Indigo Rain

by Elise Noble

  Outside, Peyton was still babbling on about music, the Louvre, and Paris being the most romantic city on earth as Travis edged closer to the car. Poor guy.

  “Uh, I have to go now.”

  “Back to your hotel?”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Aw, never mind. I’ll see you next week, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s my final session.”

  “You’re so lucky. I still have ten months left.”

  “Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Dex muttered. “Travis was barely over the limit. Peyton drank so much she passed out behind the wheel and crashed into a parked car, and it was the second time she’d done that.”

  Wow.

  Travis slid in beside me and slammed the door harder than was necessary.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure you want to come back with us?” I asked. “You’re missing the party.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “But I thought…” Free, easy, posh women. Surely that was any rock star’s wet dream? “Are you feeling ill?”

  “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

  “What about Rush and JD? Are they coming?”

  “No, they’re having fun. Some scary bitch just ripped JD’s pants off. Those women are like Stepford wives gone rogue.”

  I was kind of squashed in the middle, but I didn’t mind. Not when Travis had blown off fifty horny women to come back to the hotel with us. That gave me hope. No, not that kind of hope. Hope that he wouldn’t die of exhaustion before he hit thirty. What did you think I meant?

  Inside the hotel, Dex leaned on Travis as they walked along the hallway, while I went to fetch ice. I’d scouted out the machine earlier, and it was close by. Teamwork. I was starting to feel as if I was a part of something, and I liked it a little more than I should. Because as Travis had reminded me at Glastonbury, I’d be leaving in a few weeks.

  With Dex as comfortable as he could get, which was to say, tanked up on painkillers with his knees frozen solid, Travis and I exited into the hallway.

  “Look on the bright side,” I said. “At least you can get some sleep without Rush snoring.”

  I’d never heard him snore on the bus, but Travis swore he did.

  “I’m still buzzed. Reckon I’ll be awake for hours.”

  “Why don’t you watch a movie or something?”

  “Maybe. I spend half my life watching TV on the bus.”

  “You could order some food?”

  “I thought I might go out for a walk instead. See if there’s a café open. I hardly ever get the chance to do that.”

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “No, but I’ll figure it out. Wanna come?”

  Did I? I’d felt knackered earlier, but fresh energy buzzed through my veins at the thought of exploring. I’d been to Paris on many occasions as a child, but not so much in recent years. Last time I came, it was to rescue Zander after one of his drunken escapades left him stranded. Perhaps his own experiences were why he’d been so lenient with me on the phone on Saturday.

  “Just let me grab a jacket.”

  Travis pulled a knit cap low over his eyes, and we started off on the banks of the Seine, ambling along side-by-side as the lights of the city twinkled around us. In a few hours, he’d be back in the chaos of the music industry, but right now when I snuck glances across at him, he was relaxed, a secret smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “That this is how prisoners feel when they’re released from jail.” He sucked in a lungful of air. “Freedom. I smell freedom.”

  All I smelled was rather pungent cheese from a nearby café, but Travis’s version sounded more romantic. No, not romantic. More, uh, expressive. There was a reason he wrote the band’s songs while I could barely string together the sentences for an article I didn’t want to write. When Tessa first came up with the idea, I thought it might be fun to be a showbiz journalist, an intrepid reporter who ferreted out the secrets of the rich and famous and splashed them around for the world to see. But now I understood that those secrets were theirs to tell and nobody else’s. How would I like it if somebody followed us on this quiet walk, taking pictures and yelling questions? I wouldn’t. I’d hate it.

  “What are you thinking?” Travis asked.

  “That it’s nice to get some peace and quiet. That Paris is pretty at night. That I want to quit my degree course because I’m a different person now than when I started it and wasting two years is better than wasting three. If you could turn back the clock, would you still be a musician?”

  “I’ll always be a musician. It’s in my blood. Would I go in pursuit of money and fame? Never. I’d get a day job to earn cash, then sing in my spare time.”

  “What would you do instead?”

  “Before the band took off, I was an artist. Tattoos, mainly. I should have carried on with that.”

  I’d seen pictures of his tattoos. At the moment, he had a sleeve on his right arm plus the four horsemen of the apocalypse cantering across his back. Beautiful in a macabre sort of way. Follow him through the years, and you’d see the designs evolving as he did, from the music notes he’d started off with on his left biceps to the darker themes he rocked today.

  “Did you design all of yours?”

  “Yeah. And most of the other guys’. Art and music were the only lessons I went to in high school. And English, but that was because the teacher was hot. Miss Kirby. Thirty-five years old with tits the size of watermelons.” He smiled to himself and shook his head. “She should’ve been called Mrs. Robinson.”

  No way. “Tell me you didn’t…”

  “When I was seventeen.”

  When he was seventeen…

  “You lost your virginity to your teacher?” I squeaked.

  “She taught me a lot. Nothing about verbs and metaphors and all that shit, but plenty about what women like in bed.” Travis chuckled. “We almost got caught by the principal once. I was under her desk and—”

  “Stop! I don’t want to know. Your teacher? Wow. The most rebellious I got in school was hacking the smartboard.”

  “What did you put on there?”

  My cheeks heated. “A dick pic. Not a real one—I drew it on a dare.”

  A dare from Tessa. Who else? I’d scrawled it out, short and hairy just like my stepfather, and I’d been so angry at the memory, I broke the pen. Call it my own kind of therapy.

  “An artist and a rebel. I like it. So, what will you do if you’re not gonna be a journalist?”

  “Truthfully? I have no idea.” I groaned out loud when I realised I’d just shot myself in the foot. With a cannon. “Ah, shit.”

  “What?”

  “If I quit my degree, I don’t need to be here with you anymore. With the band, I mean.”

  “Are you sure you want to quit? That’s kind of a hasty decision. Maybe you should think about it for a few weeks?”

  “Maybe I should.”

  The outcome would still be the same, but I’d have fun in the meantime. Yes, there were ugly parts to this job, but I’d grown to like being around Rush and JD and Dex and Travis. Okay, mostly around Travis. That little revelation hit me like an arrow, an arrow that pierced my brain, obliterated my common sense, carried on through my heart, and came to rest in a pool of fire between my legs.

  Oh, freaking hell.

  If there was a list of men in this world who were completely and utterly unsuitable for me, Travis Thorne would be right at the top. Like he said, his job was totally incompatible with a relationship. He had a wealth of experience with the opposite sex, whereas mine consisted of being abused by my stepfather and running out on my one and only ex-boyfriend when he went for third base. Literally running out. I hadn’t even stopped to do up my shoes. Then there was the small matter of Travis being a superstar with women throwing themselves at his feet, plus the fact that my brother would kill him if he touched me or even looked at me f
unny.

  As if perfectly in tune with my feelings, the universe voiced its agreement and rain began to fall. The occasional fat drop quickly became a deluge, and guess who hadn’t worn a waterproof jacket?

  Travis grabbed my hand and we started to run, but instead of heading for the hotel, he tugged me sideways into a dimly lit little café, empty save for an old man staring out the window as he sipped a cup of coffee.

  I slammed into Travis’s chest, and my breath caught as he tilted my chin up so our eyes met. Was he…? Was he…?

  “Hungry, blue-eyes?”

  No, he wasn’t. With all the supercharged hormones rushing around my body, I’d thought that maybe he’d been about to kiss me, but it was just my stupid imagination running wild. Wild like the herd of mustangs stampeding through my chest.

  “I guess I’m a little peckish.”

  Rain splashed on the pavement outside as Travis led me to a corner table by the window. People scurried past, sheltering under umbrellas as the storm unleashed her sudden fury. Mental note: next time, check the weather forecast. If there was a next time. For Travis, freedom was a hard-won prize.

  “Que voulez-vous?” an older man wearing an apron and a scowl asked.

  “Un plateau de charcuterie pour deux, s’il vous plaît. Et une bouteille de vin rouge. Tout ce qui est bon.”

  “What did you order?” Travis asked when the old guy had stomped off.

  “A charcuterie platter to share. Bread, cheese, and meat. And red wine. Unless… Are you still avoiding alcohol? After the Reagan thing, I mean.”

  “I’ll drink wine with you, blue. You’re not gonna molest me.” He lowered his head and muttered something.

  “I didn’t catch that?”

  He flashed me a shy smile, and my stomach did a backflip.

  “I said I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

  Oh. Oh! Wait. Was he serious, or was he joking? He had to be joking, right? I laughed to show I realised that.

  “You’ve been spending too much time with Rush. He’s a bad influence.”

  The waiter dumped a bottle down between us. “Vin rouge.”

  “Friendly guy,” Travis said.

  “He probably has a whole cabinet filled with his employee-of-the-month awards.”

  “I bring you to all the best places.” Travis poured a slug of wine into his glass, swirled it, tasted it, then filled both of our glasses halfway. “Cheers.”

  I clinked my glass against his. “What are we drinking to?”

  “To moments of light in dark days.”

  “But it’s after midnight,” I joked.

  “Maybe I do know what a metaphor is after all.”

  So did I. When I wasn’t busy projecting hastily scrawled dicks onto the classroom wall, I’d actually listened in school. And now my belly turned into a turbulent sea.

  “Cheers. To moments of light in dark days.” I spotted the waiter approaching again, and the waves turned into an embarrassing gurgle. That’s what happened when a girl skipped lunch and dinner. “And cheese. Cheese is good too.”

  This was a moment I’d no doubt look back on and tell my grandchildren about. Well, not my grandchildren, but probably Zander’s grandchildren. Or my roomie in the old-folks home. The night I nibbled on bread and cheese with a world-famous rock star while our knees bumped together under the table. The night he wrapped his arm around my waist and tucked me close against his side on the walk back to the hotel. The night he pressed his lips against my forehead outside my hotel room.

  The night I dreamed filthy, dirty, bad things about Travis Thorne.

  Okay, perhaps I wouldn’t mention that last part.

  CHAPTER 13 - ALANA

  “VERITY’S DONE WHAT?” Gary snapped.

  Meredith shrugged. I’d met her properly now, and she came straight out of the rock-chick mould. Jet-black hair with purple streaks, more earrings than I could count, and everything she wore was ripped in some way. But she seemed friendly, which was a relief.

  “She got arrested. Shit happens. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  Yes, trying to buy dope from an undercover French police officer was totally a misunderstanding. According to Meredith, Verity’s lawyer was busy sorting out the problem, and Gary probably wouldn’t have minded so much if the incident hadn’t happened right before the Euro Rock Music Awards. Verity was supposed to be Dex’s date, you see, and Gary didn’t want an empty seat at the table because “it doesn’t make great TV.”

  And now he turned to me. “You’ll do. Find a dress. You’ve got an hour and a half.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “And wear more make-up. Nobody in rock goes for that innocent look.” He rolled his eyes. “Do I have to spell it out? You’re going to the ERMAs with Dexter.”

  “Do I get a say in this?”

  “Look, blondie, I’ve made concessions by even allowing you on this tour. Nobody gets a free ride. Just find a fucking dress, and don’t be late.”

  Gary disappeared in a cloud of overly pungent aftershave, and Dex shrugged.

  “Sorry.”

  It wasn’t that I minded going with Dex. Since he thawed out towards me, we’d gotten on quite well. But I hated giving in to Gary’s demands, and where the hell was I supposed to find a dress? All the good boutiques were closing right about now. Then there was the fact that I’d have to watch Reagan pawing Travis for the entire evening, and if I let my guard down for just one second, I’d break her bloody fingers.

  “It’s okay,” I said weakly. “I’ve never been to an awards show before. It’ll be an experience.”

  “I’ll buy you a dress.”

  What, with his crappy per diem? I couldn’t take that, not when he got paid so little and most of his money went on medical bills. Nor did I want to rub it in by pointing out that I had more money than he did.

  “Don’t worry; I’ll find something to wear.”

  Reagan had been listening to the conversation from the sidelines, and now she stepped forward with an oh-so-fake smile.

  “Such a shame you didn’t know you were going earlier, or you could have gotten an appropriate outfit. Still, I suppose you could dress up a pair of slacks or something.”

  Grrr.

  “What about borrowing Verity’s dress?” Meredith asked, sizing me up. “Actually, I don’t think it’d fit.”

  No, it definitely wouldn’t fit. In bare feet, Verity was six inches shorter than me, and she had proper curves while I relied on chicken fillets in my bra and careful use of stripes. Meredith was thinner than me, so I couldn’t even beg an outfit from her. Rush had managed to bag himself a date with a French supermodel.

  Dammit. An hour and a half, and I hadn’t even brought anything sparkly with me.

  “At least it’ll be dark,” Reagan said. “I don’t suppose anyone’ll even notice you.”

  Oh, that bitch. I’d already seen her dress because she’d shown it to absolutely everyone. A bright red number slashed to the thigh that showcased her cellulite perfectly. And what did I have? Five different pairs of jeans, three of which were being laundered.

  “Do we need to go out somewhere?” Dex asked. “I can find a cab.”

  “Yes, we do.” My stomach sank to my feet as I realised there was only one viable option. Only one place in Paris where I could get a gown at short notice that would be glamorous enough to wipe the arrogant smirk off Reagan’s face.

  I’d have to call Marianna Odette de Montfort, formerly known as Marianna Graves. Also known as my mother.

  She lived a five-minute drive away, and we were the same size. Occasionally, she sent me her cast-offs for Christmas. While I kept trim by going to the gym three times a week when I was home, Mother simply forked out thousands to have bits sucked out or filled in as necessary. And she always had kick-ass clothes because she liked to dress twenty years younger than she actually was. In fact, she told everyone she was thirty-four when she was really forty-seven.

  I stepped out of the room and dialled the numb
er I’d been hoping to avoid.

  “Oui?”

  “Mama, it’s Alana.” I always used my name just in case she’d forgotten it. “I’m in Paris this evening, and I—”

  “Desolé, Francois and I have tickets for the opera tonight. But if you need somewhere to stay, Gaspard can open up a room for you.”

  Ah yes, Gaspard—her poor, long-suffering butler.

  “Actually, I was hoping to borrow a dress. I need to go out to a fancy dinner tonight—short notice—and I didn’t bring anything with me.”

  “A dress? Of course you can borrow a dress.”

  At this point, I should probably mention that the only mother-daughter bonding activity we’d shared when I was a child was traipsing around an endless parade of beauty pageants. Marianna loved to dress me up like a little doll and watch me sing and dance and turn cartwheels. As a three-year-old, my cheeks had ached from being forced to smile for hours on end, and I was the only toddler at my kindergarten with a vocal coach. Once the pervert started his sick games, I’d refused to participate anymore because I hated the way he watched me and the other kids on stage, and Mother had mostly ignored me after that.

  I hated her.

  But tonight, I could use her to take Reagan down a peg or two. Mother’s Paris apartment might be the same elaborate clusterfuck of extravagance that every other one of her homes had been, as ostentatious as it was tasteless, but she had a closet full of designer clothes plus the shoes and handbags to match.

  “Can I come over right now?”

  “Oui. The stylist was just about to leave, but I’ll make him stay. What kind of dress do you want? I’ll pick out a selection.”

  “Something edgy. Black. I’m going to the Euro Rock Music Awards.”

  “Rock music? There’s money in rock music. Some of those bands earn millions.” Little did she know. “Just remember; only smile at the rich ones.”

  Wear a nice dress and smile at rich men. That, ladies and gentlemen, was my mother in a nutshell.

  “Holy fuck.” Dex gave a low whistle. “Who are you and what did you do with Alana?”

  “Very funny. I can wear something other than jeans, you know.”