Max finally pulls back.

  “That looks great on you,” I say, eyeing the silver guitar pinned to his lapel. I bought it for him last Christmas. He can make a guitar sound so wonderful, it makes your soul weep. “Wonder who got that for you. Obviously someone with excellent taste.”

  He laughs. “Sorry I don’t wear it much, Bean. It’s a little…dressy.”

  “You deserve the dressiest guitar,” I say with a grin.

  “By the way, meet my bandmates. Cole”—he gestures to a tall man in a suit—“and Killian. This is my sister Bean.”

  Max has been in the band for years now, but this is the first time I’ve had a chance to meet the others. I look at them, making sure I’m focusing on their eyes. It makes people feel less uncomfortable, although I’m not too crazy about it because I can’t quite read anything, when I know I should be able to. “Nice to meet you. You can call me Becca. Max is the only one who calls me Bean.”

  “Becca it is,” Cole says. “Wouldn’t want to infringe on the whole brother privilege thing.”

  “Ditto.” Killian’s voice is familiar, of course. He’s the vocalist of the band.

  We shake hands. They’re both in black suits, so it’s going to be very hard to tell them apart. Then I note their ties and accessories and sigh inwardly with relief. Cole’s tie is half a shade lighter than Killian’s, and he has a black stud in one ear, while Killian’s wearing a wedding band with an unusual twisting design. That should help.

  I don’t usually tell people about my condition. It upsets Grandma. Plus, I’m not sure exactly how to bring it up without making the other person feel awkward or putting a weird stop to a conversation. Or worse, have the other person not believe I really have face blindness and try to test it or probe me about my condition. So irritating and embarrassing.

  “Where’s the other one?” The band has four members. “Devlin, right? The drummer?”

  Max shrugs. “He’s here, but… Best you don’t meet him.”

  “How come? Did you guys have a fight?” Tabloids often publish articles about how Axelrod is about to break up or how the members don’t get along or whatever. The band’s been together for so long that I usually dismiss them, but maybe there’s some truth…?

  “Nah, we don’t fight. It’s just he isn’t the kind of guy a brother would introduce to his baby sister.”

  “He’d behave with a sister,” Cole says.

  Killian nods. “He’s been completely hands off with Mir.”

  “Don’t. Care.”

  I shake my head. Max treats me like I’m made of glass. A glass figurine that’s been broken once and barely put back together with glue and tape. Maybe he treats me like that because of the almost-fatal car crash I was in as a kid. The head trauma is what gave me prosopagnosia.

  “Bean’s a good girl. Not some lamb nugget for Dev to gobble up.”

  “A lamb nugget? Is that what I am now?”

  “You know what I mean.” Max’s voice is hard with stubbornness. No matter what weird metaphor or example he comes up with, he sticks to it.

  Max glances at a few people hovering around us. “Looks like your fans want to talk to you. We won’t take up all your time.”

  I pat his hand. “See you before the party’s over?”

  He grunts, which in this case means, “Of course.” I smile and wave as they walk away, then start working the crowd, saying hello to the people who are here to support my art. Thankfully, Isaac stays away, so it’s easier to interact with them. But throughout, there’s a niggling thought in the back of my mind: where the hell is Jeff? Even if he didn’t get to meet my brother, I wanted him to share my big moment. He’s the most important person to me after Max and Tasha.

  There’s no way he got lost. I sent him the address, and it pops up on GPS fine. I checked.

  I finally finish chatting with an old gentleman whose name I can’t recall. He’s probably the thirtieth person I’ve met today. My head throbs with a tension headache. It’s so hard to remember who everyone is when they all look alike—suits and dresses, nicely styled hair, clean-cut and moneyed.

  “This is a simply marvelous turnout,” comes a familiar voice.

  Finally, somebody I know! I turn and face Catherine, making a quick note of her magenta silk mermaid dress. Her dark hair’s piled high and set with three sparkly butterfly-shaped pins to showcase diamond chandelier earrings. It’s so much easier to pick someone out if I know exactly how they’re dressed and styled, and Catherine is somebody I should definitely make an effort to recognize.

  “Champagne?” she says, plucking two flutes before I can respond.

  “Thank you.” I take the drink. “None of this could have happened without you.”

  It isn’t an empty platitude. Catherine’s an art curator and the one responsible for my first solo show. She buys for billionaire Barron Sterling’s collection, and people in the art circle know of her superb taste and knack for spotting undiscovered talent. But recently she’s been patronizing artists more directly, using the Sterling funds. Apparently, it’s what her boss wants.

  So being selected for the first solo show she’s sponsoring and bankrolling is a huge deal. For all I know, everything I’ve created might triple in value because of it.

  “It would’ve happened regardless,” she says warmly. “Talent is always recognized.”

  “Well… A lot of artistic geniuses have died poor and anonymous.”

  “They were just ahead of their time.”

  “Maybe so.” I shrug. “But they probably would’ve liked to have enough to pay for groceries and rent.”

  Catherine laughs. “You’re so practical.”

  “I just don’t like going hungry.” Especially since I’m on my own. Well, Max would come to my rescue if I asked, but I don’t want pity or a handout, even from my own brother.

  “I think it’s awesome your brother brought his band to show support. Not that rock bands really help much in the fine art scene, but still. Anything that brings attention is good. And it doesn’t hurt they’re so gorgeous.”

  “Aren’t you married?” I ask jokingly.

  “Of course. And my husband’s great. But I’m not dead. I can enjoy myself a little so long as it’s limited to just looking.”

  A man catches Catherine’s attention.

  She raises a finger to gesture to give her a minute. “I have to talk with someone, but if you want to leave a little early, you can. I know you’re exhausted, and it’s not a big deal. My people can wrap things up.”

  “I thought you couldn’t see my dark circles through the makeup,” I say. I had my makeup done professionally.

  “I can still tell. Most artists don’t sleep well the night before their first solo show. I know you must’ve been running on nerves all day from the way you picked at your lunch and dinner.” She grins. “Have fun meeting new people.” She starts toward the man waiting to talk to her.

  I nod at her and try to mingle. People come by to say hello and discuss my art. Several ask how they can buy some for their private collections.

  I answer them, making sure to paste on a polite smile. Grandma often told me that’s the only way I can look semi-normal, and not like “a rude sociopath.”

  When the last person finally runs out of things to say and goes away, I let out a soft sigh. Dealing with a crowd is always a hassle. Remembering their names and faces is impossible, but the pressure to do exactly that weighs on me. Polite girls are supposed to be able to do that sort of thing. Like my cousin Sylvie, although that’s only Grandma’s opinion. Sylvie’s about as nice as a barracuda, especially to me.

  And still no Jeff! What the heck is going on? Did he get into an accident after he landed? If so, shouldn’t he have texted me by now?

  I reach into my bag to pull out my phone, but stop as I see Max and his bandmates coming over. It’s impossible not to recognize the broad-shouldered trio. And of course there’s the silver guitar pin on Max’s jacket lapel, glittering like a lodestar, allowing me to find my brother.

  Max and Killian are sporting wet red stains on their shirts.

  “We gotta go,” Max says.

  “What happened?” I ask, staring at the stains.

  Max grunts.

  “Some idiots spilled wine,” Cole says.

  “Did it in sync, too, like that’s going to make it look less obvious they did it in purpose. Women. I’m married, so I don’t know what they were thinking,” Killian says, his tone taut with exasperation.