Everyone peeled and planted their sticky passes on, excited and chattering. I laughed as I caught a glimpse of Marissa rearranging her boobs as we made our way backstage. A small party had gathered in back, hanging on to cups of beer and standing around. The anticipation and thrill pre-show had morphed into a relaxed and accomplished vibe post-show. Sweaty band members mingled with everyone. Martin attempted to talk up Liz, but my brother had glued himself to her side. I had planned on giving Kev my Smurf and house keys later, but had the feeling Liz wasn’t going to let him leave the borough tonight.
Rob went off to smoke a doob and bond with the sound guy, leaving Marissa and me on our own. We watched as the band got ushered away to take pictures for Rolling Stone.
“Girl, you are full of surprises.” She bumped my shoulder.
“I told you I wasn’t afraid of the unknown . . .”
“And get a load of that.” She nudged me and nodded toward Liz and Kev, who were locked in a pretty tight squeeze. “Between her chemical red and his bleach blond, what color hair do you think your niece or nephew will have?”
“Still a lot of cart before the horses, Mariss. But if you care to make a bet . . .”
We giggled against each other.
“Excuse me, Kat?” A tall gentleman, dressed crisply and casually, exuded a business air as he came at me with an extended hand. “Oliver Owens, High Ace Artists.”
“Oh, hey.” I recognized the name of Corroded Corpse’s US booking agent instantly.
“I hear I’ve got some competition.” He laughed at my surprised look. “Ending the King of Doom’s sixteen-year hiatus by booking him to play a children’s library program has become somewhat of an industry legend,” he explained, but then took a more professional tone. “Seriously, I think there is amazing cross-marketing potential with the demographics. I’ll call you when I get back to the LA office and we can brainstorm a way to bring his best to two generations of music fans.”
“Do you think Adrian will want to play for the kids after all this?” Marissa asked me as we watched Oliver move on through the crowd.
“I think the King of Doom likes being the jester sometimes.”
“So, you staying in town tonight?”
“Yeah . . . the first night that the three of us are under one roof. Kind of a big deal.” I smiled, watching as Adrian made his way toward us.
All In
The limo silently slipped uptown. Adrian was still in those leather pants and boots, stretching out his legs and pulling me close to kiss him. We were both thirsty, but all we found in the back of the limo was San Pellegrino. Laughing, Adrian got the limo driver to pull over at an all-night grocery to get us some plain old bottled water.
We found Ilana curled on the couch with a book from Adrian’s library. I had a feeling we’d be seeing more of her that week, as Rick’s son Paul appeared pretty sweet on her. “My brother wants to come and cook dinner for the band this week. You should come,” I told her.
“Tell him no shellfish, though!” Adrian laughed. “Now there’s a fact the fans don’t know yet.” He walked Ilana down to the waiting limo after we said our good-byes and thanks.
At last, Adrian pulled off his boots and we quietly wound up the spiral staircase, holding hands. Abbey was sleeping soundly in Natalie’s old room, with Chelsea the cat a furry comma-shape next to her.
I lit the familiar peppery candle as Adrian showered away any evidence of his grueling physical performance and joined me in bed. Legs mingled and skin was softly touched as we talked into the night.
***
It was three a.m., then five. We’d been dozing and kissing, and he kept singing in my ear, and I kept squeezing him to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I so wanted this to be real. And it was.
At around 6:20, I heard the shuffle and drop of two little feet to the floor and the machine-gun pitter-patter of Abbey rounding the corner and coming down the hall.
“Are you ready for this?”
The slightest smile played upon his lips, curling up higher on one side. He had a memory on his mind; I could see it shimmer in his eyes like a sharp cut sapphire.
“Count me in.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If this was a seminal NWOBHM* album, I could say it was recorded on “Ruddles, with a little help from Remy and Carlsberg.” But since it’s a novel, I can only say it was written on little sleep, adrenaline, dreams, and bottomless cups of coffee while sitting in various libraries, coffeehouses and at my kitchen table – and with a little help from the following wonderful folks:
I am eternally grateful to my parents, Sanford and Helen Rosokoff, who instilled my love for books by taking me (and most of the neighborhood kids) to the public library every week. You both have endlessly supported my creativity in every form, even if it meant letting me walk out the door wearing magic marker skin art, Band-Aids for no reason and clashing colors to preschool.
Heaps of love to Jon and Millie: I wear a lot of hats in this household. And some days, you guys are the meddling monkeys pulling them off my head like in the old children’s picture book Caps for Sale by Esphyr Slobodkina. Thank you for allowing me to write around the chaos and for reminding me to laugh. And thanks to my extended Rosokoff, Topper and Gallo family for their support. Oh, and to Maddy, who deserves her own PBS superhero cat cartoon!
A big horns-up to my forever friend, Stephany Sofia, for giving Digger so many of his songs – Steph, your poetry is beautiful and so are you. We’ve been critique partners and beta readers of each other’s works since the 8th grade . . . we just didn’t know there was a fancy name for it when we were thirteen! Thank you for Friday Note and for thirty years (and counting) of friendship.
I’m not superstitious, but I had telltale signs assuring me I was on the right path during my inaugural writing journey. My clearest sign was meeting fellow writer Amanda Usen, who quickly became a wonderful friend and mentor, and pushed me to finish the damn book! Amanda, you showed me what is possible in this wild world of creating words. Thanks for opening my heart and my eyes to it.
Heartfelt gratitude to my agent, Nalini Akolekar of Spencerhill Associates, for falling in love with Adrian and Kat, and to Leis Pederson, my amazing editor at Berkley for championing the book. Nalini and Leis, you are rock stars in my eyes! Thank you for believing in my voice. Managing editor Megha Jain, copy editor Kate Hurley and the entire Berkley/InterMix team at Penguin deserve a standing ovation for helping bring Louder Than Love to the world, and for making this girl’s pipe dream of publication come true.
A shout-out across the pond to Kevin Paish, John Oakley and Jason Wild for putting up with my endless questions about British idioms and Cockney rhyming slang. You helped Adrian find his voice. Up the Irons, boys! I’ll buy you a pint at the next show.
Eternal appreciation to Jay Blakesberg, Dan Getz, Jim Walsh, Mindy Reznik, and five of the nicest guys in rock and roll to work with: Rob, Al, Chuck, Vin and Jim of moe., plus their killer road crew. Thank you for your insight and inspiration! And thanks to Dr. Aries Liu-Helm for chatting with me about anaphylaxis, and obrigada to Mina Lobo for confirming my use of Portuguese.
Kat couldn’t have survived without her Lauder Lake Ladies of Leisure, and I couldn’t have done it without my own Ya Ya posse of Buff State Babes. Thank you Alysa Cohen, Michelle Cronin, Naomi Downey and Liz Rice for all of your energy and white light – love ya! And my NYPL sisterhood – Natalie Cannestra, Melissa Kuzma and Lori Falcone – who read early versions and gave me their honest opinions. And much love to my partners in concert crime: Dawn Hetzel, Leah Seki and Maria Patellaro. Where shall we tour next?
I doubt anyone who knows me is surprised I’ve dedicated the novel of my heart to Bruce Dickinson, a Renaissance man in the true sense of the term. He continues to inspire, surprise and entertain me after thirty years. I’m sure he wouldn’t remember, but on a street corner in the Yorkville neighborho
od of Toronto, Canada, well past two minutes to midnight on a warm summer evening in August 2005, Bruce once asked me what I did. I wish now I had said something witty, like “You mean when I’m not following around your band like a total lunatic?” Instead, I sputtered something about books and bookkeeping, and then I told him my real dream was to write novels. And that maybe some day, I would dedicate one to him. Cheers, Bruce – this one’s for you!
*NWOBHM – New Wave of British Heavy Metal, the music movement in which I based Adrian’s fictitious band, Corroded Corpse.
Jessica Topper is an ex-librarian turned rock ’n’ roll number cruncher. She is a PAN member of the Romance Writers of America and belongs to the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. Jessica lives in Western New York with her husband, daughter, and one ancient cat. Visit her online at www.jessicatopper.com.
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