by Ann Lister
“You scare the hell out of me,” he sighed almost breathless.
“Why?” she asked, tears pooling in her eyes.
He shifted his weight and moved his hand between their bodies. “Because of the way you make me feel. I’ve never felt this out of control.”
“I thought you loved a good adrenaline rush?”
His eyes hung heavy and he smiled seductively. “This is way beyond that.”
His fingers tugged on her panties, inching them lower on her thighs. His eyes were on fire. Carefully he maneuvered himself back between her legs. His face dropped to her neck. He was so close to being inside her now he could hardly form a rational thought in his brain. “Annie, I think I …,” he said pausing, his voice so soft she could barely hear him.
A sly smile formed on his mouth and then he started to speak again but the sound of his words became lost in the whooshing noise made by the door to the dressing room as it opened wide to expose them on the couch.
He lurched off the couch as if it were on fire. Camera flashes exploded in the room like a war zone. The camera shutters burst in rapid clicks, as they took a quick series of photographs in mere seconds. In a reflex move, Annie pulled her knees up to her chest and covered her face.
“Hey, Michael, can we have an exclusive?” One reporter shouted.
“Who’s your new girlfriend?” the other man asked.
One long stride and Michael was at the door. With one arm he managed to shove the two men back out into the hall, while his other arm slammed the door and locked it.
“Damn it! I can’t believe I forgot to lock that door,” he shouted, and looked over at Annie cowering on the couch. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Immediately he went to a phone that hung on the wall, picked up the receiver and dialed a few numbers.
“Yeah, this is Michael Wade,” he screamed. “Send my fucking body guard down to clear the hall for me and tell him to confiscate the camera’s! Do it now!” Michael hung up the phone with such force it broke into pieces, and fell to the floor.
“Michael, it’s okay. You don’t have to get so mad.”
His eyes shot at her full of rage. “You have no idea what this means, do you? Those assholes just took pictures of you, spread-eagled on the couch, with your skirt yanked above your head and you’re telling me not to get mad?” Michael paced the floor, searching his brain for a solution. “And, exactly how long do you think it’s gonna take them to figure out who you are? Especially since they just finished taking your fucking picture with Brian’s face buried between your tits!”
“That’s what you’re really mad at, isn’t it?” Annie screamed back at him, but Michael paid no attention. He was too focused on finding a solution.
“Son-of-a-bitch! You’re screwed. After those pictures hit the music rags, and they will, the promoters will have no choice but to disqualify your band! Not to mention, I won’t be able to see you again in public until this contest is done! Do you understand that?”
Annie wiped the tears from her cheeks, stood up and adjusted her clothing. Then she walked defiantly toward the door. “Then I’ll make it easy for you, Michael, and disappear. Now, you won’t have to worry about seeing me publicly or privately ever again!”
“You can’t go out there until Bull clears the hall for us.”
“Oh yeah, watch me,” she glared into his eyes, pulling the door open. “I'm through playing games with you. It's over. Do you understand that?” she hissed, stabbing him in the chest with an index finger. “To hell with the contest and to hell with you!” A second later she was in the hallway and gone from his sight.
“Annie, come on, don’t go!” Michael called after her. Then Bull filled the doorway frame with his enormous body. “How nice of you to come,” Michael spat.
Bull put his large hands onto his hips and snarled back at Michael. “What the hell are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be in the press room with the rest of your God-damned band!”
“Never mind what I’m doing. Did you get the cameras?”
“No! Do you see anyone out here in the hall?” Bull growled.
“Shit, they’re probably already back at their studio’s editing them,” Michael groaned.
“Do I want to know what’s on the film?” Bull asked.
“Use your imagination,” he replied loudly, pulling on his shirt. Then he stormed from the room and headed back to the press room to find Brian.
The room was still brimming with people when Michael strode back in. He caught Buzz by the arm first and spun him around.
“Where’s Annie?” he asked.
“She said she was going home. I heard her say something about not feeling well.”
“How did she plan on getting there?” Michael questioned, his voice bordering on rage.
“Jesus, Mike, calm down! She’s in good hands. Sammy offered to give her a ride.”
“I bet he did!”
Michael turned on his heels to find Brian. It didn’t take long. He was happily and seductively sandwiched between two beautiful women, while another took their photograph. Ignoring the women, Michael stepped in and separated Brian, as if prying apart mating dogs from one another.
“What the hell? I was having fun,” Brian protested.
“We’ve got a little problem,” Michael blurted.
“What kind of problem?” Brian asked, suddenly interested in the topic.
Michael pushed the hair off his face. “Annie and I just got caught in the dressing room by a couple of photographers. I recognized one of them as LJ from Rolling Stone magazine.”
Brian’s eyes grew wide then narrowed in anger. He grabbed Michael by the arm and pulled him into the hallway for privacy. “Just so I have all the facts straight,” he whispered. “Am I to understand that you and Annie were screwing in the dressing room while photographers snapped away at their leisure?”
“No, not exactly . But in another five minutes we probably would have been.”
“Jesus! What the hell were you thinking?” Brian shook his head in disgust. “Why didn't you lock the door, or better yet, why'd you bring her there in the first place?” Brian threw his hands up in the air. “I told you this would happen! Hell, I even told her this would happen! Damn it! We're going to need damage control now! Go give Arnold a call,” he ordered, and trudged back into the press room, leaving Michael behind in the empty hall. “And this is your problem, not mine.”
CHAPTER NINE
Arnold Levenstein was the official legal counsel for all the band members of Thrust. Over the years, he had helped them through divorces, criminal misdemeanors, various felonies for drug possession, and damage control with the press. He had seen it all and then some. Thrust kept him so busy, he had no time for any other clients and even wore a pager to be reachable twenty-four hours a day. He had become an expert at picking up their messes and was paid handsomely for his services.
“What’d you do this time?” Arnold’s sleepy voice asked Michael through the phone.
“We’ve got a small problem,” Michael replied.
“Of course there’s a problem, Mike. You never call me with good news!”
“I need some damage control and fast.”
Michael explained the situation and Arnold promised to take care of it.
Michael sighed with relief. It was out of his hands now. He only hoped it wasn’t too late. Without saying good-bye, Michael exited the FleetCenter by the back door and into the celebrity parking lot. A few seconds later, his black Porsche roared past the front entrance where fans still waited in hopes of catching a glimpse of Thrust. On another night, Michael might have slowed down and given the crowd a wave before speeding through the narrow streets of Boston. But not on this night. He wasn’t in the mood to acknowledge the fans.
His first thought was to head to Annie’s apartment. Then he shook that notion from his tired mind, down-shifted his car, and sped toward his own house.
He hated
himself for yelling at her. If she never spoke to him again, he knew he deserved it. Besides, any chance he may have had with her would be gone, once she saw herself splayed on the front pages of every music rag published. Maybe it was best to leave her as an unfinished chapter in his life. After all, he had no business dragging her into the complexities of his existence. She certainly deserved better.
Having regrets was not in his nature but, where Annie was concerned, there were too many to count. He cursed himself loudly and shifted his car again with force, accelerating onto the expressway ramp and heading south. It should have been so simple, telling her how he felt, just three simple words. But somehow saying it out loud made it real and he didn’t know how to deal with that. How quickly and unexpectedly she had crashed into his life and into his heart and he knew he’d never be the same.
Michael sped the car up the long driveway that led to his house and parked beside the front door. He turned the key to his Italian-villa-style mansion and stepped into the foyer.
He hated coming home to an empty house. All the material possessions money could buy, and still he came home alone. The clomp of his boots echoed on the marble tile that led from the entrance back toward the kitchen. He tossed his keys and coat onto the granite countertop and headed for the second floor stairs. At the top of the circular staircase and to the left was the master bedroom suite.
After his divorce, Michael hired a professional decorator to re-do most of the house, especially his bedroom. The main objective was to remove any hint of his ex-wife’s feminine touches. The house was his now and he wanted his personality to be reflected as such. Much of the artwork he purchased while on tour in Europe. He hand selected black, white and gray marble and granite from Italian quarries. Austrian crystal chandeliers were shipped directly from the artisans who crafted them. The marble statues came from Venice. Bathroom and kitchen hardware fixtures consisted of 24 carat gold, chrome, and solid brass. The color schemes were rich and masculine with gold leaf to lighten the deep contrasts. The end result cost millions and took over a year to complete.
The master bedroom was massive in size, big enough to comfortably sleep two entire families. The king-sized bed was situated against a wall that faced an expanse of windows that overlooked the acres that surrounded the house and gardens. The view was breathtaking. Too bad he was hardly ever home to enjoy it.
The remainder of the second floor consisted of several more bedrooms, one for each member of the band, in case any of them needed to stay the night. It was part of the brotherhood of the band that went back to their drug days. The last bedroom belonged to his son. It had remained untouched since the day he had moved with his mother to the West Coast.
The downstairs was made up of several interlocking rooms. An enormous sunk-in living room was located off the foyer, an eat-in kitchen which was connected to a formal dining room, and a family room that was home to all of Michael’s gold and platinum records and awards of every size, shape and category. In the back of the house, was a state-of-the-art music room and recording studio. This is where he spent most of his time when he was at home.
The music room was constructed using the latest technology in materials and was acoustically perfect. A separate room stored dozens of guitars of every size, color, sound and vintage. There were also stacks of amplifiers, microphones, cords, audio processing boards, and other equipment neatly set up all over the room. Other instruments also had their place in this room too, such as; a piano, drum kit, and other percussion instruments.
Outside the music room was an in-ground pool, perfectly landscaped grounds around it with extremely tall hedges, making it totally private. On the opposite side of the pool was a guest suite where his groundskeeper and housekeeper lived.
Michael entered his bedroom and began removing his clothes, leaving them in a neat pile on the floor. Then he made his way to the shower. Once again, thoughts of Annie crept into his exhausted brain. He wouldn’t be seeing her again until they cut that demo tape together at Brian’s sound studio on Monday night. If it was the last thing she ever heard him say, he fully intended to apologize for his behavior. He also planned on telling her exactly how much he felt for her. No matter how uncomfortable it made him, it needed to be said.
It was almost noon the next day when Michael was roused from sleep by the sound of his ringing cell phone.
“Yeah,” Michael’s sleepy voice yawned into the phone.
“Get your sorry ass over here and you better bring your check book,” Brian demanded, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Fifteen minutes later, Michael walked into Brian’s kitchen with a sense of dread. Brian was sitting on a kitchen countertop leafing through a pile of 8 x 10 glossy photographs. The grin on his face told the entire sordid story.
“Mr. Wade, you horny old dog,” Brian scolded.
Michael yanked the enlarged photograph out of Brian’s hand.
“My, my! Judging by the way you fill out the front of those leather pants, I can see why the girls are always chasing after you!”
“Give me the pictures,” Michael asked.
“Wow, if the photographer had gotten another foot into the room I’d be looking at cooch right now,” Brian snickered.
“Give me the fucking pictures,” Michael demanded.
“Not so fast,” Brian taunted. “I’m not done with them yet.”
“You are now,” Michael replied, grabbing the rest of the pile. Then he quickly scanned through them. Each one was somehow more revealing then the last. He dropped himself onto a wooden stool in disgust. “Is this all of them?”
“Far as I know,” Brian answered. “They came in the envelope that Arnie brought to my house this morning.”
“He could have called me. I would have driven to his house to pick them up. He didn’t need to leave them here.”
“Don’t know what to tell you. I live closer to him,” Brian shrugged.
“How much?” Michael asked.
“Two hundred grand,” Brian replied with a chuckle. “That's got to be the most expensive piece of ass you ever had,” Brian nearly choked in laughter.
“Go to hell.”
“Oh, and there’s more good news,” Brian added.
“What do you mean?”
“Rumor has it, the promoters are preparing to pull the plug on your band.”
“Are you serious?”
“Afraid so, Mike. Can’t say I’m surprised and it’s not like I didn’t warn you. What did you expect? I just hope this mess doesn’t blow the deal for the other bands.”
Michael shook his head and released a heavy sigh. “I’m not surprised either, but I didn’t think it would happen this fast. What am I going to tell her?”
“Nothing. Let the promoters handle it and don’t see her again. Simple as that. Frankly, you’d be doing the girl a favor if you left her alone.”
“I can’t do that,” Michael answered.
“And why not?” Brian asked. “Don’t tell me you have feelings for this chick?”
“Actually, I do,” Michael replied, defensively.
“Mike, you wouldn’t know love if it unzipped your pants and bit you on the dick!”
“And you would?”
Suddenly the cell phone in Michael’s shirt pocket began to ring. He pulled it out and studied the phone number illuminated in the display panel. “It’s Sammy. I better answer this,” he said, flipping open the phone. “Hello.”
The line was silent. Michael said “hello” again. Still nothing. He was about to hang up when he heard a faint female whimper.
“Annie? Is that you?” Michael asked.
“Yessss,” she answered. Her strained voice barely audible.
“What’s going on?” he asked, panic quickly settling into his chest.
A long pause filled the phone. Then finally she spoke again.
“Accident,” she said, struggling to get the word out and then she groaned in pain.
“Shit! Where are you?”
“Mass Pike.” Another groan escaped her throat. “Millbury.”
“I’m on my way! Don’t hang up on me!”
Michael bolted toward the door in the kitchen. Then he swiftly turned toward Brian. “Call 911! There’s been in an accident! Mass Pike, west-bound, in Millbury!” Before Brian could respond, Michael was gone, the roar of his car rattling the windows in the house.
“Annie are you still there?” Michael asked, as he left Brian’s driveway.
The silence was deafening.
“Come on, Annie! Talk to me!”
He turned up the volume on the phone. He could hear her shallow breathing and then she coughed.
“Annie?”
“It’s bad,” she whispered.
“Annie, it’s going to be all right. Stay with me. The ambulance is on it’s way.”
“It hurts so bad,” her voice trailed off. Then a series of bumps. Michael assumed the phone had been dropped.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Annie, stay with me,” he shouted. “I’m almost there!”
In the background he could hear the sirens and people talking to her through the window. He floored his car, skidding sideways onto the ramp to the Mass Pike and headed west. He passed cars like a professional race car driver, until the traffic came to a standstill a few miles before the Millbury exit ramp. Half a dozen State Police officers stood in the road merging vehicles into the far, left hand lane. A sick feeling of doom seeped into the pit of his stomach. It had been several minutes since he had heard any noise come from Annie and he was beginning to fear the worst.
At a snail’s pace, he inched his car forward. Then he saw the accident flares strewn across the other two lanes. Fresh, thick rubber marks scarred the pavement and led his eyes toward the breakdown lane. A few feet further, the smoldering wreckage of the car came into view. The car itself was unrecognizable. Every square inch of it was pulverized into a mass of compressed shards of metal: “How could anyone survive that?” Michael asked himself.
Michael’s eyes were transfixed on the eerie scene as emergency medical teams valiantly worked to free the occupants. Then, to his horror, he read the vanity plate attached to the back of the wreck. In big, bold letters it read: SAMMY. The reality hit him hard. He immediately steered his car out of the line of soldiering traffic and skidded to a stop beside a waiting ambulance. Without even shutting off the ignition, he jumped from his car, only to be stopped by a police officer.
