The Sophomore (College Years #2) - Monica Murphy Page 0,40

gaze thoughtful as he stares off into the distance, his taco forgotten. “But I have to admit, it was kind of—overwhelming. Having them recognize me and freak out. Talking to me as if they know me. They don’t. Not at all.”

I frown. “You didn’t like their attention?”

“Sometimes, I don’t know how I feel about it,” he admits. “I’ve played a lot of shows at Strummers, so I get why I have fans here. I’ve built up a following, I guess. It’s just really weird.”

“I thought this was what you wanted,” I tell him, settling my taco onto my plate as I study him intently. He seems a little shaken by the encounter, which is not like Jackson.

He embraces this kind of thing usually.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. Grabs his half-eaten taco and shoves the rest of it into his mouth.

“Maybe not?” I arch a brow.

“Not sure,” he says once he’s swallowed. “Honestly? I don’t know what I want. And do I really need to make a decision right now?”

“Is that why you haven’t signed a record deal?”

Jackson nods. “I’m not ready to give up control yet. Not ready to have it all rest on my shoulders. I just want to have fun while I still can, you know?”

“Being a rock star won’t be fun?” I tease.

“After a while it won’t be. It’ll become a job, and I don’t want to kill my spirit, my love for music.” His expression turns distant, a faint smile curling his lips. “I could totally write a song about this.”

“You seem able to write a song about pretty much anything,” I say softly.

His gaze meets mine, his eyes a deep, dark blue. “You have no idea.”

Thirteen

Jackson

Having those girls freak out over me kind of freaked me out. Their enthusiasm was overwhelming. They fluttered around me like hyped-up bees. Buzzing and jumping, talking in overly high-pitched voices in the middle of a restaurant, where I least expected it. I certainly didn’t think they’d recognize me, yet they totally did. Chatting me up like we’re old friends. They knew a lot of things about me, and it felt strange.

I know I have fans. I’ve performed enough to know that they’re out there. They come to my shows and scream my name. Say obscene things. Flash their tits at me while in the audience. Some of them even come backstage and proposition me after a performance, and we hook up.

There were a lot of hook ups over the summer. Quick, frenzied sex in a dirty bathroom. A dimly lit hallway. A cramped dressing room. On the tour bus. A lot of blow jobs. More than the actual sex. I was drunk. High. Whatever. Alcohol, weed, pills.

Coke was readily available while I was on tour, but I only did that a couple of times since it made me feel too out of control. And downright exhilarated, like I couldn’t jump off the roller coaster ride no matter how hard I tried. That’s a feeling I know I’d want again and again, which scared me. I laid off the shit after the second time I tried it.

The ultimate high though?

Being wanted. Adored. Screamed over. Your name on their lips as they chant it over and over again. And when you’re some low rent, wannabe rock star and they still lose their shit over you? It’s heady fucking stuff.

The younger fans, though? Not so much. They’re a little scary. Rabid in their adoration. A bunch of little detectives, searching for you on the internet and finding out all your private information. That shit worries me. I don’t know why. Losing my privacy is a precarious thing. You want people to find out who you are and listen to your music. I’m not just writing songs for myself. I want to share my songs with the world.

But sharing them with the world, and the world loving them, that all comes with a heavy price.

Having Ellie there while those girls lost their shit over me calmed me down. She’s a touchstone. My touchstone. Someone who’s been supportive of me from the start. Who’s always adored my songs, yet also calls me out on my shit when I act like a dick, which is most of the time. She’s real.

Just about as real as a person can get.

We finish our food mostly in silence. Me still thinking about what happened, her probably realizing hanging out with me comes with a lot of baggage. By the time we’re back in my car and I’m pulling out of