My Rockstar's Secret Baby

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Old enough to know better, and you need to get dressed, stat.”

“I’m serious,” I pressed, hopping into my jeans.

“I’m 23,” she said, with a slight sigh. “Shocked?”

“A bit,” I answered honestly, raising my eyebrows.

She honestly only looked a year or two older than her sister, who was much younger, but in her work clothes and professional daytime demeanor, I could kind of see it.

“I hope it doesn’t bother you that I’m quite a bit older,” I added. “Ten years, to be exact.”

She snorted and said, “No, it doesn’t bother me at all.”

“You’re beautiful, no matter how old you are.”

I took her in my arms and lifted her until we were eye to eye, and gave her a deep, passionate kiss to show her I wasn’t just blowing smoke up her ass.

“Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly when we parted.

“I mean it.”

“I know. Now put me down and finish getting dressed, okay?”

“Okay.”

I did as she asked, and soon enough we were out in the hall as she locked up. She seemed to be glancing around to see if anyone was coming. It wasn’t clear which had the potential for most embarrassment, having a one-night stand or sleeping with a metal head.

Even though I wasn’t too obvious about it, keeping clean-shaven and my hair short, most people still knew. Except for Stephanie, of course. She’d seen me in a suit, playing an acoustic set. Still, she probably guessed, since every other band at the wedding also on Seth’s label.

We stayed together, cuddling on the elevator, neither of us really seeming to want to really pull ourselves away from each other— at least until the bell dinged, and then Stephanie was off.

I kept pace, which wasn’t hard with my long-legged stride, and we made it to the street about the same time. With another glance around, just to be sure, Stephanie got up onto her tiptoes and kissed me.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, before disappearing into the bustling crowd. “Sorry I have to rush off to work!”

I didn’t have too long to ponder whether her goodbye had been forever or just for then. There were also places I had to be, like The Sanctuary recording studio, to start recording our first official Suspicious Activity Records release. One for which we were contracted, with a possibility for renewal at the end of the initial period.

Stig usually handled the legal stuff. He was the smartest of all of us, which was probably his way of compensating for being a bass player. Still, we all got a look at the contract, and agreed that Seth likely wasn’t trying to rip us off.

The only downside was that it would be at least four years before we could go home. I’d always thought it was a cliché, too long for the fjords, but there I was.

I was going to have to walk or maybe take a bus or an Uber. We had taken Stephanie’s car to get to her apartment, and she was long gone by now. I didn’t have a motor stateside, my truck still parked outside my house in Bergen.

It had been Stig’s bright idea to take the train into Norway and fly to the States. Never mind that there away no way in hell my drums were going to fit.

The clever bastard had thought of that too, putting together a private fund over the last few local gigs to get me a new kit when we got to the States. It turned out to be a used kit with new heads, but same difference.

One of the first things we did when we got the advance from Seth was to go hit the music store and get all new equipment. It didn’t even cut into the main amount, new equipment being one of the allowances he’d made for us.

Varg and Stig got the guitars and amps they’d always wanted but could never afford. I got as close as I could to the set I had had at home. It was what I grew up with and was most used to.

Most non-drummers really didn’t appreciate the importance of touch. Most players could get used to most sets, but it usually took some time. I sold the first American kit, figuring I only needed one per country.

The morning traffic picked up as I walked, hoping to get off the street before the real mayhem could start. Seattle had roughly twice the population of Bergen, and I was still getting used to the hustle and crowds.

My phone pinged with a notice. Taking a nearby bench, I paused to see what the telecom overlords had in store for me. The message was from Seth.

Seth: Hey, man, where did you get off to last night?

Me: Someone’s apartment.

Seth: You have wheels?

Me; No, got a ride here.

Seth: Stranded, huh?

Me: A bit, yeah.