I nod, still not sure I can form coherent words.
“Let’s get you set up then.” He takes my hand and I walk to the tour opening Lush show on the arm of the lead singer, who might be the sexiest man in recorded history.
Joss
I’VE ALWAYS imagined the feeling I have onstage is something like what a competitive swimmer must feel in the pool. I don’t hear anything else or see anything else but my band mates and the music. For all of our problems, we work together like a well-oiled machine. Even Mike and I smooth out when it’s show time.
The first night of a new tour is always nerve-racking, but tonight there’s a different energy in the air. I’ve set Mel up in the wings of the stage where she can see us. She’s on a tall stool, and one of her freelance guys is alongside her while the other two are down on the floor behind the security lineup so they can shoot pictures of the crowd at eye-level without being crushed.
As we open up with our lead-in song, I glance over and see Mike going rock star on his guitar, facing Mel the whole time. She has her camera out taking shots and he’s hamming it up like crazy. I’m feeling envious until she lowers the camera and I see her give me a heated look. I can’t help but smile at her, and she blushes before I walk farther out onstage so I can give the audience some attention too.
I’ve never once noticed someone offstage while I’m performing. Like that swimmer in a pool, I’m always absorbed by the performance, the words, the music, and the mass of energy that flows to me from the audience. But I’m hyperaware of Mel. I can see her clearly whenever I look her direction, and I think I’d know it if she walked away at any point during the performance. I realize I’m grateful that she doesn’t.
When it comes time to sing Your Air, the auditorium goes still. The stage lights go low and a single spot shines on a stool the crew has set up for me. We’re not metal, but we’ve got a big sound—Pearl Jam, Coldplay. Your Air is a ballad, something we don’t do very often. As I sit and hold the microphone through the opening chords, I glance offstage at Mel. Her camera lies abandoned in her lap as she watches me raptly.
I’ve always figured Tammy knows Your Air was written, if not about her, at least because of her—not that she gives a rat’s ass. It came to me several weeks after we slept together and just wouldn’t go away. So I took the chance, even though love ballads aren’t really our thing. The guys were ambivalent about it, but Dave, who knows gold when he smells it, said it was going to hit, and he was right.
Now, as I sing the lyrics that describe a relationship doomed from the moment the principals touched, Your Air takes on new meaning.
If I could only watch one view, it would be your face
If I could only touch one place, it would be your skin
If I could only feel one force, it would be your love
If I could only breathe one thing, it would be your air.
Instead of an ode to something dark and wrong and painful, maybe Your Air could be my anthem of hope, the possibility that someone might actually love me back.
I look at Mel, and I smile.
WHEN WE come offstage for the last time, the guys are amped. It was a great opening show, only a few lighting glitches, not anything anyone but the stage manager and I would ever notice. Walsh throws his sweaty ass all over Tammy when he reaches the wings, and she quite predictably shrieks and starts smacking at him. Mike is high-fiving the crew guys he typically parties with, and Colin grabs some groupie who managed to get backstage and lays some French on her. The poor girl is speechless for five minutes afterwards.
I know I’m grinning like an idiot, but there’s only one person I want to see, and she waits quietly for me as I stride toward her. She’s wearing that flimsy sundress and those cowboy boots that make me want to saddle up the nearest horse and ride off with her. Her red hair is glowing under all the colored lights, and her lips shine like a couple of jewels begging to be worshipped.
“So what did you think?” I ask when I reach her.
She grins back at me. “It was amazing,” she says, and my heart stills for a minute before it resumes beating much faster than the normal rate.
“I haven’t had that much fun at a performance in a long time, Mel. I think you’re my good-luck charm.”
She flushes. “It’s the camera. It makes people more aware of everything and gives them a reason to fake it ‘til they make it.”
I laugh. “Fake it ‘til they make it?”
“Yeah,” she responds as she packs her camera away. “They try to look perfect for the camera and eventually they feel perfect too.”
I shake my head. “You’re something else, Mel DiLorenzo. You know that?”
She just smiles.
“Hey, Joss!” Walsh calls.
“Yeah, man,” I say, tearing my gaze away from the stunning redhead at my side.
“You ready to party?”
I look at Mel questioningly. She nods her head vigorously.
“Yep. Let’s hit it, bro.”
And we all head back to the green room to get things underway.
Mel
ACCORDING TO what Tammy told me during our prep for tonight, the guys always start the post-performance parties in the green room. Where there were sodas and snacks beforehand, there is now dinner and booze. Lots of booze. Everyone grabs plates of food and beers, whiskey, tequila—whatever booze they might want—and sits around in the large room on sofas and armchairs. Joss is off taking a shower and changing. Meanwhile, Colin has broken out a bong, and I wonder how he gets away with that everywhere he goes as if it weren’t still illegal in most states.
I watch Walsh too, curious as to how he handles all of this since he’s in recovery, but he seems fine with it, and Tammy stays glued to his side. More and more people filter in. Crew, security staff, and as I look around, I realize groupies too. Here is the side of rock and roll I’ve always heard about but never seen. As the security staff comes in, they have women tagging along. Blondes, brunettes, redheads.
They all have one thing in common, they look slutty. Yeah, I know it’s not very sisterly of me to say so, but it’s the God’s honest truth. I’ve never seen so much T and A in one room before in my life. There is cleavage oozing, asses bouncing, and legs spreading every which way, and I wonder how the hell Tammy stands this.
I watch as two of them sidle up to Mike and he throws an arm around each, letting his hands drift down to their chests at the same time. Both girls squeal when he squeezes their tits. When I look five minutes later, he’s got one on the couch, making out with her, his hand up her shirt, while the other one straddles his lap and grinds on him as she sucks on his neck. I nearly throw up in my mouth a little.
I see that there are far more groupies than band members, and I realize the groupies also give their affections to the crew. Suddenly I understand why these guys give up months at home and spend their days lugging around all that equipment in order to be a roadie. It’s a job with some serious benefits.
I go to the buffet table and look skeptically at the food, debating whether I should have told someone to photograph this, when a freshly showered and dressed Joss comes and stands next to me. His hair is still damp and the bottom sticks to his neck in little pieces. He’s clean-shaven and smells like some sort of beachy cologne. He has on a button-up shirt, cut narrow and untucked over jeans. It’s open far enough at the neck that I get a glimpse of firm muscle and golden skin. It makes my stomach twist in a knot with wanting. A wanting I know is bad for me.
“You got everything you need, Mel?” he asks as he nurses a beer.
I’m suddenly uncomfortable with him and angry for reasons I can’t understand. I wonder how often he screws women like those filling this room. Does he take one back to his hotel after every performance? Does he ever learn their names or ask how old they are? Because I’m pretty sure some of these girls are underage, and that’s not a comforting thought.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say woodenly.
He dips his hea
d and watches me carefully. “You sure? Everything’s all right?”
“Yep.” I look straight ahead instead of at him. “It’s all good.”
My stomach twists as I see Colin start dancing with a blonde who has her hand on his crotch and just snorted a line of coke up her nose.
I’m an average girl. I party. I have dates. I’m not a virgin. And I’ve spent my share of nights worshipping porcelain. But there is something different about this, something so anonymous and without conscience or purpose.
I’ve had sex with boyfriends, and I’ve even had a one-night stand, but this is far beyond a one-night stand. I know Mike didn’t ask those girls their names. I know he won’t bother to find out how they’re getting home, and I know he doesn’t care what happens to them after tonight.
They aren’t people to him. They’re vessels to pour his sexual energy into so he can go on his merry way with a load off. And just as bad, they view him the same way. He’s not Mike the funny, irreverent, talented musician. He’s a celebrity—someone they can brag about fucking when they go out partying with their friends the next night—a status symbol, not unlike a Mercedes or a pair of Prada shoes.
I stand like a statue and watch it all. I’ve gotten myself into something a lot heavier than I realized. I suddenly feel woefully naïve and stupid. The same sort of naïve and stupid I was with my professor. How many times do I have to put myself in situations like this before I learn? How could I not have known what this was? How could I have really thought Joss Jamison was someone I could be friends with? Or even something more, if I’m totally honest with myself.
Maybe Tammy can have a relationship with Walsh because they grew up together. She was here every step of the way when he discovered all this, and because of her, he’s maybe never really participated in it. But Joss? Joss has been at the center of it all for years. The quintessential rock god. I remember the blonde from the day we left on tour, and it seems so much more revolting now than it did then. How many? How often?
“So have you gotten a chance to eat some dinner?” Joss asks through my fog of deteriorating thoughts.
I barely register him before I’m out the door, headed back to the hotel.
Joss
BETWEEN THE time we walked off stage and the after-party, something went seriously haywire. The vibrant redhead who watched me perform, sending me heated looks and sparkling smiles, has been replaced by a pissed-off, closed-off woman who just walked out on me. I’m fucking clueless, and I don’t like it. I don’t do clueless. I know what to expect and when, especially on my own damn tour.
Hell, maybe DiLorenzo women are just that mercurial. Maybe they don’t really care about anyone for more than a few hours. But I know that’s not true. Tammy has loved Walsh for thirteen years. Hardly fickle.
I throw myself down in an armchair, debauchery continuing on all around me, and I wonder what the hell happened. I go back over our conversation as we walked to the green room. I remember the sexy little look she gave me when I told her I was going to shower and change. She wasn’t pissed at me. I know she wasn’t. I’m not a total idiot about women. Well, at least not all the time.
A buxom brunette approaches me. She’s sultry and wearing something that actually approaches clothing, unlike most of the women in here. She says some flirty thing to me, but I reply, “Not tonight, all right? Nothing personal.” She winces and retreats quickly.
My mind drifts back to the angry little redhead. Something happened while I was gone. Something changed her mind about me. The only thing I can think of is Tammy. Fucking Tammy. And this time she’s gone too far. I slam my beer down on the end table, causing it to foam up and spill everywhere. I don’t even give it a second look. I pay people to clean up after me. Let them deal with the shit.
I stand and walk over to where Tammy is sitting on Walsh’s lap as he tells a story to a couple of the crew.
“I need to talk to you,” I say abruptly.
I see wariness pass over her face, but she fights me on it anyway. “I’m sort of busy here, Joss.”
Walsh has quit talking and is eyeing the two of us, undoubtedly wondering what the hell is going on.
“Sorry, this will just take a minute.” I try to tone it down so she’ll cooperate.
She sighs and then leans forward and kisses Walsh on the lips. My gut roils, but it’s almost more out of habit than any actual feeling.
“I’ll be right back, baby,” she tells him. He smiles at her but looks at me questioningly again. I know I’ll have to give him some sort of explanation eventually, but he’s going to let it go for now.
We walk out into the hall and shut the door.
“What the hell, Joss?” she spits. “I thought we weren’t talking unless it was about work?” She throws my angry words from earlier back in my face.
I grit my teeth, willing myself not to go berserk on her. “What the fuck did you say to Mel?” I ask harshly.
She smirks. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Between the time we came backstage and now. What the hell did you say to her?”
Her face falls. I suddenly feel as nervous as I do angry.
“Nothing. I haven’t even talked to her since the show ended. Why?”
I’ve known Tammy a long time. She’s telling the truth. I’ve hit a dead end. Maybe someone or something else upset Mel? Maybe she simply took a closer look at me and didn’t like what she saw? I run my hand through my hair in frustration. How will I figure it out if she won’t talk to me?
“Joss? What’s going on?” Tammy asks, looking concerned.
“Nothing,” I respond sharply. “Nothing’s going on. Go back to your boyfriend, Tammy. Forget I said anything.”
“No, I won’t forget it. What the hell did you do to her? So help me—”
“Tammy. I didn’t do anything to her except ask if she’d had any dinner. She took off suddenly and I thought maybe you’d been badmouthing me to her, as usual.”
Tammy huffs out a bitter laugh. “Actually, not today. Haven’t had the chance.” She gives me an evil smile. “But it sounds to me like she’s coming to her senses, thank God.”
I turn away from her, indicating that the conversation is over. If I open my mouth again, something really ugly’s going to come out.
“Take it as a sign, Joss. You need to spread your poison somewhere else.” She walks back inside and I slouch against the wall in the cold tile hallway, fluorescent lights flickering above me, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing with my mess of a life.
Mel
I’VE BEEN back at the hotel for an hour or so when I have to admit that I’m not going to be able to sleep. I’m so frustrated I can’t relax. I’ve been pacing the floor in my room since I got here. All I can think about are all those women.
And Joss.
Joss grabbing that blonde at the limo before we boarded the bus. Joss back at the auditorium with the redheads and brunettes. Their bouncing breasts and skintight skirts. I’m sure most of them aren’t wearing any underwear. I think about Mike with the two girls and then flash to a picture of Joss in the same position.
It’s not rational. He’s not my boyfriend—not anything to me. We’re barely even friends, and he’s nothing but bad news. Anyone can see that. I have no business worrying and wondering about who he’s screwing or when or where. The fact that he’s a rock star makes the whole thing even more asinine. He’s got 24/7 access to as many women as he could ever want. If I have any sense at all, I’ll make damn sure I’m not one of them.
Aaargh! I scream out loud. I’ve got to get these revolving thoughts out of my head. I go to the bathroom and grab my swimsuit. I’ll just do laps until I can’t think anymore.
I’VE BEEN in the pool nearly half an hour. At this time of night, I’m the only one up here and I’m glad for that. The water is soothing, and my mind isn’t racing anymore. I’m settling into thoughts about the photo project and the next few tour stops. What pictures I need to get, wha
t angles for concert shots might work best. I’m floating on my back, looking up at the Los Angeles sky, which is rife with airplanes and helicopters, satellite towers and spotlights. It’s full of lights, but none of them are stars, as the manmade types have shoved nature’s jewels to the background.
“Hey,” a quiet voice says from the edge of the pool. I yelp in surprise and move upright, ready to swim like hell to escape whatever psycho-killer has caught me in the pool at two a.m.
But when I look at the darkened side of the pool deck, I see Joss squatting down, watching me.
“Sorry.” He chuckles. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I catch my breath, because I was startled, not because he’s wearing a pair of loose, long swim trunks on his narrow hips and no shirt.
“It’s okay. What are you doing here? Isn’t there a party in your honor you’re supposed to be at?”
He sits down and puts his legs in the water like he did the other night when we were here together. The glow from the pool lights shine up on him, putting part of his face and torso in shadows. But I can see the tattoos snaking around his upper arms and down one side of his chest. They swirl and angle, hugging the curves of his pecs and biceps.
“The best part of the party left. I lost interest after that.”
I have a hard time not smiling at that. Women, I remind myself. Tons of them. And he’s a rock star.
“Huh. Seemed like there were plenty of very, shall we say, enthusiastic reasons to stay,” I respond.
He watches me for a minute. Then he gives a sharp nod of his head as if he’s just heard something. Understood something new.
“I assume you’re talking about the groupies?” he asks quietly.
I shrug, which isn’t so easy while treading water. I finally swim over to the steps in the corner of the pool and sit, covered in water up to my waist. I lean back against the wall of the pool. I’m around the corner from Joss now, and I see him purse his lips. Then he stands up, walks over to the side I’m on, and sits down a few feet from me.
A Lush Betrayal Page 7
