Access Unlimited

by Alice Severin

  “He’s one of us now,” AC grinned. “See? He’s dazed. Sure sign of the undead. Or something.”

  Tristan sat up, legs bent, sitting back on AC’s ankles. “You’re such a prat.” He had his hands in his lap.

  AC, however, did not. He stretched back, and crossed his arms behind his head. It only made what was very obvious even more so. I giggled.

  Tristan frowned, and climbed off his legs. “My god, AC, you’re such a show-off.”

  AC smiled. “I do love an audience.” He glanced over at me, then turned back to Tristan. “And you’re a natural performer.” He paused for effect. “Or so I’ve been told. Might pass the time for Lily here. Beats buzzards.”

  Tristan laughed, but he didn’t say anything, just grabbed the bottle of champagne we’d opened and poured each of us another glass.

  I watched. But nothing happened. And the rest of the ride was very quiet.

  chapter eighteen

  Dallas

  The concert was going pretty well, all things considered. With everyone suffering from some kind of ailment—colds, stomach problems made worse through no sleep and drink, to a sprained ankle the drummer had gotten when his foot caught on the steps leading down from the stage, and that was now taped up, the professionalism was really starting to kick in. They sounded tight. Problems in the songs were getting worked out. Timings were even more exact. The bassist, to his credit, was playing really well tonight, and even attempted some onstage interaction, walking around to each member, during a small bass line prominent in one of the middle eight sections. He stopped at Tristan and AC. AC had been standing slightly behind Tristan, almost looking over his shoulder at him. The bass player inclined his head slightly, and AC shrugged, and then smiled, playing a little flurry of notes to compliment the bass line. Tristan just stood there, legs apart, the microphone swallowed up like a toy in his hand. They stood there, facing each other, for a moment. I doubt anyone noticed. Then Tristan raised his arm for the beat to begin the chorus, and he gave a brief nod to the bassist, before starting on the lyric. It was as close to an apology as anyone was going to get.

  Tristan stayed there for a moment, both hands clutching the microphone, the dark head bent over, hair covering his face, the veins sticking out in his neck with the effort, the passion he was putting into the lyric, before he came forward, leaning into the crowd, the shrieks increasing in volume every time he moved closer to a new group. It was stupid, it was cliché, it was predictable—and it worked. The same way a kiss works, even though you know what’s going to happen. The same way coffee wakes you up in the morning, even though you’ve had it before. The same with any ritual. The structure is always the same. The passion behind it creates the power. The emotions on the faces in the crowd, their energy as they pushed forward, trying to get closer to their hero, their imaginary lover, their idol, their secret dream, were enough to keep the spark going. That’s what made every night different. Everyone in the audience, everyone in the band, all came in with their issues, their fears, their hopes—and the outcome of the mix could never be predicted. I watched Tristan hold his hand out to people in the front row. Everyone who could was reaching for him, stretching out their arms like a lifeline, hoping for a touch that they would never forget, a bit of magic that might even change their lives. There was no way anyone could say that real live performance wasn’t important. The kind where musicians played, and worked for it, and sweated it out. For the people watching, it was a moment that defined who they were.

  Tristan was now leaning back against AC. Their spark, whatever they had together, indefinable, created its own excitement. If they could share a little of it, it couldn’t hurt anyone, could it? AC’s guitar was piercing through the air. I looked at him again. He wasn’t as beautiful as Tristan, he didn’t have the warm physicality Tristan possessed so easily. But there, in his half-closed eyes, his face lost in concentration, pulling the sounds together and flinging them out into the world, he was beautiful. Then he opened his eyes wide, and you could see it, the pleasure at his skill, at feeling Tristan’s body on his own, the impossibility of this happening again and again. The knowledge of pain, of loss. And yet there was a pride there, a survivor instinct, a certain defiance. I watched as they finished the song, and Tristan held his arm up, and said into the microphone, “Please give it up for AC Clark! And his magic guitar!” The crowd cheered. And there was Tristan’s real beauty. He could not only share the spotlight, but he would make sure it shined on those who deserved it, using his considerable power to make sure it happened. He saw what others couldn’t, and he helped everybody else understand.

  AC grinned at him, and waved to the drummer, his arm punching the air to start off the pulsing beat of the next song. And it had been an ok show before, but now it took off. The two of them were on fire, invincible. Maybe because they had remembered there was only one more show left. Maybe because you just didn’t know when the lightning would strike. You kept at it, waiting for divine intervention. And they looked like gods up there on the stage. Otherworldly. Invincible. And up there, they were.

  It was when they came off stage, that the vulnerabilities returned. The irony of the situation—that I was there to write about them, write about the tour, and I knew all the secrets, even the one they didn’t fully realize had escaped, even if AC kept hinting at it. And I knew I would never write about the two of them, even if that one story would be enough to ensure my future success and notoriety. Regardless of my personal interest in the matter. No matter what happened. Never.

  I always used to wonder why there weren’t more stories out there about what went on backstage, the relationships. Maybe because when you got close enough, you did feel a kind of extreme loyalty. Or maybe because no one would ever believe it. If you were in, you protected the pack. If you were out—it just sounded like whining. There had been a couple of tell-alls. Despite some interest, they generally came across having the same effect as spray painting a marble statue. Making something ugly. And there were some bad stories out there that had never seen the light of day. I thought of the engineer who had described to me being told to call home with excuses to the wife—not his, but the keyboardist he was working with. The people who made the music weren’t perfect. But the dream thrived on illusion. So the question underneath was always there—why are you doing this? Why are you spoiling the dream?

  The band was starting the encore. The whole thing had gone by so quickly. I looked around. The usual complement of roadies, girls who had managed to get backstage, local celebs who liked the band, taking selfies with the stage as backdrop. There’d be a party after the show, some contest winners, autographs, drinks, the customary crowd. I watched them wrap up. Then the whole band came together and lined up for a bow. There was something about the way they were all waving, the way even the bass player was finally acting like a part of the band, that made it feel more like the last night of the tour. A final wave, and they separated, drifting off the stage, AC handing his guitar over to the roadie looking after the instruments, while taking a towel from him. Tristan got his towel too, and gave me a little wave, as they went past the onlookers, smiling, but eager to get back to the dressing room, and decompress before they had to face another crowd at the after-party.

  I followed, and when the band bifurcated into the two dressing rooms, I went with Tristan and AC. They were the big names, and because of that, no one really questioned the hierarchy of the larger dressing room going to them. Whatever else anyone might have been thinking, they either didn’t say or kept it very quiet, especially after the blowout in Minneapolis. I don’t think anyone doubted Tristan when he had made it known “that he would sack the next person outright who hadn’t reached the 21st century.” The whole thing seemed very far away now. The energy had changed. Everything was about tonight, this moment in time. And tonight, it was one more party to get through, one more concert. The promise of some time off before hitting L.A. st
ill seemed a distant idea.

  Tristan was stripping off his shirt. He wouldn’t take a shower here, but he always washed the sweat off his face and torso. He always said, especially on nights like tonight when he was wearing leather trousers, that it was more trouble than it was worth to take everything off and start again. So he stood there in the middle of the room, peeling off the sweat-soaked shirt, revealing the fascinating expanse of skin, the line of dark hair leading down, his chest displaying his new tattoo. I glanced over at AC. He was watching, his expression blank. It was all in his eyes. The slightly raised eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze. It was the look of someone whose imagination was at work. But he felt me looking at him, and turned in my direction. He winked before I could look away. I smiled, almost blushing. But he was quicker than me, more used to the quick cover-up. “Shall I take mine off too, Lily? I’m sure you didn’t only follow us in here for an interview.” And he pulled off his t-shirt in one quick motion, and circled his nipple with a finger, sticking out his ass, a near picture perfect imitation of a 1970s era Mick Jagger. “Fuck, I’m hot. Shit, girl! Yes!” And he did a little shimmy.

  I couldn’t help it, I collapsed on the sofa laughing. AC was funny. But he also made me nervous. There was something about the two of them there, standing there, looking at me like that. I didn’t even want to think about it.

  Tristan sniggered. “AC, you killed her. Your stripper act is too much for the girls, I keep telling you that.”

  AC smacked his ass, hard. The sound of skin connecting with leather rocketed through the room. “Not often enough.” He went right up to him, striking a pose, and stuck out a hip, looking for all the world like some androgynous fighter, ready to start something. “Like what you see, darling?” We both looked at Tristan to see what he’d do.

  A flicker of something crossed his face. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he moved to circle around him, slowly, as though he were inspecting the goods. He stopped when he had made a full circle, and looked him in the eye. Then without warning, he spun him around and pulled him up hard against him, and held him tight to his body. One hand went to his nipples and pinched, relentlessly enough that AC finally let out a small yelp. But the look in his eyes was melting, as much as he was trying to keep from showing anything. Tristan did a slow grind against his ass, then pushed him away roughly. “I’m sure I told you not to tease me.” His voice was low. He turned to me and smiled. “Performers on and off the stage. It’s in our blood.” And he walked off to the bathroom. But leather pants don’t hide much.

  “Bastard,” AC muttered. But he laughed and strutted over to the table to get a bottle of water. “Want something, Lily?” That tone in his voice.

  “No, I’m fine.” Except my voice came out as a croak, my mouth was so dry. AC stared at me. “Maybe I do. Thanks.”

  AC came over and handed me a bottle. “That’s right. When you’re thirsty, you drink.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  * * *

  They had closed one of the smaller stages in the venue for the party. It was feeling more and more like the last wrap-up, the final cast party for the stage show. Everyone was in a good mood. Tristan mingled and signed some autographs for people, chatting to the record company people like they were lifelong friends. The cynical side of me wondered if they had news on the winners for the awards show. If he was going to win, they would want to be nice to him, their cash cow. If he was going to lose, they’d want to be nice to him so he wouldn’t throw a tantrum and do something to sabotage the tour. Besides, even the nomination had increased the sales. That’s how it all worked. Nothing like telling people something was popular to get them all to rush out and buy it. I studied their faces. It was a business. Even with everything I knew, I tended to forget that, seeing it all more solidly from the side of the artist. These were people mingling, enjoying the perks of the job, happy to keep up with the meetings and paperwork tomorrow if they could get drunk with some stars tonight. An ocean of selfies, pics with the band, who would stand closest to Tristan, AC a close second. I shook my head, and headed for the bar. Positivity. There were worse things. And it wouldn’t kill me to be more positive.

  As I ordered a bourbon, figuring even if Texas wasn’t the south, it was close enough, I was surprised when the bartender started flirting and chatting, asking how I liked Texas, was there anything I wanted to see. I laughed. Then I realized it was the first time anyone had apart from Tristan, or maybe AC, had actually spoken to me in weeks. And Hank. Fuck I missed him. The entourage circled me warily. I avoided the outside world, the fans, the staff. It wasn’t as though you could speak to them anyway. No one was really to be trusted, unless they were on the inside. I could feel myself shutting down. I smiled, warily, and made some comment about wanting to ride a horse, which made him laugh, as it was intended. He probably didn’t know who I was. Anyway, it really didn’t do any good to let down your guard. I was part of the tour. Who knew who he was, really? There would have been a time when I would have been happy to talk with him. Now I felt like I needed to protect myself, keep all my knowledge my own. If that was partially because I usually liked to talk to people when I was drinking, and partially because I couldn’t stop thinking of something in particular, I couldn’t tell. It could be paranoia, it could be self-preservation. Whatever it was, I didn’t want any secrets to slip out. I was drinking, not drunk, not yet, but I was getting there. Loyal to the group and part of it. Passing by the rest. I said thanks, maybe a little more curtly than I had intended, and moved away.

  I wandered around a bit, listening to pieces of conversations. The usual mix of nonsense, flirtation, and business. I spotted AC, and relieved, went over to where he was was standing. They were lowering a screen, and someone was setting up a projector. One enterprising group went over to one of the low red brocade covered sofas, and showing admirable teamwork, all pitched in and managed to carry it over nearer to the screen for a better view. I whispered to AC, “What the hell is this? And is there popcorn?”

  He looked at me. “You’ll never believe it.”

  “Try me,” I laughed. I looked at my glass. Nearly empty.

  AC put his arm around me and we walked back over to the bar. “Devised home movies. And videos.” His voice went down a little lower. “Tristan is pissed off.”

  We got to the bar and I ordered a beer. Time to slow down before I said anything I’d regret. After we turned away, I leaned over to him. “Why? The videos everyone’s seen. What are these home movies?”

  AC smiled. “That’s what he’s finding out right now. I think—probably—James.” He looked at the ceiling. “Hopefully they’re not too bad. I told him he shouldn’t make a fuss—looks worse.”

  I thought for a minute. My brain seemed to be working slower. “No. It’s not a good idea. Especially with the possible documentary. Dave will have a fit. He’s going to want this exclusive for himself. Can’t they just show the videos? Shit. Tristan. Where is he?”

  AC nodded towards the backstage. “Back there. I think he wants to see them first.”

  “Ok. Let’s go tell them to just show MTV, or something that actually plays music. Keep the crowd happy while we deal with this.” We walked over to the guy with the laptop and the projector and gave him instructions on what to do. Then we started heading backstage. I already had my phone out. Panic was making me remarkably clear-headed. “I’m calling Dave. It’s—fuck, what time? Christ it’s 1 a.m. there.” I listened to the ring. “Can’t be helped.”

  The ringing stopped and Dave’s voice came through loud and clear. If he’d been asleep, I couldn’t tell. “Lily? What’s the problem?”

  There was no time for pleasantries. “Dave. Yeah. Look. We’re in Dallas, and some mug down here from the record company has got ahold of what he’s calling ‘Devised home movies.’ ”

  “And?”

  “And no one’s seen them, but they want
to show them to the after-party. As in now.” I gulped a sip of beer. “Tristan’s trying to find out what they are and where they came from. AC thinks maybe James.”

  “Yes, well that’s always the main source. No one’s seen them? Is AC there with you? Can you put him on the line?”

  “Sure.” I passed my phone over to him.

  AC started to speak, but clearly Dave had interrupted him. He was listening, and suddenly his face went white. “Oh, fuck. Those. Of course.” He listened a bit longer, then walked a couple of steps away. “Does she?” He tried not to look at me, but I had the impression they were talking about me. “Not sure, but that’s not the problem. Yeah, I’ll go find Tristan. We’ll call you right back.”

  AC waved my phone at me, and nodded his head towards the backstage, and started walking to the side door at a rapid pace. I caught up with him and took my phone. “So it is trouble.”

  AC looked grim. “Yeah, a bit. Nothing that can’t be solved. Like blackmail.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Come on, we’ve got to find Tristan. Now.”

  We pushed through the door, and went down the long hall that led to the backstage area of this part of the hall. We could hear voices, getting louder as we approached. We turned the corner, and there was Tristan, looking murderous, James, who was holding a couple of DVDs in his hand, and a record company suit, who genuinely looked confused. He was speaking.