Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  The prick officer didn't realize I often went to the orchard down the road from our old country home and grabbed fruit because it was one of the ways I was feeding Jane and I. That's what I got for acting the delinquent. A guy has a few barking dogs and a stereo that'll push the windows off the house a mile away, and the neighbors that don't like it sell him down the river. I thought for sure when the last record took off we'd soon have money in our pockets.

  Idiots never learn.

  The assholes at the police station were more ridiculous than the ones who'd brought me in. The laughter of the prick officers made me jump toward them while screaming my bloody head off. "Have you ever paid for one of my records? Do you know what happened to that little bit of cash you spent? Do you know how much I got? The band should've gotten thirty pence for every pound you forked over; instead, we were lucky to get a bob. You call yourselves officers of the law, so put that power to use. Go after that yob who's been double and triple dipping. So much was skimmed off the top and pulled from the bottom that there were no royalties to be paid. I stole from my old neighbor's yard just to eat." The cops froze. Their smiles faded as they realized I was completely serious. My head dropped to my grumbling stomach. "If I go to jail and miss my dates, Jane's screwed."

  From across the room, the cop who read me the riot act earlier got up from his desk and dragged me back to my seat. "Mr. Lane, you've been released. However, I strongly suggest that you speak of this to no one."

  Only a fool would believe that I was being let off. This whole incident was a threat, telling me to shut up. I was more screwed than ever.

  A few days later, the boys and I were called into Gordon's office. "Boys, I've got some bad news and some rather good news. 'Together With You' just hit the top forty on the American charts."

  "We—We broke America?"

  No. Really?

  Dear God, we finally broke America!

  "The bad news is those Beatles are killing the industry with that Sgt. Pepper. No one wants pop anymore. We're left with two options; put an end to Love Machine or try to give the kids something different. What do you say, boys? How about we give you a little creative leeway? I've got a nice little bonus for you if you can start tomorrow. When all is said and done, we'll shoot you off to America."

  I don't know who was more foolish, that idiot for not seeing the light of day sooner or us for agreeing to his mad realizations. Regardless, we finally had creative control. I was on top of the blooming world.

  Boris the Spider

  The golden glow of dawn breaks through the clouds as my car whooshes down the freeway. The exit for Niles's office approaches and I crane my neck in his direction. Thanks to another bout of insomnia, last night Google Maps served as this lazy stalker's greatest tool. The night would have been entirely sleepless had Peter not appeared. How is it that when he pops in, my body gets tied up in tingles and then I relax into blissful sleep?

  My Mustang bounces as it hits the gravely pavement of work's driveway. For a Wednesday morning the lot in front of the mammoth building of steel and brick is surprisingly barren.

  With each step toward the door I notice the rise and fall of my body, my hair bouncing in tandem. Days after our most recent date I'm more on a cloud than ever over Niles.

  The front door flies open from barely a touch. I seem to have developed superhuman strength. How happy am I?

  My fingers dance with a wave to greet Darla, who's already comfortably behind her reception desk and likely on her second cup of coffee. My cheeks almost hurt from the size of my smile. I expect Darla to wave back. Instead her hands smack onto the desk. "You are so not going to believe what Oliver did!"

  Lord! With those two it could be anything.

  "He gave me a present today." False sweetness drips from her voice. This is going to be bad, and by bad I mean ridiculous. Darla pulls out a grey plastic bag and extracts a Barbie-doll type figure dressed in a red jumpsuit. Jetting out from her back are four brown, sharply arched spears capped with single talons. Darla pulls out another piece with four of the same appendages and attaches it, then smacks the thing down on its front. I stare at the plastic girl with giant breasts and spindly legs growing out her back—spindly tarantula legs!

  "What the hell is that?" shrieks out of me.

  "Great question. I found the bag on my desk today. Clearly this is Oliver's revenge for me Krazy gluing his pens together."

  I try to shake off the jitters the freaky thing gives me and catch sight of a bouquet of flowers on Darla's credenza. "Wow! Are those from the new boyfriend?"

  "They came with the doll." She sounds embarrassed. I give her a look asking why until she stops being humble and fesses up. "A few days ago, his ex came here complaining about some random thing. Just as she was about to totally flip out I paged Oliver into a meeting. I then calmed her down by taking her into the break room for some coffee right as the warehouse guys were going in. We sat next to Charlie Lewis, who happens to be single. You can fill in the blanks from there."

  "Look at you being all sly. Darla, you're brilliant!"

  "Nah, it's just that no one really wants to be setup. It's best to let people find the magic on their own."

  I love that sentiment. The world needs more magic. "The flowers were really sweet, but why would Oliver give you Arachnid Woman? Seriously, what is it with you two?"

  Darla's smile of resignation also reeks of gratitude. "Oliver seems to be the only one who gets that I deserve better than being trapped at this desk. He's trying to get me a job in sales with him, but since I don't have a degree it seems to be a losing battle. Meanwhile, we antagonize each other so we can laugh despite our real issues." The doll gets tossed into her purse.

  "Hey, Rosalyn," the plant manager calls from behind as he heads through the lobby and out the door. "I dropped off my share of the files for those promotions. There was no room on your desk, so I dumped them on the floor. Thanks."

  With a whimper I head off to Hell.

  The Threat

  February 1968

  Finally, an American tour!

  In a hotel parking garage on a freezing, New York winter morning, Jane and I walked hand-in-hand to our rental car. We were eager to get in as much private sightseeing as we could before heading off for the show. When I reached down to open her door our road manager ran up and handed me a note with an address. "Mr. Gordon wants you to meet with his American representatives first thing this morning. He said to bring the little lady." I glared at him regarding his use of words. His hands went up. "Gordon's words, not mine."

  With all the traffic, it took us nearly an hour to get to the address that was merely a few blocks away. When we finally arrived we found ourselves in front of an Italian deli. A free meal seemed right by me.

  Nearly the moment I stepped inside a tall man who reminded me of a bulldozer in a suit recognized me. He guided Jane and I to an office in the back where we were asked to take seats in front of a barren desk. The room felt like a hospital version of a business—sparse, sterile, cold, windowless, and not at all inviting.

  Another bulldozer strolled in and stood behind us, next to the man who had shown us in. Suddenly everything about the situation felt disturbing. Two meatballs with legs entered—really big guys who ate too many salami sandwiches and cannoli. Their designer suits were perfectly pressed and just stylish enough to make them exude importance but not be flashy. However, it was their pristine shoes that told the real story. The guys behind me though, the ones in the suits made a little loose for fighting, their shoes told a different tale. Highly polished loafers with scuffmarks complemented their scraped knuckles.

  The two pristine meatballs sat behind the desk. Meatball One spoke as number two's eyes stayed locked on me. "Mr. Lane. Mrs. Lane. Welcome to the lovely state of New York. Do you know why we have called this meeting?"

  "Mr. Gordon said you are overseeing the tour."

  Meatball One smirked at Jane before returning his sights to me. "Do you know who I am, s
on?"

  "No, sir. Mr. Gordon only said you are a colleague." Truthfully, I didn't know, but the condescending use of the word son and the company surrounding us was adding up to something sinister.

  One of the guys from behind bent down and whispered, "Take a look again. I'm sure you have seen Mr. Suino along with his associate, Mr. Manzo, in the papers for their charitable work."

  Charitable work, my arse. Of course I knew the names. Those men represented the two biggest crime families in the world. The only thing charitable they ever did was let people spend their lives in fear while running and hiding like hunted rabbits instead of offing them. I was screwed.

  "We'll keep this simple," Meatball Suino said. "I'll be overseeing your affairs on the behalf of your manager, Mr. Gordon, while you enjoy your stay in America. I trust that so far the accommodations have been to your liking." A pause was given as if he had posed a question, not a statement.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Excellent!" He rubbed his hands together with the enthusiasm of a young scout eager to start a fire. "Now, about that album you're here to promote. I'm aware my associates over in your neck of the woods allowed you a bit of what you call creative control this go round, but let's not be hasty." His chubby fingers slapped a copy of the American version of our latest album, Deep Trance, onto the desk. The cover, designed by London's most innovative artist, was an eye-catching piece of art. "This album. It's good, but we don't really care much about that. What we care about are sales. I showed it to my fourteen-year-old daughter, and she said she wouldn't ask me to buy it for her because she didn't like the cover." With a single finger he slid the record toward me. All the while he was honed in on my impending reaction. "Don't you worry though. We worked out a deal a few weeks ago to use a photo from the same shoot as the last cover. It's one where your ugly mugs the teens find so attractive can get all girlie-like over and will want to throw cash at. That is, if that's okay with you." Again he paused.

  It certainly wasn't! This was just a way to intimidate us, to show the band that we really had no control at all, yet I was without options. "It is fine, sir."

  "You seem a little hesitant, Mr. Lane. Fortunately our team of artists have joined us today." He nodded to the muscle behind me. "Would you like a private meeting with them?"

  In the silence, Jane's eyes screamed at me not to get cheeky. I shook my head. "No, sir. I see your point. Thank you." Damn! This was far worse than in England. I had such high hopes for America.

  Meatball Manzo leaned onto the desk, and the muscle behind me nudged closer. "You will not discuss this issue with anyone. Not even each other, capisce?" His eyes flicked between Jane and I. The poor girl was scared rigid.

  "Yes, sir." My eyes darted to Jane and begged her to agree.

  She looked to both gentlemen and sharply nodded. "Yes, sirs." Her eyes then flipped to the guy behind me. She was absolutely terrified because he was reaching his hand into his coat like he was about to pistol-whip me to emphasize their point.

  Meatball Suino looked to his goons. Though they stepped back, the sense of danger accompanying them remained hot on my back. "I've enjoyed our little chat. We hope you enjoy your stay."

  Jane and I went on with our day. We tried to soak in the sights of New York and forget about what happened. When we returned from the show that night we were certain to wait outside of the parking garage until others arrived. There was no way that we were foolish enough to get caught alone again. A sleepless night followed for us both, but Jane was so deeply shaken that it was only the beginning of many to come.

  The next morning, my nervous jitters caused me to cut my chin while shaving. The jab of the blade seemed to release a part of my aggressions. I continued on while almost hoping for more pain. When I failed to cut myself again I bit down on my tongue. The pain helped clear my head. Upon exiting the loo, I found an album with the rejected cover had been slid under my door. Since it was the result of a test print only a few had been made. I didn't need to be a genius to know it was the one I had seen the day before and that it was put there as a reminder to behave.

  Jane walked up and set her suitcase by the door in preparation to catch the tour bus. I questioned if I dared get Jane out of there and go on to the next stop in the rental car, or if us leaving on our own would cause a new set of problems. A drop of blood from the cut on my chin hit the album, and a chill rattled my spine. I felt I'd just witnessed an omen. The album was cast aside. "Let's go."

  "But the bus doesn't leave for nearly thirty—"

  "I'm taking you to the airport. I'll meet with the bus later."

  In a flash, my toiletries were in my bag and we were heading out. "Don't you want this?" she asked of the album.

  Indeed I did want it. It was the only work we had ever done that was a reflection of our true selves, but it had become nothing more than a reminder of the mess we'd been through. "It's rubbish. Leave it."

  "Peter, you'll regret it later. You may not get another."

  "No. It's rubbish." I grabbed the pen I always kept handy for autographs and signed the bloody thing before tossing it in the bin with the other trash. "That's the only version of us I will ever endorse. Maybe some fan will find it, and one person will get to experience the real Love Machine. Let's go."

  Up in Her Room

  Niles and I lie on my bed in a heated, nearly animalistic, display of desire. Take a risk, my inner voice encourages. Start caving to your emotions.

  Our tongues dance during tender, unrushed kisses while his hand glides up my arm oh-so-gently. The lack of pressure to surrender over my goods is turning my hormones into creamy butter and nearly has me begging for him to take me.

  His lips venture down my neck, his breath hitting the sweet spot that always makes me ooze when it is tickled by a gentle kiss. My arousal intensifies and causes my grip on him to tighten, but to my heart the passion feels … bland. Whenever Joe did that, love charged its way through me, and my heart would cave to his embrace. With Niles, my hormones are flying into a clenching frenzy that makes me want to pounce on him, but my should-be-buckling knees are stable and unyielding. Niles may not be super-charging my heart, but as his hand slides down my side and lands on the curve of my waist with such a firm yet delicate touch, I'll soon need to shed my underwear.

  My breath turns baited as he pulls me in tighter. His fingers dig into my back just enough to thrill me. A wild need for him inside me overcomes, and I race to get his shirt unbuttoned. My hands slide up his warm, tight chest and then …

  Then I stop and cover my halting with a kiss, because for the first time ever making love with a guy would just be sex to me.

  He shifts as his lips meet mine again, and the bulge in his pants hits me oh so perfectly. The sensation is so good that I nearly gasp. Oh, yes, just sex would be wonderful, thank you. His hand slides up my arm and the staleness from before creeps back in. I don't get it.

  Uncertainty dissipates, and undying love glows its way on to me and makes my heart feel like roses are blooming out from inside. My head flies back as Niles's lips touch the same spot as before. However, unlike the energizing sensation in my arm the kisses to my neck fall flat.

  My eyes open and capture Peter standing beside us with his hand overlaying that of Niles. With a little wink Peter joins Niles on top of me. Niles shifts uncomfortably before resuming his work on my neck with his lips shadowed by Peter's. Everything about me goes haywire, and my heart turns into a magnetic field of passion that draws Peter in.

  Niles slides his hand down my blouse. Peter shadows his actions in a twisted ménage a trois—Niles making technically perfect moves, Peter charging them with high doses of love, and me hating myself for allowing this moment. Oh God, how I want more.

  I guide Niles's hand to the buttons on my blouse and his eyes lock on to mine, expressing hesitation as if he's divided between doing the gentlemanly thing by asking the lady if she is sure and going for the lay like his rock-hard erection is pleading him to do. His desire to shed
my clothes wins, and I respond with a shuddered moan of pleasure. Peter's fingers travel up my thighs, causing my back to arch.

  This is unfair. With my touch to Niles's hands he instantly pulls them away from my buttons. My hands cup his cheeks as my eyes search into his for answers. How can I care so much for him yet I need a ghost to make his touch complete? "It's okay, Rox. I'm fine with stopping."

  "Niles, look at me. I need a moment of nothing but us." Peter sits and rests his non-existent hips on mine. My eyes hone in on those of Niles. I am open to love. I get it from Peter and it's yanking me towards Niles, yet I can't get a read on what emotions Niles has. "Niles, I need you to kiss me and show me how you really feel about me."

  What the hell just happened?

  I went from normal kisses, to sudden discomfort, to … to feeling strangely whole. Now that's gone and she wants me to show her emotion. This is bad.

  Okay, just give it a go with the best kiss you can possibly muster and maybe it will pass. Else the jig is up.

  My heart races in fear as my thumb traces her lower lip, baiting it as I moisten mine. All the while my eyes don't leave hers. I draw myself near and touch our lips together, softly at first and then slowly allowing the pressure to build. Gently my tongue begins exploring. Please, Lord, let me pull this off.

  Niles has me swooning over his flawless kiss—so tender and luscious, yet it fails to enrapture. Still, when he pulls away I draw his lips back onto mine. He lets out a nearly indiscernible sigh of relief as we begin another kiss. Warmth flows over me again, and the embrace grows passionate. Peter is back.

  My flesh may no longer exist, but I can still show Jane love. If this is what it takes, then so be it—though I find it rather nasty to be here while this guy does the deed with my lady. Maybe if I continue long enough, I'll have proven a point and she will stop this madness. After all, she's got enough battery power in that toy drawer of hers to start a car. Between that and me it should be bloody well enough!