Chapter Text
Gwendolyn James was hiding.
It was ironic, really; years of her life spent mailing taped over CD's to anyone of musical importance, of hounding bars and pubs to let her play, she'd at long last gotten what she wanted, and she was hiding from it. Gwen was squatting on the floor of one of the porta loos littered around the back entrance of Love Fest Los Angeles event she was supposed to perform at later in the afternoon. She stared, dissociated, between her pale, clammy hands at the floor, as though catatonia would in some way prepare her to deal with the harpies of Los Angeles she would no doubt have to make nice with throughout the rest of the night.
Gwen reached inside her cherry red bomber jacket, retrieving a joint from an old dented mint tin. The habit of dulling her senses came dangerously naturally to her. Back in London, her hometown, it was ritualistic for her to smoke her stress away in times of dire need, but that was before she'd known the stress that came with having the album of the year.
Her album, "Rosy, Queen of Corona", had only come out two months ago and she was sick of it already. The songs she loved, that she'd obsessed over self-actualizing, begged people to listen to, had become the dagger in her side, and if she heard the Reciprocation - Radio Dance Remix blasting in one more bar, she would rip her ears off. Nevertheless, that old insecurity that had been so sharp within her, the worry that she'd never be truly a singer, that had softened with her newfound fame. She wasn't delusional; she was talented, and she had the record sales to prove it. Gwen adored her fans, and playing a set with the row of shining eyes before her, mouthing every word, was a feeling she knew would never age. Her right wrist was adorned with homemade bracelets, and her jacket was threadbare where it wasn't held together by patches and badges from these people, the ones who she might never know, but who spent their time caring about her voice and her life.
Irrespective of her genuine gratefulness, fame was a mind-fuck and a half. The flashing lights, the paparazzi - god, don't even start with the photographers. The day her album had come out, she'd made the foolish decision of leaving the studio with her manager, Ford, to get coffee; the images ended up on the front page of the LA Times under the headlines "RISING STAR SPOTTED WITH RUMOURED NEW BEAU". They didn't give a damn that Ford was openly gay, that she'd only been famous for weeks; everything was fair game in Hollywood. It was faintly ridiculous. She'd never realized that the "sources close to Gwen James" actually referred to physical proximity, as in hiding in the bushes outside her flat, or outside a restaurant, waiting with bated breath and a parasocial fixation to snare the latest gossip.
She was absolutely screwed.
Today was the biggest show she'd ever played in her life. Gwen was one of the headliners for the three day atrocity that was Love Fest Los Angeles. She'd played to big crowds before, had been playing gigs since her teens, even to people plainly disinterested in her music, but the crowd today was 110,000 people strong. When the album began to pick up, almost immediately, she had been under the impression that people would lose interest in her in a week, and move onto the next big thing, but no. To her conflicted delight and terror, her desire to stay firmly out of the spotlight only further cemented her within it, and now the pressure was on. Every live performance, every offhand remark to anyone who could be listening, was posted about on the deepest corners of the internet. The raving recognition and the caustic criticism came hand in hand, and nobody was more eager to run from it than Gwen.
She stretched her neck from side to side in the cubicle's sweltering heat and tried to calm the furious marching of her pulse. Thick weed filtered around her, the haze dulling her nauseated body. Soon, Ford, her manager and publicist, or Gina, her drummer, would hunt her down, and break her momentary privacy. For now, though, all she had to do was be in the stolen moment in that godforsaken porta loo, and try her very hardest to not hyperventilate herself to death.
Smoking before performing wasn't the greatest idea - she was anxious she'd become visibly intoxicated, but the anxiety of performing for a crowd of 110,000 people outweighed any logic. No matter how delighted she was about being signed to a prestigious label like Cult Records, or the unprecedented success of her album, that couldn't negate the pressure that comes with so many eyes on her. This felt make or break to her; the number swam in her head. 110,000, 110,000, 110,000.
Presently her phone buzzed harshly where it sat against her thigh, and the three knocks startled her out from deep within her head.
"Shit." Her hands spasmed with frantic dread. She dropped the half smoked joint in the toilet and flushed it, uselessly wafting her hands through the smoke. "Sorry, just a minute!"
"Gwen, is that you? Ford's been going bonkers! Come out, he wants you backstage, now. Are you smoking a zoot?!" Gina Kiyomi's familiar London cadence was the best that could have on the other side of the door, and Gwen swiftly unlocked the porta-potty, grinning apologetically.
"Hi. Yes, I was smoking, until you banged on the door like the feds, and I flushed it, so none for you, honey." Gwen followed Gina as she trekked up the dusty path towards the backstage door. Gina examined her sympathetically over her shoulder, her dark curls floating in the warm breeze, a fond smile tugging at the corners of her painted lips. Gwen felt a sudden swell of appreciation for her.
Gina and Gwen had met in secondary school in North West London, and had become fast friends as soon as either's mouths had spoken. They were both only 13, and had adopted each other as sisters enthusiastically. Additionally, Gina was a human metronome, and although Gwen's musical prowess was admittedly considerable, the last time she'd tried to play Gina's drums, she'd managed to snap a drumstick.
"It's probably a good thing, you know Ford hates when you smoke before performing."
"Yes, I know, I know, forgive me, your highness. He's not the one who's going onstage to sing to thousands of people, so he can stuff it."
"You're right, he's not. But I will be," Gina skipped ahead of Gwen, up the steps to the black door saying backstage, "so we can do it together, alright?" She finished speaking with a gentle rub up her arm and a comforting smile, and, grasping Gwen's hand in hers, pulled her through the stage door.
-
The screams from the audience were deafening, even through the earpiece, which as Gina had said earlier, would make it as though they were "just the two of us back in your room". It had been a blatant lie to ease her nerves, and Gwen gave her a fond faux-glare as she wound her way to center stage. Her performance of casualty was well practiced at this point, and through the bright lights and darkness of the evening, she could only really see into the VIP section to her left and the first several lines of the crowd.
The energy in the air was addictively electric, and her arms shook a little with adrenaline as she strung her pink bass around her body. Ford had made her take off her jacket before getting onstage, having the audacity to call it "that ratty thing", but she wasn't cold at all in a silken silver dress, and the Santa Anas winds seemed to soothe the tension in her limbs.
She cleared her throat away from the mic, and then spoke, softly, but with purpose.
"Good Evening, Los Angeles." It was difficult to meet the gaze of the cameras without blatantly displaying her nerves, but she played it off as nonchalance. The crowd was a safer bet though, and she met the eyes of several fans, waving with her right hand as her left fluttered over the frets of the silver bass, smiling at the super-fans in the front row. It still gave her pause that they even existed, and her cheeks dimpled in genuine pleasure.
She caught a glimpse of herself on the monitors, and breath faltered briefly in her chest.
Gwen stood, surrounded by the rest of the band, and her hair flowed across her shoulders like a blonde halo, her eyes wide and liquid grey, her lips like brushstrokes-strokes of blood wrapped around her sharp smile.
Could this truly be her life?
Gwen never liked to talk too much on stage for her introductions; she wanted her music to speak for itself. Later, she'd loosen up, and start riffing off the energy emanating from the crowd, but for now, she would sing.
"Tonight, we're going to be playing some songs for you. I hope you like them as much as I do. My name is Gwendolyn James. This one's called Pro Sound."
Gina counted the band in, and the speakers all around her exploded in a cacophony of sound.
A few months ago, Gwen had never understood how music could be this loud, this listened to, least of all the songs pulled from the deepest parts of her heart.
The contrast of complete desolation in the times when she'd just moved to LA and no record label deemed her interesting enough to sign, to the insanity of the recognition she was receiving now forced her to focus, and her hips begun to move in time to the music.
She took a deep breath, and began to sing.
-
Gwen James was strung out, to say the least of the damage.
When Cult Records had finally signed her, her first meeting with her manager and publicist Ford had been a lecture entailing that which were sensible behaviours and that which were prohibited behaviours. Drinking in public, or any comparable sort of impropriety, was staunchly in the prohibited section. Be that as it may, she was far too wasted to care what the obsolete rules and regulations her record label had deemed necessary to infringe upon her.
Why couldn't she have fun? Wasn't she supposed to be "rock 'n roll", that hedonistic creature, hungry for the fame, the drugs, and all those pretty little vices? Back in the old days, before humanity began to live on social media, all of the rockstars seemed to do whatever they wanted. She knew damn well that nobody gave Mr. Julian Casablancas this lecture when The Strokes started out. One of the main reasons, apart from her own desperation to be signed, for choosing Cult Records, was his god-like reputation, his hedonism, and his knowledge of music itself. Gwen had been under the genuine impression that, just because he was pushing 40 now, that hadn't compromised his ability to have fun.
She was, apparently, mistaken. Gwen had never even met the man, even after being signed to the label for a year. Too occupied with business, or the more established bands, the sort of indie boybands that have screaming teens lined up around the block. Maybe he didn't even like her music, he'd just forgotten he'd signed her, or worse, had only taken her on for her following, with respect for her music taking no place in his business endeavours. He had taken a while in responding to her laborious applications, and when he had it hadn't even been him, just some assistant he'd probably fobbed off with speaking to the charity cases.
Gwen huffed a sigh into her depleted negroni. She knew she was verging into the territory of dangerously drunk once her mind began taking this route. It was a fruitless pursuit, thinking about Julian goddamn Casablancas. Her album was out, to glowing reviews and streaming numbers. She'd become a celebrity overnight. Critics were saying she could single handedly resurrect rock, for god's sake; she didn't need his approval. All she needed from him was her name on his payroll.
She slouched further into her secluded booth, feeling increasingly absurd in the VIP section. Her drunkenness wasn't helping; the dark clublights made the scene gyrate across her blurred vision like a bad trip, a sea of faces flickering in and out of red illuminations. Since becoming famous, she had quickly understood that most famous people were assholes. Whilst this wasn't a total shock to her, this didn't make it any less diverting to see Kendall Jenner doing more than one surreptitious line of cocaine in the Grammy's bathroom, or to see Alex Turner vomit (genuinely) neon green after performing a set. That one had been truly perplexing to watch. Very Important People, my ass, thought Gwen bitterly.
"What's that, darling?" Alex Turner, clad in his classic ensemble of leather, Chelsea boots, and dark shades had managed to surreptitiously sidle up to her unnoticed in her drunken stupor. Gwen realized that in her alcoholic musings over asshole celebrities, she had been mumbling the word "assholes" under her breath.
She'd met him before, back in London several months ago, right as she was packing up her life into boxes and moving to LA. They'd ended up leaving a party together, a boring publicity bash, after they'd both had far too much to drink. They had bonded over a hatred of company executives and a love of Jägerbombs; any respectable person's basis for friendship. Alex possessed a surprisingly sweet and gentle character. Neither of them were desperate for a romance whilst touring, and they had ended up passing out in their respective piles of vomit before any lonely fumbling began to stray beneath the belt.
Gwen had cleaned them both up when morning came and they'd managed to scrounge enough remaining brain cells between them to cook a proper fry up. It helped, them both being English, and musicians, and they actually got along even better without the liquor. He'd left whilst she showered off her sins around lunchtime with a note. "Thanks for brekkie. Ring me if you're ever in need of a friend. God knows I did when I was in your position. XX, Alex.", along with his phone number in chicken scratch handwriting.
Back in the present moment, Gwen repeated her drunken musings for Alex to properly hear.
"Assholes."
Gwen felt like she was dissolving, her eyes glazing over at the writhing anorexics and the oppressive strobe lights of the dance floor, and her crystal tumbler started to slip from her grasp. Alex caught it and put it on the table, well out of her grabbing hands. He flopped down next to her, slinging an affectionate leather-clad arm around her hunched shoulders. He was drunk too, but even she could tell he was nowhere near her own level of obliteration. Her vision blurred, and she blinked heavily.
"Hope you're not talking about me there." Alex said cheekily, turning towards her and removing his aviator sunglasses.
"No, no. I think you're the only nice person here. Gina's gone and left me, and I'm all on my lonesome." Gwen turned towards him too and met his kind eyes, pouting her bottom lip impishly.
"We're in a common crisis then, Gwenny my girl." Gwen hummed her commiseration and nestled her face into the crook of Alex's shoulder. He laughed as her dishevelled hair tickled his neck and she felt as his throat shaking beneath her. She screwed her eyes shut, wishing she was in bed, or anywhere but this party.
"Apparently there are some big shots here in the industry." He pronounced the "big" theatrically, his brows waggling conspiratorially, "If you weren't so wasted I might even tell you to do some networking." They both chuckled; Alex knew she was the last person to try and talk shop at a party, least of all when in a state like she was. She inquired nevertheless.
"Oh yeah? Anyone important?"
"I just bumped into Rick Rubin at the bar, and he said that Julian Casablancas is knocking about somewhere."
Alex's thumb begun to draw circles over her shoulder, finding its way under the strap of her dress, but Gwen sat up as sharply as she could, dislodging his wandering hand.
"Julian Casablancas is here. As in, in this VIP area, right now? Or as in he was in the crowd, and now he's gone home because he hated my set."
Gwen tried to sharpen her senses by pure willpower alone. She was possibly a short distance away from a man who was technically her boss, the man she owed the facilitation of much of her album to, who seemed to have avoided her for a year, or worse, forgotten she existed. It shouldn't have mattered so much to her. And yet, the sheer knowledge of his proximity infuriated her to no end.
Alex cocked his head, his hair all mussed up, and examined her through bleary eyes.
"Calm your boots, darling. Why would he hate your songs and still sign you?"
Gwen gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
"Well, yes, he signed me. A bloody year ago. And I've never met the man, not ever, not even in a business setting. He seems to want absolutely nothing to do with me." She could feel the adrenaline picking up in her bloodstream, like a shark smelling blood.
"Rude." Alex mused, sounding blissed out. Gwen huffed in agreement, but she was busy looking for Julian.
Her gaze scanned the party. It was midnight, and whilst all of her band had already gone home, for many, the night was only just getting started. Groups of people moved like liquid in her vision, and nobody looked like him.
"Oh, look, he's over there."
Alex seemed intent on being frustratingly relaxed about this.
"What?! Where!" hissed Gwen, searching the masses in the low, undulating light. She stood to get a better view and regretted it, her enthusiasm causing all of the liquor to rush to her head, and she swayed in her high heels, lightheaded.
"Over there, by that table near the exit. I hope you're not going to do something stupid, though I'll have fun watching it. Actually, I think my molly's kicking in now." Through the heady fog of gin, and tequila, and a little bit of red wine, there was a little part of her that said this was probably a bad idea. She began walking with determined purpose towards the tall silhouette leaning against the wall next to the stairs anyway.
She turned her head and called to where Alex was reclining, watching her with conflicted amusement.
"I'd say introductions are in order."
-
The walk towards ruining her career was longer than she expected, but it gave her more time to inspect him. Him, the granter of her every wish. Him, the note of truth in every one of her insecurities.
Julian Casablancas was frustratingly tall, even in her stilettos and his shoulders where they leaned against the temporary wall were wide. He was in monochromatic black drainpipe jeans and a Black Sabbath tee, as if he'd wanted to avoid recognition, but it was too late: she'd already seen him.
Julian turned instinctively towards the sound of her heels striking the earth and their eyes met. His eyes were a magnetic dark brown, and took her appearance in, expression flaring with a surprised vexation that verged on a visible cringe. He seemed to recognize her immediately, glancing around the room in wary trepidation. Gwen saw his weakness and struck, a saccharine smile forcing her face to turn sweet, steely eyes flashing.
"Julian, hey! What are the odds of running into you here?"
Gwen threw her head back, breathing an airy laugh as though they were old friends.
He turned around to assess her fully, and as she smiled up at him, his eyes hardened. Her gaze panned up and down his body and caught that he was holding a pack of cigarettes in one tense fist.
"I'd love a cigarette, thank you for offering." Gwen held his eye contact, this time hopping up onto the half-empty drinks table, swinging her feet casually. His eyes were almost black, and she didn't look away, cocking her head a little as if to ask, What's your issue, man?. His regard was intense, and he seemed annoyed with her specifically, and she was determined to find out what his issue was. Julian broke away from the eye contact first, and stared resolutely at his pack, picking out a cigarette and placing it on the table between them.
She took it and placed it between her lips. She lit her cigarette with the lighter he placed on the table and kept examining him, sucking in smoke. Drunk as she was, it was a pleasurable sensation to meet him, to introduce herself and understand him in turn, this man of fables, and she peered at him, a curl to her mouth.
"So, we're friends now, huh?" Julian spoke for the first time, staring between the spot on the table where he'd placed his cigarettes and a spot adjacent to her eyes, intently avoiding her gaze. His voice was low and gravelly, and seemed to come from deep inside his body. She felt it in her bones.
"I wouldn't be so presumptuous," said Gwen through a knowing smile and a cloud of tobacco, "that would require you actually wanting to talk to me."
His head snapped up, and he looked directly at her again. His eyes were restrained and appraising, and a muscle in his jaw flickered in and out of visibility.
"Do you make a habit of approaching people like this, Gwendolyn?"
"Just you. I'm usually much more polite. Julian." She let his name slip slowly from her lips, teasing his overly formal tone. She stared at his face, intrigued at seeing a face for the first time in real life she'd seen many times before, and, she realized, extremely drunk. He was certainly attractive, in the sort of way that could be appealing to women who couldn't sense his obviously high strung aura. He lit himself a cigarette and bracketed his right hand on the table with his right hand, as though his arms alone could end the conversation. His fingers were long, and there was one doubtlessly sterling silver ring on each of his hands. She could see the calluses on his fingertips from loving metal strings, the same ones on her left hand holding her cigarette. Brushing aside that inconvenient fact, she felt herself fall into inquiring to him.
"I'm surprised you know who I am."
Julian turned to her in genuine confusion, his cigarette hanging bright by his hip. She stared at them and shuffled a little in her seat on the table, shifting her hips back towards the wall. His eyes tracked the movement, then he looked away. For some reason it was this comment that forced him to engage.
"Why would that surprise you? Do you think I don't keep track of the artists I sign?" He looked mildly insulted that she could possibly believe this, "Didn't you just perform two metres away? Your face is everywhere."
She blinked for a moment, taken aback. "What would you have me think? When someone finds a way to avoid me for a year of employment, a girl tends to draw a few conclusions. And hey, don't you dare remind me about my face and the media, I get enough of that bullshit already from Ford."
She was aware of a tingling feeling spreading throughout her limbs, and it wasn't clear to her intoxicated mind whether she was uncomfortable or like she could do something rather dangerous. Julian barked out a laugh, smiling slightly for the first time. It appeared to cause him physical pain to do so.
"You're a scrappy little thing, aren't you?"
Gwen glared at him. "Excuse you! Little? Thing? I'm getting the sense I wasn't missing much. You seem set on avoiding the question."
Julian looked at her for a second, taking in her face, her incredulous long lashed eyes, her steadily reddening cheeks, and looked back out at the party and took a long drag.
"You're so easily riled up. You wonder why I haven't talked to you yet? This is why."
"Oh, I'm easily riled up? How could you have the first idea what I'm like if you've never met me before, Julian. It'd be nice to meet the man who gave me my record deal, but evidently you've been occupied!" Gwen hissed this at him, ignoring the fact that their conversation had already descended into arguing territory, that he was her boss, that he had her life, her music, in his hands.
"Who's presumptuous now? I have my own job. You don't get to barge in here and expect things from me. Don't expect me to coddle you like that." All of his reticent humor was gone, and his knuckles whitened before releasing the edge of the table. Julian glanced out to the throng of partygoers, and the veins in his neck stood outlined in shadow as he dragged on his cigarette, his other hand flexing restlessly. Gwen's incredulity was fueled by his thoughtlessness, how he seemed to have already dismissed her.
"Oh my god, it was funny, get over yourself. And you really think talking to me is coddling? I'd say it's decent practice to at least acknowledge someone you've signed, even if their album hadn't been at number one since it came out."
Gwen hadn't meant her tone to be superior, but Julian had made her feel so defensive. He clearly didn't like it, and his face finally whipped towards her, venomous, his eyes flashing.
Shit.
"Oh, I get it now. That's what you want? You want recognition? You'll get recognition. And you'll get sick of it quicker than you could think possible. So, excuse me if I don't coo over the next rising star, because guess what, they'll replace you in a heartbeat. Maybe you're just not that memorable."
Julian's eyes bored into hers, wide and angry, and he spoke again, flashing sharp white canines behind a sharp mouth
"Don't stress about where you are in the fucking charts, okay? Those scumbags will forget about you in the blink of an eye."
Gwen blinked. Her entire body felt coiled up and her muscles burned. She studied him, and his eyes widened a little as he took in her expression. How fucking dare he.
"Gwen, I didn't mean it to-" But Gwen had already reached to her left, and through the cool red lens of her fury, she found a nearly full glass of red wine, and she threw it in his face.
The liquid drenched his face and hair in crimson relief, and a passerby gasped through the haze. She heard pounding footsteps coming towards their little corner. Alex was looking between the both of them, clearly alarmed.
Julian dropped his cigarette and brought his hand up to his face, staring at her with the most peculiar expression on his face, his eyes wide in surprise.
Gwen faltered, exhausted and numb with sudden shock, as he wiped the wine from his eyes. It ran in bloody rivulets down his neck, and she glared at him, leaning forward slightly on her hands, taking in his drenched clothes and hair with a sick sense of satisfaction. Both their cigarettes were still smoking, and the scene was absurdly surreal.
"What did happened, Gwen? Jesus fucking Christ. Julian, God, she's wasted." Alex ran towards Gwen and held her firmly by her waist, lifting her down from her perch on the table. Her brain sputtered, incapable of rendering thought at that moment. She trembled against Alex's familiar grasp, cycling through sensation at great speed. As she clung to him, Julian's apologies died on his lips and he turned his face to meet Alex's, disapproval furrowing between his brows. Gwen turned her gaze away from where Julian stood, star struck, still covered in wine. She heard him spit viciously into the grass, and saw from the corner of her eyes the way he rubbed his face clean, dumbstruck. Alex wrapped her in his arms and moved her away from Julian protectively.
"What happened, love, I left you alone for five minutes!" Gwen swayed on her feet mutely. She was too overwhelmed to give a damn about Julian anymore, with his idiotic hands, his long stupid hair, his eyes like magnets. He probably got off on shit like this, making girls feel like nothing, telling her she was replaceable. And it hurt to hear it, but he was probably telling the truth. She tried to bury her face in Alex's chest, sweet, Alex, who would never talk to her like that.
"Alex, my Alex." she mumbled, and turned to glare at Julian, her hair messed around her head like alfalfa sprouts.
Julian had that same look in his eyes that he did when she first talked to him. She could see him closing off, restraining himself. She hated it. She'd just wanted to talk to him, for him to tell her why he couldn't just treat her with some semblance of regard. He looked at her with something akin to contrition, but she could see his hate for her as he looked over her body, Alex's hands around her waist, steadying her. She was close to passing out, liquor sick and exhausted from the argument. Julian looked her over once more, and lifted his fist to his lips as though he might begin to speak, but instead he turned around, and with one last glower at the two of them, he stalked out of her night.
Good.