Access Unlimited (9 page)

“May I be of some assistance?” he intoned, while looking me up and down. I followed
his eyes, and looked at myself and my outfit. Black leather jacket, boots, short skirt
in geometric print, silky t-shirt. Hair messy. Bag, also black leather.

I looked back up at him. “Yes, thank you. Could you direct me to the hotel bar?”

His face tightened, his mouth thinning into a line of displeasure. “Are you a guest
here?”

That confirmed my suspicions. I decided to run with it. “Isn’t the bar open to all
potential customers?”

He looked as though he was about to call for backup. “In theory yes, and in practice
we do all we can to insure a calming atmosphere for our hotel guests.”

I smiled. “Excellent. That’s what I’m looking for. A calm atmosphere. And a drink.
So I can write my article on discrimination against women in public spaces.” He looked
alarmed. “But perhaps, just to be on the safe side, so you’re sure I’m not a sex worker,
you’d like to see my room key?”

He paled slightly, but recovered. “Is it madam’s key, or did a guest give it to you?”

I was bored with him. It wasn’t worth it to wind him up, but it was tempting. Ah,
why not. “It is madam’s key. Perhaps you saw madam arrive this morning. Does Tristan
Hunter, the musician madam is following on tour and about whom she is writing an article
for
The Core
magazine, ring a bell? Unless it’s a policy decision you’ve just taken on your own
to insure no future musicians stay here, or women, which I have to say, is a brave
judgment that is bound to merit some kind of future reward. Otherwise, I think showing
me where the bar is would be a good idea at this point.” I smiled at him.

He nodded, and mumbled, “Right this way.” When we reached the bar, he escorted me
to one of the booths, and mumbled an apology. On his way out, he exchanged a few words
with the bartender. I got out my iPad and keyboard and wasn’t very surprised to see
a server approaching with a bowl of different salty snacks and an ingratiating manner.
“Your first drink is compliments of the Manager. We hope you are enjoying your stay
here in Cleveland.” You could hear the capital letters in his voice.

“I’m beginning to,” I replied, and after glancing at the wine list, promptly ordered
a very expensive glass of Barolo. I’d call AC when I was done writing. Maybe he’d
like to pass judgment on one of their wines.

An hour and a half in, and after a plate of quite acceptable amuse-bouche—little fancy
savory snacks—compliments of the hotel, and another glass of the admittedly excellent
wine, I felt slightly more relaxed. I read through part of the blog piece I was about
to send to Dave. There was so much to say, but this would have to do—for now.

Research unveils a lot of hidden truths. What it doesn’t reveal are the unselected
people along the way, who regardless of their contributions to science, music, revolution,
you name it, were dropped from the story. Who was it who decided to rewrite a bit
of history to make it more mainstream? As they say, “History is written by the victors.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Because information is out there if you look. So the best weapon
they have to stop us from looking is to try and convince us that whatever we find
on our own is wrong, or incomplete. In an emergency, it could be said that all the
choices made for us were for our own good. That we already have all the information
we need.

Interesting then, that privacy and information are so closely linked. What they know,
is private. What you know, isn’t. Everything depends on whose information, whose need
for privacy. Personal everyday privacy, like yours and mine, may be under threat,
but the decisions are taken by those in charge are carefully guarded. Even seemingly
unimportant choices, like who to screen at the entrance of a hotel, or who to reject
from a list of musicians, are still beyond scrutiny, obscured under a heading that
could read “Obvious Decisions.” Who makes these choices? And how do these half-truths
have such a long half-life?

Back to my research then, on the apparently superficial and non-political world of
music. For instance, I’m astonished to find that although Kate Bush really was the
first one to use a jerry-rigged wireless mike, she gets no credit for that innovation.
That honor usually goes to the more visible Madonna. The fact that Kate Bush was the
first woman to reach number one on the British charts with a self-penned song, is
also low down on the credits of time. Did she shift Madonna from the number one spot
in the UK? She did. Ignored. She was interested in the use of production, so was accused
of over-producing. She wanted a family, so she was described as putting a desire for
children above a desire for making another record—some weakness she was incapable
of resisting. Her fellow male musicians manage to produce offspring without being
subtly accused of the chronic illness of irreversible nesting. Her wish to retreat
is seen as a flaw, some incomprehensible absence of ambition, despite everything she
achieved. Her desire to disengage from the madness of the music business, becomes
only female, not rational. Her music and her breakthroughs, like those of many other
musicians who happen to be born without a Y chromosome, or the more evocative description
of “meat and two veg,” are held to different criteria. That might explain why Kate
Bush isn’t in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and probably will never be.

Before we are accused of leaving out that other 50 percent, let’s remember that this
caging-up does happen to people in a whole range of other, awkward, finally human
categories. Even men get told. I read a blog post once about a song written and performed
by a musician who happened to be a man. The post said something like, well, he
used to be
great, but no one is
ever
good once they get married and have a child. A list of people who have done their
best work after that dreadful event formed in my mind. So many rules out there. But
nothing beats getting us to police ourselves. All those limits, usefully applied to
people we admire. It’s preventative—maybe. Preventing disobedience, just in case the
artists we love do have real power, and can inspire us to do what we really want.
Because normally, they do their thing, and we do ours. We stay within safe limits,
while baiting them, begging them to really go wild. Drag us where we wish we could
go. That could actually be dangerous. It might even make a person research the rest
of history.

It’s a difficult question. Can’t we just discuss the art? The music, not the person?
Sure.

I make no claim to speak for everyone; it’d be insulting to even try. But I wasn’t
that keen on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It feels a little like someone Photoshopped
history. I’ll let Kate Bush sum it all up better than I can.

“We’d give you a part my love but you’d have to play the fool.”

I read it again, and emailed it off to Dave. I flagged down the server, and ostentatiously
taking out my room key to read the number, signed for the glass of wine I did have
to pay for and left a nice tip. At least I could show I wasn’t an asshole. I looked
at the time. 3 p.m. They were probably all at sound check. I suddenly felt drained.
Maybe I was coming down with something too, or maybe the feeling of being itinerant
and under observation was getting to me. I packed up.

The lobby was busy with people checking in. Mostly conventioneers, it looked like.
I wondered for a moment why they were all there, then decided I didn’t care. I needed
a shower, and some down time. Guiltily, I wondered if I even had to go to the show
tonight. The elevator pinged and the doors opened on our floor. It felt like a lifetime
since I’d been here. I reached for the key, and almost on cue, my phone started buzzing.
I managed to answer it before it stopped and without dropping it on the carpet covered
in fleur-de-lis pattern. Dave. Fuck.

“Dave. How are you?”

“Lily. How are you? Testosterone overdose, it looks like. Do I need to send you on
an Indigo Girls tour? Ani DiFranco?”

“Yes, Dave, you do. How pleased I am that you’ve heard of them.” I snapped.

“I’ve heard of everyone. I think.” He paused. “So. The tour. Going ok? You seem a
bit…”

“Yeah, Dave. It’s fine.” I suddenly remembered he wasn’t all bad. And he was my boss.
“Thanks for asking. I think Tristan has a cold, and I’m a bit tired, but otherwise
all good. I’m not even really doing anything, though, and it’s still a lot. This touring
thing.”

“Yes.” I could see him nodding on the other end. “Some bands manage to cope with these
huge, grueling tours. I’m not sure how. But this is your first one. You’re doing fine.
You haven’t passed out naked under a table yet.”

I laughed. “Yeah, but. The hotel staff thought I was a hooker today. Tried to keep
me out when I came back from the Hall of Fame. Still, silver lining. Got a free glass
of incredibly expensive Barolo out of it. They had to open a new bottle.”

Dave was laughing. “Ah, Lily. Well, that partially explains the ranting blog post.
But you know—you seem to have a little fan base of people that like your acerbic view
of the world.”

“Fucking miracle.” I sighed. “Dave, I’m really tired. Do you want me to edit it? That’s
fine. Not the best thing I’ve ever written, I’m sure.”

“No worries. I’ll do it. Editorial mandate, man—date, get it? Such wit.”

I groaned. “Dave. Really? And are you going to carve it up?”

“No, just fact check it and simplify a few things. Nothing too major.”

“Fine. I trust you.”

“Giant mistake. Now go enjoy hotel life. I think you’re coming up to a couple of nights
on the bus. My advice—stay in the tub and order room service, if it’s decent.” He
sounded concerned.

“Good advice. Not sure I like it here. I may not even go to the show.”

“You get a pass for one. Maybe two. Don’t abuse it,” Dave said. “I’ll talk to you
tomorrow.”

“You got it boss.” And I hung up, and managed to get the key in the door after only
three tries. A bath. That sounded good actually. But not for the first time, I wished
we were getting back on the bus tonight and getting the hell out.

chapter ten

Chicago

Tristan and I came back from a light dinner together to find that backstage was the
usual tangle. One of the roadies had been sent on a last-minute dash to get a new
rack effect, and the crew were giving each other worried looks, in between checking
the wiring and pounding on the drums, while someone tuned the guitar. I popped out
to look at the crowd filtering in to the concert hall, measuring how many rows back
the crush of the most serious fans went back. Six. That was pretty good, considering
the rest of the place was still filling up. I had planned on watching from the front,
but Tristan had, oddly enough I thought, put his foot down. “You’re going to be back
here, so I know where you are, and I know there is someone to look after you.” I quizzed
him, asking if he was worried about what I’d do. He looked at me oddly, and kissed
my forehead. “Whatever you want to believe. But I think your crowd days are coming
to a close, Lily.” He wouldn’t be drawn on any explanations, other than to repeat,
“It’s best, please believe me.”

So I did, and here I was, wandering around backstage, watching the final approach
to a concert. A lot of pieces to be put into place, in just the right order. It was
a little strange to be on this side of the stage. And everyone knew my name now, not
just because I was there following the tour as a journalist, but because Tristan had
apparently pulled everyone aside and let them know in no uncertain terms that we were
together. I supposed it was inevitable that he had to make it clear I wasn’t a passing
fling. Yesterday I’d been somewhat invisible. Now everyone tiptoed around me. I figured
it would wear off with time, at least I hoped so. Everyone stopped talking the minute
I came near.

I stepped carefully over the wires, and around the cases, and made my way back to
the big room with the food, and the sofa, and the TV, where everyone was hanging out.
The drummer, Pete, was demonstrating his moonwalk, while Jack tapped out the rhythm
of “Beat It.” He was really pretty good at it, then he dropped to the floor, and spun
around on his back. Everyone applauded. He jumped up when he finally stopped spinning,
and grabbed one of the beers from the tub filled with ice. “Dancing. Shows you got
rhythm. You should try it sometime, Jack.”

“Hey fuck you too. Dance on this,” he shot back, and did a few pelvic thrusts that
a pole dancer would have been proud of. “Did that last night. You seemed to like it.”

“It didn’t wake me up, so maybe, maybe not, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, suck this…” and then Jack fell silent. The drummer gave him a filthy look and
flipped him off. It seemed a little more than the usual banter.

I glanced around. AC had just come in. He waved at everyone, then walked over to the
table and poured a glass of the organic red from Oregon. I had been wondering who
had put that on the rider. The two musicians pulled each other over to the TV, and
started flipping through channels, and I walked up to AC. He looked a bit lost today.
We’d been on the road for a week, and he didn’t look that thrilled. He smiled at me
though, as I approached. We’d never really sat down again for the talk that we joked
about, the follow-up from our moment in the hotel room, AC with his bottles and red
wine, and his attempt to seduce me, and my anger and flight from discovering Tristan
doing drugs with his ex-wife and the other guitarist from Devised. It had been an
interesting conversation, in retrospect. And coupled with everything else I’d overheard
AC and Tristan saying, it had the potential for a pretty complicated situation. But
I didn’t want to blow it up. Danger was like a big balloon—easier to burst open than
you expected. I did want to talk to him though. And I needed to write something up
about him, so an interview was on the cards. I didn’t want AC to think of me on the
other side though—doing what was necessary to get the information I needed, a parasite
feeding on its host. I didn’t think I came across that way, but people were easily
confused. I’d seen that happen, and with my position straddling tour girlfriend and
tour journalist, it only seemed to be getting worse.

“So, you going to give me a taste guide to the wine?” I held up a red plastic cup.
“My goblet is all ready.”

He laughed. “Nice euphemism. Oh, you meant the wine.” And he punched me lightly in
the arm, and went to pick up the bottle, when we both heard Tristan’s voice, and we
both turned around to look for him at the exact same moment.

I waved at Tristan, and he waved back at both of us, AC raising the bottle to him
in salute, like he’d been meaning to all along. The bass player and drummer had turned
away from their TV show to watch the commotion that had changed the atmosphere of
the room. They both looked over at Tristan, then at AC, then saw me looking at them
and turned quickly away. I caught the bassist’s eye for a minute and he looked guilty.

AC interrupted my thoughts. “So, cup, cup. Give me your cup. We’ll toast,” he said
in a kind of sing-song. He poured and we each had a swig.

“It’s good,” I said. “Even in plastic. And healthy.”

AC snorted. “Yeah, more or less. More or less.”

I touched my cup to his again. “You know we still need to talk—and do an interview.”

AC gave a hollow laugh. “Aren’t they the same? Everything I say will be used against
me?” He saw my face, and raised his hand in apology. “I’m sorry, Lily, but you know
it’s a little awkward, not knowing what you are going to write.” He lowered his voice.
“You saw them.” He nodded over towards Pete and Jack. “This is more…uh, complicated,
I guess. Than you know.” He glanced over at Tristan again.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I started to say, but he stopped me.

“More wine? Just a little. We’re going on in 30 minutes. I want to be buzzed, not
angry. Lily, it’s ok. I’ll just be glad when you’re not a journalist anymore. Or I
trust you.” He toasted the air. “Whichever comes first.”

I looked up at the pipes and air ducts that criss-crossed the ceiling. It made me
feel boxed in suddenly, so I looked down at my feet. I wished I didn’t agree with
him. It wasn’t exactly the dream job at the moment. It just seemed to be causing a
multitude of problems. I observed him. His green eyes seemed softer, but there was
an emptiness there that made me worry. I wondered if he was using again. “AC, I know
you haven’t known me for very long. But what you said in the hotel room in London…”
I stopped. He looked very uncomfortable. “Look it’s fine. Forget it. I have a very
selective memory, that’s all. And I try not to fuck over my friends. Let’s talk when
you have a chance, right?” He finally smiled, and we watched the group.

James had come in. Tristan was talking to him about how long he was willing to spend
outside afterwards signing autographs—“You go out there James, bring the band, tell
them I’m doing an interview but I’m supposed to come—hell, I pay you, invent your
own lies—and I’ll go out for a bit.” James looked put out, but Tristan put his hand
on his shoulder, and leaned down and said something to him quietly that made him nod,
and leave the room. It was probably nothing, but it seemed that there was something
in the air, something up. I looked over at AC, but his face revealed nothing. We talked
about the hotel, the room service, whether the towels were better in this one than
the last one. We were on the bus for the next few nights, so the fact we had gotten
used to having things done for us, showed we were about to be schooled in how to deal
with road camping.

“I actually like the road better,” he suddenly burst out. “It’s good. You’re not attached
to anything, any place. If you’re pissed off, it doesn’t matter. You’re leaving.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean.” I swept my arm around. “All this, the waiting. The
playing around. There’s no more waiting on the road, you’re going.”

AC laughed. “Yet all people do on the bus is kill time, waiting. Forgetting they’re
living.”

“Yeah, I guess. I like to look out the window. Imagine what my life would be like
if I lived in that town, wonder why people are taking the exits. And I’ve even become
used to the windowless bedroom.”

“Yeah, it’s rough for you, in there. With him.”

I looked at him, quizzically. But AC didn’t say anything else. Neither did I.

Luckily, the prep call for the band had just come in, which meant that the lead-on
band were on their last song. I excused myself, and thought I’d go watch them. I squeezed
Tristan’s arm as I passed, and he held up a hand to the music tech, and followed me
out of the room.

“What was that with AC? You two looked pretty serious over there.” Tristan was standing
over me, his arm against the wall. I could hear the final chorus of the band—it was
too late now to watch, and I suddenly felt both a little guilty and a little trapped.

“We were talking about the road, the towels, life in a small town.”

“AC? He’s never lived in a small town in his life. I think he feels a bit alien sometimes,
when we’re not in a city, like he’s going to be captured and examined. But Chicago,”
Tristan did a wide sweep with his arm, “is a pretty big place. Of course, we’re leaving
after the show.”

“Does he feel strange? He hides it pretty well. But you know him better than I do.”
I paused. “A lot better.”

Tristan gave me that searching look, the one that sometimes made me burn, sometimes
made me feel like I was being examined. “Does that bother you?”

I shook my head. “No. Not really. Except he doesn’t trust me. Should it?”

That little smirk appeared at the side of his mouth. “It depends.” Then he leaned
down, tall against my smaller frame, and all I could feel was the strange softness
of his mouth, the sweep of his tongue, insistent until it all kicked in and then there
was nothing but his heartbeat strong against me, and the dark curtain of his hair,
brushing against my face, thick and soft,. He pulled me closer to him and I could
feel him hard, growing harder. “So good, Lily, so good,” he whispered, as his mouth
slowly descended down my neck, his touch so light it made me want more of him, now.
I couldn’t explain why this happened, or why it happened every time, or why I didn’t
care who saw us. It was though his hands were tracing all the nerves in my body. Now
his mouth was up against my ear. “You’re more than I ever thought you’d be, Lily.”
His tongue traced the edge of my ear, and I shivered, eyes shut tight. “I fucking
trust you. I don’t say that to many people, so please remember that, no matter what
anyone says or does, ok?”

I started to wriggle, wanting to see him, face to face, but his hands caught me and
pressed me to him. The shirt that he was wearing, the strange small cheetah print
he’d found in a thrift shop, the one that I had questioned the wisdom of buying, was
now like silk over his muscled skin, leaving his arms bare and draped over his shoulders.
All I could imagine is what it would be like to feel him, me naked against him. His
kisses had turned into small little licks, and his hand drifted between my legs from
behind, making me jump and making him laugh, darkly. He breathed into my mouth as
he continuing kissing me. He laughed and pulled away, then stretched against me like
a cat, his cock making a very noticeable shape down his leg. I looked down at the
bulge. “Go on stage like that, they’ll love it. The picture that burned up the internet.”

“You mean it doesn’t have its own Tumblr page yet? Now that’s a travesty. Well, maybe
we can change that tonight.” His eyes were suddenly filled with that strange fire.
And as he moved against me against I lifted my shirt for a minute, after I looked
around. Miraculously there was still no one around, but I was starting to feel like
I wouldn’t have cared even if there was. I rubbed against his chest, against that
softness, the smoothness of his shirt, so thin I could feel his skin. I shuddered.
This was getting out of hand, and I could hear the muted applause greeting the end
of the set. Any second now, the lead on band would be here—I didn’t care. I dropped
my shirt but launched myself at his mouth, with little finesse but a strange desperate
feeling. I suddenly wanted him inside me, burning me, making me take all he had, all
he was about to show to an entire crowd. I slipped my hand into his pants and managed
to get it as far down as the solid base of him and squeezed it.

He groaned.

“Fuck, girl…you’re killing me.” We both heard footsteps and the other band was coming
towards us. I slipped my hand back out as furtively as I could and ran my hand down
his arm, he had goosebumps. My legs felt weak. He waved at them.

“Nice show lads. Getting ready here. Beer’s in there.” They laughed. One of them winked
at me, letting his eyes trace down my body, but they passed us, laughing. And as if
on cue, the door to the room opened, and everyone poured out. The bassist and the
drummer gave us a look and followed the sound techs going ahead to do the final adjustments
to the stage set-up.

Then AC was there. He had a sort of wry smile on his face. I looked up at Tristan,
but all his face revealed was a sort of devilish merriment written all over it. “AC,”
he said, outlining the shape of his balls with his hand. “Come have a look. We’re
going to get my pride and joy its own Tumblr tonight.”

“We are? Yeah, of course. Shouldn’t be hard—or should it?” he said. “This your work,
Lily? Nice.” He questioned me with a nod and wink, then suddenly reached out and squeezed
Tristan’s still hard cock through his jeans.

He had meant it as a joke, but I saw the look on Tristan’s face, as his eyes fluttered
shut for a moment. Then he opened them, looked directly at me, then smacked AC on
the ass with a laugh. “AC, you’re not just hung like an elephant, you’ve got a memory
like one. That’s it exactly.”

“I’m your man, babe.” AC leaned in quickly towards Tristan, then suddenly turned and
kissed me, hard, on the mouth. I had the impression that he was tasting me, looking
for traces of Tristan. “It’s not so bad, really, is it?” he said cryptically. Tristan
followed with his own kiss. Soft, and sweet, and oddly reassuring, it was in clear
contrast to the fast little kiss AC had just given me. But there had only been a heartbeat
between them, and I didn’t think it was only my mouth they were after.