Chapter Seven
* * * * *
I settle in as we tear toward Center City. The Philadelphia
skyline is lit up beyond the windows. Though I’ve been here all my life, the whole
place looks different out the window of a fancy town car. I feel like I’m
seeing everything again for the first time. Since Slade crashed into my life,
everything is a little bit brighter. A little more exciting. As we approach the
venue, I’m all but bouncing in my seat. This is going to be amazing, I can feel
it.
Anders pulls to a stop behind the venue. I can see the
snaking crowd around the corner jostling and yelling and vibrating with excitement.
The driver helps me out of the car and walks me over to the back entrance. Two
burly security guards stop us, but Anders mentions my name, and they let us
through. I have to try hard not to laugh. I never in a million years thought
I’d be on any sort of VIP list. Anders tells me he’ll be waiting in the car and
disappears from my side. The backstage door snaps shut, and I’m suddenly
immersed in this new, overwhelmingly exciting world.
In the darkness around me, people weave and tear by. I can’t
make out anything around me, but there are a thousand sounds echoing around the
backstage world. I hold very still, trying to get my bearings. Surely, if I can
handle the bustle of an emergency room, I can handle this. My eyes slowly begin
to adjust, keying into the small patches of light, the hints of shape. I can
hear a great rumbling from just beyond my range of vision—it must be the
audience flowing into the arena to watch Flagrant Disregard play.
A hand closes around my elbow, and I whip around to see
who’s there. There’s a face very close to mine, though I can’t make out any
features.
“Julia!” cries a familiar voice. I recognize it as belonging
to Eddie Bayonne, the manager of Slade’s band. It’s comforting to know there’s
at least one aspect of this crazy new world that I’m already acquainted with.
“Hey Eddie,” I yell over the hustle of the backstage, “Are
you my babysitter for the evening?”
“You might say that,” he replies, ushering me through the
blackness, “Slade wanted to make sure you weren’t abducted or anything.”
“Does that happen a lot at your shows?” I ask, somewhat
alarmed.
“Not particularly,” he says, “But you never know. There’s a
place you can watch the show from in the wings of the stage. Is that cool with
you?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. We step into a patch of light from the
house of the arena, and Eddie gets a look at my outfit.
“Goddamn!” he cries, unabashedly, “A far cry from those
scrubs, huh?”
“Well, all my scrubs were dirty. So I had to go with this,”
I say dryly.
“You look great,” Eddie says. “Slade is going to lose his
mind.”
Usually I’d be annoyed with anyone dwelling on my looks for
this long, but the thought of Slade seeing me all dolled up gets me excited.
I’m halfway hoping that we’ll be able to meet up on our own so that we can cut
right to the chase. After that kiss, my body’s gone into Slade withdrawal. I
need my next fix soon, or I don’t know what I’ll do. As excited as I am to see
him play, I’m hoping that the show goes quickly—the sooner we’re alone
together, the better.
“Here we are,” Eddie says, halting just beyond a thick black
curtain, “I think you’ll like the view.”
He draws the curtain back, and the arena opens up before my
eyes. My jaw drops open as I take in the scope of the space from this vantage
point. There are thousands of people out there, milling and seething, waiting
to see Flagrant Disregard play. There’s an electric anticipation in the air, so
charged I can practically see it sparking through the crowd. Crew members rush
about the stage, readying instruments and microphones, making sure that
everything is just right for the band. I turn toward Eddie with an excited
smile on my face.
“This is amazing!” I cry out.
“Just wait until they start playing!” he says back.
“Are you sure it’s OK if I stay here?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, “You’re a guest of honor tonight.”
That’s funny, considering the very dishonorable things I
plan to do with Slade as soon as he gets off the stage. I try to memorize as
much of what’s going on around me as I can. I know that I’ll want to remember
this night for the rest of my life.
“Eddie!” says a high, wispy voice behind us. I turn around
and see a tall, rail thin blonde woman grinning at the manager. She’s flanked
by two similarly built brunettes, and all three women are ignoring me pointedly.
Their tight dresses are heavily ripped, baring toned arms and flat stomachs.
Tattoos run along their limbs and backs, their hair is perfectly tousled and
messy, and their makeup is bold. They’re absolutely stunning, every single one,
and I can’t help feeling a little intimidated.
“Girls,” Eddie says, throwing his arm around the blonde
woman’s shoulders, “How are you all doing this evening? Ready for the show?”
“Always,” says once of the brunettes, whose pitch black hair
hangs in a perfectly straight wave down her back.
“How long until they start?” asks the woman with chestnut
curls.
“Any minute now,” Eddie says with a smile, “I bet they’ll be
hot tonight—it’s the last show before we officially kick off the tour!”
“Yay!” giggles the blonde woman, clapping her hands together
excitedly. The others follow suit, bopping up and down like toddlers in a
bouncy house. There’s something too perfect about the way they fawn over Eddie,
something that I don’t quite trust.
“This is Julia,” Eddie tells them, gesturing my way, “She
took care of Slade in the hospital.”
“Oh yeah,” says the blonde, “You made us wait in the lobby.”
“It’s hospital rules,” I tell her warily. I suddenly
remember her keening in the waiting room as Slade was whisked back into the
hospital. She had told me rather frankly that Slade was the next Messiah. That
level of adoration made me more than a little nervous.
“Take care of her, will you?” Eddie says to the girls, “I’ve
got to go make some calls. Arrangements for the New York show.”
“Wait—” I say, but Eddie’s already disappeared into the
darkness of the backstage world. It’s just me and the three towering beauties,
alone in the wings. The instant Eddie’s out of sight, their demeanor changes
instantly. The bubbly effervescence dies in a heartbeat, and a cold, calculated
menace comes over them.
“I’m sorry,” I say with as big a smile as I can manage, “I
didn’t catch your names.”
“I’m Helena,” says the blonde.
“I’m Jackie,” says the raven-haired woman.
“I’m Ruby,” says the woman with brown curls.
“And you’re the Supremes?” I joke. They’re not the least bit
amused. Why am I not surprised?
“So, Slade thought he’d give you a little taste of the high
life to repay you for not accidentally killing him in the hospital?” Helena
says meanly.
“Something like that,” I say, “Though accidental killings
aren’t really my specialty.”
“No, just shutting out Slade’s closest friends in his hour
of need,” Ruby says, glaring at me.
“His closest friends...meaning you?” I ask, cocking my
eyebrow.
“That’s right,” Jackie says, tossing her black hair over her
shoulder, “We’re essential to the band. They wouldn’t be able to function
without us.”
“I see,” I said, “And what function do you all serve,
exactly?”
“Give you one guess,” Helena smiled.
“Ah,” I said, “That is essential.”
“You should just know,” Jackie said, “That just because
you’re here for one night, doesn’t mean that you belong. Slade’s just being
charitable, bringing you along. There’s no more room for another girl.”
“No, it looks like you three have that under control,” I
say, “Don’t worry. I’m not really the sex slave type, in the end.”
“I should say not,” Ruby sniffs.
“I’m just here to see the show,” I tell them, “Trust me.
Groupie duty is all yours. I have a little more dignity than that.”
“Dignity is an illusion,” Helena assures me, nonsensically.
“‘Kay,” I say, rolling my eyes, “You all enjoy the show,
then.”
“We enjoy the post-show more,” Ruby says, winking. The three
of them slink away into the darkness together, glaring daggers over their
perfectly sculpted shoulders. I let out a long sigh. I should have known this
whole thing would get complicated fast. It was pretty clear, the arrangement
these women had with the band. There were three men in Flagrant Disregard, and
three attendant groupies. One for each. And recalling Helena’s hysteria in the
waiting room, it wasn’t hard to guess which of the guys was “hers”. I look down
at my thrown-together ensemble, with my curvy hips and my protruding chest, and
wonder how I’m supposed to compete with the stick figure goddess that just
walked away from me.
But Slade invited me here for a reason. He came and found me
after being discharged for a reason. He brought me back to see where he had
come from, and he had given me a searing kiss before saying goodbye. I have to
have faith that he isn’t just going to leave me by the roadside when the band
leaves for their big tour.
Though I’ve only known him a few days, I have to trust
Slade.
Trust the infamous partier and keeper of beautiful
groupies...Right. No problem.
I look past the curtain, out into the gaping arena. The
space is jam packed, now—not a square foot left that I can see. All these
people are here to see Slade and the band...but not the Slade I’ve just come
from seeing. It’s a whole other person, a whole separate identity that I’ve
never even met before. I hope I like Slade the rock star as much as I like
Slade the man.
The lights in the house of the arena suddenly shut off, and
the entire space is plunged into darkness. A deafening roar goes up from the
crowd, washing over me like a rogue wave. They’re stomping and screaming and
shoving each other out there, jostling for a better view of the stage. For a
long moment, the entire world is dark. Then, with a fiery blaze, a dozen panels
of stage lights flare up to full blast. I’m blinded by the sudden glow, and
stagger back under the intensity of the sudden lights and sound. It’s utterly
overwhelming—and the show hasn’t even started yet.
The crowd’s mania ticks up another ten notches as four
shadowy figures make their way onto the stage. I can only make out the outlines
of their bodies through the blazing lights, but there’s one form that I would
know anywhere striding across the wide stage. Slade Hale lifts up his arms as
if in supplication to the audience. He walks toward the writhing crowd, and
everyone in attendance goes absolutely mad. They love him, I can tell. He has
their utter attention, their absolute, rapt adoration.
Slade steps up to the standing mic and screams, “How the
fuck are you doing tonight, Philadelphia?”
Another surge of sound crashes against the stage, but Slade
isn’t thrown. He seems to be expanding, growing larger than life as if inflated
by the crowd’s manic excitement. “We’re going to rock out with you all night,” he
goes on, “So get the fucking pit going and lose your fucking minds!”
A roar of assent sounds as Slade turns his back to the
crowd. The other band members have found their places on stage and taken up
their instruments. Annabelle perches behind the massive drum set, wearing
little more than a collection of tatters. Dodge has his legs spread wide, ready
to tear into the opening number. Every muscle in Joe’s thick body seems to be
tensed and ready to spring at Slade’s command. And Slade stands before them all,
in perfectly fitted black jeans and a plain white tee shirt, his black curls
hanging in front of his face, his jaw stubbled deliciously. His dark eyes are
positively radiant with excitement. The sight of him, backlit by the blazing
stage lights, buoyed by the utter adoration of thousands of fans, is
incredible. He’s practically super human right now.
Slade takes a deep, swift breath, filling his lungs with
air. Spinning back to the microphone, he lets out a deep, heartrending wail.
For a moment, his voice is the only sound ringing through the massive arena.
The entire crowd holds its breath, listening to the powerful, wavering sound of
his voice. And then, all hell breaks loose. The band springs into their first
song, pounding out a surging, aching beat that sweeps them up with it. The
crowd is screaming now, shouting along with the song or yelling their own
truths into the darkness. And Slade is the conduit for it all.
He strides across the stage, his every muscle straining
under the intensity of his motion. His voice soars above the din, ringing
through the arena and surrounding us all. Before I know it, I can feel my own
body moving along to the raging music. I watch as the audience seems to split,
and a massive black hole opens up in the center of the crowd. One after
another, rabid fans charge into the pit, swinging their fists and dancing
erratically. Usually, this kind of display would worry me sick, but I’m too
caught up in the moment to be concerned. All that I care about is Slade’s
voice, moving through me, the music pumping through me and bringing me to life.
All over the crowd, people are being tossed into the air,
carried across the sea of people by a hundred hands. People soar up into the
air and disappear from view, only to land once again in the churning, furious
mosh pit. Chaos takes over the assembled crowd, and the lawless, turbulent
expanse comes alive with its own aggressive fury. I’ve never seen something so
terrifying and alluring as this circus of which Slade is the ringmaster, leading
the way.
Sweat pours down Slade’s face and chest, his white tee shirt
sticks to his rippling muscles. He leaps and charges across the stage while
Dodge and Joe thrash wildly, throwing themselves into the heavy beat song after
song. Melodies weave and change, songs bleed into each other. I’m dancing in my
own little corner of the arena, swinging my hips and hair, thrashing and
writhing along with the audience. I didn’t even know my limbs could move like
this, without inhibition. I don’t want the music to ever end—I only want to be
suspended here in this chaotic bliss forever.