“Oh my god,” I breathed, “It’s like they’re gods or something.”
“They’re something better,” Britt sighed, “They’re rock stars.”
The men picked up their instruments and took their places onstage. I watched as Jackson approached the standing microphone and swung it towards those full, firm lips of his.
“Hello, London!” he roared, “Let me tell you something. It’s fucking wonderful to be home!”
The crowd erupted into an ecstatic fervor as the band tore into their opening number. I could hardly hear the words that Jackson was singing, or anything at all. The pumping bass line and crashing drums were drowning out the melody entirely. But even if I could have heard anything, I would still have only been paying attention to Jackson. I watched, amazed, as he took control of the entire stage. Every eye in that enormous arena was fixed on him. He owned the space, strutting and stomping and singing his heart out. He seemed to grow taller, broader, like the love of the audience was actually inflating his body, making him bigger than he really was. No wonder the man had an oversized ego.
I caught Sadie looking at me out of the corner of her eye and turned toward her. “What?” I shouted.
“Someone’s smitten,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“Me?” I said, dumbly.
“Duh,” she replied, “You should see the look on your face when you’re staring at him.”
“Can you blame me?” I said, watching as the band finished their opening to thunderous applause.
“Not a bit,” she replied, “But I’d be careful if I were you. Jackson isn’t exactly gentle with the women in his life.”
“You know this from...personal experience?” I asked.
“God no,” Sadie said, “I’ve never dated him or anything.”
“Oh,” I said, momentarily relieved.
“We just fuck,” she said happily, turning back toward the band.
“Oh...” I breathed. I was hardly surprised, but that didn’t make it sting any less. Of course Jackson had a million fuck buddies, the man was an international rock star. What was wrong with me that I was letting that fact bother me so?
“Watch this,” Annabelle cried, pointing excitedly toward the stage.
I turned just in time to see Jackson leap off the edge of the stage into the surging crowd. Their hands carried him, holding him aloft above that sea of humanity. For one wild moment, my body begged me to run after him, pull him back, claim him for my own. My hands ached for wanting to be on his body, to be the only hands that got to touch him. I realized how hard it would be for a woman to be in love with Jackson—knowing that she’d never have him all to herself.
Good thing I’m not in love with him, I thought to myself. But even as the words rolled through my mind, they sounded as false as could be. I was a goner and I knew it.
As the concert surged on a strange thing began to happen. The music started to elevate me, move through me. I felt myself writhing along to the bass, shaking and tossing my head along with the sounds of the band. I fell in with the three girls who were supposed to be chaperoning me, submitting to their wild gyrations and unfettered sexiness. There was something sensual about this music, something primal. No wonder these guys were so popular—their sound was pure sex. I was dancing and thrashing right along with the rest of the arena before I knew it, and my eyes never left that golden god of a man wailing into the microphone.
Now, I’d been to many, many concerts in my time. Live music had been a fixture in my life since I was little, and it was a familiar and satisfying thing. My parents had taken me along to see their favorite bands and musicians whenever they toured through New Jersey. I got a glimpse of Springsteen when I was seven, and grooved along to Fleetwood Mac as a pre-teen. Once I reached my teenage years, I started setting out on my own musical adventures. I’d sniff out underground and indie performances of every sort. Whether it was an intellectual rapper at a campus coffee shop or a grindcore band jamming in an abandoned pool hall, I’d drink it all in. But never, through all those shows, had I ever been drawn in so completely as I was now.
This bewitching was completely mysterious. It wasn’t like I was even a huge fan of Carnal Knowledge. I always acknowledged that they were good at what they did, but they never transported me. They never taught me anything about life or art or love that I hadn’t already figured out by listening to The Stones. So what the hell was going on?
“We’re gonna play one more for you guys,” Jackson said to the crowd. I blinked as the crowd began to roar. How had the time flown by so quickly? Jackson stood with his arms open to the audience, as if he were gathering the power of their adoration, conducting it into his body like it was an electrical current. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him, that beautiful body backlit by glaring stage lights, lifted up by thousands of screaming fans. He was incredible. He was unattainable.
Jackson turned away from the audience to take his place at center stage. As he pivoted, his eyes danced along the side of the stage and latched onto mine. In the midst of that ecstatic chaos, we looked at each other with complete honesty. We were both dripping with sweat, our hair plastered to our foreheads. Our chests heaved, our breath came short. For that brief, beautiful moment, we were the only people in that enormous stadium—perhaps the only people of the planet. Jackson’s face split into an exuberant grin before he puckered his lips and blew me the most subtle of kisses. And though it was the smallest gesture, the force of it nearly knocked me on my ass
The guys tore through their closing number, leaving every drop of energy and passion they had right there on the stage. I danced with abandon, joining in the crazy bacchanal that the three groupies were generating. As the final chord rang through the arena, a deafening wave of sound crashed back over the stage. Cheering, stomping, the impossibly thunderous cacophony of thousands and thousands of people in love—it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. No wonder these guys keep this thing going, I thought, watching as the four band members bowed, tossed their picks and towels into the audience, and embraced each other’s sweaty bodies. It was like the Olympics and Woodstock and a religious awakening all rolled into one.
They finally began to file off stage to the incredible applause that refused to quit. My breath was coming hard and fast, and I was nearly hyperventilating by the time Jackson came toward me. The three groupies threw themselves into the arms of the other band mates, but to my utter delight, I was the one that Jackson scooped up into his arms. He twirled me around in the air, both of us laughing like crazy people.
“That was amazing!” I cried, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “How did you—”
But before I could finish my sentence, I found myself passed off to Turbo. I blinked up into the bassist’s face, and looked back to see Britt leaping into Jackson’s arms. As Turbo plucked me off the ground and gathered me up into an impassioned hug, I realized that we were all playing a game of Pass the Groupie. Excellent, I thought.
“Well Lois?” Marco said as I gave him his obligatory hug, “Have you been indoctrinated yet?”
“I have to admit,” I said, punching him playfully on the arm, “You jerks are starting to grow on me. That was pretty incredible.”
“We were just warming up!” Eddie cried, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Wait until you see us at the end of the tour. Your panties are going to throw themselves on stage!”
“I’ll be sure to wear two pairs,” I said, patting the guitarist’s well-muscled arm.
As the eight of us milled around excitedly, Pete emerged from the darkness of backstage, all business. “The bus is waiting!” he said, “We’ve got to get to the hotel so you all can get some sleep before the show tomorrow.”
The band burst into hysterical laughter at the notion of sleep, but humored Pete all the same by agreeing to hit the road. We started toward the door as a unit, and I found myself feeling more at home than ever. I’d barely known these people for two days, but something about sharing that
concert with them had changed everything. I wanted to be one of them, to feel like I belonged to this strange world that they occupied. I wasn’t about to abandon my ambitions and become a groupie, but I had to admit that this life seemed more and more appealing by the minute.
Chapter Seven
We tumbled back onto the tour bus, the guys stopping along the way to sign autographs for hysterical fans. As we took off through the city, I peered out the window and took in my first look at London. The mix of old and new among the buildings was surreal—I realized what a relatively young city New York really was. Thinking of my town sent a pang of homesickness through me, but I swallowed it down and tried to enjoy the moment.
Someone handed me a shot of whiskey, which I happily took. Apparently, liquor was a suitable substitute for water with these people, and who was I to question local customs? We downed our booze and settled into a state of exhausted bliss, chattering happily, singing snatches of melody, throwing arms and legs over each others’. My mind was thrillingly free from thoughts of deadlines, rent, anything mundane. It really was like being on another planet, just like Hadley had said. And with every moment, I felt like the native species was accepting me more and more.
Turbo swung into the seat beside me and tucked me under his arm. “So, what do you think, Lois?” he asked, grinning widely.
“About what?” I asked, leaning into his embrace. I was surprised to find that his chest was firm and built, and a tiny tuft of blonde chest hair was peeking through the collar of his tee shirt.
“The show, of course!” he said, “God, Lois, for someone so smart, you sure are dumb.”
“Whatever, Turbo,” I smiled, grabbing for his sweat-soaked Union Jack bandana.
“Hey!” he cried, as I fell back into the seat, laughing hysterically. “Give that back!”
“You’re not even British!” I teased, “I don’t think you deserve it.
“I’m honorarily British,” he said, grabbing for the garment.
“Oooh!” I cried, widening my eyes in mock amazement, “Five syllables in one word? Turbo, you’re going to make me swoon.”
“That’s it,” he said, barring his teeth threateningly. He scraped his sneaker-clad toe against the floor, doing his best angry bull impersonation. I cried out theatrically and lay back on the seats, shielding myself from his animated wrath.
“Have mercy!” I cried, waving the bandana like a white flag.
“It’s too late for that!” Turbo roared, “You messed with the bull, now you’re going to get the horns!”
He leapt at me, pinning me down onto the seat beneath him. I was laughing hysterically, trying to keep the bandana away from his prying hands. His narrow hips were holding me in place as his muscular body stretched out across mine. Finally, he grabbed my two hands and held them over my head, forcing me into submission. I smiled up at him, and was about to voice my surrender, when the two of us became very still.
He was looking down into my face with something that looked like hunger. His bright eyes bored into me over his aquiline nose, and he looked more serious than I’d ever seen him. My heart began to flutter unaccountably. I’d always thought of Turbo as a cute goof ball, but from where I was looking now, that good ball was actually incredibly sexy. Caught up in the moment, high on the concert and the booze and the enthusiasm, I cocked my head a little bit to the side and met Turbo’s gaze. He moved his hips against mine, slowly, and I had to say I liked the closeness of him. He kept my hands pinned over my head, and I liked the feeling of being caught by him. Slowly, tentatively, Turbo began to lower his lips toward mine. I raised my mouth, waiting for him to—
“What the fuck are you doing?” a voice roared above us.
Jackson, I thought in a panic.
Turbo rolled off me onto the floor and grinned up at Jackson, who was standing—no, towering—over us, looking like he was going to spit bile. I sat up and backed against the window. I’d never seen him look that angry before, never.
“Hey man,” Turbo said, “What’s wrong?”
In an instant, Jackson grabbed Turbo by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the opposite seat. I gasped, afraid that Jackson was about to hit his band mate.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Turbo?” Jackson roared, pushing his friend away with far too much force.
“What do you mean, man?” Turbo said, stumbling backwards. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” Jackson screamed, his hands balled into tight fists, “My problem is you, asshole. You messing around with every goddamn woman that comes onto this bus.”
“What?!” Turbo said, laughing incredulously. “Dude, you’re one to talk!”
“Don’t you criticize me,” Jackson said, taking a menacing step toward Turbo. “Just stay the fuck away from this one, you hear me? Stay away, or so help me...”
“OK, OK! Relax, man!” Turbo said, holding his hands up in front of his face. “Whatever you say, dude. She’s your friend.”
“Is she?” Jackson said, turning to face me. The hurt, angry look on his face nearly took my breath away. I didn’t like having that look leveled at me, especially not by him.
“Jackson,” I said, “We were just messing around. We weren’t—”
“Whatever,” he said, stalking toward the front of the bus. “Do whatever you want. See if I give a shit.”
As I opened my mouth to speak, the tour bus screeched to a stop in front of our hotel. The assembled people, all of whom had gone silent as Jackson raged, began to pile off of the bus. Turbo looked at me apologetically as he left, and I lost sight of Jackson in the swell.
“Great,” I muttered, hurrying after the group. “Just what I need, a jealous, narcissistic rock star with an attitude problem.”
I let the group sweep me along, having no idea where I was going. My mind was reeling after Jackson’s freak-out back on the bus. I just couldn’t get a read on this guy. One minute he couldn’t care less about me, the next he’s leaping to defend my honor? What was his deal? I didn’t know how much longer I could deal with his shape shifting. Since I first met him in the dingy Lower East Side bar, I’d seen him become about ten different men. He had to choose one, already, at least if I was going to have anything to do with him.
I remembered the man he had become when he pushed me up onto the sink, took my breasts in his strong hands...I hoped that was the man he really was, but how in the world could I know for sure?
The motley crew of band mates, groupies, roadies, and various hangers-on barged into the hotel, cackling and singing and romping around like a group of disobedient school children. I shot an apologetic look towards the front desk, but the hotel staff was nonplussed. It seemed that these band folks were used to getting away with whatever they wanted. That thought bothered me as I followed them deeper into the expansive building. What gave them the right to do whatever they pleased, spending entire days getting plastered and fucking one another? Did they really think that they were contributing so much to society, that they deserved a free ride? I wondered if any of them had ever held down real jobs, scrambled for rent, been told “no”. Somehow, I doubted it. How could they be so presumptuous, so self-absorbed? How could they stumble through life without giving anything back?
But I remembered the roar of the crowd at that arena, the way that the audience had come to life when Carnal Knowledge took the stage. For those few hours, everyone in that stadium was lifted up, lifted higher than any drug could take them. And it was the music that had done that—Jackson’s music. Maybe he, and the rest of them, deserved to be proud of themselves, to revel in their weird magic. Music did help people, after all—I knew that first hand. Music could heal, and teach, and elevate...Could I really say the same about what I did?
“Why so glum?” said a voice beside me. I turned to see Annabelle at my elbow.
“Huh?” I said, “Oh, no. I’m fine.”
The nymph linked arms with me, pulling me into a giant suite that the rest of th
e band’s entourage was piling into. “You can’t hide anything from me, Alexa,” she cooed. Her big, brown eyes looked at me frankly, confidently. “I’m a very perceptive person.”
“Aha,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable under her frank gaze. “That’s...interesting.”
“I know your secret,” she said, pulling me down onto a cushy love seat, “I’m so sorry that you got caught up in all this.”
“I’m just doing my job,” I said, plastering a smile onto my face, “I don’t mind.”
“You do too,” she said, taking my hands in hers. “You’re being very strong in the face of it, but you won’t be able to fight it off forever.”
“What’s ‘it’?” I asked, mesmerized by the chocolate disks of her eyes.
“Your feelings for him,” she said.
“Oh...” I breathed, blushing deeply. The way she said it, I knew there was no use in denying anything at all. “Does everyone see it?”
“Not everyone,” she said, “Just us girls.”
I looked across the room to where Sadie and Britt were smoking out of the open window. They smiled encouragingly at me, but I thought I saw a hint of pity in their eyes.
“It’s nothing,” I told Annabelle, “Really. Just a little crush, is all. I’m sure I’ll get over it once we’ve spent some more time—”
“You won’t,” Annabelle said sadly, “None of us ever do. Why do you think we all became groupies, Alexa? Me, Britt, Sadie...Each of us felt about someone the way you feel about Jackson. Each of us fell in love with someone who was a million different men in one. But falling in love with someone who’s larger than life will always leave you feeling small. It’s like a drug, Alexa. The first time is always the greatest, but once you come down, once you’re let down, you have to spend the rest of your life trying to get back up to that level. And you will get let down. I’m so sorry to have to say it, but it’s true. Jackson is going to disappoint you, and it’s going to break your heart. I can’t stop you from loving him, but I can try and stop you from thinking he’ll ever love you back.”
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