Page 8 of The Librarian and the Rock Star

“Did you get to tell your chocolate story?”

“No, but I did remember some other ones, and kept bringing the conversation back to the single.”

I grinned. “Perfect.” Was it weird to be proud of a stranger?

“Jack! It’s time,” a woman’s voice hollered from the party.

“Coming,” he yelled back. He looked at me with an uneasy nervousness in his eyes. “I have another interview right now. I always try to get the other guys to do it, but because I’m the mouthpiece, they always want to speak to me.” I glanced down at his hands, and his fingers were twitching and shaking quite badly.

I instantly changed from butterflies in the stomach to work mode. “What’s the publication?”

“It’s a podcast. Ricky’s joint or something like that.”

Sherrie piped in. “Ricky J.’s House of Rock. He’s a really nice guy. Just compliment his show and try to drop as many classic and glam rock references as you can.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I should know more about it, but I avoid searching for rock stuff online because I don’t want to see too much about our band, you know?”

I nodded. “Remember, smile hard whatever you’re doing audio. Without the visual clues, it’s difficult for people to read your emotions or tone. But they can actually hear it in your voice if you smile while you’re speaking.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely – there have been studies on this.”

Jack blinked a few times as if he were thinking very hard. He suddenly looked up with a brilliant smile. “Come with me,” he said. He grabbed us both by the arms and propelled us toward the door of the party.

We only stepped inside the doorway, and I was amused to have my curiosity sated about what a backstage party actually looked like. The band and about a dozen other people were sitting around drinking Greenlight Vodka fruit coolers. A few of them were eating sandwiches or snacks from a large buffet table in the corner. It looked like any other party, with people standing, sitting, laughing. There were no drugs or naked groupies or TVs being thrown out of windows anywhere.

“Hey, Marky,” Jack waved over his guitarist. “This is Sherrie. She actually has our British EP, can you believe it?”

“No way,” he exclaimed, grinning like a little kid. “You want a fruity vodka drink? I can tell you some crazy stories about when we recorded that thing.”

“Sure,” she said, shaking his hand and following him over to the giant cooler.

Jack took my hand and lead me down the hallway to another door. “The podcast is being done in here. I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you please just sit with me?” His dark eyes were absolutely pleading. “There’s something about you that makes me calm.” The pressure of his hand against mine was having an odd effect on my breathing, and I realized I might have to use my own stress relief techniques any second.

“Sure,” I said. There was no way I could have said no to that desperate expression, even if it hadn’t been worn on the face of a man so dazzling that it was actually awkward to think properly around him.

Jack took a deep breath, then opened the door. “Ricky!” he exclaimed with a sudden giant smile that didn’t seem to quite sit properly. He shook the hand of a big shaggy man in a vintage AC/DC T-shirt. “Nice shirt – I had that one too until Marky wrecked it. Do you mind if Keira sits in? She’s really interested in podcast recording.” His eyes darted to mine, but I just smiled.

“Lovely to meet you, Ricky,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’ve heard great things about your show.”

“Sure, sure,” he said graciously, “Come on in. Turn your phones off and your inner rock stars on, this is going to be fun.”

Sitting in front of a table with a giant microphone and some computer gear, I tried to sit far away on the end of the couch, but Jack pulled me close beside him. I tried to remember not to clear my throat or sneeze or even breathe too loudly.

I saw that Jack’s fingers were beginning to tremble again as Ricky fussed with the equipment. I reached my hand over his lungs and mimicked them expanding and flattening. He nodded, and nodded again when I grinned at him so hard at my face almost hurt. “Gotcha,” he whispered with a tiny chuckle.

After a few clicks, I saw the red light on the laptop’s recording software turn on. “Hey there gals and geezers, this here is Rockin’ Ricky coming to you backstage from The Junk Club where we just heard a special secret concert from our buddies in Vegas Mud Disco. I’m here with Jack Vegas, the voice of the band, and some say, one of the freshest voices of our musical generation.”

I looked over to see Jack roll his eyes. “Well I don’t know about that,” he said while grinning hard, “But thanks a lot for having me on your show, Ricky.”

“How was it playing a smaller club?”

I saw Jack’s fingers twitching harder, and reached over to hold his hand. He seemed to settle down instantly. “Ricky, I’ll be honest with you – giant stadium shows are amazing for the lights, and the sound, and the fancy video screens, but you can’t see people’s faces like you can in rock clubs, you know?”

“Oh man, I know indeed. I’ve been to thousands of shows in my day, and if you can’t smell the sweat, you’re not really there.”

“Exactly,” Jack agreed. “And with the stadium seating, the audience can’t really move to the music. A club crowd is more organic. They move, they sway, they lean to the front if they like a song. The band gets a lot more input that way, and it helps us perform.”

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