by Sunniva Dee
“Aishe? Aishe Xodyar!” Hailey shouts.
I show my All-Access to the guard and run down the aisles to the arena floor. My eyes sting. I don’t want to burst into tears over something as stupid as this. I’m a fucking adult, and this whole thing is my own fault. I signed off on being in that video. I decided to not give a shit and wear my hair and clothes the way I feel most comfortable. I took my old job back, working for Clown Irruption, despite how it could turn out.
I hiccough with the effort to hold back the damn tears. I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid; the Power Puff girl and her friend were snapping pictures with their phones too.
The stage is full of roadies but no band. Concertgoers are slowly pouring in. The plan was to head to the front and find my way backstage to lick my wounds in peace, but it seems I need to cry somewhere first—I can’t have the band see me like this.
Toilets to the left.
“Hey, girl!” Zoe throws an arm over my shoulder. “I was looking for you. We’ve got Veuve Cliquot in the back, and Emil has asked for strawberries to go with it. Troll’s so mad! It wasn’t on the hospitality rider. Wait, what’s wrong?”
She grabs my face, drawing so much attention to us I’m sure they’ll all recognize me. I duck my head. Point toward the stage.
“You don’t want to talk about it?” She’s all sad empathy. “Come here. Let’s take the corridor from the back. They’ve closed off the entrance by the stage.”
I nod. Zoe links our arms and starts on a half-run with me. Impatient, she flashes her own VIP card to the two bulldogs positioned in front of the entrance. “I’m Emil Vinter’s wife, and this is Troy Armstrong’s GF. Step aside, please.”
My guard checks the backside of mine for authenticity before his focus lands on my face. I’m too raw to meet his gaze right now.
“Oh okay,” he mutters. I swear there’s familiarity in his voice. I hate it. Maybe he’d have recognized my thighs if I lifted my skirt. Thank goodness I didn’t bare it all in the video… like Zoe did.
“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me,” she says to her guard. When he doesn’t immediately reply, she arches her head back, tips her breasts forward, and lets out a hyper-sexual little squeal, exactly the way I now know she does with Emil.
The poor guy is mortified. With an awkward shove, he has both of us inside the corridor in seconds, and the door slams shut behind us before we can even thank him.
“That. Was awesome,” Zoe says, laughing. “Am I right? Wait ’til Cookie hears about this. He’s gonna die.” She hauls me into a one-armed hug, squeezing as she keeps on giggling. I actually let out some titters too.
As we approach the dressing rooms, my smile dries up; I’d like to keep what happened a secret, but there’s no way I can.
AISHE
It’s my first gig with Clown Irruption in a year. We’re an hour away from show-time, and I don’t even know their routines anymore. It feels strange.
Zoe has forgotten the state she found me in as she excitedly pulls me toward Emil’s dressing room. It’s loud in there, so nothing has changed on that front since I was last with them.
The door is ajar, revealing Emil performing a dead-on, yet over-the-top rendition of Elvis Presley’s “A Little Less Conversation,” into a hair brush. Elias is watching with an entertained smirk on his face, while Waris is in stitches.
“Aah, my Zoay!” Emil interrupts himself, batting his wife toward him. “Did Troll get us scrawberries?”
“Nope. Last I saw, he was still on the phone over it, cursing at someone. Did you open the bottle yet? I brought Aishe,” she adds unnecessarily.
“Good!” Emil snatches the unopened champagne from the counter, shakes it hard, and pops the lid. It takes him ten seconds, which is enough time for the rest of us to huddle behind the door and in opposite corners of the room, arms lifted protectively over our heads.
The explosion is fantastic. He sprays his wife first, and she howls with glee, shaking champagne out of her hair like a wet dog while he targets Elias. The bass player leaps out of the door yanking Waris with him.
“Wow, that was my best one yet!” Emil declares, holding the bottle up high for us to see. Cautiously, Waris and Elias return. We pull toward him like moths entranced by the light of his crazy. Emil feints, his whole body thrusting the bottle toward us, and there we go, jolting backward again. He grins, full of misunderstood victory. “But seriously, though. There’s, like, a quarter of a glass left in here.”
“Aww,” Zoe says. “We were supposed to drink that.”
“But babe, you can drink Jameson!”
“But champagne, tho.” She blinks, the eyelashes on one eye still moist after Emil’s explosion. “That was the good kind too.”
“You want champagne, sweet baby love?” He kisses her eye and slurps the drop in between his lips with exaggerated gusto.
“Ye-e-s.”
“With scrawberries?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Not a problem—I’mma get Troll on that asap.”
I suck my lips between my teeth and bite down, my nostrils still flaring with humor as I leave them to it. It really is hard not to smile around those two.
Back in the hallway, reality sets in again. From the next room, Bo’s guitar laments in dark, intricate tones as he settles into his preshow ritual. The door is thoroughly shut, and even as laughter bursts out of Emil’s room, people tiptoe past Bo’s sanctuary.
Nadia is probably in there with him. I picture her the way things used to be, seated on the floor, back against the wall and arms tightened around her knees while she dreamed herself into his mood. To me, it’s comforting that things haven’t changed.
I’m not backstage looking to disturb anyone. I’ll have to time my truth carefully so that I don’t. What happened at the merch stand might or might not upset most of the band, but I think it’s safe to guess that Troy won’t be pleased. I also feel like informing everyone before Hailey does.
Hailey. There’s a swivel of unease growing in my stomach at the thought of her. I’m not used to having people have it out for me, but that’s how it’s been since we first met, her initial bestie-chirp be damned.
A simple kitchen appears between Bo’s dressing room and the next one up. A spread of the typical Clown Irruption favorites are lined up—hummus, brie, banana peppers, crackers, and more. Some serving trays with deli meats are halfway picked through. On the floor beneath them a couple of coolers full of beverages wait with their lids askew.
The sound sieving out from the next room changes the cadence of my heart. Slowly, my pulse catches up with the beat of Troy’s drums. I imagine them in my head. These aren’t his regular drums. They’re quieter, smaller, the skin tight and natural. I picture them, now, made of animal hide, as my mind flashes back to the tam-tam drums he bought on the one-off in Marrakesh. He’d clench them between his thighs, fingers running over their surface in a rhythm that carried you away.
Hesitantly, I walk closer, ignoring Emil’s shout for Troll, Troll’s response, the mention of more champagne and can we have strawberries super-please-and-fast.
Troy is spanking life into those drums, and this he didn’t do before. The tam-tams were private. He used them to wind down. Never did he bring them backstage while he waited for a show. A warm flare goes off beneath the dip of my collarbone. It travels downward, taking too long for me to extinguish, and I don’t like what it means.
This is hope. I fear it because I know it. Hope is a vile thing that causes chain reactions in nerve endings, a blistering of bright sparks and fake bliss.
Stagehands run past me as the pre-concert frenzy picks up and the first howls of Marcelino di Baptista’s guitar lifts the audience from their lulled anticipation. In forty minutes, Troy will be on. Not just Troy, of course. Clown Irruption.
A tap on the wall. I distinguish it through the faded boo
m from the music onstage. A convolution of sophisticated raps and knocks travel over the surface until it explodes against the door in… kicks? Definitely kicks. What is he doing?
In four steps, I’m at Troy’s dressing room, and I don’t care how I look to passersby when I press my ear against the wall. The tam-tams aren’t at play anymore. He’s in there, and he’s banging on everything that harbors a promise of sound. A shout? Another. Now, a hiss, a moan—what is that… tongue clicks?
I test the doorknob. Find it unlocked. I crack it open and start spying on him.
The sound of him as he slides around the room, hands touching everywhere, an elbow running over a table, a fist rapping its way down a wall. He prowls, neck swaying with his beat. Subtly, he dances, coaxing a rhythmic storm out of each surface. He masters this room, each cell, and their noise rises through him, speeds up and races, until it stutters into cacophony.
Eyes dark with intent, Troy’s face glistens with heat. On his haunches, he grabs his drumsticks and makes them rush over the legs of the coffee table. Their journey is strobe-fast, so fast I can’t see their movement. His beat enters my blood stream the way I remember it, and I sway with its dependability below the psychedelia he throws on top.
Is this how he feels? Different, like me, different than me, but still with his steady, dependable, always-there core? He’s a work horse sticking it out until the end, song in, song out, while everyone else’s lives fall apart and are mended? He, the anchor, the rock, the bass beat of his friends.
He raises hell and anarchy in here. The whoosh of drumsticks, another swipe of a hand and a fist. It’s there, the boom-boom-boom, the rhythm keeping the micro cosmos of their songs afloat. The pulse of the band, their life blood.
I suck in a breath that rasps my throat—it’s offbeat from his barrage, and he—
Stills.
I don’t have words while he absorbs my intrusion. I see everything about him with timeless lucidity; arms taut with passion, eyes raw with lack of familiarity, mind lost in the rhythm that was. The unconscious flick of a finger against the drumstick. Tanned fists thickening and slackening. Veined with exertion, they’re the only movement in the room while I stare, while I can’t take my eyes off the shape of his face.
Troy is formidable. Long tresses in tricolor slump along his face, over shoulders that are startlingly broad above his slender build. In some secret pocket of time where emotions breed and sounds are muted, he sees me and returns to the present.
“What is it?” He moves to me and cups my face. “Aishe? Tell me.”
Nothing, I want to say, but my eyes brim, and it’s hard to convince people like this. His thumbs run over my cheeks, gaze full of tenderness and concern.
“That was amazing,” I whisper once I can talk. “What was it?”
“I was just messing around.”
His gaze returns to my face in search of answers, and his hands don’t drop away. I need to remove myself from his spices, but the Artemisia drugs my resolve. Maybe it’s the thyme that draws my eyes to his lips. Or maybe it’s his cinnamon that makes my own lips part in misdirected cravings.
“It didn’t look like messing around to me,” I whisper.
We’re close, and his lips are pink and full. I remember how they glided over mine, how he worked them, how my heart sped up at the first touch.
“Did something happen?” Gaze on my mouth, he asks it, the sound lower than a moment ago. I have to shift closer, because my hands decide for themselves tonight and they’re not here to remove his touch.
“I’ll tell you after,” I whisper.
God, his eyes simmer. I breathe his air and his warmth. He wrinkles his eyes shut, holding back from me, and as his Adam’s apple bobs, I get it. This man won’t demand anything of me again.
“After the concert?” He opens his eyes, waiting for an answer, but like by gravity, they sink to find my mouth like I find his.
“Yeah. Troy?”
“Yes?”
“Kiss me.”
A sigh staggers from him, and then his lips meet mine. They’re alive but feather-soft, the skin too smooth, so wary they’re hardly real at all. His longing vibrates against me, and I lick his flavor, lap like it’s his reluctance and I can clean him of it for tonight.
Cautious like I am fragile, his hands slide along the base of my neck and down the length of my spine. Instinctively, he squeezes me close, but then he lets go as if correcting himself. They were only seconds, but those seconds with his body against mine make my heart thrash.
A part of me knows I should step out of this. All of me knows his arms would drop to his sides if I did. But I don’t want to do that. I want this one cinnamon kiss, a moment of warm amber, the illusion of love wrapped in what used to be my friend.
Troy’s caution doesn’t abate, and that’s what makes me brave. I wrap my arms around his neck, my breath shivering out at the pace it craves. I kiss him until his lips part and his tongue accepts mine.
“Aishe,” he rasps when our breaths are ragged. His forehead lowers, meeting mine in a pensive lull. He exhales, the sound heavy with guilt, but I’m not here to feed into this tonight. Oh God, his body is unyielding, the bulge between us a reminder of how much he appreciates me.
“Aishe. Baby, listen to me.”
“Don’t apologize again. Please don’t.”
“I’m not. I just… this is nice.” His sigh shudders. “I love this. Thank you. I can’t think of a better way to gear up to a show than with you in my arms.”
“Don’t get used to it.” My eyelashes fold against his cheek as I lean into him.
“Not in a million years would I get used to it.”
A knock on the door, and it slams open, jolting us apart.
“Troy, get your ass out here. Oh hey, Aishe. ’Kay, so you have time for a shot of champagne—with strawberries—before showtime.” Troll is all business. “Hurry before Emil starts showering people again. That makeup chick’s already mad.”
“I hate the makeup thing. That whole idea came from Janet,” Troy says, the light comment shrouding our intimacy.
I regain my voice. “You actually put makeup on before the concerts?”
“Yes, have you heard of Gene Simmons?”
“Like the KISS makeup? Oh nuh-huh,” I say, and Troll sends Troy a look over his shoulder.
“Don’t scare her, man.”
Troy snorts into a low laugh.
At the entrance to Emil’s dressing room, Troy links a finger with mine. I feel his tentative gaze on me.
What am I doing?
Knowing the band will be talking, I still don’t slip free of his hold.
“Hey, gi-i-i-rl!” Zoe hollers as if we didn’t see each other fifteen minutes ago. “Whatcha up to? Nadia, Waris—looky, all the girls are here!” She doesn’t hide the stare she sends to our linked hands. It’s what I need to come to my senses and let go.
I fold my arms over my chest. “There are rumors there’s finally champagne?”
“Yep, yep, Troll’s the fucking man,” Emil declares. “Over there.” He juts a finger toward the makeshift bar, but then he thinks better of it and gets up from his position slouching against Zoe’s chair. “Hold on, I’ll pour for you. How many scrawberries? It’s my Zoay who got me to get them, ya know. She loves scrawberries in the champagne.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Troy murmurs, sauntering over to the table.
Emil shrugs and slides around Zoe’s chair. Next thing, he’s plopped down in her lap, squeezing her. He’s giant against her tiny frame, and she can’t stop strangled-laughing.
I’m uncomfortable knowing they all saw us. Troy’s finger hooked with mine, walking me into the room with such tenderness. I pull my lips between my teeth running my tongue over the pulse of his kiss. How long did it last? It felt like seconds, but my body wouldn’t still have
been buzzing if that was all it was. A few minutes? Ten?
“Aishe? I don’t think I’ve seen you drink champagne before. Is it strawberries or no strawberries for you?” Troy asks.
“A couple would be good, I guess. Love them squashed, like broken hearts.” And how gruesome did that sound? Geez.
“Nice,” Zoe says, high-fiving me. “Squish all the hearts.”
Troy picks up an enormous, deep red strawberry and presses it between his thumb and index finger. He brings it up so it eclipses one of his eyes. “This one good?”
“Yep.”
“And this one?”
I can’t help smiling. “Yeah, that one too.”
He applies pressure until the juice sieves over his fingers. I swallow, unable to take my eyes away until he drops them into the glass and pours champagne over them.
“Five minutes.” Troll warns from the door and stomps off.
Troy hands me the champagne. He pull his drenched t-shirt over his head with a tug at the back of his neck. Gleaming skin and muscle ripple dreamily before he shrouds my vista in a new, short-sleeved button-up. It’s light green, the exact color of his eyes. He leaves it open, and the effect of smooth, golden man half-hidden beneath the fabric is so damn sexy my whole body catches fire.
Emil belts out a few lines of “On the Wings of Love” by Jeffrey Osborne, straight into Zoe’s face. She laughs. Play-melts for him. Nadia gives Bo a quiet good-luck kiss by the door, ready to send him off, while Elias steals one from Waris.
“It’s damn nice to have someone to kiss back here,” he says, baring white fangs in a wolf smile. Waris’ answering smile is angelic.
“Where’s my stash?” Troy asks when Troll returns, holding the door wide for them.
Troll points at a pair of drumsticks on the table by the door.
“You sure Rob has the rest of them ready?”
“Double and triple checked, sir. We’ve been through this a time or two before—I think I know what I’m doing.”
“Right, but…” Troy hisses air in through his teeth in a show of concern.