Page 188 of Broken Lines
The guy with the clipboard fumes as he marches up to us.
“Get him out of here! Call the police if you—”
“Mike, you sure he’s not on the list?”
The guy with the clipboard—Mike—scowls.
“What? Of course, he’s not. Why the hell would he—”
“Because he’s Jackson Havoc.”
There were a hundred cameras filming me from the concert line a second ago. Now, it’s more like a thousand.
Mike’s eyes grow wide as his face pales.
“Oh myGod, Mr. Havoc! I amsounbelievably—”
“Can I go inside now?”
“Of course!” He sputters. “Of course! Please!”
I mutter a thanks, turning to give a nod to the crowd outside, which sends them into a frenzy. Then, I duck through the door.
Sometimes, I really do hate fame. Other times, it comes in handy. Like when you’renotactually on the guest list for the House of Rock production wrap event slash Kurt Harrison album release concert.
I’m obviously not here for the new stinking turd of an album Kurt’s decided to shit out onto the chest of the music world. Twenty years later, he’s still walking around with the same frosted tips, the same skinny jeans and white belt, and the same litany of terrible, trendy, meaningless tattoos.
He was trash twenty years ago. He’s a fucking caricature now.
I’m alsoclearlynot here for the House of Rock production wrap party that’s being thrown at the Beacon Theatre’s events hall right before Kurt’s show. In fact, I’m willing to bet if Judy spots me here, shit is going to hit the fan in spectacular fashion.
But fuck it. I’m not here for Judy, or Kurt.
I’m here because…
Well, true to form, I’m actually figuring that part out as I go. Am I here to make a scene? To see if June is right that something is wrong with Melody? Or maybe I’m just finally ready to seek some kind of closure from this whole fucking situation.
All I know is, I’m not leaving here until Melody looks me in the fucking eye and tells me to. And even then, it’s a coin toss if I actually will.
I’m not dressed for the event, either. But that’s another perk of being a famous rock star. You can go into black-tie events in jeans and a grimy t-shirt, and be praised as some sort of fashion icon instead of schlub thumbing his nose at a dress code.
The production wrap party isn’t black-tie, though. And I smirk, rolling my eyes as I look out on what may as well be a John Varvatos commercial. It’s like the entire guest list decided to raid Johnny Depp’s closet and show up in a sea of all-black suits, leather, and men wearing way too many accessories.
I stick to the perimeter, trying to put off the inevitable recognition for as long as I can as I scan the place for Melody. My eyes narrow lethally as I spot—well,hear, first—Judy off on the far side of the events space. She’s fawning over a couple of older, square looking guys in suits who must be House of Rock producers.
I ignore her, letting my gaze rake over the crowd of phonies and posers.
Until suddenly, I freeze.
Suddenly, my heart begins to pound like a bass drum in my chest. My jaw grinds, my hands clenching tightly. And I’m not actually sure if it’s in fists of anger, or with my body’s Pavlovian need to grab her.
But either way, suddenly, as the crowds part in front of me…
There she is.
Melody.
I was prepared for anger. I was prepared to force her to look me in the eye and either admit she stabbed me in the back or else to tell me the fucking truth.