Access Restricted (The Access Series)

by Severin, Alice

  His smile became a little more dangerous. “Oh, we have ways of making you crack. Don’t worry. I’ll find out—all of it. But you’re right. I’ve got to be there for sound check. We’re doing a tape session tonight. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. Come down whenever you want. It won’t start until late anyway. Just like tomorrow. Make ‘em sweat.” He smirked. “There’s few desires that don’t improve upon a little waiting time.” He reached a hand between my legs and thrust up suddenly, making me gasp. “Even mine, love.” He moved against me, smoothly, slowly, and withdrew his fingers and licked them off. “Nice.” He leaned over and kissed me, laughing softly. “Shit, you’re fun, darling.” He stood up and went over to the sink and ran water over his face and ran his wet fingers through his hair. “There, I’m done. I’ll see you in few. Don’t be late or I’ll send Trevor,” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the bathroom, humming.

  I listened to the door open and close, and tried to ignore the feeling that all the air had left with him. He needed me. He wanted someone real, right? Not some idiot that was going to cry at the slightest problem. He wanted me. And for whatever reason, that was going to be on display. I’d deal. I’d be the only person in the room for him, if that’s what he was looking for. And he was right. Fuck ‘em. Maybe with him there, beaming down at me from the stage, me making notes, tomorrow I would be able to play a little game with Dave. One that would satisfy Trevor and get us through to lunch. Tonight—maybe we could just leave, and be together. Not on display. Not really. I shivered as I got out and wrapped myself in one of the towels and walked out, partially draped, to see if my luggage was out there somewhere. Yes, there it was. For a moment, I’d thought they had unpacked for us too, but fortunately, or not, that kind of luxury wasn’t on offer. Good. I pulled out some lace covered underwear and a bra, and debated what to wear. The bondage dress. Yes, why not? Oh, but maybe that was too close to home—bringing back the rumors. On the other hand, it looked good. No. Too much. Jeans. Boots. See through top. Vest. Better. Festival girl with sex appeal. Easier to run in boots than high heels, too.

  I went through the whole ritual of makeup and teeth, feeling a sense of unreality. I debated my drug choices—painkillers? Alcohol? There’s always nothing, a voice in my head said. Yeah, right, I thought. Let’s not push it. I decided to leave the pills in my bag, just in case, but I didn’t take any. Keep it light. A beer, glass of champers when I got there. Simple. Easy. The star’s girlfriend. Jesus. I thought of the car ride to the airport back in New York. The sedan had stopped at a light, and I had looked over at the sidewalk, but my view was blocked by a large grey plastic garbage bin. Yet somebody had scrawled on it in felt tip marker “become your dream.” Maybe that was the scary part—you woke up in the middle of your dream and you’d put yourself there, in the lead. Then you had to make up the script as you went along.

  Well, the curtain was about to go up, and there was no understudy and no cue cards. I hoped I’d like it once I was out there, in the spotlight. And then the door closed shut behind me. I didn’t think the click of the lock sounded as definite as it had done for Tristan.

  Chapter 17

  I wanted to take my time, so I waved off the offer of a black cab from the doorman, and headed out. I needed to walk, needed to clear my head, and give my body another exercise than being willing and pliant under or over Tristan. The thought made me laugh, like I was becoming complacent about the idea of him and his talented body at my disposal. No, not even close. But I had the feeling we needed to spend a bit more time on the vertical plane if this was really going to work out. I crossed over the Bayswater Road, into Kensington Gardens, walking along the narrow paths under the huge oaks, still bare in the very early English spring. It was quieter here, the light fading, the shadows lengthening as people strolled, either taking in the last of the day, or heading homewards. The sounds were longer, more attenuated, making it easier to hear the light breeze in the branches, the sudden flight and movement of two wood pigeons. I breathed in the smell of wet dirt coming off the cold grass. I wasn’t ready for a big talk about life, or what I learned from Trevor. In fact, I felt fairly calm now, the soothing bath and his relaxed attitude in the face of my anxiety resetting the levels. I knew we’d get there, I knew it’d be weird. It was already. But it was time to accept where we were and what needed to happen. I didn’t want to undo the magic, but magic has to be guarded and protected, and if we were going to have this, whatever the hell it was, we needed to make sure we were there for each other. Anyway, I had a plan for tonight. Me—calling the shots. Maybe Tristan was right. It was the air over here or something. But I couldn’t do the sub thing happily unless I was sure that it was a choice, not a rut. Something we could pop in and out of when we wanted. When I needed it. When he needed it. Maybe I just didn’t want to be a trendy lifestyle. I wanted that head space and going under control to mean something.

  When I finally got to Selfridges, the huge and beautiful department store, where I intended on spending some of Dave’s walking around money, it was already dark, and the lights were glittering on the windows, and the whole building was a big present, wrapped up brightly against the night sky and the street lights. It was the best place to shop in London. I wasn’t a big fan of Harvey Nichols—too snooty, and Harrods was for tourists. I went straight to the men’s department, and found what I wanted, with a little help from the salesman, who seemed to warm to my quest with a few dropped hints as to who it might be for. Paul Smith fit the bill, even if the price made me stutter. But I left as the store was closing, happily swinging one of the iconic yellow bags, and managed to find a cab with its light on. Heading down Oxford Street, with the driver teasing me about what I’d bought, and shouldn’t I be thinking of spring now, and asking me where I was from and why I’d left, with Radio London a quiet murmur of news in the background, I didn’t think I could ever be happier than I was right then.

  We turned up past Euston Station, heading up to Camden. It was a street of B&B accommodations, council flats, a stripper bar. It hadn’t been that long ago that I’d been living in a place not a lot better, and had come down here to visit a friend living in one of the bedsits. Against the backdrop of ugly green paint and a gas fire that took ten pence pieces far too often, we sat on cushions on the floor and fixed the world. We’d had beans on toast and a couple of cans of lager, and it wasn’t paradise, but we were warm and safe. Now I was speeding up the road, having spent what used to be my rent on a present for my rock star—what? Boyfriend? I didn’t know what he was. But I didn’t want to forget what I’d been through to get here. What I’d rejected, what I’d chosen.

  The cab pulled up by Camden Lock, and I got out, and paid the driver. He waved as he drove off, and screeched to a halt a hundred feet away to pick up another fare. I watched as five girls, all in amazingly short skirts and high heels squealed their way in. I laughed at both of us—their eagerness and mine. But maybe I’d finally figured out there was more than one way to live. I walked away from the road, stepping on the uneven cobblestones. The shops were either closed, or shutting up, but there were still a lot of people around. I tried to slip through them, invisibly, realizing that my bright yellow Selfridges bag didn’t really fit in here, too much of a class marker, drawing attention to me. It was all right. I planned on losing the bag in a little while anyway.

  I found the big wooden door, and showed the bouncer my pass. He let me in right away. My heartbeat sped up as I pushed through the inner door, and confirmed that the rumble of amplified voice speaking that I could hear as I came in was Tristan. He was being interviewed by a DJ for a show that was going to go out when the album was released. I knew Tristan had approved the guy in advance, one of the long-standing people at the station who had interviewed the band right at the beginning, had always been a good person¸ not asking asshole questions just to get a hot quote. I stood at the back and watched. It wasn’t full—just some people from the station, some of the execs, some invites, a
nd winners from the radio station’s competition to find the biggest fan. Christ, I thought, I should really interview some of these people. Maybe I could ask a few questions later. I didn’t feel like interrupting the whole thing with a lot of intrusive questions. And Tristan had said he’d play and do the interview, but he wanted it to be intimate—just some fans, unlike the big show tomorrow, which was going to be taped as well, but it was a proper concert—electric guitar, lights, special guests, friends of the record company, the whole thing. This was a little different.

  He was sitting on a little school chair, a mike on a bent stand in front of him, an acoustic guitar sitting comfortably on his thighs, his left hand wrapped around the neck with alarming ease. It was only next to objects that you could really get a sense of how big he was, otherwise he only looked perfectly proportioned, maybe a bit taller. He was laughing now, answering a question on how the recording had gone, and did he ever miss Devised? Tristan fielded the question like the pro he was, making a quick joke about never missing trouble, laughing darkly, his hand going to the back of his neck, pulling at his shirt, exposing more cream colored skin, then going into specs and the guitarist he had on board for one song, how lucky and grateful he was to be able to work with people who really loved their craft. He said so many of the tropes of the successful rock interview, but he managed to make the answer sound new, like he’d really just thought of it, and what a good question it was.

  I watched them go back and forth for a couple of minutes, the camera guy moving in front of them, trying for different angles. Then the interviewer asked him if he was ready to do a song. Tristan smiled, then looked around. I didn’t know how I knew, but I felt like that was my cue to step up, be there for him. Except there was no way I could run to the front holding a big bourgeois shopping bag. So I grabbed the small tissue paper wrapped bundle inside, and stuffed it down my jacket and zipped it back up, kicking the bag back to the wall. And I started to make my way down front, trying to be polite, but moving people out of the way when I needed to get in front of them. And when I was about ten feet from the stage, I looked up. There he was, his eyes locked with mine, a small smile on his face. In about two seconds, people were going to notice the look on his face wasn’t some distant appreciation of the crowd. So I wasn’t prepared for Tristan giving me a wink, and running his hand through his messy dark hair, a small smile, like an invitation to crawl up there. I wanted to blow him a kiss. Anything involving blowing actually would do just fine. I made a half-hearted attempt to look somewhat less dazed, figuring anyone who was looking had already seen my giant ridiculous smile. But when Tristan raised his arm to the air, and brought it down hard for the first chord, I wasn’t the only one who was holding their breath. He didn’t usually do this, accompany himself while he sang. He had always said he wrote everything on guitar, but had never taken the time to really learn how to play properly. He wasn’t an expert, but there was a certain raw quality to the chords and the way they fit into the rhythm he was building up with his voice, chopping along the beat, over it, next to it, on it suddenly with a feeling that you’d locked in and fit. Who could explain what made someone have something? But with his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands pulling out the notes, we were all watching a genius at work. He just knew where the notes should go, and he was so clearly getting off on the whole thing, his voice soft, then gritty, ripping through his throat. It was magic, and no one was breathing.

  There was a beat of silence when he’d finished, like everyone was trying to figure out where they were and what they were supposed to do, and then the place erupted with shouts and applause. And Tristan sat there, on his chair, and waved, and looked so happy and pleased I understood why Trevor had committed himself to the task of saving him. And I made up my mind that I would do everything I could to make him happy, and when it ended, as it was bound to, I’d just feel fucking lucky that I’d had any part of him in my life. And when I decided that, I took my first deep breath in days, and everything slowed down—just a little, just enough. I was in love. And damn, I had chosen a fucking special person to lose it all over. Nothing was forever.

  The interview was winding up and they were now standing, hugging. Tristan went around to all the sound engineers, the camera guy and thanked them, shook their hands, posed for some phone pictures. He was smiling, his hands gesturing in the air as he spoke to each person. Then to everyone’s delight, he hopped off the stage, and signed autographs and posed for more pictures with fans. I stayed close, just enough to hear him talking to people, coaxing forward the shy ones, agreeing to pose for one more photo when the first one didn’t come out right. He was calm, endlessly patient, very polite. It didn’t seem like an act. Watching him sign over and over again, make a rock and roll face in between two fans, move on to the next one, never rushing anyone, never looking nervous despite the fact he was surrounded. I took a couple of pictures with my phone. This side of him needed to be written about—even if it didn’t really jibe with the dark sex god. Maybe that was good. Or maybe people wouldn’t be able to handle the complexity. Figuring out the public. Good to think about, but not for too long. Some of it had to be spontaneous, based on instinct, not design. Otherwise it felt too cold.

  He spotted me, in the middle of one of my phone pictures, and waved. No one noticed—they were too busy thrusting things at him to sign. But it was winding down, the radio people were beginning to pack up, and a big man I hadn’t ever seen before was coming forward, a light touch on Tristan’s shoulder, which he acknowledged with a nod. “Thank you all so much for being here tonight!” Then he let the man put his arm around him, and guide him through the crowd, being a little more forceful than Tristan would have been on his own. I followed them, keeping my distance, but also keeping an eye on where they were headed. They went through a door to the back, and a minute or so later, I was there, showing my laminate to the guy by the door, who examined it minutely, looked me up and down, eyeing the bulge in my leather jacket, and finally letting me in. Tristan was standing by one of the metal pillars that were scattered through the room, drinking from a little bottle of water, chatting to the man who I supposed must be a bodyguard. I walked up, slowly, a little unsure of how I was supposed to act.

  Tristan caught sight of me and waved me over. “Lily, there you are. Did you see the interview? I think it went well. Didn’t you? Decent questions. Nice crowd. Guitar playing—hey!” His words came out in a rush, and he seemed incredibly wired. “Have you met Rick? No? Rick, Lily, Lily, meet Rick. He’s my fixer—he does everything—really.” He smiled and punched Rick in the arm with a big flourish. Tristan was taller than he was by a few inches, but Rick gave off a feeling of being grounded, the way trees are, and had a slightly dangerous air beneath his easy smile.

  Rick said hello to me and we shook hands, mine disappearing in his. “Murderer’s thumbs, I’ve got,” he said amicably, “but don’t worry Lily love! They look worse than they are.” I examined his hand over mine for a moment, and tried to laugh.

  Tristan spoke up, his voice still fast and jagged. “I’ve known Rick forever,” he said. “Since the Devised days. You should talk to him. He’ll tell you the truth. The real dirt. No. No, he won’t.” Tristan laughed. “He never says a word, that’s why he’s brilliant.” He put his hand on both our shoulders for a moment, and then excused himself.

  I was left alone in the makeshift green room with this man, who looked me up and down, then smiled. “So you’re Lily Taylor, the writer,” Rick said. “I’ve read some of your stuff. It’s good.” I thanked him, but he waved me off. “You’re writing about Tristan now? He’s a good man he is. Has always treated me right. Keeps his enemies close, but his friends closer, you know what I mean? His only trouble, is he tries to do things alone, when he needs help. I keep telling him to move over here, we’ll look after him.” I raised my eyebrows, and was about to say something, but he kept going. “California. No. He didn’t know the right people out there. Come back, mate, I’d say. And he did for a
while. Got himself straightened out, now look. Going to be a success again. But you never know what they’re going to do. I’ve worked for a lot of people. You just never know.”

  I nodded. “It seems like he has had people who wanted to…” Here I stumbled. I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to admit I knew? “He hasn’t had an easy time of it.”

  Rick shrugged. “No. Sort out what I can. Some things…some things you can’t tell the boss, you know what I mean?”

  I thought I did know. “Rick, are you his bodyguard while he’s here?”

  “I’m everything! You heard the man.” He laughed. “Why, have you got a problem?”

  “I want to take him on a walk. Do you need to follow behind us, or something? Should I let you know where we are going?” I quickly tried to think of where I wanted us to go. Parliament Hill. Walking by the Thames past the Tate. Holland Park. Back to Primrose Hill. Victoria Park. No, we’d only get a chance at one. The Thames. Something about the water. Soothing. “I’d like to walk with him down by the Tate. Can we all go in a cab? I’ve got something…”

  Tristan came out and interrupted. He still seemed wired, but a little bit calmer. “What’s this? Sightseeing? A walk. What do you think Rick? Can we do this? With everything going on?”

  I snapped my head around to look at him. “What’s going on?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Just the usual. Nothing to worry about.” Hearing him say that made me worry more than before.

  “Look!” I suddenly remembered. I unzipped my jacket, and pulled out the bundle of tissue paper wrapped items and held it out. It wasn’t how I’d planned to give it to him, but needs must. “Remember we talked about sneaking out? Knowing London? Needing a hat? Here.” I thrust it at him. “These are for you.” I could see Rick examining me out of the corner of my eye. There was no point pretending. I looked at him, and smiled, and quickly returned to watch Tristan unwrapping his gift. He pulled them out. There was a long striped Paul Smith woolen scarf, and a simple grey hat, with a few stripes on them to match the scarf, but not too much. Before he could say anything, I jumped in. “You can wear them, cover your face, make it harder for people to tell who you are. Then we can go out by the Thames. Rick can come too.” Tristan was wrapping the scarf around his neck, slowly. “Say you will.”