The Worst of Me

by Lisa J. Hobman

  He nodded and held his hands out to his sides. “Yep…that’s me.” His accompanying grin was just as warm as she’d hoped hers had been. He glanced down at his feet and then back up at her. “It was really nice to meet you, Cat for short.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and briefly lowered his gaze to the floor.

  She bit her bottom lip before answering, “You too. You seem all right…for a rock star.” She turned and left the suite, smiling.

  Chapter Two

  Nick

  “Nick…Nick!” He was torn from his reverie by Chris poking his arm and waving a beer bottle in front of his face. He glanced around and realised, much to his chagrin, that he was back in the present day, on the tour bus again surrounded by the stench of sweaty, farting males.

  Catriona was nowhere in sight.

  He rubbed his hands roughly over his face hoping to wake himself up properly. “Sorry, mate, daydreaming. ‘S’up?” He blinked up at Chris and forced a smile but waved away the offer of beer.

  Chris’s brow scrunched. “You all right, Nick? You’ve been really quiet today. Really kind of distant and shit. Not yourself at all, dude.”

  Nick nodded. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just a bit hungover, that’s all.”

  Chris punched his arm playfully. “Oh yeah? Daydreaming about that blonde’s tits I bet.” He laughed and the rest of the band—who were apparently now listening in—guffawed along with him.

  Nick gave a half smile. “Yeah, something like that.” He couldn’t be bothered defending nor explaining himself. It wasn’t like any of them would’ve empathised with his state of mind anyway.

  The tour bus pulled into the airport where crowds of fans and paparazzi were already waiting. Nick cringed, knowing full well what was coming next. He hated this part. But today, for some strange reason, he hated it more than usual.

  Perspiration trickled down his spine and he shivered. He gripped his T-shirt over his clenching, knotted stomach and his heart began to pound. A cold bead of sweat formed on his forehead and he wiped it away before it had the chance to descend down his face and into his eyes. Licking his lips did nothing to ease the desert-like conditions of his mouth as every drop of moisture in his body seemed to escape through his pores.

  Chris stood at the front of the tour bus—as was his normal practise—and began his obligatory mini pep-talk. “Come on, guys! Let’s go out there and remind those fans why they love us! Why we’re the fucking dogs bollocks and why we’re fucking number one!” He fisted the air and the rest of the band and crew whooped and cheered in agreement.

  Nick had never considered it before but it was all so over the top and cringe-worthy, like a scene from a bad B movie. Even Den—who ironically was the usual one to proffer the OTT gestures—rolled his eyes and dropped his sunglasses to his nose with a shake of his head.

  The band’s security team alighted the bus first, scouting the already manic area, on the lookout for anything overly suspicious. They were immediately joined by the airport’s own beefcake guard staff in addition to further staff hired by the label to ensure Sonic Idols’ safe transportation. The solid, no-nonsense-looking muscle formed a corridor of rock hard bodies for the band to walk down.

  Then the frenzy kicked up a notch.

  The stark, blinding light of camera flashes struck from every possible angle as girls screamed and shouted out their favourite band members’ names, attempting to grapple through the line of identikit security men.

  Nick put on his shades as he climbed down from the bus as if doing so would make him less visible. He was shaking profusely as he always did at this point. It never got easier.

  Never.

  Head bowed he began the long walk toward the terminal as the shoving commenced.

  “Niiiiick! Niiiick!”

  “We love you, Niiick!”

  “Will you marry me, Niiick?” came the simultaneous screeching, strangled voices from the massing crowd as the security guards were jostled back and forth in the rising swell of passionate fans.

  And still the cameras flashed and clicked. And still Nick had that inherent fear for his safety.

  Remember you wanted this, Nick. You wanted the fame and the fortune. You can’t be ungrateful now you have it, he told himself. Occupational hazard. That’s all it is. Think of the music.

  More shouts of his name rang out. “Mr Dacre, look this way! Mr Malham!”

  “Give us a pose, mate! I’ve got a family to feed!” called the paparazzi’s finest. But defiantly Nick kept his head down as he moved forward slowly as if trawling through molasses while the corridor of men became narrower. It was reminiscent of a scene from his favourite Sci-Fi movie where the heroes are in an underground garbage crusher and the walls are closing in, threatening imminent death.

  Daring to glance up he saw wide eyes, red faces and gnashing teeth. Had he suddenly fallen into Dante’s Inferno? His chest tightened. Breathing became short.

  Claustrophobia.

  Stars began to dance before his eyes and he knew he had to get away before he passed out.

  The other, less fazed band members signed a small number of autographs on scraps of paper thrust through the gaps in between the bodyguards. But even their expressions were beginning to contort as they exchanged concerned glances.

  Den urged them to hurry up as the crowd became more frenzied. More determined to break through the security line. More eager to meet their idols whatever the cost.

  The band pushed on, making their way through the crowded airport terminal but the going was slower than Nick would have liked. Arms still grabbed at them, people shouted, cameras relentlessly flashed, girls screamed and sobbed.

  Nick’s heart hammered in his chest.

  Just let this part be over ... let it be over as soon as possible.

  As if happening in some freakish slow motion, a group of flailing fans somehow broke through the barricade of security guards and all hell broke loose. The giants tried their best to contain the hysterical men and women as they rushed toward the shocked and jostled stars.

  A feeling of dread washed over Nick and he tried to run. This was the stuff of nightmares. He began to wonder if that was in fact what was going on. Was he experiencing his worst nightmare to date?

  Wake up, Nick. Come on. If this is a fucking dream then wake the hell up.

  His legs and feet were leaden and refused to let him escape. Something grabbed his arm roughly, sinking vice like fingers into his flesh through the sleeves of his jacket. Nick turned and was faced with a grimacing man who wouldn’t have looked out of place on death row.

  He was clearly not a fan.

  The brick shit house of a man shouted expletives as one hand clung to Nick’s bicep, squeezing tighter still, and his other flailed around wildly as he aggressively pointed a thick index finger in Nick’s face.

  Through the cacophony Nick could hear some of what the man was shouting. “You bastard! Nick fucking Dacre! I’ll fucking kill you! My girlfriend loves you so much she fucking left me! I’ll fucking rip you apart!” The crazed man pulled his free hand back, balled it into a fist and lurched forward. Nick scrunched his eyes, knowing full well he could do nothing to avoid the impact. When no collision occurred and the man’s fingers loosened on his arm he opened his eyes. Luckily a security guard had managed to intercept the man’s fist before it made contact with Nick’s face and another had come to his colleague’s aid, followed closely by another two.

  Four men to subdue one. Shitting hell.

  The psycho was dragged away but continued to shout, swear and make death threats. “I’ll fucking find you, Dacre! Just you wait! I’ll rip your fucking head off!”

  Uniformed police officers rushed into the airport entrance and the crowds were ushered out of the building. Apparently the choice between staying to harass the band and getting arrested was an easier one to make.

  The band members slapped each other on the back like they had won some kind of stupid victory.

  But not Nick. He shook vio
lently as he tried to calm his erratic breathing.

  Chris flung an arm around Nick’s shoulder, making him flinch. “Hey, mate. You all right? Fucking lunatics out there today, eh? It was like we got invaded by a whole load of fucking asylum escapees. Jeez.” Nick remained silent, Chris’s words not quite registering in his fog filled mind. Chris squeezed his shoulder. “Nick, dude? What’s wrong, bro?”

  Stopping in his tracks Nick turned to face his best friend. “What’s wrong? Are you kidding me? What’s fucking wrong? We just got mobbed and I got attacked by some crazed psychopath who wanted my head as an earring and you ask me what’s wrong?”

  Chris shrugged and grinned. “C’mon, mate. It could’ve been worse.” He smirked.

  Nick frowned as anger joined the fear party taking over his guts. “Oh yeah? How do you figure that out?”

  “It could’ve been me he attacked.” Chris ruffled Nick’s hair, threw his head back and his raucous laughter filled the air as he jogged on ahead only turning to call, “Last one to the bar is a big girl’s bra!”

  Nick rolled his eyes and reluctantly followed the rest of his band mates. This was not a laughing matter. Chris never took incidents like this seriously. He seemed to have the skin of a rhinoceros and figured if you let it get to you it’d really get to you. Best to shake it off and get back on the proverbial horse. Nick tried his best to get on board with that philosophy—but just couldn’t.

  The band and entourage continued to walk through the airport but the majority of the security guards had been left to deal with the nut-job meaning there were fewer available to surround the group of stars. As if things couldn’t get any worse another group of tenacious fans—this time all girls—broke through the remaining human shield. The guards scattered in a vain effort to contain the crazed females which left Nick vulnerable. A number of the girls surrounded Nick, clawing and grabbing at his clothing and body.

  He was stranded again, frantically looking around him for help but the guards were occupied trying to stop further fans from reaching the band.

  Nick’s breathing became shallow once more. His eyes darted between the fans, looking for any possible escape route. They may have been all members of the supposed ‘fairer sex’ but that didn’t make the situation any less menacing, and looking down at them he realised that the majority were teenagers. But in spite of their ages they were ferocious in their obsession and it was all a bit much to bear, and because of their young ages Nick felt powerless to do anything in case he was accused of attacking one of them. The tabloids would have had a field day with that little tidbit.

  Two guards rushed toward him but he had already been scratched and had his T-shirt ripped again whilst the girls screamed their undying love for him and thrust items—and body parts—in his face for him to sign. Someone pulled his hair and he felt the sting of several strands leaving his scalp. Another clawed at his back. One even grabbed for his zipper whilst groping his crotch. At the end of his tether Nick let out a guttural roar as the two bald-headed men pulled the marauding fans from his person and finally led him to safety.

  “What the fuck?!” Nick shouted as more guards began to drag kicking and screaming girls away. This was one of the worst situations he had ever encountered. To be attacked twice?!

  Not good. Not good at all.

  The band was eventually shown to their private lounge as the head of security employed by the record label apologised profusely for the incident. Den shouted at him and demanded an explanation. The huge, hulking man visibly shrank before Den’s tirade of expletives as he did his best to try and reassure him it wouldn’t happen again. Neither Nick nor Den, as it would appear, were convinced. Finally the doors were locked behind them and an audible sigh of relief travelled the room.

  With a pounding heart and sweating palms, Nick went straight to a line of couches by the large expanse of one way glass overlooking the runways and crumpled into the cushions. He noticed with horror as he glanced down that bloody scratches were visible on his abdomen through the torn fabric.

  A twinge of soreness made him wince as he moved the arm that had been grabbed by the psycho and a wave of nausea came over him. Leaning forward he rested his head in his shaking hands knowing that he would never get used to the notoriety like the other guys had. He would never be able to just brush it off. Even after all these years it never got easier. In fact it was getting worse, more violent. He never found it amusing. All he wanted to do was make music. To do what he loved. Yes, the fame was attractive in the beginning but now ...

  His heart rate had not yet returned to normal and he became aware of light-headedness and the fact that the sounds in the room were becoming louder and more irritating.

  He stood and began pacing like a caged animal. “This shit is so fucked up,” he whispered to himself, his breathing still erratic. “So, so fucked up. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sick of this bollocks!” He rubbed his temples as he paced. “I’m sick of the groupies shoving their tits in my face! I’m sick of them expecting that I’ll just want to sleep with them. They all look the fucking same. None of them are real.” He walked back and forth as the rest of the band looked on. He could see them sharing disturbed glances in his periphery as he began to shout at himself, “What am I doing with my life? What have I got to show for all this? Hundreds of fucking people around me and…and…I’m alone! I’m all alone.”

  Panic and dread washed over him once more making his breaths become shorter and air harder to pull in. Shooting pains flashed down his arms and chest and he clutched at his throat as it closed. “I…I…I can’t breathe…I can’t….breathe…fuck…please!” His chest tightened as he fought to inhale.

  He dropped to his knees.

  The sounds in the room became distant echoes and the light began to fade as if he was standing at the end of a long, dark tunnel. Then the room began to retreat…voices became quieter. He heard people calling his name but couldn’t respond. And still the voices became more and more distressed and more and more distant. Someone shouted at someone else to call an ambulance.

  Suddenly the ground rushed up to meet him and there was a thud followed by a sharp pain in his head.

  Then nothing.

  ♫♫♫

  “Nick, it’s all right. The ambulance is here, mate. You’ll be fine. Hang on, okay?” a worried voice rambled on at the side of him as someone patted his hand.

  “He’s so pale, Chris. Do you think it was a heart attack?” Through the fog of his mind he recognised Den’s voice. Heart attack? Shit! No! He tried to get up. His head just above his left eye stung and throbbed like he’d been hit with a tyre iron.

  “It’s all right, Son. You’re on a stretcher; we’re taking you to hospital. You blacked out back there but we’re monitoring you. You’ll be fine. Just try to remain calm and still.” A voice he didn’t recognise spoke from his left. He realised he had something attached to his face—a mask—and he reached up to try and remove it. He wanted to go home. Back to Yorkshire to his family. If he could just get up ...

  But the unfamiliar older male voice spoke again. “No, no, Son. Leave that on. It’s to help with your breathing.”

  Nick fluttered his eyelids open and glanced left at the man in the fluorescent yellow coat who was speaking calmly to him. Exhaustion began to pull at him and he decided he didn’t have the energy to fight.

  He closed his eyes and everything went black again.

  ♫♫♫

  Nick awoke with a start to find himself in a bright, white room. He could hear voices speaking in hushed tones somewhere out of sight. At first he panicked thinking he was maybe dead and this was some kind of waiting room for…well…whatever the hell came next…although he sincerely hoped it wasn’t hell.

  He strained to hear the people/angels just as a gravelly voice said, “The online press conference with Germany went well, considering. The fans were heartbroken but we can’t go without him.” Ah, right. So I’m not dead then…well that’s a bonus. Although the pa
in in his head made him almost wish he was dead, and the throbbing made it hard for him to concentrate.

  He vaguely remembered … something … but his thoughts were scattered like little snippets of conversations buzzing around his mind, or scraps of paper with words on that floated through the air. Nothing really made sense. He raised his hand to feel the mask still in place over his nose and mouth.

  “He’s awake,” the voice he now recognised as Den’s spoke again, louder this time.

  “Hey, mate. You’ve had us worried sick. How’re you doing?” the Australian accent of his best friend came from his right side.

  He turned his head slightly. “I’m …” His voice rasped and his throat was arid and closed. “Can I have a drink? My mouth feels weird. It’s really…dry.”

  Chris nodded emphatically, clearly relieved to see his friend conscious again. “Sure, mate. No worries.” He pressed a button which raised the bed slightly as Nick pulled the mask away from his face so he could sip from the cup of water Chris held for him.

  Once his thirst was quenched he looked toward Chris once more. “What happened?” He remembered fragments of the episode but still felt fuzzy-headed and sore.

  Chris rubbed his chin with his free hand. “You ... erm ... You went a little crazy back there, Nick, and then you just blacked out. It scared us shitless, mate.” He patted his arm.

  Though they were close friends they were not accustomed to showing affection in any way other than a manly, back slapping bear hug so Chris seemed at a loss as to what to do to comfort him.

  Nick huffed. “I blacked out? So it wasn’t a heart attack?” Relief washed over him.

  Den chimed in, “No, no. They said it was some sort of…erm…panic attack.”

  He turned to face Den as the words registered in his brain and left him feeling rather foolish. “Panic attack? I…I can’t really remember much…except that I thought I was dying. But panic? Shit, that makes me sound like a prize wuss.”