by Karina Bliss
“Are you afraid of flying, Doc?” Zander said curiously.
“I’ve overcome it. It’s only through really rough turbulence that…” She gasped as another jolt hit. Flinging open the side panel, she fumbled in her bag for the Rescue Remedy. The bottle fell onto the floor and rolled toward Zander. He picked it up and read the label before handing it to her.
“You want something stronger?”
“I’ve got this under control,” she insisted. Throwing her head back, she drank from the bottle instead of the dropper. “Some people take sleeping pills,” she added nervously, “and while I know a plummet would wake me, I want to be clearheaded either meeting my Maker or climbing into a life raf—” She broke off and stared at him. “There is a life raft, isn’t there? Like on a proper plane? Some of us know we can’t walk on water.”
“Yes!” His amusement faded as he studied her. “Need me to sit beside you, Elizabeth,” he asked quietly, “and hold your hand?”
God, yes. Then she remembered—re-establishing boundaries—and moaned, “No.”
The plane dropped, taking her stomach. With a yelp, she bowed her head, squeezed her eyes shut and started praying. “Our Father, who art in heaven—”
A couple of minutes later, she felt cold plastic against her hand. “Here. The Lord helps those who help themselves.” Her eyes blinked open. Zander sat beside her with a water bottle and two pink tablets. “This will calm you down.”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“I’m not offering you LSD, Doc,” he shook the bottle. “It’s benzodiazepine—prescription. Are you on other meds?”
“Only the Pill.”
“Excellent. So we have no problem mixing.”
Even praying for her life, she heard double entendre. Ignore my reaction, Lord, crossed wires. “What are the side effects?”
“Only drowsiness. It’s also recommended you don’t operate heavy machinery.” His mouth twitched. “Which means you won’t be able to crash-land the plane.”
“Bastard!” She grabbed the pills. Even with sips of bottled water, her throat was so tight she nearly choked on them. “How long before they work?”
“Inside thirty minutes,” he reassured her.
That long? The next tsunami of turbulence hit and she groaned. “Promise you’ll carry me to the life raft.”
“Can I cop a feel on the way?”
“No. Hold my hand!”
“Mixed messages, Doc.” But his warm palm covered her clenched fist. Elizabeth loosened her grip just enough to seize his fingers.
Zander’s other hand covered hers. “Hell, you’re shaking.”
She hated showing weakness. “It’s lust.”
He tucked her arm under his. “Completely understandable.” The unexpected kindness in his voice shredded her. Elizabeth closed her eyes.
“Is it half an hour yet?”
“Only twenty-eight minutes to go.”
If she talked, she wouldn’t scream. “Those pills were yours?”
“God, no. I’ve got enough meds in my system. Moss sometimes gets panic attacks before performing.”
“I can’t imagine Moss losing his cool.”
Another vibration shook the plane and she gritted her teeth. When Zander put his arm around her, she didn’t protest.
“What meds do you take?” she said, resisting the urge to crawl, whimpering, into his lap.
“I have an idea.” Keeping arm around her shoulders, Zander loosed her death grip on his hand and reached into his seat’s side pocket. He pulled out a brochure. “The Aviation Safety Management Systems Manual.”
Giving up all pretense of dignity, Elizabeth burrowed closer. “Read it.”
Resting his cheek on her hair, he began soothingly. “Our pilots hold an Airline Transport Pilot License—ATPL—and are specifically trained for this aircraft type. They also have to pass comprehensive and exhaustive technical, medical and psychological tests.”
“Wait!” Wild-eyed, she raised her head. “So they don’t panic when they lose control of an aircraft?”
Zander pulled her head firmly against his chest. “This plane also has its own dedicated flight engineer, who keeps meticulous maintenance records.” On and on, his voice so melodious that gradually Elizabeth relaxed her muscles. The jolting was still as bad, but cocooned against his warm body she began to believe they’d survive.
As her panic slowly subsided, she became aware of Rocco’s wailing. “Need to go see if somethin’ I can do for that baby,” she fretted drowsily and felt what could have been a light kiss on her hair. Nah…
“You sleep and I’ll go.” Gently easing her sideways, Zander unbuckled and staggered forward.
“Miss you already,” she murmured. Okay the drugs were definitely kicking in.
“Mr. Freedman, please return to your seat.”
Good luck with that. Smiling, Elizabeth snuggled deeper into her seat and closed her eyes. My hero.
Phph! And he’d said they weren’t hallucinatory.
* * *
Rocco screamed and screamed. The sound slashed at Stormy’s tender heart like razorblades, so she could only imagine how bad his parents were feeling. Peeping through the gap in the seats in front, she saw tears running down Kayla’s cheeks as she and Jared stroked their inconsolable baby’s rigid limbs.
The aircraft shuddered again and she refocused on her task; making a game of every violent buck and bounce. “Giddap, horsey,” she encouraged Madison.
Rocco’s big sister took her fingers out of her ears and hollered happily, “Giddap, horsey!”
They both started when Zander loomed over Kayla’s seat. Oh great, Stormy thought, just what the poor woman needs. But he surprised her.
“What’s wrong with my guy?” he asked over the howls.
Kayla made an effort to brush away tears, but the pink leather sleeve only smeared them across her face. “I’m not sure, it could be earache,” she yelled. “He keeps touching them. And being strapped in isn’t helping.” She gulped. “I just hope he isn’t coming down with something.”
Stormy winced. Don’t tell a singer on the eve of a major tour that your kid is coming down with something.
But Zander surprised her again by laying a hand on Rocco’s forehead. “No fever.”
“He could be overtired,” Jared yelled, “but like Kayla said, he keeps touching his ears.”
Zander crouched to eye level. “C’mon, buddy, pull it together, no one likes a crybaby.” Rocco gave him a toothless grin through his tears, then batted at his ears and began to wail again.
The turbulence stopped as suddenly as it had started.
“Awww,” complained Madison.
Stormy opened the child’s backpack and pulled out crayons and a drawing pad. “Let’s draw pictures of our broncos,” she suggested, setting up her tray table.
The seatbelt sign pinged off and Kayla fumbled to unbuckle Rocco, pulling the baby close to murmur nonsense words of comfort. His wails subsided to sobs.
“I’ll organize a bottle,” Jared disappeared toward the galley.
“Dimity.” Zander gestured to his PA, who sat further down the aisle. When she arrived, he said, “Can you research babies and flying?”
For a moment her eyes met Stormy’s in mutual astonishment. “Sure.”
“And if nothing comes up, arrange for a doctor to meet us at the hotel.”
With a last pat of Rocco’s downy head he left. Dimity looked at Kayla. “The baby’s not Zee’s, is it?”
“No!”
“Just checking.” Pulling out her cell, she trawled parent sites. “I probably should have done this when you confirmed, except I ran out of time… Sorry.”
“I should have checked myself. Hush, darling, Mommy’s here.” Kayla swallowed a sob.
Through the gap in the seats, Stormy touched her shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t panic yet. It could be something simple.”
Madison tugged on her jacket. “You’re s’posed to be drawing something with me!” For all h
er cheer, she was pale with exhaustion.
“And then we’re putting you to bed,” Stormy said firmly. The last thing Kayla needed was her firstborn having a major meltdown.
“Okay, this might be the problem,” Dimity looked up from her screen. “Some babies have trouble equalizing ear pressure. Has he been drinking or swallowing anything since we took off?”
“No, he slept through takeoff.” Kayla brightened. “Jared’s getting a bottle.”
“Haven’t you got a nanny for that?”
“Stormy’s keeping Maddie happy.” Kayla added loyally, “She’s been a godsend.”
“If only God would take her back,” Dimity muttered as she walked past.
Stormy pretended not to hear, but her fingers tightened on her crayon. Reinforce the good behavior, ignore the bad.
Jared returned with a bottle and Rocco settled immediately.
“That’s not a horse.” Madison inspected Stormy’s drawing with interest. “It’s a lady monster.”
“Yes, it is.” Stormy added horns.
Chapter Fourteen
In his dressing room at Estadi Olímpic de Montjuic, Zander breathed deeply through the mask of his steam inhaler. He imagined the moist heat relaxing his vocal chords and easing the vise-like constriction in his chest.
Maybe Rocco had been coming down with something.
Because Zander didn’t get performance anxiety, never had. If anything, he soaked up nervous energy like a power grid.
Removing the mask he wiped steam from his face with a chilled towel and resumed his vocal warmup, humming through the scales.
He always prepared alone, rejoining the band ten minutes before going onstage. He was the spark that lit the fuse and timing was everything.
Tonight his timing was off.
Distantly, the muffled beat of a war drum signaled Rage’s impending arrival and roused the Barcelona crowd to fever pitch.
He laid his palm flat against the wall, connecting to the vibrations of kinetic energy, but the precise rhythm only underscored the erratic tempo of his pulse.
Could he be having a heart attack? He did feel queasy, dizzy.
Of course you’re not having a heart attack.
Refocusing, he warmed his upper and lower register, climbing steadily to each note, and then down again.
“By continuing to tour, you’re effectively playing Russian roulette with your voice.”
His voice cracked. As panicky as a baby needing its pacifier, Zander resisted the urge to grab the mask. Thirty-six hours traveling with children and he knew all about pacifiers, God help him. He reminded himself that his voice had been strong in sound checks this afternoon. That he’d successfully toured with this problem for months.
“Over time, particularly with continued overuse, the mass will become larger and firmer.”
That damn specialist had gotten into his head.
A staccato rap on the door made him jump. “Zee, we’re waiting.” An unprecedented second reminder from Dimity.
He fumbled for the mask. “Two more minutes.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I said two more minutes!” He sucked in another rush of moist hot steam.
“How will I know if I’ve had a hemorrhage?”
“A sudden voice change or hoarseness while speaking or singing, pain, loss of range.”
He hadn’t felt such terror since he was sixteen.
So what are you going to do, send everyone home?
The magnitude of his problem steadied him because it punctured the illusion of choice. His voice might last the distance, it might not, but cowering in his dressing room guaranteed failure.
Drawing on twenty years of willful self-belief, he dropped the mask, straightened his shoulders and conjured an insolent rocker’s grin. “Let’s roll the dice.”
* * *
Elizabeth sat on a couch in the band’s dressing room in her official role as a fly on the wall—if that fly twitched and buzzed. Who knew nervous energy could be so contagious? With drums thundering somewhere overhead, she could be in a bunker under siege; certainly the tension in the room reinforced that impression.
Minus his usual affability, Seth paced the carpet. “What the fuck, Dimity? We should have been onstage twenty-five minutes ago!”
Huddled on a barstool in the corner, her long legs entwined around the steel frame, Dimity snapped, “I’m not going to knock a third time.”
“Alienating the crowd isn’t the way to launch our European tour.”
“I’m aware of that!”
Everyone, except Elizabeth, was fraught through lack of sleep. Apparently the turbulence had been a problem throughout the flight but thanks to Zander’s benzodiazepine, she couldn’t remember a thing.
In a brief drum lull, she heard retching from the adjacent bathroom. She looked at Jared who sat opposite, methodically eating his way through a bowl of M&Ms by color while he answered her technical questions. “Should I check on Moss?”
He shook his head, expertly shoving the red candy to one side of his palm. “He always throws up before a show. FOH stands for front of house speakers. On to sound engineering…”
He launched into a staccato spiel to which Elizabeth only half-listened. Where was Zander? Apparently it was unheard of for him to be late. And why hadn’t he let her into his dressing room when she’d been given a free pass everywhere else? When she’d queried her ban, he’d said he needed privacy to focus on his performance.
“You didn’t need it when we met in your dressing room in Auckland.”
“I made an exception to close the deal. Don’t make me regret it.”
She’d backed off, conscious of a slight feeling of hurt she couldn’t explain.
“The main speakers face the audience,” Jared chewed through the red M&Ms as rapidly as he spoke, “and in big venues, sound bounces back to the stage slightly delayed.” Elizabeth was more fascinated by his manifestation of performance anxiety. Like a crime scene, she could mark his progress by the colors staining one side of his sweaty palm. Brown, yellow, red, blue.
It might have helped having Kayla here, but she’d texted to say she was running late. Their jet-lagged kids were over-tired and it wasn’t fair leaving Stormy to deal with them alone.
“So to hear the music in real time, we use a mix of wedges and sides—smaller speakers—facing the band.” Jared grabbed another handful from the fishbowl on the coffee table.
Moss exited the bathroom and leaned against the wall. His pallor contrasted with the black leather gave him the appearance of a sexy vampire. “I can’t take much more of this.”
The water in the jug on the coffee table shivered as the crowd stomped with the drums.
“Zander-also-uses-a-wireless-in-ear-monitor,” Jared’s delivery accelerated, “so-he-can-move-anywhere-and—” He stood abruptly, scattering M&Ms. “Where the fuck is he!”
“I’ll get him.” Seth stormed toward the door, but it opened before he’d taken three strides. A chant surged into the room with the band’s lead singer.
“We want Rage. We want Rage.”
Zander closed the door and the roar abated.
Rings on his fingers, steel caps on his booted toes, black jeans molded to his hips. Elizabeth swallowed. When he moved, the black, silk-backed waistcoat gave tantalizing glimpses of his muscular chest with its angel-wings tattoo.
“Where the fuck have you been,” Seth snarled.
“My hair wasn’t quite right.”
Everyone stared at him.
Zander grinned. “How does it look?”
Seth said shakily, “You son of a bitch,” and sat down.
“So,” Zander glanced casually between them, “we feeding this frenzy or what?”
Moss pushed away from the wall and attempted a grin. “Who was she?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
So that’s why he’d needed privacy. Elizabeth took a moment to remember her recorder on the coffee table. She felt Zander’s ga
ze as she switched it off and pocketed it, but didn’t look up. None of her business.
The four men met in the middle of room and joined knuckles with a deliberation that suggested a ritual.
“For the next ninety minutes,” Zander said, “our job is to make each and every one of our fans forget their troubles.” They bumped fists, grins rippled around the circle. “Be gods, gentlemen.”
Seth led the way out, braving the sound blast that hit when he opened the door—“We want Rage. We want Rage.”
Zander looked at Elizabeth. “Let’s go, Doc.”
The stage wing was a hive of controlled chaos as stage crew and technicians sprang into action. Having taken a tour earlier, she knew there were dozens more manning other stations through the arena. The main stage lights dipped and the crowd’s chant faded into anticipatory silence. A sound engineer finished hooking Zander up and he did a few jumps to loosen up, swinging his arms.
As the band took their places onstage, Zander lifted his hand to shove back his hair and Elizabeth saw he was trembling. Even legends had nerves. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, then another. Oblivious to her now, completely focused on the zone.
Onstage, Moss plucked the first note on his guitar.
A roar went up from the crowd and excitement shivered down Elizabeth’s spine. Facts meant nothing against the visceral power of those famous opening chords cresting toward the moment the man beside her took the stage.
Zander vanished into the dark. Seconds later a vocal note, as menacing as dragon-smoke, rose and curled like a helix around the instrumentals. A spotlight flared and he appeared, arms raised, stance wide, his face seared white. And still that note soared…
Wham! Light and pyrotechnics almost blinded her as the band slammed into the first song.
She tried to imprint the impressions whirling through her brain, but she was too swept up in the spectacle, barely noticing Kayla’s arrival halfway through the concert.
Performing, Zander was selfless, giving himself away in every song and effortlessly playing the crowd’s emotions.
Rage’s final encore with Zander on rhythm guitar, was a playful, sleazy, seductive promise of a good time, delivered by the world’s sexiest snake-oil salesman. “Yeah, I’ll be bad for you, but baby, I’ll make you feel so good.” Elizabeth fanned herself. Talk about sexual crack. Lordy, Zander could dance, sinuous and sensual, firing the imagination of every female in the audience-