Taking the Lead (Secrets of a Rock Star #1)

by Cecilia Tan

  The silence while he waited for me to ask a question felt oppressive, like I could feel the heavy wood paneling of the office pressing in on us. “Do you think it was Daddy’s fault?”

  He spoke in measured tones, so measured that I knew he was tamping down his emotions. “I believe it was an accident. I believe your father harbored no ill intent toward your mother. If I’d thought for one second that Richard had willfully caused her death, I would have disowned him.”

  “You would?”

  “Absolutely. Your father had a sacred trust to protect her—” He broke off then, suddenly, as if he couldn’t keep his emotions in check any longer. He stood stiffly and handed me the folder.

  I had taken it and fled to my room. And I had read, and re-read, the articles many times. In them I could see what my grandfather had been talking about. The beginnings of hints, the insinuations, but none of the stories had panned out. It didn’t have “legs,” as the expression goes. Probably Cy had paid for influence in some places, too, which might have helped.

  The rift between me and my father had widened then. Because despite what my grandfather had said—that he didn’t believe my father had done anything willfully to harm her—I began to harbor the idea that the accident had been his fault. My father was a walking illustration of irresponsibility. Of course he hadn’t meant for anything to go wrong, but did that mean it wasn’t his fault? Why had they even risked it if death could be the result?

  I imagined my mother as a trusting soul, an innocent woman who had loved her husband completely and put her complete trust in Dad’s hands. Dad, who I loved but who I didn’t even trust to make his own breakfast without shorting out the toaster or burning himself. In my mind I could easily imagine him offering to spice up the film by putting her into rope bondage and botching it somehow …

  This was what I didn’t want to get out in the press and this was what I was so reluctant to tell Axel. It wasn’t just that my mother’s death and family secrets were hard to talk about. It was that I could never give Axel total trust. Even if I wanted to, knowing what I did and the price my mother paid, how could I?

  * * *

  I drove myself to the fashion show from Blue Star’s offices. Nice as it might have been to have a driver limo me everywhere, it simply wasn’t practical. I followed the directions to the theater until the GPS told me, “Destination is on the right.”

  I didn’t see the place yet, but more importantly I did see a sign that said PARKING. In fact, an attendant was waving me in.

  “Is this the parking for the AWESM fundraiser?” I asked him as I lowered the window.

  “Of course,” he said, and directed me to a space.

  When I got out of the car he gave me a ticket to put on the dashboard and then asked for twenty bucks.

  “Do you take credit cards?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am,” he said, and looked expectantly at me.

  That seemed a bit sketchy, and I guess I must have looked skeptical because then he quickly added, “Well, you can go to the front desk and they’ll charge you there, but I have to trust that you’re going to do it.”

  “Front desk?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I realized then that I was in the parking lot of a small motel. The two-story building wrapped around the parking lot and a small, fenced-in swimming pool. Well, hopefully the theater was the next building over. “Okay, hang on, I think I have a twenty.”

  I dug out the cash and gave it to him. As I walked to the theater, though, I suddenly wondered if he was legit. Well, he was wearing a uniform jacket and had a nametag, although I hadn’t noticed what it had said. And he had put an official-looking ticket on my dashboard. The hotel was probably used to making extra money any night there was a show.

  If it was supposed to be a secret that Axel was in the show, it hadn’t stayed secret for long. The buzz at the pre-show reception was a rumor he was going to make a “guest appearance.” It was fascinating to see the word spread. “Well, you know, his manager is the secretary of AWESM,” one of the other VIP donors said to me, as if that confirmed it.

  “Treasurer, actually,” I said. We were standing in the lobby, which was a little too small for a reception, but I suppose that conveniently forced everyone to “rub elbows” literally. “But then why haven’t we seen him? Christina’s over there.” I could see her talking to a caterer about the way he was carrying his tray of wineglasses.

  “Oh, hm.” The woman glanced in that direction, and seemed impressed by my inadvertent name-drop. She sipped from her glass, leaving a fire engine red residue on the rim. “I’m Mandy Tink, by the way. I don’t think we’ve formally met.”

  “Ricki Hamilton.” We each had to move our wineglasses to the other hand to shake, and I instantly liked her when she seemed to agree how ridiculous that was and we laughed a little together.

  “I was at a tech conference a couple of weeks ago in Boston,” she said, “and it’s flu season, so they were telling everyone not to shake hands but instead to do the ‘elbow bump of awesomeness.’ ”

  “How does that even work?”

  “You’re supposed to swagger up to the dude next to you and give a sort of manly gesture like this.” She held her fist up to her chest so that her elbow stuck out to one side, and then she sort of shrugged and thrust her elbow forward. “What’s even more hilarious is that everyone did it. By the second day of the conference it had become totally normal. Which made me say, okay then, why couldn’t we have just made it a ‘handwave of friendliness’ or ‘thumbs up of salutation’ instead? Whatever. I guess it worked.”

  “Are you in tech, then?”

  “Sort of. I’m in content development for a tech site, which means I’m like a producer at a television station, except the video goes directly to your phone or computer.”

  “That’s fascinating. I just started at Blue Star Pictures myself.”

  “Do they have a streaming media division?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. The company’s very focused on traditional feature film development, with some television mini-series and property spinoffs.”

  We exchanged cards just as the lights dimmed to tell us to go into the theater.

  Mandy and I were directed to take VIP seats, which meant in the front row on either side of the runway. There was a program booklet on each chair. I glanced through it. Five designers would be showing. Since Valentine’s Day was this week they were going for a common theme of—you guessed it—“edgy-sexy.” I could see why Sakura was involved and my guess was Christina had roped Axel into it, too.

  A good many of the VIP seats were empty and I looked around for Gwen. She came rushing in just as I was about to call her and sat down next to me, fanning herself. I wondered if she’d parked at the motel, too. “Whew! Made it!”

  I was envious of her ability to look great even when it was obvious she had just run two blocks in heels. No, actually, it was her ability to look great because she had run two blocks in heels. When she had a wisp of hair out of place it looked like a designer had Photoshopped it there on purpose. “They just started letting people in. You’re fine,” I said. “Meet Mandy Tink. Mandy, this is my sister Gwen.”

  They shook hands and started to chat. I excused myself to the restroom, figuring I’d have just enough time before the show started.

  What I went there to do really was text Sakura.

  Did you see where the photographers’ pit is? Right next to me. Tell Axel not to do anything that would land us in the tabloids again.

  I got a text back before I could even wash my hands. Tell him yourself. (I thought you were speaking to him now? Am I wrong?)

  Right. Okay. I texted him, too: Axel. I’m right in the front row. Please be mindful the tabloids will have a field day. I’m right next to some photographers. Don’t attract their attention to me.

  I got back two letters: OK.

  It would have to do. I headed back to my seat with my lipstick refreshed. The lobby was deserted
now except for two caterers who were folding up the hors d’oeuvres table. Inside, half the seats were still empty. I wondered if they’d made their fundraising goal. You’re not in charge of this event, Ricki, I reminded myself.

  The lights dimmed again as I sat down, but then another few minutes went by before the emcee came on stage. She was a tall woman in a top hat and tails but the first person she introduced was the president of AWESM, a woman who didn’t know how to talk into a microphone and who promptly began a somewhat rambling recap of the organization’s activities of the previous year, then haphazardly thanked various members, went into a few side tangents about some of them … or maybe they weren’t tangents, but it was hard to tell because she seemed to have forgotten why she was up there. My mind wandered and I resisted the urge to check my e-mail on my phone.

  Eventually she was ushered off the stage to polite applause, though, and the show began. Music began to pump and as each model marched down the runway—pausing every so often to turn and let the photographers catch poses—the emcee would describe various elements of the outfit: what it was made of, the technique or style, notes about the designer, and so on. The first designer had a lot of dresses that looked flamboyant and interesting but I didn’t really think any of them would be practical to actually wear anywhere.

  The second one was actually doing lingerie, which at least was meant not to be practical. The third seemed to have mostly business wear for men and women but the outfits had subtle chain accents. Yes, chains, which you might not think meant anything unless you were looking for a meaning? Edgy without being revealing.

  Then there was an intermission, during which volunteers went through the audience selling raffle tickets. Gwen and I each bought a strip and then went back to chatting with Mandy. Gwen was telling her about her theater classes in college. I wondered if she was ever going to actually get serious about acting. Ultimately it was going to be up to her. We certainly had the connections and she certainly had the looks and talent. I didn’t understand that urge, that desire to get up in front of people and have them all look at you. Gwen thrived on it, though, and even if it wasn’t what I wanted for myself, I’d do anything she wanted to help her reach her goals. She just had to figure out what those goals were, first.

  “I don’t think I’ve even had a chance to tell Ricki yet,” Gwen was saying to Mandy.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I’m going to an audition! Oh, I’ll tell you later.” She made a shushing motion as the lights went down for the second half of the show.

  I felt a prickle of nerves. The next designer’s collection was entirely corsets, which was unexpectedly fascinating. The first model wore a kind of Wild West showgirl outfit, in sepia and brown, as if she were stepping out of an old photograph, while the emcee described a little about the history of the corset. I’d always thought of them as a Victorian thing and hadn’t known they went back further than that. Apparently it was Catherine de Medici who brought them into the French court in the 1500s and made them all the rage. Back then the effect wasn’t so much about slimming the waist as pushing the breasts up, wouldn’t you know it. One model came out showing a “wasp waist” in a corset of molded black leather with giant translucent insect wings on her back.

  Most of the ones after that were simply beautiful, though, including some designed for men. Fine brocaded fabrics, embroidered silk, velvet. The finale was a bridal gown and four bridesmaids, each showing a very similar corset style but with different treatments of the dress underneath, in different lengths and shapes of skirts and sleeves, elegant yet edgy at the same time.

  Then came the final designer, listed as “Dare2BDiff,” who the emcee explained were two partners, Dara and Difford, who were “taking fetish fashion design to a whole new level!” A guitar chord tore through the sound system then and I recognized the song. I’d almost forgotten the whole business about Axel’s “guest appearance.”

  Sakura was the first one through the curtain, in a latex dress that made my jaw drop. For one thing, it made her look like she had lost fifteen pounds overnight. For another, it was a recreation of a classic evening gown style: except it was all smooth, shiny, curvy latex. Sakura had an unlit cigarette on the end of a holder in one hand and a tiny clutch purse in the other. She clearly knew how to work a runway, too. She didn’t just walk—or even strut—she somehow drew everyone’s attention to her even when what she was doing was pretending to look for something in the purse. She was an icon of elegance. She handed the cigarette holder to one of the photographers who, mesmerized, had forgotten to keep taking photos, and said something to him, after which he began snapping away again. When she had gone all the way to the end and then had made her way back to the circular stage at the middle, she pulled a lipstick from the clutch purse and reapplied it while looking into the purse: it must have had a makeup mirror built in.

  Then she smirked wickedly and wrote in lipstick across her chest and down her front “Sex? Wear Your Rubber” provoking laughter from the audience.

  She was just a warmup, though, for what was to come. A parade of models in all variety of outfits followed—many with intricate, artful rope arrangements as part of what they were wearing. I suppose that followed the fashion show rule of “not practical for everyday wear,” unless you had a macramé expert helping you get dressed.

  Then suddenly Sakura burst out from behind the curtain in a 1940s gangster gun moll style outfit—also made of latex—complete with a fake “tommy gun.” She gestured to unseen accomplices behind her, and six more women, similarly dressed, carried out a body bag. While we were watching them make their way to the center stage someone had put a chair there and a single light was shining down on it from overhead. Some kind of kidnapping-interrogation scenario?

  They laid the bag down. Sakura knelt daintily—a skillful move in a skirt that tight and with boots like those—and unzipped the bag, then pulled Axel up by a fistful of blond-streaked hair. There were a few gasps and excited chirps from the audience, which made my own sudden rise in temperature and the skip of my heart even worse. He was recognizable even with some kind of gag strapped in his mouth and a strip of black cloth tied over his eyes.

  When they put him into the chair we could see his entire body was bound in rope. No, not just rope: rope art, crisscrossed with artful knots and designs. The others retreated, taking the empty bag with them, and Sakura vamped for a bit, running her hand under Axel’s chin, then removing the gag. She ran her hands over his cheeks and then made him suck on one of her fingers. I was as entranced as the rest of the audience. She circled him as she unwound the blindfold and then slapped him across the face. She really smacked him, too. Maybe it was intended to be a theatrical slap but I heard her make contact, even over the raucous music.

  Axel grinned. If he was supposed to be playing the part of victim, he’d forgotten.

  Sakura pulled him to his feet by his hair and gave him a matching slap on the ass, prompting a giddy-sounding “Ow!” from Axel and laughs from the crowd. I covered my mouth with my hand, trying not to laugh too hard myself. They were clearly having fun and their playfulness was infectious. It didn’t feel like I was watching a sex scene, more like two friends were playing a round of charades.

  Then Sakura pulled a knife from her boot and held it up menacingly. There was an audible “ooooh” from the audience as she waved it in sinuous curves in the air. She went around behind Axel and snip-snip-snip, the ropes magically fell away to reveal the outfit he was wearing underneath. It appeared to be styled as a sort of suit, almost military-looking, with leather accents along the lapels and tastefully placed studs. Sexy. Sultry. Powerful. I know I wasn’t the only one there whose jaw dropped but I think I probably had a better reason for a strong physical reaction to the sight of him. My thighs clenched.

  Axel did a turn in place while the volume of the music went up even more. I suppose Sakura left the stage with the chair but in my mind they simply disappeared as a set of footlights came up on
Axel, my eyes and my mind focused entirely on him. Many in the room were transfixed. If I thought Sakura was magnetic, Axel was on a whole other level. It probably helped that he was one of the few men in a room full of mostly heterosexual women, and also that he was the “name” guest celebrity, but he also knew how to work a crowd. He stalked along the very edge of the stage, making flirty eye contact with individuals, posing, popping his lapels, running his hand through his hair. When he got to the very end of the runway he made a show of undoing a button. One button! When he shrugged the jacket back off his shoulders women screamed. I was as caught up as the rest of them. He slung it over one shoulder and began working his way back up the runway, taking his time. Every phone camera in the place was out by that point, and he seemed to take a moment to glance at each one as he went. At the rate he was going he was going to make eye contact with every woman in the place.

  Except me. I felt a sudden stab of disappointment as he winked at Mandy Tink but breezed past me and Gwen, draping the jacket over the head of the same photographer Sakura had given her cigarette holder to earlier before continuing toward the curtain. He took another turn at the center section, showing off the sleeveless skin-tight PVC shirt, crisscrossed with strips of embedded leather and studs. His muscles shone with sweat in the lights and the tail of the dragon that showed on his upper arm seemed almost a part of the outfit. He took a few steps in my direction and I had the sudden, nonsensical hope that he was going to give me a look or a wink, but no, he was grabbing the jacket from the photographer.

  And then, with a last wave to the now-screaming crowd, he disappeared through the curtain. I caught my breath. Quit it, Ricki, I thought. He did what you asked. You told him to ignore you.

  He was back a moment later, first to take the group bow with Dara and Diff and their whole group of models, and then for the final walk for everyone in one huge parade. They stuck with music of Axel’s band for the good-bye walk. I was no longer absorbing anything the emcee was saying. My eyes were glued on Axel.