And just when I think I might blurt out that I’d met Thunder Jackson, the house lights dim, the music screams and the crowd roars and surges forward towards the guy I’d just been chatting to. He stands in the spotlight, microphone poised, body relaxed, gaze to the ceiling.
When the music starts there’s no hope of me communicating anything to Amy, or anyone at all, in fact. All eyes are on the stage, including mine. It’s strange. The man up there looks so different to the guy I was just chatting to but also completely and utterly the same. He has the same lazy sexuality, his movements fluid and rhythmic. He dances to the music without effort, or so it seems, and every now and then he gazes out into the crowd, causing a wave of hysteria.
There’s no way that gorgeous, statuesque icon had been hitting on me. But the piece of cigarette packet in my jeans pocket says something completely different.
At every concert there’s a moment where a lusting fan is looked at from the stage by the object of their desire. Everyone knows it’s an illusion. But just when I’m contemplating ripping up his number and throwing it in the bin, avoiding any more embarrassment and shame, he looks at me.
Those green, swirling eyes, the pouting smile, all focused on me, making me believe that there could be something between us. When he looks away I’m released from the spell and realise everyone around me is thinking the same thing, but I can’t let go of the dream.
***
We stay for the encore, of course, then follow the other, loudly exclaiming audience members into the cool night air. We discuss our favourite moments–I say we, what I mean is Amy tells me hers—and dance between the hawkers to get to the bus stop.
“So, why were you outside so long? I was worried,” Amy slots in seamlessly.
“Oh, yeah. Well—” I can’t tell my daughter a lie. “I was talking to a guy.” I blush and duck my head, just like a teen talking about their crush.
“Really? Oh my God, did you get his number?” Amy squeals.
“Yeah, I did. He wants to take me out tomorrow night but—”
“No buts, Mum, you’re going. What’ve I been telling you for months? You need a man in your life.”
“But you’ll be in school tomorrow and I can’t leave you home alone.”
“I’ll stay at Kirsty’s.” She shrugs. “We’ve got science homework we need to do anyway so we can do that, then I can stay over there.”
“I’d have to ring her mum, and it is short notice.” I hiss through my teeth. A noise I never thought I’d make, but a regular one in my wheelhouse since becoming a mum.
“Stop making excuses. Ring Kirsty’s mum in the morning. It’ll be fine. You have to go on this date.”
“God, Amy, you make me sound desperate.”
“Well, you are,” she says with the blunt disregard of a girl with many years left to live. “You haven’t had a date since I was like, six.”
“You were seven, actually,” I correct her. “And I’ve been concentrating on other more important things. Like bringing you up. ”
“Oh, rubbish. You’re just scared. Nigel’s dad—you know Nigel, he’s in my French lesson—well, his dad was just like you, a total recluse. Nigel got him an account on Date a Dad about six months ago and now he’s engaged!”
“Anyone would think you wanted rid of me,” I grumble, shuffling onto the bus, sardined amongst other happy, loud and sweaty concertgoers.
“No, I just want to see you happy, Mum. You spend way too much of your time at work or looking after me.”
“That’s called being a mum.” I smile, squeezing the top of her arm. “I love it.”
“I’m sure you do. But you need more in your life, Mum. You’re old before your time.”
“Says you,” I scoff. “Thirteen going on forty.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Fine, fine. I’ll ring Claire in the morning and see if it’s okay for you to stay over. You bullied me into it.”
She’s just given me the excuse I need to actually go for it. God, what would Thunder think of that? I needed my daughter to goad me into actually going out with him. Well, meeting him at least. I still can’t believe this is happening to me.
As I’m getting ready for bed, I pull the ratty piece of packet out of my pocket. It takes a few moments to input the numbers and save them into my phone and a lot longer to think about what to write in my text to him.
Will take you up on your offer for tomorrow night. Lovely chatting to you. Josie x
I’ve never thought of myself as a Josie, but that’s what he called me and I need all the help I can get in making sure he knows who’s texting him.
***
I stare at the ceiling, sleep evading me. My ears are humming and my brain is racing. What if he didn’t mean it? What if he was pissed or stoned and he didn’t know what he was doing? What if he was joking? Maybe I shouldn’t go at all. I’ll only make a fool of myself when I find my name not on the guest list.
The buzzing of my phone startles me. I pick it up, I go to just turn off the sound. Everyone knows these days that screen time with all that blue light stops you sleeping. I’m forever telling Amy off for it. So I very quickly turn it on and slide the sound off, checking that I have set the alarm. But I notice the notification on my lock screen. It’s from Thunder.
Awesome. I want to get to know the sexy Josie all the more. You’ll be on the guest list with a VIP pass. Jump in the priority queue when you get there. I’ll see you after the show. Can’t wait. Thunder x
Firstly I’m relieved by the complete lack of text speak—I can’t take that seriously. But then the relief spreads because I realise he does want to see me again. Me. Old enough to be his mother, me. For the first time in many years I fall asleep with a smile on my lips and butterflies in my stomach. A grand adventure awaits.
Chapter Two
I’m an adult. I’m grown up. I’m in control. I can do this.
Walking up to the front of the Apollo Theatre is a completely different experience tonight. Yesterday I had Amy gabbing in my ear and it was her who was excited and giddy. Tonight I feel like a teenager. There are a million different thoughts running through my brain and I don’t know how to keep up with them all. I’m usually in control. I make sure of it in fact. Being the responsible adult in a relationship, the one who has to make the money, who has to keep the home tidy, who has to look after the other one, nurture and encourage her until she is old enough to look after herself has drained all the reckless irresponsibility out of me. I’m reliable and a font of common sense on a day to day basis.
This is just sheer craziness.
There was a time when I was carefree and the only important thing in my life was that I was having fun. That ended quite abruptly when my mum got diagnosed with cancer and I became her sole carer. It was while I cared for her I met a guy, fell in love and had Amy. I settled down—the problem was Carl wasn’t ready to settle down with me.
Fun became the last thing on my mind as I looked after my mum through her last days and brought up my little girl through her first. I always imagined there’d be time, somewhere down the line, for fun again, but responsibility has to take priority and feeding, clothing and housing a grown woman and her teen daughter isn’t cheap. It’s amazingly time consuming too.
God bless Claire for taking Amy at such short notice. She didn’t seem at all fazed—in fact she was as excited as my daughter that I was finally going on a date. I’m glad they’re happy about it. Me? I’m not even sure this is a date. I mean, Thunder is a metal star with a rock ‘n’ roll reputation. He’s not looking to date me—if anything, he’ll just want to fuck me.
Honestly, I wouldn’t say no. He’s hot and I haven’t had sex in a very, very long time. Well, not with anyone other than myself or my trusty vibe. Even solo sex is ridiculously infrequent. Me time just doesn’t happen very often.
Part of me is ready to turn around, go and pick up a pizza to eat naked in front of the telly, then take myself and my vibrating friend t
o bed. I might have turned around if I hadn’t been asked for my ticket by a very gruff security guard.
“I’m on the guest list. Erm, Josie.”
He looks, nods, and directs me inside, to the left of a rope divider. I’m given a lanyard with a VIP pass on it.
“After the show if you come back to this entrance you’ll be able to get backstage. Don’t go to the front of the stage, that’s just for the groupies,” the smiling host in a bright red jacket tells me. I imagine I look new to this and as nervous as I feel.
“Oh, okay, thank you.” I nod.
“Enjoy the show. Erm, you might need earplugs, honey. It gets loud.”
It’s not until I get out into the auditorium and find myself a relatively quiet corner at the back that I realise how judgemental the host was being. She clearly hadn’t seen me here last night. I know how loud it gets but I don’t have earplugs. I actually kinda like the noise.
As the affront wears off I wonder if I’ve picked an appropriate outfit. I’ve gone for something approaching sexy. It’s not a staple in my usual professional or comfortable wardrobe so it was a hard job finding anything at all. But tucked up in the corner of the wardrobe I found a little red dress I have never worn. When I first bought it in the sales, I loved the colour and the cut of the skirt but I hadn’t realised how much boob it showed until I tried it on at home.
And that was before Amy had told me I was not allowed to go out wearing that. Good job she wasn’t around tonight to see me leaving the house with it on. She’d turn beetroot red in mortification. Which to be fair, is probably a good indication that the dress is in fact, sexy. Possibly, though, not very metal concert appropriate. Even teamed with my trusty denim jacket and knee high boots. Anyway, it’s too late to change my mind now. I’m here, I’m in, and apparently I’ve got a date with Thunder.
And it turns out that’s his real name. I did a bit of Googling and I couldn’t find any details on a real name at all. So either his mother was a bit of a hippy or he changed it by deed poll. It leads me to wonder what kind of man is called Thunder.
I should probably ask my daughter, since she knows everything anyone needs to know about Black Tranquillity, but she’d only wonder why I was suddenly so interested and she’d not believe me anyway if I told her. I’m not sure I believe me and I’m here, watching the same show I watched last night, but this time I’m really paying attention.
He does look good on stage, like he’s at home there. He dances around, the individual movements thrashing and erratic but with a flow that is natural and beautiful in its way. He commands the whole audience, sure to look in all directions as he performs. He times everything perfectly. The cheeky tongue pokes and the statuesque stances that get the crowd roaring with pleasure and screaming his name.
I can see he’s loving every moment of it, too—he feeds off the waves of adoration that roll over him.
I’m sure if you ask every lovesick boy and girl in the place to tell you their favourite moment they’d all say the same thing…ish.
‘That moment when Thunder looked right at me.’
I’m not a naive youngster, I know it’s just a deception of my mind or the light or a very clever trick. After all, it happened last night. But while he sings Restless Beast, my favourite of Black Tranquillity’s songs, he looks right at me. Right into me, in fact. Like he did last night. I’m undone, exposed and emotional, like any of the kids in the place.
I realise why I’m here. I’m here just in case the dream can come true, that I, the plainest of Janes, can seduce a rock star. In his gaze, I believe I can do it, I’m emboldened by the magic of the moment. But when the song ends, reality seeps back in and I start to doubt myself again.
I’m vibrating with nerves after the final encore as the auditorium empties. I have to make my way to the VIP entrance, but I’m stuck to the floor. Only part of that is physical, however. What do they spill to make the floor so damn sticky, anyway?
There is a lot to be said for being a coward. It saves you from embarrassment and pain and preserves the status quo. The idea of just leaving, walking out and going home without any need for confrontation and/or possible disappointment is a very attractive one.
Damn the strength of my guilty conscience, though, because I’ve not even taken a step towards the exit before I’m worrying about what Thunder will think of me, leading him on, taking his generous offer, and then just leaving without even thanking him.
Bloody British manners, bred into me by my ever-so-proper mother.
It’s not too anxiety-inducing getting backstage. I follow the gaggle of giggling groupies in front of me into a relatively small room with a few sofas and a table with snacks and small fridges full of cans.
While the groupies home in on the freebies, I sit in the corner of one of the well worn brown leather sofas and avoid looking at the teenagers scavenging for alcohol and snacks. It’s worrying to think that could well be Amy soon enough.
When the girls sit down, gabbing and laughing and studiously ignoring me, I feel very much like the unwanted chaperone, and when they start throwing crisps at each other I really want to yell at them to behave and stop making a mess. It’s really hard to turn the mummy habits off even when my kid isn’t in tow.
There is nothing quite as ear piercing as an excited teenager’s squeal. I look up when the girls go ultrasonic and leap from their seats. I think I catch a glimpse of Thunder before he’s engulfed by the gabbling hoard.
I didn’t anticipate needing to fight my way through a sea of rampaging super-fans to get to him. I don’t know quite what I was expecting, but watching him being mauled by pretty young girls isn’t really doing it for me and I’m not going to fight them for his attention.
Standing, I head past the loud, pawing mass towards the door.
“Josie! Hey, wait.”
Thunder extracts himself from the centre of the swirling, twittering crowd with relative ease. The wide as they are tall security guards watch on, poised and ready for action if needed, but the girls shift their attention to the other band members with only a few dagger-like looks thrown my way.
“It’s good to see you.” He grins, opening his arms.
“And you.” I step forward, giving him unspoken permission to wrap me in an embrace. It’s a little surreal, especially now I’m aware of who he is. The guy who adorns posters in my teen’s bedroom is hugging me, tightly.
He smells of sea salt and limes. I imagine he’s just had a shower, since he was sweating up a storm on stage not so long ago. His stubble scrapes my skin as he presses his lips to my cheek. They’re plump and soft, and even that gentle, polite kiss sends hot excitement streaming through my veins.
“Did you enjoy the gig?” He pulls back but leaves one hand on the top of my right arm.
“Yeah, thanks, I did.” I nod enthusiastically. “Did you?” I shake my head. “Sorry, that was a daft question.”
“No, no, it isn’t. I did enjoy it tonight, thanks. Sometimes it’s like the crowd and the band are one entity feeding off each other’s energy, and other nights you feel like you’re playing to a room full of dolls. Tonight was electric.”
“I thought it looked like you were enjoying yourself, but then that could just be some kind of clever performer skill, I don’t know.”
“Oh, you can learn how to play a crowd, how to fill the stage, but you can’t fake the kind of connection we had tonight—and last night actually. It’s been a good couple of gigs.”
“Excellent.” I nod, letting my smile grow.
“Mostly because of you and that smile.”
“Oh.” I feel the heat of the blush rising over my cheeks. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“Look, I need to sign some shit for these kids—it’s a contest thing—but I won’t be long. We can go for a drink or something then, yeah?” He squeezes my arm then lets go.
“Okay, I’d like that.”
“Take a seat. I’ll be done in a minute.”
I watch
from the safe corner of the sofa while the band fend off the flighty girls. Autographs and selfies, raised voices and laughter—the guys patiently take it all before the hassled security guards round up the teens and herd them out into the corridor.
“Thank fuck for that,” the one I think is called Grant, says on a sigh. He’s the drummer, if I’ve got it right.
“Let’s not do any more of those stupid meet the band contests,” echoes the bassist, whose name escapes me completely. “We always end up surrounded by teenyboppers. I can be doing without that after a long, hard gig.”
“Well, you fuckers can sit here and piss and moan. I’m going out with the lovely Josie tonight. Don’t wait up.”
Thunder grabs my hand and pulls me up off the sofa.
“Watch that one, Jos,” Grant yells, “he’s a bad boy.”
“Don’t believe everything you read, Reedsy. You’re only jealous ‘cos they paint you as the boring goody-two-shoes, anyway.”
I don’t need the warning. I know Thunder’s reputation. Even outside the metal world, people know of it. There are quite often photos of him in the celeb magazines, arm around some woman—or several—accompanied by stories of benders and orgies and all sorts of depraved stuff. But I never believe what I read in the press—most of it’s just made up anyway.
“It’s okay—I’m a bad girl.” I shrug and wink in a moment of brazen boldness.
“Oh!” He grabs me around my shoulders and squeezes. “I’m in for a good night, then!”
The laughter is spattered with wolf whistles and gentle innuendo. Funnily enough, it’s quite reassuring. Boys being boys and all that. It’s been a very long time since I’ve got cat calls and whistles. I don’t know if it’s something that naturally comes with being a mum, or if it happened in reaction to being so harshly dumped, but my clothing choice went from fancy to frumpy very quickly and any kind of attention from men, wanted or not, stopped years ago.
British Bad Boys: A Bad Boy Romance Boxed Set Page 29
