At last, Angel made his grand entrance with his arms spread wide open. The crowd went nuts with a tidal wave of cheers. The lights hit the Swarovski crystals on Angel’s jacket and crotch, drizzling the stage and audience with a dancing spray of color as he moved.
Jimmy smacked his sticks together – one, two, three, four – and the place blew up with the explosive sound of Cyanide Sensation.
Angel’s voice – crisp, sharp, and sexy – delivered the heart-pounding lyrics into the open air. He jumped on an amp at the left side of the stage and Tommy jumped on one at the right.
Tommy’s fingers mechanically wailed through the notes while he watched Angel through the smoke from the fog machine. Angel had his legs spread wide and gyrated his hips. He pumped his pelvis to the beat of the music, then hopped down and leaned over the edge of the stage. He jumped into the area between the stage and the railing, causing near hysteria from the fans. Cell phones snapped photos. Hands stretched forward, trying to touch any part of Angel they could reach. Someone snagged hold of the sleeve to Angel’s jacket and pulled him toward the crowd. Tommy held his breath when Angel disappeared beneath a maze of hands, until security detangled him from the crowd.
Angel ran back on stage and leapt onto the amp with Tommy. They stood back to back in the small space, gyrating against one another. A tingle ran up Tommy’s spine, down his arms and into his fingertips. He transformed that energy into music and shared it with everyone in the crowd. The song ended, and they both jumped down to the floor of the stage.
“Hello Las Vegas!” Angel screamed into the mic. The fans hollered back, horns held high. “Get ready, because this is Lethal Injection!”
Tommy stomped one foot forward and shredded the opening riff. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angel vamping across the stage toward him. He pointed the head of his guitar at Angel and marched toward the sexy singer, chasing him around the stage. Angel walked backwards with each twang of the guitar until the drum riser stopped him. Tommy fell to his knees before the man he loved. He stared up at Angel while his fingers danced across his Les Paul.
Angel leaned down and assaulted Tommy with his powerful vocals, inching his face closer with each provocative lyric. He grabbed the front of Tommy’s T-shirt in his fist and pulled him to his feet. He sang an inch from Tommy’s mouth. Tommy stared back, mesmerized by the slight sheen of saliva that covered Angel’s bottom lip. There was a pause in the verse, which offered the perfect opportunity for Angel to plant a hard kiss on Tommy’s mouth. The crowd screamed and cheered in the background, but Tommy was too consumed with the taste of ecstasy to think about anything except the exquisite flavor drenching his taste buds. Angel broke the kiss to finish the lyrics, leaving Tommy flushed with adrenaline.
The music was a potent aphrodisiac. Angel was an erotic high. The kiss fed new life into Tommy, and he jumped onto the drum riser in one dramatic leap. Jimmy caught sight of him between ferocious beats on the drums and gave a short nod of his head. The cymbals crashed in Tommy’s ear, and he felt the boom of the bass drum in his chest. It was like gasoline fueling the fire inside him.
He hopped down and ran to the edge of the stage. Planting his boots shoulder-width apart, he rocked his long hair back and forth. The mass of blond streaks across his face offered small flashes of the audience. There was a glimpse of a girl sitting on someone’s shoulders, dressed only in her bra, waving her top above her head. Off to the side, a fist caught someone in the cheekbone. Security muscled their way into the crowd and removed the two brawling concertgoers. Tommy flipped his hair back and stared straight ahead. He looked down, and his eyes rested on Audra and Kira at the center of stage pressed against the railing. They each had one arm slung over the other’s shoulder and a fist in the sky. The image transported Tommy back in time to when Immortal Angel had played a standing gig at The Quadrangle in Williamsburg. Audra and Kira had been at every single show, in that exact spot, cheering louder than everyone else.
Angel spotted them and leaned over the edge of the stage. He grabbed hold of Audra’s hand and sang to her, then did the same to Kira. They screamed and jumped up and down just as they had done over a decade ago, when no one knew that their father owned one of the largest record companies in America.
Tommy inhaled a deep breath of desert air. Dry, warm, and free of East Coast pollutants, it was nourishment to his lungs. In the distance, the lights of the Vegas Strip burned brightly. He glanced around the stage and locked eyes with Damien and the bassist nodded with a rebellious grin.
Damien never left his area. He was always rooted in place, stuck in a cocoon filled with the low grumble of the bass, so when he approached the apron the fans went wild. They knew it meant only one thing. He leaned into the mic and screamed, “CIRCLE PIT!”
A 20-foot diameter of thrashing bodies and flailing arms opened in the middle of the crowd and sent a herd of people smashing into the railing. It was hard to tell if it was to escape the chaos behind them or from the force of the mosh pit, but they pushed the railing about a foot closer to the stage. “Fuck yeah!” Damien yelled into the mic. “Knock that shit down!” Security glared at him, annoyed and angry for inciting the rowdy crowd, but Damien only laughed and gave them the New York salute – one finger and a fist.
Angel slipped off stage while Jimmy beat the hell out of his drums. Tommy and Damien stood back and watched. Jimmy’s arms were a whirlwind of inked muscle as his sticks attacked his snare and sailed across the toms with intense power and speed. His bare chest puffed up from exertion and made the colorful tattoos dance across his pecs. The heavy kicks to the Pearl kit’s bass drum reverberated through the open field like rolling thunder. He twirled his drumstick between his fingers, tossed it high into the air, and caught it in his fist. He gave one final roll across the toms and ended with a powerful blow to the crash cymbal. The fans hollered and screamed. They pumped their fists above their heads and whistled while Tommy and Damien bowed toward Immortal Angel’s flashy drummer. Jimmy stood on his stool and raised his sticks in thanks.
Angel returned wearing a sparkly black cape. He spun around and whipped it off to reveal two belts of bullets draped crisscross over his bare chest. The bullets were plastic replicas, of course, but they looked damn near the real thing. It gave Angel a tough guy, vigilante edge that was hotter than the stage lights. The audience didn’t make the connection or understand the significance of the bullets yet, but they’d get it in about 90 seconds. As soon as the band played the first note of Sex & Greed, it kicked Tommy’s adrenaline up a notch.
The chorus brought the sound of Derek MacAlister’s guitar into the air. He strutted across the stage with his long black hair blowing behind him. A wave of screams rose up from the crowd as soon as they saw him. Seconds later, Brandon’s sexy growl powered through the sound system. Angel dropped his octave and steeled his voice to match Brandon’s in a throaty union of vocal genius. The crowd went ballistic.
Tommy stepped to the mic to introduce the two men who needed no introduction. “Brandon Bullet and Derek MacAlister of Bulletproof!” he shouted. Fists pumped harder, horns waved higher, and plastic cups flew in the air.
Tommy watched Angel and Brandon, mic to mic. Their lips were inches apart. Brandon’s were plump and fleshy. Angel’s were rosy and perfect. They each projected the sex-fueled lyrics of Sex & Greed at one another. Tommy’s jealousy was gone, obliterated by the excitement of the crowd and the performance. It was an ear fuck, and an eye fuck, to watch and listen to the two famous frontmen together.
Derek and Tommy started toward one another from opposite sides of the stage. They pointed their instruments at each other like twin guns. When they collided, they crossed the necks of their guitars together and fireworks lit up the back of the stage. They rocked their heads, whipping the air with a blanket of black and blond hair. They turned, back to back, lead guitar providing the melody and rhythm providing the groove. Damien suddenly joined them, circling the two like a blue-finned shark. The three of them stoo
d shoulder to shoulder. It was a trio of bass, lead, and rhythm all in a row. Then, as quickly as Damien appeared, he was gone, retreating to his section of the stage.
Brandon and Angel approached, each pairing with the opposite band member. Angel sang to Derek, while Brandon and Tommy faced off. Tommy leaned toward Brandon and rocked on his boot. He played an array of distorted power chords to match Brandon’s raw, grungy take on the lyrics. They whipped their hair back and forth until Tommy was dizzy. This was exactly what Tommy had envisioned about playing with Brandon Bullet. He was rocking out on stage with his heavy metal idol, playing an Immortal Angel song. He was on top of the world!
Heat crept up Tommy’s back. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Angel. He felt his husband’s presence like a sixth sense. He faced the audience – Angel’s power in one ear, and Brandon’s baritone in the other. Tommy glanced from one to the other. Angel’s dark eyes bore into him on one side, Brandon’s baby blues on the other – each set rimmed in thick, black eyeliner. Brandon’s long blond hair blew around his scruffy jaw. Angel’s jet-black hair danced on his shoulders. Tommy was sandwiched between two sex gods. It was an epic moment on stage that Tommy would never forget.
The ear-splitting screams from the crowd were deafening. Cell phones rose across the audience, capturing this unprecedented fusion of talent.
They switched places so Brandon faced Angel and Tommy faced Derek. Singer against singer. Guitar god against guitar god. It was surreal. It was an addict’s high. Like nothing would ever be as euphoric as this moment.
Like the pull of a magnet, Tommy turned toward Angel and they locked eyes, sparks flying between them. Angel was rubbing his crotch with his free hand while he sang the sexually explicit lyrics directly to Tommy. The lustful hue that covered Angel’s smoky eyes was as erotic as it was hypnotic, and Tommy was captivated. Angel grabbed a chunk of Tommy’s hair and pulled him in for a passionate wet kiss while Brandon went solo and delivered the last few lyrics of the song.
“Thank you, Las Vegas!” Angel screamed into the mic, and they bowed to the massive cheers that rose from the crowd.
“That was fucking awesome!” Brandon clapped both Angel and Tommy on the back, but Tommy could barely hear him over the shouts and screams from the audience. Never had Tommy heard a crowd as loud as this one.
Out of nowhere, Derek strummed the first few notes of Happy Birthday.
“We have a birthday!” Angel announced through the microphone. “And we have a special surprise!” Angel hung his arm around Tommy’s neck and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Happy Birthday, my prince.”
“What did you do?” Tommy’s eyes widened and his jaw gaped. He was unprepared for any kind of celebration. His birthday wasn’t until tomorrow.
“Get ready, because I think you’re gonna like this.” Angel signaled to Jimmy, who counted off the start of the song. Tommy’s mouth hung open in a wide smile, and a happy laugh bellowed from his lungs, when the band broke into Metallica’s Master of Puppets. They were doing a Metallica tribute in his honor as a birthday gift. He quickly jumped in playing lead guitar, while Derek joined in to play the rhythm. Tommy looked up with surprise when the sound of another guitar came through the amplifier.
“Lucas Blade!” Angel announced. Lucas ran on stage with his little Les Paul and slid on his knees, just as Tommy had done. The fans cheered and hollered. A murmur of “Aww” rose from the audience. Brandon smiled through the lyrics and placed his hand over his heart as he watched Lucas. Tommy glowed with pride. The amount of love he had for his son cut off his oxygen for a moment.
Performing with Brandon and Derek was surreal. Playing Metallica on stage with Immortal Angel and members of Bulletproof was an honor. But playing on stage with his son surpassed all of it. It was a magical moment that left a lump in Tommy’s throat.
He watched Lucas play in perfect timing with seasoned musicians who had decades of experience. This kid was a gem, with talent that shocked everyone who witnessed it. Tommy’s heart was never so full.
Lucas got to his feet and stood beside Tommy, playing his little heart out. He took his eyes off his fingers long enough to flash his bright blue eyes up at his father. “Happy Birthday, Daddy!”
“Thank you, Lucas. This is the best birthday ever!”
When the song ended, the band went right into Happy Birthday. It was overwhelming and Tommy covered his face with his hands. He felt the warmth on his cheeks and sentiment brought him to his knees.
Lucas pulled Tommy’s hands away. “Are you sad, Daddy?”
“No. I’m not sad. I’m really happy. You did great tonight. I’m so proud of you.” Tommy lifted his son by the waist and stepped to the microphone. “My son!”
The audience screamed their love for the little rock star. It was one of the proudest moments of Tommy’s life, happening right here on stage, just like so many other momentous occurrences in his life.
Jimmy left the drum riser and wished Tommy a happy birthday before he handed his sticks to two fans in the front row and threw a drum skin into the crowd.
Damien slapped Tommy on the back. “Happy Birthday, old man.”
Another wave of shouts and whistles came from the audience, causing Tommy to look in the direction of their turned heads. Alyssa was wheeling a food cart across the stage, accompanied by Jessi with a very sleepy Tessa in her arms.
“What the . . . ?” Tommy’s jaw dropped, and sentiment squeezed his heart. “A cake? Are you guys kidding me?”
“She wanted to stay awake for the cake,” Jessi explained, feeling guilty that their three-year-old daughter was up so late.
Tommy flipped his Les Paul to the back, took Tessa in his arms and kissed her cheek.
“Happy Birthday, Daddy. Papi made you cake. A real one. Not plastic, like mine.”
Tommy chuckled. “Yours was just as special, sweetheart.”
Tommy handed Tessa back to Jessi and stepped closer to look at the cake. It was in the shape of a guitar and covered in fondant that matched his beloved Les Paul. “Oh my God! It’s beautiful, but when did you have the time to make it?” he asked Angel.
“Why do you think I snuck away the other morning for over three hours? I whipped up this masterpiece in Jimmy’s suite, and then we had a quick rehearsal of Master of Puppets. Did you really think I went to the gym yesterday morning? I was decorating your cake.”
Tommy’s jaw fell open. He had been fabricating suspicious thoughts when it was all just a ploy to set up this wonderful birthday surprise. He hung his head into his chest while heat flushed his cheeks.
Angel lifted Tommy’s chin with his knuckle. “Did you really think I’d go anywhere without you when it comes to making music? Did you really think I’d hang out with your rock star idol without you?”
Tommy exhaled. “You’re my rock star idol. This is incredible, A. Thank you so much.” He gave Angel a delicate kiss on the lips, then kissed Jessi and the kids. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.” And it all happened on stage, shared with a massive crowd.
Brandon slapped Tommy on the back. “Happy Birthday, man.” Brandon and Angel each slung an arm over Tommy’s shoulder and placed a loud kiss on his cheeks at the same time. Kissed by two rock gods jumpstarted Tommy’s heart. One was his husband and the love of his life, the other was the lead singer to Bulletproof and a rock icon. His head was spinning with adrenaline, and he was higher than the moon.
Angel handed him a large knife. “Make the first cut, birthday boy!”
Tommy sliced a giant chunk of cake, revealing decadent chocolate with a creamy, fudgy filling. Before he had a chance to sink his fork into it, both Angel and Jessi shoved the rich confection into his mouth with their fingers. Cake was in Tommy’s nose, chocolate ganache was across his face, and the crowd was laughing harder than he was.
Alan Delgado and Jeremy Kagan, Bulletproof’s drummer and bassist, walked on stage and wished Tommy a happy birthday as he was wiping the mess from his face with a napkin. Th
e crowd was cheering and hollering. Audra and Kira had left the audience and were now on stage. Alyssa was cutting slices of cake so the event staff could hand them out to those at the railing. And Tommy’s family was around him. But they were all his family – his bandmates and their wives, production and the road crew, the members of Bulletproof and the other bands in the lineup, and every member of the audience. They were all bound together by their love of music. So much of Tommy’s life happened in front of the audience. It didn’t matter if Immortal Angel was playing a dive bar in Brooklyn or in front of 100,000 people in Vegas, home was right here on stage.
Epilogue by Brandon Bullet
Prison Bound by Social Distortion blared through the sound system. Since this was Immortal Angel’s after-show bash, the tunes were predominantly a mashup of The Clash, Bad Religion, and the Ramones, with a healthy dose of Social D, the Chili Peppers, and Dropkick Murphys. There was the occasional Metallica classic and Black Sabbath hit, clearly thrown in the mix at Tommy Blade’s request. Old-school punk rock wasn’t something Brandon listened to often, but it had a catchy rhythm and his foot tapped to the beat.
He took a swig of his beer, still high from the guest performance with Immortal Angel, and slung his arm over Angel’s shoulder. “Dynamite show. It was super cool to sing with you on stage.”
Tommy was suddenly on the other side of Angel, and Cam took a possessive step closer to Brandon.
“I loved the challenge of mixing up my vocal range,” Angel raised his glass, which looked like it was either ice water or straight up vodka. “It was an honor to sing with you.”
Felix Osbourne joined them with a bottle of champagne in his hand. “It was a phenomenal collaboration.” He spoke directly to Angel. “Where’s your tour manager?”
The Stage: A Radical Rock Stars Novella Page 9
