by Rob Manary
I take from the basket a large sushi platter, the sauces, and wooden chopsticks. St. Claire looks at me with undisguised affection. “About this morning...” she begins.
“Don’t worry about this morning,” I say. “I don’t know anything about relationships either. And you can’t make time for me? That’s alright; I can make time for you.”
She bites her lip again, it is her tell. Those emerald eyes catch mine and threaten to pull me down into them. “I can make time for us.” She emphasizes the us.
We share lunch and all too soon it is over and she is back to work. St. Claire surprised me, however, with how proficient she is with her chopsticks. When I struggled she fed me. I pretended to struggle more than I actually needed to and if she caught on she didn’t show it.
“I’ll call you when I finish up here, if you don’t get bored and drag some skank back to your hotel room. If you do, call me when you finish,” she teases.
“Awww,” I tease back. “You’re the only skank for me.” She jabs me in the stomach, goes up on her tiptoes and gives me a quick kiss and then “shoos” me towards the door.
When St. Claire calls me it is nearly midnight. We talk all night long.
Monday, Day 8
I sleep much of the morning and into the afternoon. I feel a little guilty because I know while I recover from our marathon telephone session, St. Claire is rehearsing for Much Live, a live television appearance she has early this evening. My sleep, however, is interrupted by a knock on my hotel room door. I throw on a robe and move to the door to greet this intrusion. It is the concierge and he has a package for me. It is brightly wrapped and there is an envelope. I tip the concierge and take the package. I tear into it to find a simple woolen black turtleneck and a pair of jeans. The card reads: “Wear me.” I smile.
The phone rings shortly after. “Hello,” I say.
“So much better, Icarus.” The sweet familiar voice laughs. “Was that so hard?”
“Extraordinarily,” I say. “Thank you for the gifts. Advantage St. Claire. I didn’t know what I was going to wear,” I tease.
“Probably assless chaps if your wardrobe to this point is any indicator.” She laughs, how I love that sound. “I want you to come with me to Much Live tonight,” she says tentatively, unsure. I love how she can be so strong, but so vulnerable, too.
I’m a little surprised and she takes my silence entirely wrong. “It was just an idea. I mean a good photo op you know...” I can tell she is a little wounded.
“Shut up, St. Claire, I would love to go with you.” I laugh. “Or in terms you can understand...” I adopt a falsetto that is in no way close to how she speaks. “Fuck, St. Claire, I mean, just fuck, I would love to go with you.”
She laughs wildly and I am happy that I can elicit that sound from her. “I do not sound like that!” she says through her laughter. “I’ll send my limo to pick you up at six. This could be considered our third date and you know what that means?”
“No,” I answer honestly.
“On the third date the girl usually puts out. Don’t you watch romantic comedies?”
“Romantic comedies? No.” I laugh. “And, St. Claire.” I pause for effect. “Don’t think just because you bought me some clothes, you’re getting into my pants. I’ll see you at six.” Out of habit I just hang up on her. Realizing what I have done, I laugh a little and hit the bed for a couple more hours sleep.
I shower and dress in the outfit St. Claire bought for me. The jeans fit well and accentuate my lean frame to perfection. The turtleneck shows off my toned torso expertly. Maybe I should let St. Claire dress me all the time. It is close to six so I make my way to the lobby. The limo is waiting.
The driver opens the door and St. Claire is within. I duck to get into the car and she smiles. “Hold on! Let me look at you.” She smiles approvingly. “Turn around.” I stand from the car and do a three hundred and sixty degree turn to her applause. “Look at you in your big boy clothes. Now get in here and kiss me.”
I dive into the car playfully, lunging forward to half tackle her. Willingly, she moves back as I move forward and I deliberately land on top of her. My body atop hers, my mouth finds her soft sweet lips. She wraps her legs around my waist and subtly grinds her pelvis into mine; I grow hard against her. She breaks the kiss and bites her lip, looking into my eyes she smiles. I know she can feel my hardness as she grinds against me slowly and takes my mouth. I can feel her struggling for breath as we move together. Reluctantly, she pushes me from her. “You’re going to fuck up my makeup, Icarus,” she says playfully. I straighten from her. “Fuck it.” She pushes me down and climbs on top of me, taking my mouth once more. Sliding a hand between us she squeezes my aching cock. Then she moves that hand around my back, to my ass, and draws me closer as she grinds against me. “Fuck, just fuck.” She breaks the kiss and seems to struggle to catch her breath. “If you break my heart I’ll fucking kill you, I swear.”
The car soon arrives at the Much Music building and I am unprepared for the scene that awaits us. There are hundreds of fans that clog the street and the limo must slow to find where we are to stop. A red carpet marks our landing zone with a horde of security personnel and barricades up so St. Claire may safely pass. The screaming is overwhelming as a security guard opens the door and I step from the vehicle. I look to St. Claire, she offers me her hand and I take it, helping her from the car.
The roar is deafening as their idol emerges. I move towards the glass fronted entrance of the building, my hand in hers. She pauses and takes the time to accept flowers and stuffed animals. With the sweetest smile she exchanges pleasantries with her fans, signing autographs and posing for pictures. Some of her fans, I learn later, have camped out overnight for a glimpse of her. There is a momentary hush as she works the crowd. Into that silence, from the back of the throng, a small female voice shouts, “I love you, Brandon!”
I laugh softly, I have at least one fan. I turn to the voice and call, “I’m sorry, I’m taken.” I lift the hand that holds St. Claire’s. A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd.
Someone else takes the opportunity to shout, “We love you, Rachel!” and the rest of the crowd takes up the chant. “Rachel! Rachel! Rachel!”
It is the perfect sound bite for the camera crews that film the arrival of the rock goddess. St. Claire turns and gives me a wicked smile before claiming my lips, there was no way I was stealing her moment. The kiss is for show, but lacks no passion, the crowd surges forward, and security urges us to go inside.
We are ushered backstage. St. Claire kisses me again. This one tender, soft, the kiss is lazy, my lips linger on hers. “I’ll see you after the show,” she whispers and she is gone, whisked away to makeup and wardrobe.
An audience for the performance is slowly filling the soundstage. I stand unobtrusively at the back of the small concert space. I gain a few glances, but am unmolested. To any who offer me a smile I return the same. The concert space is soon at capacity, including more than a few who stand as I do. I am as incognito as I can be.
At the front of the studio there is a stage, with all the accompanying sound equipment, speakers, St. Claire’s drummer’s kit, and an array of the band’s guitars. To the right of the stage an informal “chat” setting is arranged, a chair for the host, a couch for the guest, and an enormous television screen between them but set slightly back. I don’t envy St. Claire. I don’t do interviews. I never have. I likely never will. There are five or six television cameras set up to capture every angle, the show is live, there is no second chance tonight.
A comedian comes out to “warm up” the crowd. He is not dreadful, but he is far from what I call funny. The crowd, however, seems appreciative. His material is fresh and his delivery is crisp and he receives more than a few laughs. I am a poor judge. I am not a fan of stand up comedians.
When I see St. Claire’s bassist appear in the wings I begin to watch for her. The lights go down, and the cameras position themselves, creeping acros
s the floor. There is an exaggerated grandfather clock in the “chat” area to show, I suppose, that the program is indeed live. It ticks closer and closer to the hour. A figure appears and half shouts, “And we are live in 5... 4... 3...” She holds up two fingers, then one.
The host runs across the stage, stops in the centre. “Tonight on Much Live... Rachel St. Claire!” He exits and Rachel and her band make their way onstage. Rachel is wearing a pure white Kimono that falls shorter than any miniskirt I have ever seen. Her red hair falls in cascades around her sweet face. She grins. “I want to be dirty,” she half breathes into the microphone. And the band rips into the title track of her new album, her latest number one single. After the song reaches its feverish conclusion Rachel curtsies. Predictably, the studio audience goes wild, and the host runs back onto centre stage. “We’ll be right back to talk with Rachel St. Claire. Stay with us.” And the stage lights go out.
There is a flurry of activity as a hairdresser and makeup artist attack St. Claire. She is then escorted to the chat area. She laughs as she exchanges pleasantries with the host, and now there is a countdown again as the show goes live once more. The chat or interview portion is pretty standard. St. Claire is “surprised” with a picture of her as a girl, complete with little red pigtails. A picture I have no doubt she provided herself. They talk about her impressive back catalogue of hits, her process, and of course the new album. What a departure her new material is, and how the critics have embraced it as some of her best work yet. Then it is off to commercial with a, “Stay tuned, Rachel St. Claire will be back to perform, live for the first time, her new single, Angel Wings.”
And the lights go low. Rachel escapes backstage. There is another countdown and the host runs once more to centre stage to announce her. “Rachel St. Claire, Angel Wings.” St. Claire slinks onstage in a one piece multicoloured bodysuit that clings to her every curve and, as they say, leaves nothing to the imagination. I don’t think a man in the audience breathed for the duration of the song. “Angel Wings” culminates with a frenzied, wailing guitar riff.
As the song draws to its conclusion St. Claire holds up a hand, and there is complete silence. “This one is for someone incredibly special.” She laughs nervously. “We’re trying this one out and seeing if we’ve got what it takes to pull it off.” One of her roadies brings out her guitar. It is a white Gibson with a red lightning bolt painted across the face. She tears into “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” I smile at her choice.
To close the show there is a question and answer segment. Rachel is a pro. She lounges on the couch, stretches out catlike, and has the audience hanging on her every word. There is hardly a sound as she answers. She is that captivating a creature. The show is nearly over when the host pounces. “No one else has asked, so I’ve got to.”
St. Claire doesn’t flinch, she is the master or she knows what he is about to say. I’ll probably never know. “Yes…?” She almost purrs.
“You and playboy artist, Brandon Fahr, have been spotted together.” A picture from our first kiss outside her hotel, that seems so long ago, is displayed on the big screen. “Are you two an item?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re just seeing where it goes.” She smiles coyly. “I think you’ll have to ask him. He’s here.” I’m sure now she has ambushed me. She will deny it later, but there is little St. Claire doesn’t plan.
“Is Brandon here?” The host feigns ignorance, the lights go up and the camera pans the crowd, captures me. I smile. I produce what I know to be a beautiful smile. I’m trapped. Advantage St. Claire again. “Brandon, come down here. C’mon.” The host knows this is good television. Everyone knows I don’t give interviews.
I shake my head no, act reluctant, but know how this has to play out. St. Claire beckons me with a tilted head and a “C’mon, Brandon.”
I make my way through the crowd to the couch and sit next to her. She takes my hand and repeats the question the host asked her minutes ago. “Are we an item?”
I lick my lips and wait a heartbeat or two. Everyone can feel anticipation in the air. “I think we are just seeing where it goes,” I answer, echoing her words.
“There you have it!” The host beams. He knows our non answers are far better than any answer we could give. And, he had both Rachel St. Claire and her incredibly elusive new boyfriend on his couch. “Rachel St. Claire and Brandon Fahr. Thank you both very much.” The crowd begins clapping and the applause grows and grows. They gain their feet and continue to clap for Rachel. The host begins his sign off and is drowned out. He begins again but the appreciative audience swallows his words. He gives up and just yells, “Tomorrow! Someone who is not Rachel St. Claire!” And the show is over.
“Advantage St. Claire,” she half whispers, grins and squeezes my hand. I put up with the niceties we must make with the host after the show is over. St. Claire then circulates amidst the studio audience and I watch her. I love to watch her move. I love to just watch her. Often, she looks back to where I am speaking with an art student who has cornered me. I am only half listening to him. St Claire locks eyes with me again and again as she makes her rounds. Finally, she returns to my side and takes my hand. I am beginning to feel so empty when she is not holding my hand. I’m a little afraid. I don’t think I’ve felt this way before.
“Okay, let’s go,” she says.
I look to her still encased in that one piece bodysuit. “Like that?”
“I’m tired. I just want to get back to my hotel, get you inside me, and get some sleep.”
I shake my head and laugh as we make our way to the entrance. This time she doesn’t stop to appease her fans. They scream for her and all she gives them is a tired wave. Holding her hand, I can feel her strength draining away after the adrenaline of her performance. A security guard opens the limo door and she slides inside. I follow.
Once inside the car she wraps her arms around me and looks up at me. I kiss her softly, she returns the kiss, but I can feel how tired she is. My lips leave hers and I wrap my arms around her. She rests her head on my chest. Her beautiful eyes close and I can feel her breath deepen against my chest. The car speeds towards her hotel. I gently stroke her hair as sleep takes her. I lower the partition that separates the driver from us. “Drive, just drive, anywhere, but don’t stop driving until dawn,” I say. He nods. I raise the partition back up and just watch St. Claire as she sleeps in my arms. I think I am, for maybe the first time, in love.
Tuesday, Day 9
We drive until dawn. I succumb to sleep eventually, but awaken each time St. Claire stirs in my arms. When the limo finally stops in front of her hotel she slowly shakes her head and looks to me. “What time is it? Where are we?” she asks, pressing herself against me, snuggling further into my arms.
“It’s morning. We’re in front of your hotel.”
She intends to steal a quick kiss, but I move forward when she moves back, our lips stay locked together, and she allows the kiss to go on and on. “Thank you.” She reluctantly backs off a little, and breathes the words in the space before I take her lips again.
I release her as reluctantly as she let our lips part. “For what?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” Those emerald eyes dance. “For being you. For not being you. I don’t know. Just thank you.” She smiles for me, how I love that I can make her smile.
“Yesterday was your day,” I tease.
“Every day is my day.” She winks. “I have to go.” The words seem painful.
“I know.”
“Now go back to your hotel and wait for me to call.” She laughs, then sobers a minute. Her voice goes low and I am afraid of the words to come. “This is so unfair to you...”
I cut her off with a laugh and an upraised finger against her sweet lips. “Shut up, St. Claire.”
If she had smiled before it is nothing compared to the smile she graces me with now. She is about to say something, I can see it in her eyes, but the words die before they reach her lips. Reaching for the door sh
e is out of the limo before I can ask what she was about to say. I instruct the driver to take me to the Delta Chelsea, Wayne’s hotel.
I am in high humour and it has been days since I really spoke with Wayne. We will order room service and that will infinitely please him, this I know. Moving through the lobby I take the elevator and am soon at his room. I use my keycard and find the door is chained from the inside. Strange. I knock on the door and Wayne appears a touch too quickly, in a towel.
“What’s going on, Wayne?” I shake my head, he looks guilty.
“This isn’t a good time, Brandon. Can you come back?” He sounds a touch too desperate and I am taken aback. I have known Wayne for more than a decade and his slavish devotion to me has been a constant. There has never been “not a good time”.
“Do you have a woman in there?” I laugh.
“C’mon, Brandon, drop it. I’ll call you,” he half begs and then I hear Guy call to him, asking him who is at the door. Wayne panics and whispers urgently. “He can’t see you or we’re busted.”
I laugh wildly but he is right. I move from the door towards the elevator, through the lobby and to the street.
I have nothing to do. It is an odd feeling. The morning is beautiful and I have energy to burn. I walk. I just walk. Toronto is a beautiful city. The entire morning I walk. Sometime around noon, or maybe one, I find myself on Queen Street and stop at a small cafe with a patio. I take a table outside and ask for their wine list. I am a little disappointed with the selection but order a chardonnay and simply sit and watch the people walk by. The hours pass quickly and it is soon mid-afternoon. It will be hours yet before St. Claire is finished driving herself in rehearsal. I have nothing to do. It is an exhilarating feeling, this freedom.
