by Lily Silver
Was it a dream? God in heaven--it had to be a dream. It couldn’t be true!
Jessie was panting, gasping for the air her lungs craved and been denied for too long.
Madame Aria was sitting on the sofa beside her, holding her wrist in her hand and measuring her pulse with concern. Jessie noticed the lights had been turned up in the room as well. “You were in quite deep.” She explained. “You entered the trance state very easily, Julianna. You have a natural inclination to soul travel. Surely you must have had dreams before that seemed too real?”
Jessie didn’t answer the woman’s query. She was too shaken by the events revealed in this recent dream. Lex--Gaston--was betraying her, with Lucy, and if he were that cavalier about sleeping with Lucy again after he married her, than how many other women would he sleep with on his travels while she remained home in Paris? What hurt the most was seeing them laughing about it, talking about it in such casual terms, as if her heart meant nothing to either of them.
“What did you see?” Madame Aria asked. “You seem very shaken, my child. Would you like to tell me what you dreamed this time?”
Jessie nodded but clutched her throat. It was dry, chaffed within. Had she spoken during the time she’d been ‘under’, as they referred to the trance state in this establishment? Madame Aria rose and glided across the room in her elegant, long purple dress. She fussed around in a cabinet. When she returned to Jessie’s side, she handed her a glass of cool ice water. Jessie drank from it, soothing her sore throat.
“Did I speak at all?” She asked after a moment.
“No, but you made a terrible sound in your throat, a cry of pain. That’s why I decided you needed to come out. If things become too painful or intense we always bring the client out of the induced trance state. It’s safer that way, better to view the unpleasantness in small pieces, so as not to cause too much distress to the soul.”
Jessie nodded. It made sense. She sniffled and then realized she had tears dripping down her cheeks. “He was cheating on me, deliberately sleeping with someone else, in the past. They were talking about it together, about how they planned to carry on their affair after he married me.”
“I’m sorry.” Madame Aria whispered in a soothing tone. “That is tragic. But it does explain your reluctance to simply trust him again in this life. Did you recognize the person he was unfaithful to you with in the past? Is it someone you know in this life?”
“Yes. It was my best friend, Kyra.”
Chapter Twenty
The air conditioning wasn’t working, Jessie thought as she sat at the round table in the conference room at StarSign Records. It was July in LA, a hell of a time for the AC to go on vacation. Jessie tried to remain discreet as she mopped her brow repeatedly and wiped her moist palms on her jeans beneath the table. She looked to her sibling for signs of heat sickness. Jack seemed as pale and cool as a corpse.
Dangerous Liaisons was scheduled for release in October. The producer came up with concept of vagabond gypsies in Western Europe. Jack and the guys loved the idea. Jessie found herself swept along with their excitement. They’d been trussed up in costumes, placed in various backdrops for the cover art photos and now the final prints were before them, awaiting the approval of the band members and the record executives.
Thankfully, from Jessie’s point of view, Kyra was absent. She didn’t know if she could face her oldest friend after the shocking past life revelation with Madame Aria yesterday. Kyra’s absences were becoming a serious problem. She showed up late at the recording studio with little enthusiasm and had to be tracked down merely to complete the photo shoot. As soon as the floodlights faded on the cover art project she’d left the country with Mike for a Caribbean vacation. Now was not the time to flee the country. There was still much to do before the album’s release, promotional appearances on TV, and scheduled band interviews with the industry magazines, but Kyra’s interest in the band had seriously waned.
It was becoming harder to excuse Kyra when the rest of the band was so angry with her and with good reason. Kyra was inadvertently sabotaging their progress. She was causing countless delays in their schedule, to the point where the execs were noticing and they were not pleased.
“I feel we should go with the photo number 22.” The art director said as his assistant dimmed the lights of the conference room and began the slide show.
The photo of the band decked out in gypsy clothing appeared on the screen. A tinker’s wagon was behind them and a roaring fire was in the foreground. The slideshow continued as the assistant clicked the remote. Images whirred by showing the band in various poses.
“This one.” He froze the frame. In the guise of a gypsy dancer, Jessie was completing a spin, her face caught in a seductive pose as her hair fanned out in a blaze of copper beneath the studio lights hidden from view. Steve, her partner, stood holding her hand above her head, a wicked gleam in his eyes and his newly grown goatee framing a devilish smirk. Darrell was standing to their right, a fiddle in his hand, while Jack and Kyra flanked their left.
Jack had been cast in the role of highwayman. He’d even grown a scruffy beard for the occasion and one eye sported a black patch. He had one booted foot propped on an antique treasure chest, a sword in one hand, a pistol in his belt. A long black cloak swirled about him by the use of fans, again off camera, as his one eye glared with obvious challenge. Kyra stood beside him, between Jack and the swirling Jessie, cast as fortuneteller holding up the tarot card of the tower. A carpet of autumn leaves shimmered beneath their feet and the full moon peeked between the stark trees with twisted, claw-like branches. It was a haunting picture. Each person’s face reflected danger or intrigue.
“Perfect.” The producer, Derek Marsh, affirmed. “I like it.”
“Hold on to that thought. With some CGI magic we’ve brought in a black cat, as you can see in this next slide and the dark, moonlit sky has been enhanced to look like a storm is brewing in the distance. It underscores the mood.”
Click. The visual changed. Stark black tree branches framed the dark, churning skies of October. The full moon peeked out from a break in the clouds and a black cat appeared at Kyra’s feet, and the edges of the photo were darkened, giving it a grunge appearance.
“Provocative.” Derek agreed.
“Wait,” the assistant art director protested. “I’m not so sure about Darrell’s hair. If you’ll notice, the others have hairstyles that can be interpreted as late eighteenth century, early nineteenth. Darrell’s is so very Billy Idol. And with that cross dangling from his ear it’s too modern. It conflicts with the period setting.”
“A modern vintage look is what we are striving for.” The art director said. “If you’ll notice, the fortune teller has a rose tattoo on her right breast, just above the cleavage and below the shoulder, hardly an eighteenth century foible. And Jack has gold rings in both ears. Yet, it works. It could almost be a Steam-Punk cover. If there are no further objections I suggest we call it a wrap.”
The rest of the suits concurred and the guys nodded approval. Jessie nodded, too, as the lights were turned up once more.
“I’m hungry.” Jack slapped the table and started to rise.
“Wait a moment, son.” Charlie Zands, the head of StarSign Records cautioned. “There is still the matter of your appearance on MTV.” The executive producer turned to their business manager, “Max, have we come to an agreement?”
“Yes. We’re pleased to accept the offer to guest host the Halloween special.” Max officially informed the record execs as Jessie and the guys gave each other excited smiles. “However, we’re not certain if Kyra Hansen,” he paused, seeing the confusion registering around the conference table at the mention of Kyra’s name, “The fortune teller,” He clarified. “We’re uncertain as to the availability of Kyra for the event.”
“Where is Kyra?” Charlie Zands cocked a brow as he surveyed the group, realizing for the first time that one of the five band members was missing.
�
��I’m not sure. Somewhere in the Caribbean.” Jessie began. “We’re not certain that she intends to remain in the group.”
“We need the fortune teller for the MTV special.” Ellen, the press manager sighed, her long red fingernails splayed on the table. “It’s part of the allure.”
“We can hire a model to stand in the background with a guitar.” Charlie waved the assistant’s comment aside with a flourish. “That’s not a problem. She’s a background piece. The twins are the focal point.”
“No.” Jessie began, fearing his next words. “We’re all equal--”
“Jessie.” Max cautioned in a warning tone. He was sitting beside her. He took to patting her hand as he shook his head. His message was clear, now was not the time to challenge the head of StarSign regarding their back up guitarist’s position in the group.
Charlie Zands fixed Jessie with an autocratic glare. “Jessica, you and your brother are the front end of the band. As we’ve discussed previously, red haired guitar playing twins are a unique product in the rock world, one we’ve marketed with unrivaled success. If we have the two of you; we have the main product.”
“That’s not fair.” Darrell protested and Steve grumbled in agreement beside him.
“It may not be fair, gentleman, but life rarely is.” Charlie’s penetrating gaze shifted to the guys. “What matters is that the main selling point of Heartless is fresh, energetic talent wrapped in a bi-sexual package, the male audience is captivated by Jessica, and the female listeners scream for Jack. That is what sets you apart from a thousand other bands trying to make it in this town. You don’t have to like it, gentlemen. Just be here when your part in the mix is required or find yourself replaced, like Kyra Hansen.”
“This sucks.” Darrell stood. “You’re telling us we’re nothing, man, that Jack and Jessie are the whole package. Steve and I write half the music. If not for us propping Jack’s coked out ass up, this whole thing would collapse.”
Jessie cringed, fearing Darrell’s bold stance would land him on the unemployment line. No one talked back to the vice president of the record company, no one who coveted their job. Even she learned to couch her words in pleasant suggestions, not demands.
“Madonna writes lyrics, other people help her with the music. Madonna is an image, a highly marketable image.” Charlie returned with authoritarian arrogance. “Paul Stanely and Gene Simmons hired and fired numerous back up guitarists and drummers over the years, but Stanely and Simmons were the marketing image of KISS. Amy Lee is Evanescence. Image sells. Image brings in the fan base and the cash. And the Kelly Twins are the image that sells Heartless. You are important, young man, as long as you hold up your end of the contract--but you are not irreplaceable.”
“Did you hear that ass-hat?” Darrell thundered as soon as they were in the elevator.
“Yeah, but he signs our checks.” Jack reminded him with a toss of his flowing copper mane as he ignored the sign and lit up a cigarette in the elevator.
“Easy for you suck up.” Darrell retorted. “You’re the golden boy--”
“Don’t start.” Steve sighed, giving Jessie a commiserate look.
Before any of them knew what was happening, Darrell swung at Jack, while Jack grabbed Darrell around the throat and would not let go.
Steve pushed the stop button on the elevator as Jessie tried in vain to get her brother to stop choking their friend.
“I’ve had it with your jealous ass.” Jack shrieked. Jessie was sure they could hear him three stories up. “Get off my case or you’re dead, understand?”
Steve joined the fray as Darrell started to turn blue from lack of oxygen.
“Jack.” Jessie cried, trying to keep her voice low despite her fear. “Stop it.”
As Steve pried Jack’s fingers from their drummer’s throat, a flash of silver caught Jessie’s eye. She shoved Jack out of the way as an intense pain seared her upper forearm.
“You bastard.” Jack shrieked, “You stabbed my sister.”
Darrell turned chalk white, his eyes apologetic. Stoned, as usual, Jack grew panicked and outraged at the scene before him. It fell to Jessie and Steve to keep order in the ranks. Steve let Darrell slump to the floor momentarily as he examined Jessie’s arm.
“It’s okay, just a scratch.” She assured him.
“Like hell it is, you’ll need stitches.” Steve mumbled, only to turn away from her quickly as Jack started kicking the elevator door.
In his blind panic Jack managed to find the alarm button. He pressed it and the screaming alarm bells provided an ear splitting serenade to Jack’s panicked shouts. “Somebody, help us.” Jack screamed, his face becoming red as the veins popped out above his crew neck shirt. “My sister’s bleeding’ to death.”
“Shhh.” Steve and Jessie chastened as one. “Stop it.”
“You’ll get us arrested.” Jessie whispered harshly as Steve tied his bandana around her arm to hide the slash. “You are wacked out on coke and Darrell isn’t exactly stone cold sober. I suppose you have it on you, too?”
“Just a pinch . . . enough to get me through the meeting.” Jack swallowed, realizing they were inches away from being hauled off by security to the LAPD if he didn’t get himself together. Jack closed his eyes, rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck back and forth, like an athlete preparing to enter a contest. After a moment, he opened his eyes and turned to look at them all.
Darrell was returning to a normal complexion. Steve and Jessie knelt on either side of him. Jessie was pressing Steve’s blue bandana over her blood soaked sleeve amid the shrill alarm ringing in their ears and the emergency phone ringing off the hook beside him. Jack broke out in hysterical laughter. “Awesome, man. All that’s missing is Ozzy Osbourne biting the head off a bird in the conference room.”
With a scowl, Steve stood, opened the cabinet and answered the phone. “Yeah, we’re okay, sorry, a false alarm. My friend accidentally leaned against the stop button and then he panicked. He’s claustrophobic--sure--no, sir--we don’t need to be rescued.”
“Just from ourselves.” Darrell quipped as he struggled to his feet. “Jess, oh, God.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry I freaked--don’t hate me, Babe?”
Steve closed the phone portal and turned to them all. “Okay, the security personnel are waiting for us and the elevator technicians are on their way over. It’s protocol, you idiots. Whenever the alarm sounds they get the code red here and at the company who does the maintenance on the elevator. If you intend to kill each other, do it in a less public place, if you don’t mind.”
“Ozzy, man, where are you when we need you?” Jack wailed with glee.
“Shut up.” Steve cuffed him in the shoulder. He took off his denim jacket and offered it to Jessie to camouflage her bleeding arm. “We have to get past security and get Jessie to a doctor. What’ll we say, her drugged out brother pissed off the drummer and he stabbed her instead?”
Darrell sobered, picked up his jackknife, wiped the blood on his pant leg and put it in his pocket. “Okay, we’ll get past security, go out in the parking lot, and then make a ruckus, say some punk attacked Jess . . . tried to steal her purse . . .” His voice had become gravel. “We can take her to the hospital for stitches . . .”
“Uh-huh. She’s attacked in broad daylight while surrounded by three guys, a slew of cameras and fans? Brilliant, Darrell.” Steve whipped out his cell phone and started dialing. “Okay, I’m on it. Are we ready to face our public everyone?” Like a general surveying his troops, Steve gave them each a severe glare before pressing the button for the elevator to start again.
He turned away from them all, muttering into the cell phone in a tone so low that no one could overhear. The doors opened to the lobby. As they faced the security officers standing in front of the doors and the fans and cameras in the foyer of StarSign Records, Steve marched out first, appearing distracted by a phone call and behaving as if nothing were amiss. Darrell wrapped his arm about Jessie, holding her against him
so she didn’t seem unsteady while Jack, the perpetual clown of the group started singing the refrain from Aerosmith’s Love in an Elevator, as if it were all a big publicity stunt.
Security helped them get past the crowd and they managed to smile for the ever-present flash of cameras that nearly blinded them as they made their way to the car.
“Okay, Lex will meet us at Malibu General. He’s calling his private physician to take care of Jessie.” Steve informed them as he slid the seatbelt about him and started the engine of his ‘72 Mustang.
“What?” Jessie huffed with outrage. “Why did you call him?”
“Who else am I going to call in this town? I doubt Max or Charlie Zands would be amused. Lex is our neighbor, man. And he still cares for you.” Steve pointed at Jessie.
“And you have to call him and make it sound like I’m some pathetic damsel in distress! Thanks, Steve--glad to know you’ve got my back.” Jessie felt the blood rush to her face. She’d wanted to call Lex many times in the past month but he’d seemed so angry and so cold that day she’d asked him to give her more time.
“Take it easy.” Jack soothed, sensing her distress. “It’s no big deal. Smile, be coy, he’ll be eating out of your hand again.”
“Shut up.” Jessie’s eyes blurred. “Just shut up. I don’t need this. Not now, not when I’m trying to get over him.”
“So, stop trying.” Jack shrugged.
“Stop the car.” Jessie hissed. “Let me out. I’m not using this flimsy excuse to make him come running back.”
“Hysteria.” Steve and Darrell chimed, knowing their taunt would make Jessie angry and rational, just to prove them wrong. “Typical female behavior.”
The Malibu hospital loomed before them. Steve pulled up at the ER entrance. Darrell jumped out, pulled the seat forward and helped Jessie out of the back. He guided her past the gliding doors and the tall, dark image of Lex met them behind a potted palm. He signaled to them to come to him before they could approach the registration counter.