Beautiful Musician

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  “Drat.” She watched me zip my jeans. “I really like how it looked. Big and hard and milky at the tip.”

  Lord. Jesus. She sounded like a porno. “Okay. I get the picture. It turned you on. But no more talk about it.”

  She nuzzled closer. “When the danger is over, we’re going to be together for real, right?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll make love to you every night.” I would use my piercing on her, too. I would do everything I craved to do. Nothing would be off limits. “The bedroom is going to be our playground.” I Frenched her to prove my point, making both of us warm and melty.

  She blinked at me when the kiss was over. “What if the warrior doesn’t show up?”

  That was a definite possibility, but as always I tried to convince her not to worry. “Don’t fret about it. It’ll happen.”

  “We’ve been waiting for him for a long time. Since I was twelve and Vanessa was thirteen.”

  “I know, but he was young then, too, remember?” They’d created him to be the same age as Vanessa. “He couldn’t take on his duties as the warrior until he became a man.”

  “He should be all grown up by now.”

  “And he’s out there somewhere, getting ready to make himself known.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.” That was a lie, of course. I wasn’t sure of anything. All I could do was hope that it came to fruition.

  She relaxed in my arms. “I’ve always believed in him, but sometimes I get scared. I think it’s because Vanessa doesn’t want him to appear.”

  “Don’t let her doubts cloud your belief in him. Just keep insisting to her that he’ll come. Try to make her believe it, too.”

  “Okay.” A stream of silence passed between us. Then she said, “I haven’t told Vanessa how I feel about you.”

  “Because you know she won’t approve?”

  Abby nodded. “She would say that you’re not right for me.”

  I was well aware of how Vanessa perceived me. I was too much of a bad-ass and not the kind of hallucination she wanted hanging around her sister.

  “You don’t have to tell Vanessa what’s happening between us,” I said. “You can keep it a secret from her.”

  “What if I decide that I want to tell her someday?”

  “Just do whatever feels right.” I wrapped her tighter around me, holding her with every ounce of my non-existent being.

  Keeping the border monsters from attacking me was the warrior’s responsibility. But oddly enough, his life was in jeopardy, too. Vanessa had cursed him on the day she’d created him, willing him to die when he reached a specific age.

  Twenty-one, I thought. The age I was now. It didn’t bode well for me or the warrior. Or the rest of Abby’s people. The threat of monsters loomed over their heads, too.

  But I couldn’t lose hope. I needed to hang on, the way I was encouraging Abby to do. I had to believe that this other man—this tall, dark stranger—really would save us all.

  But for now, Abby was with me, close at hand. My girl. My fae. My sweet, crazy love.

  End of Prequel

  (If you’re curious to know more about Seven and why author Sheri Whitefeather made him the hero of this story, please continue reading. Also included is an excerpt from Book One, where you’ll meet Vanessa and the warrior.)

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading BEAUTIFUL MUSICIAN, the Room 105 prequel. The series will consist of three more books, BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION, BEAUTIFUL WARRIOR, and BEAUTIFUL JOURNEY.

  I’ve provided an excerpt of the prologue and first two chapters of BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION, Book One. It’s a full-length novel that features Vanessa and the warrior you just learned about. Abby and Seven play a part in it, as well.

  But first, here is the background on Seven and how he came to be. It involves the real musician who inspired him, as well as snippets from my life. I sold my first romance novel in 1998, but prior to that, I fluttered on the fringes of rock ‘n roll.

  During that era, I had some memorable encounters with Nikki Sixx. This came about through his association with my ex-husband, Dru, who is a leather craftsman. He worked with Mötley Crüe for many years, designing guitar straps, belts, and other accessories for them.

  In fact, people sometimes thought that we named our son, Nikki Lee, after Nikki Sixx and Tommy Lee. But it had nothing to do with them. At the time, I’d heard Mötley Crüe’s music, of course, and knew of their success, but I wasn’t aware of their individual identities until after our son was born and people started mentioning it. Nikki was just a name I liked, for either a boy or a girl, and Lee is my mom’s name, which was an androgynous choice, as well.

  The first time I encountered Sixx was when he phoned our house to speak to Dru. I inquired as to who was calling, and Nikki stated his name. Since Dru’s career was still fairly new and the only work he’d done for Mötley Crüe had come through outside sources and not from the band members themselves, I wasn’t prepared for the call.

  In reaction, I replied, “Oh,” thinking that Nikki was my kid’s name, too. Then, after a moment’s pause, it hit me that this was the guy people thought my baby boy was named after, and I repeated “Oh,” with a stronger inflection.

  Soon after that, I was hired to paint the sleeve of a leather jacket for Nikki, with an image of a naked woman who resembled Vanity, the singer he was dating then. This was arranged through Mötley Crüe’s clothing designer, who’d seen a painting of a leopard girl I’d done and suggested something similar, only with Vanity’s long, lean likeness.

  It wasn’t necessary for me to meet Nikki to complete the job. Dru, however, began working directly with the band, spending time with them at their rehearsal studio and building a personal rapport.

  I finally met Nikki backstage at the Forum Club at somebody’s concert. (Can’t recall who.) We were introduced, and he reached for my outstretched hand, mumbled a greeting, and stared straight through me. His eyes were glassy and he could barely speak. This was around the time he was keeping a journal which would later become a brilliant book called The Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star.

  My path crossed with him again, albeit indirectly, when I was working for Chanel cosmetics. Brandi, his playmate model wife at the time, used Chanel, and whenever she would order something the other salesgirls would give me the sale because they knew that my husband had a connection to the band. I would send Brandi notes with the latest product information, along with regards from my family to hers. By now, Dru had been to their house a few times and had given Brandi a gift when she and Nikki had their first child.

  The last time I saw Nikki was at a music trade show, about four or five years later. Based on his healthy appearance, I assumed he was drug-free. We’d just received a Christmas card from his family with an adorable picture of his kids.

  His gaze kept drifting in my direction, as if he thought that he should acknowledge me somehow. I was standing in the background while Dru chatted with him and Tommy.

  When the band members walked away, a cluster of fans following them, I got the sudden urge to call out to Nikki.

  He spun around and I made reference to the card, telling him, “Your children are beautiful.”

  He flashed a proud smile and thanked me. He was beaming, and I saw the look of a man who loved his children more than anything. He also seemed achingly vulnerable. (His marriage was on the skids, but I didn’t know that then.)

  Later that day, Dru attended a business meeting, and I left the trade show with some friends and walked around the area. Then one of my friends said to me, “Nikki Sixx is across the street and he’s waving at you.”

  Yes, indeed, there he was, smiling once again, and trying to get my attention. It was the sweetest moment, as if I was the celebrity instead of him. I waved back, just a little finger waggle, and we headed off in separate directions.

  A lot of time has passed since I saw him, and I doubt he remembers me, as our encounters were ra
ther fleeting. But what’s important is that I remember how he affected me that day.

  When I started plotting this series, I didn’t intend for Seven to get his own book. But as his character developed, he prompted me to tell his story, to give him a voice, even if he wasn’t supposed to be real.

  So there you go: my experience with Nikki Sixx and how it triggered a schizophrenic hallucination named Smiling Seven.

  And now, if you’re so inclined, you can turn the page and read the excerpt from BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION and continue on the path of Room 105.

  .

  BEAUTIFUL CONFUSION

  Book One in the Room 105 Series

  Prologue

  I hated schizophrenia. I hated everything it did to Abby, the sister I adored. With her pixie blonde hair, disturbed thoughts, and enormous blue eyes, she reminded me of a scattered little fairy. Her full name was Abigail Ann Winston, but I’d been calling her Abby for as long as I could remember. As for me, I’d been christened Vanessa Day Winston and no one had ever shortened it to anything. She was twelve and I was thirteen, and although both of us were said to have gifted IQs, our minds were light-years apart.

  “My people need a warrior,” Abby muttered, sitting on the floor, rocking her shoulders back and forth, her legs crossed Indian-style.

  Abby’s “people” were the characters she created in her head. Some of them weren’t even people, per se. Dingo, the dancing dog, often slept at her feet. And Face, an oversized, disembodied, generic-looking head with hands attached to his chin, sometimes flew around the room, shaming you when you did something wrong. There was also a movie director named Bud and a wild-spirited guy called Smiling Seven who wanted to be a rock star.

  Four characters in total, and I knew them almost as well as Abby did. But I couldn’t see them the way my mentally ill sister could.

  “You have to create him,” Abby said.

  “Me?” I recoiled. I didn’t want any part of the crazy process. My biggest fear was that someday I would develop schizophrenia. It wasn’t a common childhood disease. Most people didn’t show signs of it until later.

  Abby rocked a little faster. “Remember when I told you that someday my people are going to get stuck in Room 105? I just figured out that the warrior is the only one who can save them.”

  Room 105 was another dimension, a place that was inhabited by everything you could imagine. Abby said it was because all of the beings there were imagined, made up by people on earth who brought them to life. She’d never been there, but her people had told her about it. They lived in Room 105 when they weren’t with her.

  I thought of it as schizoid central, but Abby claimed that parts of it were beautiful, like dreams from a fairy tale. Of course some of it was ugly and evil, with nightmarish creatures that preyed upon the good. Supposedly it was divided into three realms: the past, the present, and the future. The door to it was in a secret location. Even Abby didn’t know where it was, which was why she’d never been there. Her people didn’t know where it was, either. They traveled back and forth by simply walking across a magical border, but earthlings, like Abby, weren’t able to do that.

  “Maybe it will be okay if your people get stuck there,” I said. If they were gone, then Abby wouldn’t see them anymore.

  “Noooo.” My sister keened out the word. “If they get stuck there, the monsters that patrol the border will be able to attack them or maybe even kill them. Don’t you see? I can’t live without my people. If they go away, then I’ll go away, too.”

  Go away how? Deeper into her madness? I shivered, catching a reflection of myself in the closet-door mirror. Abby and I could pass for twins, except my hair was longer and wasn’t matted like hers. Abby wasn’t very good at personal hygiene. That was part of the illness, too.

  I turned away from the mirror. “Why can’t you give the warrior life? Why do I have to do it?”

  “I can’t create a protector for my people. Someone else has to do it, and you’re the only one I trust.” She leaned forward. “Carol would screw it up.”

  Carol was our overwhelmed aunt, who’d taken us in when our parents had died, nearly five years ago. Abby had been a little odd, even then, but nothing like she was now.

  I finally gave in. If I didn’t, this conversation would go on forever. “Okay, fine. I’ll create the warrior. Just tell me how to do it.”

  “Make him your age, so he will get older when you get older. And make him handsome so you can kiss him someday. He’ll deserve to be kissed for protecting my people.”

  Oh, cripes. “All right. He’s my age and he’s hot. What else?”

  “Describe him out loud, exactly what he looks like and what type of warrior he is. And give him a regular job in this world, so he can blend in when he’s here.”

  “Why does he need to blend in?”

  “Because he won’t be able to make himself invisible like the rest of my people. Now, think. Picture him in your mind.”

  I pretended that I was concentrating on the task, but all I wanted was to get this stupid thing over with. The best I could come up with was, “He’s an Indian warrior,” because Abby was still sitting Indian-style.

  “What tribe is he from?”

  He wasn’t from any tribe, I thought. He was a figment of nothing. But I said, “He’s a universal warrior. He has a little of every tribe in him.”

  “Oh, he sounds amazing already. Tell me more.”

  Glad that my sister was pleased, I went ahead and pictured him, as I’d been instructed to do. “His hair looks black, but in the light you can tell that it’s dark brown. It’s straight and shiny and falls to his shoulders, but sometimes he wears it in a ponytail. His features are strong and bold, and his eyes are piercing and fierce. But he has a gentle side, too.” I considered what sort of job he should have and what would make the most sense. Logic in the middle of make-believe. “In this world, he’s an artist, and he works alone in his studio. That’s why he’s able to travel back and forth between here and Room 105 and no one notices when he’s gone.”

  “What’s his artwork like?”

  I thought about it for a while, then decided it should be connected to the place he comes from. “He paints pictures of Room 105. The nice parts of it. He rides a big black horse with a flowing mane. He’s known as the dark warrior there. Not just because of his horse, but because of the darkness of his skin.”

  Abby looked as if she’d just slipped into psychotic heaven, dreamy with the details. She was rocking with a gentler sway now.

  But suddenly I felt funny inside, as if I really had created him. Fighting the notion that he was real, I pushed away from my chair. A troubling sound, like a brand-new heartbeat, started thumping faintly in my ears.

  I had to fix this somehow, to stop him from taking over my mind.

  “He should be allowed to die,” I quickly said. “When’s he’s twenty-one.” Last week Aunt Carol had taken me shopping at Forever 21 for my birthday, and it was the first number that popped into my mind. “His warrior work will be done by then and your people will be safe.”

  My sister didn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Besides, if he dies for your cause, it makes him nobler, like the martyr of a movie.” An angel of schizophrenic mercy, I thought, as the unnerving thumping grew stronger. This time I almost covered my ears, hating that my imagination was playing tricks on me. “He really needs to be that kind of hero.”

  Abby appeared to be mulling it over. After a long pause, she nodded her matted head and said, “Okay.”

  Agreeing to let him die.

  Chapter One

  The warrior wasn’t real. Not real. Not real. Not real.

  In the glare of the morning light, I sat up and kicked off the covers. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the thumping in my ears to go away. Seven years had passed since I’d “created” him and his heartbeat continued to haunt me. Not all the time, but often enough to make me cling to the hope of sanity.

&n
bsp; When the sound finally subsided, I opened my eyes and let out the breath I’d been holding. But it didn’t help. I was still terrified that I would end up like Abby someday.

  My sister’s condition wasn’t improving the way they’d hoped it would. Generally, schizophrenics with an early diagnosis stood a better chance of responding to treatment, but that hadn’t happened with Abby. I worried about Abby’s future and how she would survive if Carol and I weren’t around to take care of her.

  So a few months ago, I convinced Abby to check herself into The Manor, a private treatment center that specialized in mental illnesses, with the hope that she would develop the skills to manage her disease by being immersed in daily therapy. Abby had agreed to go there because she was growing increasingly paranoid of Carol and wanted to get away from her.

  Schizophrenia was defined by a loss of connection to reality. Sometimes it entailed delusions, like Abby’s staunch belief in the existence of Room 105. Auditory or visual hallucinations, like the “people” Abby routinely saw, often factored into it, too. Speech and reason could become disorganized. Paranoia, of course, was another common symptom. In cases like Abby’s, the capacity to care for one’s self was at risk and required more than just medicine.

  Abby was still clinging fiercely to her people. She continued to talk about the warrior, too. Although he’d yet to appear to her, she defended his absence, insisting he would show up when the time was right.

  For me, the time would never be right.

  But by next year, it would be okay. Both the warrior and I would be twenty-one by then, the age of his predestined death, and he would no longer be an issue.

  Or so I prayed.

  I hadn’t told anyone, not even Aunt Carol, about him. He was a secret that Abby and I kept to ourselves.