Saving Her Harem

by Alexis Adaire

“Brandon!” one young girl shouts, running towards us with a friend in tow. This is all still new to Brandon, and he politely takes the time to sign autographs and pose for pictures with everyone. Although he’s got the hot rocker look like the other band members, he’s almost too nice to be a rock star. But the fans seem to have already accepted him as part of Harem.

  I’ve certainly accepted him as part of my own harem. I watch him interact with fans and my heart bursts with pride. I have such a warm love for Brandon, probably since I’m the girl who took his virginity. Then again, if I think of any of the other four members of the band, I get that same feeling. Jason, Ian, Zilla, Nick… every one of them.

  I’m truly in love with five men at the same time. It’s mind-blowing.

  As Brandon and I walk out into the nearly empty arena, I see the other band members are already there, as is Griff, their portly, bearded manager. I break into a huge grin at the sign of them.

  “Now that the stragglers have arrived,” Griff says, “I need everyone to join me backstage in your green room for an end-of-tour meeting. I have some important matters to discuss before you start the soundcheck and all your silly pre-show rituals.”

  The band laughs, knowing that each of them has a peculiar way of preparing for a show. Jason meditates with incense, Ian spends nearly an hour playing guitar by himself, Zilla floats in his portable sensory-deprivation tank, Brandon listens to jazz, and Nick watches cartoons.

  Once we’re all in the green room, Griff gets down to business. “So we have reached the merciful end of what could easily have been Harem’s farewell tour. Thanks to some quick thinking on my part, and the sterling image rehabilitation efforts of Ms. Lambert here, you scallywags still have a recording contract and a future as rock stars.”

  Then Griff adds the cherry on top: “And we seem to have ourselves a number one record.”

  Everyone explodes with cheers. I’m stunned more than anyone, because the record he’s referring to is my song, Little Miracle. The band wrote it for me (and about me) while we were in Fiji, busy trying to come up with a solution to the publicity firestorm set off by Jordan’s scandal. They’ve been playing it at the shows, and it was so well-received that Crisis Records insisted they record it during our four-night Los Angeles gig. The song was released three weeks ago and we knew it was rising fast in the charts, but number one?

  “Unfortunately…” Griff says loudly, then pauses. When the commotion dies down a little, he continues. “Unfortunately, this presents a problem. We no longer have the luxury of taking time off before recording our next album. Crisis wants it as soon as possible, so they can capitalize on the popularity of Little Miracle.”

  “Meaning…?” Jason asks, likely already knowing the answer.

  “Meaning no vacation until that album is in the can,” Griff replies, to groans all around. “Sorry, boys, but trust me: A number-one record is a good problem to have, especially when it’s the first you’ve had in five years. I’ve taken the liberty of booking a full month at SoCal Sound, and we’ll be flying to Los Angeles immediately after tonight’s show.”

  I look around the room and see the happy faces have all turned sour. Nobody seems thrilled with this turn of events.

  “No,” Ian says.

  “No what?” asks Griff.

  “No, we won’t do it. Los Angeles is not a healthy environment for us right now. LA has too many distractions, too much nightlife, too many people. Too much everything. That’s a recipe for disaster—and for a lousy album. We need a working vacation, where we can relax and write songs, then record them. We need to go somewhere where we can focus.”

  “And where exactly would you suggest we do this?” Griff is obviously perturbed.

  “Wolfshire,” Ian says. “I’ll host everyone. You have Hendrich Recorders bring down their mobile studio and park that huge console truck in the driveway. We’ll write and record there while we decompress from this tour.”

  “That’s not a recording studio,” Griff says. “The sound will be shite.”

  “Bollocks,” Zilla pipes up. “The Stones' Exile on Main St. and Radiohead's OK Computer were recorded in homes in the English countryside. Many others, too. Hell, Led Zeppelin recorded half their songs at Headley Grange. Ian’s right, Wolfshire is perfect.”

  “Fuck yes, it is,” says Jason, suddenly excited. “I don’t fucking want to go to Los Angeles right now. We all need peace and quiet, not constant buzzing.”

  Griff looks from man to man. When he gets to Brandon, he says, “What do you think about this idea, Yank?” Nobody likes his nickname for Tulsa-born Brandon, but Griff thinks it’s funny and persists on using it.

  Brandon seems confused and hesitates while everyone stares at him, awaiting a response. “Am I going to be involved in the new album?”

  “Yes!” the other four band members shout simultaneously.

  Brandon flinches, then breaks into a big smile. “In that case, what the fuck is Wolfshire?”

  Everyone laughs except me, because I’ve been wondering the same thing.

  “Wolfshire Court is Ian’s country manor,” Griff says, “less than an hour south of London.”

  “It’s a 17th-century estate on two hundred acres,” Ian says proudly. “More bedrooms than I can count, and a guest house with a built-in gym. Lavish gardens, a rose maze with a swimming pool, koi pond, the works.”

  That sure sounds like nirvana to me.

  I bite my lip, wondering if I’ll ever see it, considering my agreed-upon time with Harem is over at the end of tonight’s show.

  Nothing lasts forever, right? I’m sure all the guys are going to want to see me from time to time. Still, one long-distance relationship is bad enough, much less five.

  I was so not prepared for this.

  My heart breaks at the idea that we may soon be resuming our former lives and going our separate ways. It leaves a physical ache in the middle of my chest.

  I tell myself that maybe it’s for the best. I do have a career to resume, I guess, though I’m not nearly as enthusiastic about it as I once was.

  * * *

  The soundcheck is brief, since the band has already performed here the previous two nights. Everyone seems upbeat, excited to finish the tour on a good note after things threatened to go sour when news broke about Jordan Maris’s little dead-hooker stunt and his affair with the duchess. Griff seems particularly happy as we watch the band go through a half-dozen partial songs.

  They finish the last song and the final notes are still echoing around the cavernous arena when I hear a sound coming from behind me, from the end of the floor opposite the stage.

  It’s a slow clap, just like in the movies.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  I turn to see a lone figure approaching down the center aisle, continuing to applaud sarcastically.

  “Bravo! Bravo!”

  The man comes out of the shadows and I recognize him at once.

  It’s Jordan, Harem’s original keyboardist.

  Griff stiffens at my side. “Well, fuck all.”

  Jordan looks pretty much like I remember from the Harem poster on my college dorm room wall. For someone fresh out of rehab, he seems relatively healthy. He’s wearing faded black jeans and black boots, and a gray shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest and with the sleeves rolled up. His arms are heavily tattooed, and he’s wearing multiple silver bracelets on both wrists, and several necklaces draped around his neck.

  He’s definitely rock-star sexy, but there’s something different about him compared to the Harem members I know and love. When he approaches Griff and me and stops with a grin, I see what it is: Jordan has a dark aspect to him, something behind those deep brown eyes that looks unstable.

  “Griff, how the fuck are you?” He looks like he can’t decide whether to hug Griff or punch him, but he settles for a handshake which is obviously not enjoyed by either party. “I hear things are going well.”

  “No thanks to you,” Griff says brusquely. Although I’
ve heard Griff talk about Jordan disparagingly, I’m surprised by his face-to-face bluntness.

  “Yeah, well—” he grins at me and brushes back his long, thick brown hair “—shit happens, especially in Amsterdam.” Turning back to Griff, he adds, “Sorry about that. I’m better now, in case you’re at all concerned about my well-being.”

  By now the other guys have made their way from the stage and converge on Jordan simultaneously, with only Brandon lagging. There are hugs all around, but I know my guys and I can tell they’re surprised and hesitant about this unexpected reunion. Whether there’s any real enthusiasm left for Jordan, time will tell. He’s been in more scandals than the other members combined and may well have used up all his goodwill at this point.

  Brandon makes his way forward, extends a hand and says, “Jordan, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Jordan responds with a quick, “Yeah, thanks for keeping my seat warm, mate.”

  When I see the look in Brandon’s eyes, I just want to kill this newcomer. Then I remember that Brandon and I are the real newcomers here.

  There are a few minutes of small talk, and I’m glad to see the other original Harem members also seem to be bothered by Jordan’s sudden appearance. There are a lot of glances back and forth, including some my way. Brandon comes up behind me and takes my elbow, leading me away from the others.

  I glance over at Griff and see him shake his head, a look of fury burning in his eyes. Then he marches off.

  “Well, this is an interesting development,” Brandon says when we’re out of earshot.

  I bite my lower lip. “Yeah,” is all I can manage.

  He sees my pained expression and wraps me up in a big hug. I’m always surprised by how muscular he is, how rock-hard his chest feels, because Brandon is such a sweet guy.

  “Come on,” he says, “let’s you and me hang out in my dressing room until showtime.”

  I fake a smile as we walk together past the tons of equipment and stage gear, over miles of cable and power lines, toward the dressing rooms.

  On one level, Jordan’s return should be a happy time, a reunion of the original members of Harem, who’ve been together since they were kids. These guys have been friends for years.

  But this isn’t the same band Jordan last played with. These men have changed.

  Something has to give, and I hope it’s not Brandon and me.

  3

  The concert is spectacular, easily the best of the ones I’ve seen so far. All the music press is there to cover it, and the boys deliver in impressive fashion. Jason is absolutely electric, commanding the stage as if he were born to perform. He and Ian riff off each other all night long, and the other guys do their part. Nick’s short drum solo is nothing short of amazing, and the crowd eats it up.

  I watch them from my usual spot at the right side of the stage, just to the side of the guitar technician. I love watching him wrangle the twenty guitars that are used during the show, keeping them in tune and replacing broken strings.

  Looking out over the sea of people, I see the faces of dozens of lovestruck girls who would give anything for the slightest touch from one of these guys. Just a wink or a smile from Jason or Ian sends them into a frenzy, and they no doubt have imagined being intimate with one or more of Harem.

  But I’m the one, not them.

  I’m the one who’s been with them—all of them, in the most intimate ways possible.

  I’m the one who keeps them relaxed on the road, making sure they come down after each show in the right way, rather than partying with strangers.

  I’m the one who lets them have my body in any way they want, often several of them at a time. A few times even all of them at once.

  If only these star-struck girls knew.

  It’s me.

  Only me.

  As I take all this in, I have my standard reaction.

  I get horny.

  It happened at the very first show I watched three months ago, and it’s happened at every show since.

  Watching these men perform is so insanely thrilling that I find myself getting turned on. Just a few songs into that first show, I realized I was wet. My pussy, that is—dripping wet. As soon as the guys came off the stage after their encores, I pulled all five into their dressing room and practically ripped their clothes off.

  And let me tell you: You have not had truly great sex until you’ve had gloriously sweaty post-concert sex with five ridiculously sexy rock stars at the same time.

  Throughout the tour, I’ve had this little fantasy in my head. It began with me simply climbing up on the drum riser and giving Nick a blowjob while he plays. I’ve expanded it since then, and now I imagine also dropping to my knees behind Brandon’s keyboard rig, then going out front and sucking off Zilla and Ian while they continue performing for twenty thousand people. Finally, I added the big finale, in which I suck Jason’s cock enough to get him hard, then get on my hands and knees so he can fuck me from behind. I imagine him pounding me as I look out over a sea of astonished faces.

  I’ve never mentioned this fantasy to any of the band members. It’s just a little thing that plays in my head every damn night while I watch their show. It usually results in my needing to be with one or more of them immediately afterward, before we even get on the jet to leave for the next city. They probably think I’m just horny all the time, not realizing that they’re the ones who bring out this side of me.

  Tonight my little fantasy goes up in smoke when Jordan Maris walks up and plants himself right next to me. We exchange a forced smile, then I try to watch the concert.

  At one point between songs, Jordan leans into my ear and says, “So you’re the girlfriend.”

  When I give him a disdainful look, he elaborates, apparently thinking I misunderstood. “I hear you’ve been keeping the boys company or something.”

  I glare at him and say, “Or something,” then immediately turn back to the band and ignore him.

  Asshole.

  When he starts to say something else, I just walk away without letting him finish.

  I don’t like Jordan at all, but then again, why should I? He’s the one who got Harem in trouble to begin with.

  Harem has the audience in the palm of their hand from the very first note till they take their bows after the third and final encore, and Little Miracle gets the loudest response of the evening. As soon as the show ends, people are everywhere. It’s the last show of the tour, so it’s a big deal.

  We all celebrate backstage for a few minutes. Jordan has followed the band into the green room where he becomes a buzzkill, introducing a sense of awkwardness into every conversation he tries to join. When Jordan wanders off for a minute to talk to some girl, Griff hurriedly ushers everyone else out through the tunnels to a waiting limo. Within minutes we’re on our way to the corporate offices of Crisis Records, where a lavish party has been planned.

  The mood in the back of the stretch limo is better, with Jordan not around. By the time we arrive at the party, everyone seems to have forgotten about him.

  The party is exciting, but the guys are all thoroughly occupied, always surrounded by several people at a time: journalists, record execs, etc. I even spot a few other celebrities. Each of the band members makes sure to come by and talk for a few minutes, but I understand they’re busy tonight and their time is precious.

  In addition to not being able to talk to my guys, I’m dreading a reappearance of Jordan.

  Griff finds me and asks if I’m doing okay. I’m guessing he can read the concern on my face.

  “I don’t see Jordan anywhere,” I say.

  “I didn’t tell him there was a party, and security knows not to let him in if he does show up. If the Crisis Records execs see that little fuckwit, I’d never hear the end of it.” He laughs with a snort, then wanders off.

  That makes me feel better, until I notice how many truly lovely women are talking to my men. Seeing them stirs one scary thought in my mind: Now that the tour is ov
er, the guys are no longer under any obligation to remain loyal to me.

  They’re officially free men.

  These men that I’m so in love with can have whatever women they want tonight.

  I spot Jason talking to Becca Cassidy, the actress. She’s just as stunning in real life as she is onscreen, in a deep blue evening dress with a V-neck and sheer blue sleeves and back decorated with lace applique. She’s breathtaking, her famous blonde hair descending artfully to her shoulders.

  Fuck me. That’s what I’m going to be competing with now? Seriously?

  I’m surprised at how quickly the jealousy bubbles up inside of me. When he places a hand on her shoulder as they both laugh, I have to look away. Unfortunately, my eyes land on Brandon, who’s talking to three pretty young things who all have that look in their eyes.

  I decide to go out to the balcony to clear my head. On my way, I alter my strategy and grab a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Champagne. Maybe it would be better to get a little drunk and fog my brain up until I no longer feel this sharp pain in my heart.

  The cool night air is bracing as I look out over the lights of Midtown, with Times Square just visible in the distance down Seventh Avenue. I think again about Becca Cassidy and that flawless body she loves to show off in her roles, those perfect tits and cute little ass, that one-of-a-kind gorgeous smile that makes her huge eyes seem even bigger. And that goddamn blue dress.

  Of course Jason will want to sleep with her tonight. Who wouldn’t?

  Again I question my future with these men. Now that they need to leave immediately to record this album, will they be done with our little arrangement after tonight?

  Is this already over?

  Thoughts like that combine with the alcohol and in short order have me feeling sorry for myself. I don’t even notice Nick stepping out onto the balcony until he stands at the railing with me, our arms touching.

  “Not much for parties, then?” he asks.

  I sigh. “This just isn’t my scene,” I say. I’m too overwhelmed to tell him the truth, that I can’t stand the idea of losing my men. Tears begin to well in my eyes.