Nigel wiped his face and sighed deeply. Frustrated that the pricey scotch hadn’t really helped to calm him, he ambled toward his bedroom hoping to get some much needed rest. He was completely knackered and wanted to put last night’s abysmal failure behind him. He stopped when he heard laughter outside. Keys jangled against the door, someone cursed, and Nigel recognized Thom’s voice. The door finally opened, and Thom backed in, pulling a disheveled girl in with him. They paused in the doorway for a long, sloppy kiss before stumbling into the flat.
“It’s dark in here,” the girl whined.
“Right,” Thom said, staggering over to the wall. “Where’s the bloody light switch?” He ran his hand up and down the wall but couldn’t find the switch.
Nigel crossed the room and flipped the knob, bathing the flat in dull, yellow light.
Thom turned and looked at him with bleary eyes. “Hey Nige!” he slurred. He studied Nigel for a moment, swaying unsteadily and then asked, “What were you doing in the dark?” The girl, equally unsteady on her feet, looked at Nigel and began to laugh. “Oh, I see,” Thom drawled, attempting to wink at his companion. “Let’s leave Nigel to his...um...personal business.” He grabbed the girl’s arm and the couple began to laugh and then shush one another as they stumbled away. Thom whispered to the girl and staggered back to Nigel. “Mate,” he said, poking Nigel’s chest with his finger, “What you need is a good shag.” Peering closely at his finger resting against Nigel’s T-shirt, Thom grinned lopsidedly, lifted the finger with great effort, and waggled it in Nigel’s face. “That would put you right as rain,” he drunkenly advised, attempting to wink once more before staggering back to his giggling female companion. He pulled her down the hall and into his bedroom where he took his own good advice until the excessive liquor sloshing through his system extinguished all conscious thought for the rest of the day.
The bed felt like a cement slab forcing Nigel to turn from side to side in an effort to find a comfortable position. With a perturbed groan, he turned onto his back and lay in the cloying darkness unable to sleep. He could still smell Thom’s beery breath on his face as he advised him to get laid. That was Thom’s stock answer for every unpleasant situation. If your house burned down, your dog died, or your granny got busted for drugs, “a good shag” was the cure-all. He stared into the blackness mumbling “shit, shit, shit,” until it dawned on him that Thom was always happy, always positive, no matter what was going on around him. Perhaps his mate was right. Maybe a round or two of hot, sweaty sex was the cure, or at the very least a pleasant distraction.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture a foxy girl. Not just any girl but someone he knew or had slept with. He lay there feeling silly and awkward until an image unfolded in his mind. Two girls were sitting at a table in front of the stage at the gig last night. One of them was dark, but it was the other girl, a pretty blonde, who had caught his eye. She stared up at him, full, pink lips slightly parted, huge green eyes burning with desire. Yes, that was it; she wanted him, and it made his body ache with a hunger he hadn't felt in ages. Seized by a heavy dose of guilt and shame, Nigel tried to work off his frustration with the help of the beautiful girl in the brown, leather jacket. Falling back against his pillow, Nigel relaxed and let his breathing slow down. He wasn’t satisfied. He needed much more than a quick release fueled by fantasy. It was embarrassing that he had used the girl to fulfill a need that sadly, he seemed incapable of fulfilling any other way these days. It was just one more reason to abandon the sinking ship that only months ago had seemed destined to charter new and exciting musical territory.
Nigel turned over onto his stomach picturing the pretty blonde one last time, hoping he would never see her hungry green eyes again. She was the last thing he needed to further complicate his fucked up life.
Chapter 4
Trevor’s nasal whine cut through Deanna’s sleep like a chainsaw. Forcing one eye open, she stared at the clock which read six-thirty a.m. Pulling the covers over her head, she cursed the man for being an inconsiderate idiot. It was six-thirty on a Sunday morning; shouldn’t he be inside his coffin, digesting some poor bastard’s blood from last night’s slaughter? Truly, the fiend had outdone himself at Billy’s Club the night before. Upon learning that Beastrage was not invited to participate in Billy’s upcoming “Noisefest,” Trevor had thrown what could only be called an uber-tantrum. He cursed the club owner and his family, threatening to sue while citing obscure British laws, finally heaving himself through the club owner’s office door screaming for God to burn the SOB’s club to the ground.
Deanna shuddered at the memory of her self-professed “strong, independent” friend, Maggi running after Trevor, fanning her hands around him as though she could extinguish his burning rage. Now he was in their flat whining in a man-child voice that set Deanna’s teeth on edge. What did Maggi see in that maniac? Piper Howlen, the drummer of Beastrage, had tried numerous times to lure Maggi away from his manager, but she acted like Piper didn’t exist. Deanna couldn’t believe Maggi wasn’t the least bit interested in the drummer---he was a total fox. Blessed with long, lustrous black hair, flashing sapphire blue eyes, and a mouth-watering body, Maggi should have melted like butter. Sadly, it seemed she only had eyes for Trevor. She followed his tall, skinny frame and pale, anemic face with her adoring eyes. The creep must have hypnotized Maggi just as Count Dracula hypnotized his victims before closing in for the kill. Whatever the reason, Deanna would never understand or approve of Maggi’s relationship with the monster.
Reluctant to leave the safety of her bedroom, she picked up a newspaper from the day before and began to read. Tossing aside the front page she felt saddened by the riots, layoffs, and unemployment that plagued the country. She knew that many British citizens resented foreigners like her and Maggi working in Great Britain. Even a menial, poorly paid job was a coveted prize to people living on the edge of desperation. Truth be told, she worked at the hotel as an intern, living off of student loans and meager grants while she struggled to get her degree as part of an international work study program through Arizona State University. She tried to shake off the feeling that they should go back to the States considering the condition of the British economy. She blamed her dark mood on Trevor’s rampage and wished that he would just disappear---forever.
Settling back against the soft pillows, she ignored her negative thoughts and carefully perused the entertainment section. She noticed some listings for various clubs but didn’t find what she was looking for so she skimmed the listings again, desperate to locate what she would vehemently deny searching for: Metal Urge. She silently thanked God when she spotted a small advertisement for a club called The Metro. The band was playing a gig there on the following Saturday night: six long, agonizing days away. She shook her head and sighed heavily. Although she was scheduled to work that night, she would bargain with the devil himself to get out of working her shift.
She had to see the singer again.
Laying the paper aside, she closed her eyes, picturing the sexy vocalist in painstakingly precise detail…
Naked to the waist, sweat dripped down his furred chest, making its way slowly over the line of soft tawny hair trailing downward to his taut belly. A single bead navigated its way around his navel, disappearing into the soft mat of hair below his waistband. Her lips followed the little bead, pausing to tease the folds of his navel until she felt his body quiver against her mouth…
A loud bang shattered the images in her mind and spoiled the mood. Trevor had left the building at last. Deanna opened her eyes and shivered at the intensity of her fantasy. Dear God, she wanted him. More than she had ever wanted anyone or anything in her life. It wouldn’t be easy. She was so painfully shy with men that Maggi had cruelly christened her the poster child for wallflowers.
“Not this time, Maggi,” Deanna whispered. “This guy is different. Special. I'll do anything to be with him…anything at all.”
Chapter 5
Metal Urge was shown
to a tiny room lined with mirrors, a few wobbly bar stools, and one bent, rusted clothing rack.
“This is posh,” Alistair quipped while the other band members tried to find room to hang their clothes.
“At least it’s a paid gig,” Thom shot back, already sick and tired of the negative vibes.
“It might pay for petrol if we’re lucky,” Jayson, the drummer said dryly.
The other band members stared at the normally silent drummer in surprise.
Jayson slipped off his shirt and ran his hands over his sides. “We need more than petrol, we need food.” He peered closely at his pale reflection in the hazy mirror. “Bloody hell, I can see my ribs. I’m wasting away!”
Despite the disturbing reality of his statement, the men began to laugh, dispelling some of the tension in the small dressing room.
Nigel snapped a studded leather band on each wrist, and slipped on a pair of mirrored aviator glasses to complete his tough biker look. “Jayson’s right,” he said, his broad, flat Midlands accent barely masking his displeasure at yet another night of working hard for next to nothing. “We can’t go on like this much longer. I’m tired of living off stale beans on toast and cheap lager.”
The disgruntled singer left the room and Thom’s heart sank. They were going to lose him and that would be the death of Metal Urge. He looked at Alistair and Brad but they turned away, unwilling to show their own fear at losing their charismatic, albeit, temperamental front man.
Nigel noticed, as usual, the cruel stares his studded leather gear always seemed to attract in the London clubs. It amused him actually, considering that spiked leather dog collars and safety pinned body parts were the rage among the punks and wannabe hipsters those very clubs catered to. Metal Urge’s look was different. It represented a freewheeling attitude fueled by hot women, motorbikes, and burning rubber on the highway---total freedom---not chaos and rebellion perpetuated by poverty and boredom. Metal music could be dark, indeed, some would call it evil, but in truth it was harmless. Metal didn’t encourage its few followers to kill and destroy, just bang their heads and have a bit of fun as they listened to tales of monsters and devilish antics.
Navigating his way through the teeming mass of bodies, Nigel nodded at some of the sneering faces, chuckling as they flipped him the two-fingered salute. He watched a skinny punk with a bright green Mohawk slide drunkenly off of a wobbly stool near the end of the bar before quickly claiming it. Leaning his elbows on the scarred wooden bar, he held out a crumpled five pound note, trying to get the bartender’s attention. Why not try and make the most of his final night with Metal Urge? When the bartender asked, “What's yer pleasure?” Nigel ordered something bitter to match his mood. He turned around and sipped the pungent liquid, his eyes scanning the meager crowd. The dream was over and it was time to go back to Bilston, get a real job, and pay back those who had been kind enough to believe in his unrealistic dream. “Fuck!” he muttered and downed a second drink, and then a third. He felt the alcohol roiling around in his gut. He was a bit light-headed as the cheap liquor made its way into his bloodstream. His paltry meal earlier that day did little to ease the effects, and he began to feel slightly ill. A hand clamped down on his shoulder and he heard Brad, the bass guitarist, say it was time to go on. Nigel grabbed Brad’s upper arm and pulled himself off of the barstool, not caring if he fell flat on his bloody face during their set. What did these punk bastards and disco queens care anyway?
“Steady mate,” Brad cautioned. He held Nigel’s elbow to help him through the crowd. “Well, well, will you look at that?” Brad inclined his head towards a table directly in front of the stage. “Trevor Hampton is on the prowl.”
Nigel turned to look at the infamous manager of Beastrage, the only heavy metal band in England with a coveted record deal.
“We’ve got to play it hard and heavy tonight,” Brad whispered in Nigel’s ear. “Otherwise we’ll all wind up washing dishes at a truck stop on the M6 motorway.”
Deanna watched the lead singer stagger away from the bar with the help of one of his band members. She had noticed him sitting there after Trevor demanded she get their drinks because “the service was appalling and he was thirsty.”
“Asshole,” she said under her breath, trying to make her way to the bar without being knocked over by one of the countless, drunken patrons. She was pushing her way through the malodorous crowd imagining a broken beer bottle protruding from Trevor’s scrawny neck when she spotted the gorgeous front man downing a small drink. She started toward him but backed away when she saw the look on his face. Distressed that her first attempt to introduce herself had been thwarted by the singer’s foul mood, she was irritated that she still longed to reach out to him. Deanna shook her head, frustrated by her irrational feelings and shouted her order at the harried barman. What was it about the vocalist that attracted her besides his good looks? He obviously had anger issues and a drinking problem as well. A week ago she would have stopped at nothing to win over the sultry singer but as she carried the heavy tray of drinks back to the table, she decided she didn’t need a guy like that to muck up her neat and orderly life. Troubled, often dangerous men were exciting to fantasize about but in reality they would only become frightening and unpredictable. Those were not qualities Deanna wanted in a man which was part of the reason she harbored such resentment against Maggi’s relationship with Trevor, the prince of darkness. She lived in fear of the day she discovers Maggi bruised and bleeding after one of Trevor’s tantrums turns physical.
“Where's my tip?” Deanna snapped as she placed the tray of drinks in front of Trevor. He waved her away like she was an annoying insect and turned back to Maggi who resumed massaging his temples. She felt her stomach lurch at the sight of her friend’s obsessive attention to the creep. Although it hurt to let go of her own seemingly unhealthy obsession for Metal Urge’s singer, she knew it was for the best.
Wasn’t it?
****
As with every other show, the lights cut out abruptly only this time a spotlight shone down on the solitary figure clad in leather as he brought the microphone to his lips and began to sing:
I’m your nightmare
Your nightmare comin’ true
I’m your nightmare
And I’m comin’ just for you
You can’t wake up
'Cause I’m holdin’ on to you
The singer reached out his hand towards Deanna and continued in a low, wicked voice:
On misty tendrils of heat I glide
Touching secret places you can’t hide
Circling ‘round your body
Gliding up your silken thighs
I hear your breath quicken
And release in pleasured sighs
Now you're mine, baby
There's no turnin’ back
His mirrored glasses obscured his eyes, but she felt the heat of his stare as he continued to sing:
I’m your nightmare
Your nightmare comin’ true
I’m your nightmare
And I’m comin’ just for you
You can’t wake up
Cause I’m deep inside of you.
Deanna squirmed in her seat, willing the hot, pulsing ache deep inside of her to subside. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the singer as he removed his sunglasses, never breaking eye contact with her.
“My name is Nigel Guilford.” He turned and pointed to the good looking dark-haired guitarist to his right. “I'm proud to introduce on rhythm guitar the mega-talented Alistair Staley.” Nigel waited for the scattered applause to stop before introducing the gorgeous blonde on his left as “Thom McCordy, lead guitarist extraordinaire,” finally turning to the last two members of the band. “Bradley Bradmon, resident wild man on bass, and last but certainly not least, heavy hitter Jayson Rawley on drums. And we are Metal Urge,” he finished with a slight bow.
Immediately the band launched into metal mayhem, pounding the audience mercilessly until even the die-hard p
unks were slamming each other in a make-shift mosh pit in front of the stage. Through it all, Trevor Hampton was building up to a nuclear meltdown. He couldn’t deny that this band had the bollocks to give Beastrage a run for their money if given the chance. These lads had something special, something completely different than he had ever seen or heard before, and Trevor had to sign them---tonight. He could smell the greasy scent of money pouring in after he introduced a double bill featuring the two British titans of the hottest new genre of music to take the world by storm, and he would start with the good, old U. S. of A. Trevor believed it would be the Yanks who would propel metal bands right into the stratosphere. They would devour British heavy metal just like they gobbled down “Arthur Treacher’s” disgusting imitation English fish and chips---they'd never get enough---at least until he had lined every pocket he possessed with their money. As soon as Metal Urge finished their set, Trevor launched himself like a Scud missile, homing in on his targets as they sat in their dressing room relaxing. In little more than an hour, Trevor had charmed, cajoled, and slithered his way into the position of Metal Urge’s band manager. Promising to get all of the necessary legal paperwork to them within the next few days, he disappeared in a cloud of smoke, or so it seemed, when he opened the door to return to the main part of the club.
Metal Urge Page 2