by Unknown
“Where do you think you’re going? The beach?” I tease and he laughs.
“Very funny.”
“Do you want me to get dressed and come with you?”
His expression changes and he looks uncomfortable. “Not today, Chrissie. First day on tour. I don’t even have a set put together yet. I need to focus. I have no idea what I’m doing and I can’t quite figure out how I got here. One day we’re playing small venues, theaters, and the next we’re opening on an arena tour. Twenty thousand people and they are not even our fans. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Chrissie.”
My eyes widen in surprise. I didn’t expect that. I’ve never heard Neil sound unsure of himself. It makes me feel more connected to him, a sense that he needs me a little bit, when it usually only feels like I need him. It’s a nice feeling. Good. Really good.
I slip my arms around him and press my lips against his neck. “You got here, Neil, because you are incredible. The only problem you have, as far as I can tell, is that you still think you’re on a Southern California beach.”
Neil laughs. “Fuck, was that supposed to be motivational? That one is right up there with Jack’s don’t be a fuck-up speech.”
I start to giggle even as I kiss lightly down his neck. I stop and smile at him. “Just be Neil and the crowd will love you.”
He presses his lips against the flesh beneath my ear and the feel of him moves through me sweetly. A hand caresses my breast. I give him a gentle push away from me.
“Stop it and get out of here. You don’t have time.”
His eyes glow wickedly. “Wear something sexy tonight. You have no idea what it does to me when you let Rene dress you up in something sexy.”
I throw a pillow at him. “I thought you thought the sundresses were sexy.”
“Only because they’re easy to get off you.”
I throw another pillow and hit him in the face. He pulls something from his pocket and drops it on the nightstand.
“Your pass backstage. Don’t forget it, Chrissie.”
I pick it up, rolling my eyes. “I won’t forget it.” I turn it in my fingers. Christian Parker. Band. I frown. “Why did you tell them to put my full name on this? No one ever calls me Christian. Not even my dad.”
Neil shrugs. “I don’t know. I just did.”
I turn it in my fingers.
Neil crosses the room.
“See ya, Neil.”
“See ya, Chrissie.”
The door closes, and I lie back on the bed and smile. Christian Parker. I kind of like that. Sort of a symbol of a new Chrissie. A new me. A new everything.
CHAPTER TEN
I climb out of the shower and grab a towel. I rub it briskly over my hair and then wrap it around my head. I take another towel, hastily drying myself as I cross to the vanity. Fuck, how could I have fallen back to sleep? I use my forearm to swipe at the steam on the mirror. Good one, Chrissie. Good one. You are already late, you steamed up the bathroom, and you don’t have time for this.
I use the blow dryer, only to remove the dampness from my hair and not to style it. I rummage through my makeup bag. Mascara? Yep, a must. Foundation? No, not tonight. Maybe a little blush. Lip gloss. Necessity.
I stare at myself in the mirror to make sure in my hurry I didn’t make any glaring mistakes with the eyeliner. OK, now time to dress.
In the bedroom, I sink to the floor beside my duffel. Crap, I’m way north of Southern California. What’s the weather like up here? I pull out of my bag jeans, my Chucks, a tight black t-shirt, and Neil’s old, ratty cardigan which I appropriated from him nine months ago.
I dress in record time and race back into the bathroom. I jerk the brush through my hair, flip it over to get the underside, toss my head back and spray. Thank God I have fluffy hair I can turn into a metal chick hairdo without effort. Makes me look sort of less nerdy.
I stand in front of the mirror and do a fast once-over. I look totally tacky, totally a mess, and totally Seattle. I’d look like a bum if not for the one-carat diamond earrings I always wear.
From my purse I grab the room key, some cash and a credit card. I take the backstage pass from the nightstand and hurry out the door, letting it slam behind me.
I take a taxi to the stadium. As I reach into my pocket for cash to pay, I realize how lame it was to take a cab. It would have been faster to walk. The traffic into the stadium parking lot was a nightmare. It couldn’t have been more than a half mile walk and it took forty minutes by car, but shit I don’t know Vancouver and I’m not about to wander around alone up here.
I shove the money at the driver and exit the backseat. I look at the crowd, and my face falls. Jeez, this is a madhouse. Scream is one of the hottest hard rock bands on tour, and they have a large and rowdy following, and they are everywhere.
I pause at the top of the garage entrance. I’m not even sure I can make it down the driveway to the underground security entrance. There are altogether too many people jostling against each other at the door.
Pushing through the crowd takes effort. Getting close to the security guard takes more effort, even though I’m standing there waving my pass in his face.
Finally, he looks at me. “You’re in the wrong place,” is all he says.
I have to fight not to make an are you kidding face at him. “I’ve got a pass. This is a security entrance. Let me in.”
He nods to indicate deeper into the underground garage. “Band and crew entrance is down there.”
“What difference does it make?”
He ignores me. I’m about to walk off when he grabs my wrist, jerks me behind him, and pushes me through the door.
Inside the stadium the concrete walls and floors vibrate from the activity. I feel like I’m suffocating in the packed, overly lit corridor, but I start making my way through overdressed women, underdressed men, and the diligently working road crew. More than a few guys check me out as I cut through the crowd, and I keep my eyes locked forward, watching nothing but the fast shifting path through the bodies.
I see an open door and look into a room. There’s a guy sitting at a drum kit. I can tell by how the rest of the gathering huddles around him, nodding in time, that they are drummers, too. Two of them I recognize as famous—my favorite metal band drummer of all time, Lars, but the other one’s name escapes me—and I don’t know the guy with the sticks. It’s not Arctic Hole’s drummer, Nate Kassel, so it must be the drummer for Scream. But then maybe not. What do I know? I’ve never been a fan of the British metal band.
I work my way past more small rooms clustered with people. Intimate, private parties inside this one giant party that fills the stadium.
I spot a door with a sign, Dressing Room A: Performer, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a long walk down the tunnels and, if I’m near the dressing rooms, I’m near where Neil is most likely held up with the guys in the room where food and drink is set up.
I maneuver on, close to the wall, and find a second door marked Dressing Room B. I put my hand on the knob and then pause, wondering if I should knock. The room isn’t labeled.
“They’re not in there,” exclaims an ear-piercingly loud voice and I whirl, coming face-to-face with an absolutely diminishing stare.
I frown. “Thank you, but you don’t know who I’m looking for.”
The girls laughs. “Every girl backstage is looking for the same thing. Guys in the band. It doesn’t matter who you are looking for, sweetie, there is no one there.”
I flush, since the way she says sweetie tells me a lot about what she’s thinking about me.
She arches a brow. “Are you looking for the assholes or the Hardy Boys?”
“Excuse me?”
She gives me a sharp, once-over glance. “It doesn’t really matter. None of them are going to be interested in you.” She starts to laugh in a rude sort of way. “Who gave you the pass? Someone is playing a joke on you letting you backstage.”
She shakes her head, touching her hair in
a preening manner, and then fixes her intense stare down the corridor.
I’m submerged in a strange feeling of déjà vu. Oh, they don’t look alike, not in any physical way, but this girl is the embodiment of Linda Rowan. Strikingly beautiful. Flirty, messy long red hair. Pierced and tattooed. Sexed up. Stylishly overdressed. Superiority and I don’t give a fuck gushing from every pore. Nosy. All-knowing. Territorial. And rude.
Yep, she’s with one of the members of Scream. She’s someone in the band’s wife or girlfriend. This is just like the day I met Linda Rowan.
“Do you know where I can find the guys in Arctic Hole?” I ask.
She arches a brow. “Aha. I know where everyone is. Always. I should have guessed you were looking for the Hardy Boys. Come with me, my little lost waif. I’ll show you where they are. It won’t help you. You won’t get in with those guys. Honey, you won’t get in with any guys, not even the crew. So save your effort, save your pride—” Her intense stare fixes on me. “Run before you screw up your life. You shouldn’t be here.”
I meet her stare for stare, and I don’t know whether I want to tell her to shove it, or to laugh.
Before I can decide which to do, she takes me by the arm in a not-so-gentle hold, and tugs me along behind her. She marches down the corridor, shouting get the fuck out of my way with every step.
“By the way, my name is Nicole. Never Nicky. Never Nic. Nicole. Don’t fuck it up.”
Her voice somehow manages to be even louder that time since she didn’t bother to look over her shoulder at me while she barked her warning.
I am pulled into a large room crowded with people. Against the walls are set-up bars and buffet tables, and everywhere there is chattering, laughing, drinking, eating humanity. Christ, it’s as awful as I remember.
Nicole gives a husky laugh that tells me she’s amused by me. “First time backstage at a concert?”
I arch a brow in my best imitation you’re fucking irritating me, get out of my face Rene kind of way. “No.” One word. Deliberately vague.
“Aha,” she says, and before I get away from her, she sinks down on a sofa, pulling me with her. “If you’re going to hang out with me you had better learn to play nicely.”
Being threatened by Nicole is lackluster after dealing with Linda Rowan. Still, I’m ready to be done with this.
I stand up and glare down at her. “If you stay out of my face we’ll get along fine. And don’t ever call me a little waif again.”
Nicole rolls her eyes. “Fuck, you need to grow thicker skin than that if that one got you pissed off. There is no need to run off.” She seizes my wrist, dragging me down beside her again. “It’s better to stick close to me, sweetie. You don’t want to be alone here.”
For a second it’s like there is a crack in the wall of repelling hardness, and, startled, I realize she is trying to be nice in her own hideous way.
My body starts to relax.
Nicole sinks back into the cushions and smiles. “There now, we’re friends.” With a long, red manicured nail, she points into the room, her finger doing a little bob. “That’s Vincent Delmo. He’s mine. We’ve been together for nine years. And I see the Hardy Boys. Well, at least four of them.”
I look in the direction of her finger. The guys are standing in a cluster, however, Neil is not with them. Shit.
“I should go find Neil.” I start to rise and she stops me again.
Her smile deepens. “So you’re looking for the cute one. The shy one. Good luck, sweetie. He hasn’t been in here all night. I don’t know where he hides, but he’s somewhere. That one keeps to himself.”
I feel myself make a small smile. “That sounds like Neil.”
Her brows hitch upward. “Do you know him?”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. She starts laughing again in a rude, overly amused, humiliating kind of way. She’s laughing so hard she’s curled back against the pillows, eyes closed.
Her lids flutter wide, she looks at my face, and then makes a poor effort to stop laughing. “I’m sorry.”
I try to keep all reaction from surfacing on my face, because even though I know I will never like this girl, I’m going to be trapped on the road with her for ten months and I don’t need to make an enemy.
“I’m glad you find it amusing,” is all I say.
Her laughter stops and she sits up. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s not you. You just hear such shit backstage. Too many bored people with nothing to do talking shit and making up nonsense.”
What the heck does that mean? If that’s supposed to clarify for me what’s going on here, I didn’t.
Her brown eyes bore into me. “Don’t be pissed. Don’t rush off. It’s actually kind of sweet in a circuitous way.”
“Excuse me. I’ve got to go.”
Nicole leans forward, bringing her face too close to mine, and the strength of booze on her breath is overpowering.
“Neil is an interesting guy. It is the first time any of us have met him and he doesn’t mix with anyone. He just kind of stays in his own zone. No one knows what to make of him. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve heard tonight.” She laughs again, then puckers her lips, mildly contrite. “Well, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Backstage gossip always turns out to be bullshit. Rule one on the road. Never believe a thing you hear. Always bullshit, but it gives everyone something to do and chatter about while we all sit around doing nothing.”
OK, if that is supposed to make me feel better, she failed dismally. I stand up.
“I need to go.”
I’m about to make my escape when an arm drops heavily around my shoulders and a large body blocks my path. “You going to introduce me to your new friend, love?”
The iconic Vincent Delmo is hovering over me. I don’t know if the way he’s holding me, too familiar and touchy-feely, is meant to intimidate or excite me. It does neither.
Nicole glares up at him and shrugs. “God, you are such a lecher. Get away from the girl.”
Tension, serious tension between them. Vincent lifts my pass hanging from the canvas strap on my neck. His brows shoot up. “Christian Parker? Are you Jack’s girl?”
Shit! He says that in a way that tells me they’re friends, though I didn’t know it and I find it hard to picture Jack hanging out with him. Vincent oozes ego-inflated jerk.
His stifling presence eases into a more respectful distance from me.
I smile stiffly and nod.
Nicole is suddenly overly alert. “Christian Parker? Really?”
“Yes,” I say, clipped.
In a flash Nicole is laughing uproariously and I am so ready to be done with this, but Vincent Delmo won’t release his hold on me and his body is blocking my exit route.
He glares down at his girlfriend. “Are you fucking drunk, Nicky? Stop messing with Jack’s girl.”
She stares up at her boyfriend. “I’m not laughing at her. I’m laughing at you, love. She used to be with Alan Manzone.” More laughter. She’s hugging her middle, practically in tears. “Do you know who she is with now?”
Vincent looks embarrassed and pissed. “No, but I’m sure you’re not going to shut the fuck up until you tell me and the entire world.”
“The kid,” she says, excited and harshly gloating. “This is Neil Stanton’s girlfriend, Vinny. The kid is fucking”—she can hardly get the words out—“Manny’s toss-overs and you’ve been chirruping all night that you think he’s gay.”
She curls on the couch and surrenders to her laughter. My entire body is covered with a burn and I feel like I’m going to vomit. I don’t know which is worse: hearing myself called Manny’s toss-overs or having them spread such a ridiculous, vicious rumor about Neil our first day on tour with them.
She says, “Manny’s toss-overs. Most definitely not gay, Vinny.”
Vincent grabs Nicole’s arm and jerks her from the couch. “Shut the fuck up. You’ve said enough. You’re embarrassing us both.”
Vincent glances down at me. He looks sincerely apologetic. “I’m sorry, love. She’s drunk. She’s a mean drunk. Don’t take her seriously. My apologies.”
He starts dragging her out of the room and Nicole fights him the entire way, hitting his arm over and over again in a flurry of wayward fists.
I stare at the room, wishing I could drop through the floor since it’s obvious by the stares that more than a few people heard them. I want to die. That’s all there is to it.
I search the room trying to find a safe place or a friendly face. Why in the hell did I ever think joining Neil here would be a good thing? I’d forgotten how awful the music world can be, though I shouldn’t have. And I can’t believe that I did.
Oh no, I should have remembered before I came here with Neil.
A flashing memory rises in my head of being trapped in Alan’s bedroom, being forced to hear Kenny Jones say he fucked her and dumped her thirty minutes ago. The icky feeling runs across the surface of my flesh, just as it did that night in New York, bringing with it other things I’d forgotten as well.
When Alan and I weren’t alone, it was awful. He was a different guy, the circle around him was dreadful, and shocking and hurtful moments jumped out at me from everywhere.
It is going to be the same here. Neil will be a different guy when we are not alone. Life on the tour will not exist without regular doses of heart-crushing and awful. I shouldn’t have done this. I should have moved back to Santa Barbara. I should never have brought myself here.
I lift my chin, somehow managing composure, and work my way through the people to the tiny circle of Josh and the rest of the band. I internally contain a shudder, since they don’t look very welcoming and they’re not making the slightest effort to hide that they’d heard that ghastly scene.
I look at Josh. “Do you know where Neil is?”
He tosses down a sip of his drink. “He’s where he is before every performance, Chrissie. Somewhere quiet where he can think.”
“Can you tell me where?”
Josh glares at me. “Leave him the fuck alone. Don’t run to him and dump your shit all over him. For one day can you not fuck with his head?”