by Martha James
But deep down she worried about the situation, quite a bit more than she generally liked to let on.
It wasn't that she was a judgmental person. Her philosophy was to live and let live, to the extent that it was possible. But she'd been around enough bored rich kids to be aware of the problems that substance abuse could bring about, the depths to which a person could fall when flirting so unreservedly with danger.
She feared that, one day, Shade's “mental preparation” would eventually lead to tragedy, and again, in retrospect, she hated herself for not doing more to tell him as much. To plead with him to quit and get sober, or at least ease up on whatever the hell he was using, in hopes of preserving his life and well-being.
She hadn't, of course, and for the rest of her life she would be left wondering whether it might have changed the outcome of that night.
It wouldn't, probably, if she was being realistic.
For one thing, he probably wouldn't have listened to her. Would have told her to screw off- on less mild terms, of course- and to mind her own damn business, let him live his own life and he would let her live hers.
Even if she had managed to get through that thick, shaved head of his, though, there was really no guarantee that it would have changed a thing about any of it. He might just as easily have found some other lame excuse not to participate in the night's events, or simply said he hadn't wanted to do it.
But maybe, she offered as a counterargument, he would have been at least the slightest bit more clear-headed about the situation. Maybe, she thought, his reaction times would have been quicker. Maybe he wouldn't have acted rashly (as she was positive he must have done, because that was simply Shade's nature, and especially so whenever he happened to be on something or another.)
Maybe... Maybe... Maybe...
A million possible maybes would all be there to torture her afterward, each one as meaningless as the last.
She knew it wasn't really her fault. Knew that nothing she might have done could have prevented the tragedy that struck, and that even if one or two individual factors had been changed, it was entirely likely that the events in question would have unfolded unchanged, set in stone and impossible to divert.
She would have the entirety of the rest of her life to speculate about such things, and indeed, she would do just that.
Right now, however, such thoughts were about as far from her mind as possible, and she had no reason to suspect the imminent crashing of her world down around her.
Right now, she was surrounded by her adoring, ravenous fans and- although their wealthy presumptuousness did annoy her more than a little- she found that she couldn't help but find all their attention gratifying. It made her feel wanted, important, to know that she was impacting so many young people's lives in such a direct and meaningful way with her music, encouraging young girls to take pride in themselves and reach for their dreams- a lesson she herself might have benefitted greatly from at their age, she now thought.
Plus, whenever the fans got a bit too obnoxious or demanding for her, there was her would-be lover Julian, standing across the room, looking over at her and monitoring the scene as per his duties. The two would frequently exchange glances, Julian sometimes rolling his eyes at her whenever a fan would do something especially geeky or awkward. Desiree would have to do everything in her power to avoid cracking up with laughter, trying to avoid letting on to the flock around her just how insufferable they were.
It wasn't their fault they'd been raised so horribly...
In any case, any time Julian was in even relative proximity to her, it was hard to focus on much of anything else at all. Her heart felt light, as did her entire being, and she thought that if she wasn't careful she might just be prone to drifting up toward the ceiling, and dissipating in the air around her with bliss.
Neither she, nor anyone else around her that evening, was even remotely aware of the man in the ski mask, making his way stealthily back stage, creeping down the hallway like a phantom in the direction of the event.
He kept to the shadows, making his footsteps as quiet as he could as he drifted along through space. His breath was heavy, his heart pumping like mad in his chest.
God, what the hell was he doing? What the hell was he thinking?
He felt like a tightrope walker in the middle of a performance, having made his way halfway out across the line and suddenly being hit with the treachery of his situation, unable either to continue on or return to the point from which he'd embarked.
Fuck... Fuck... Fuck! he swore at himself internally, had he lost his goddamn mind? Even if by some unholy miracle he managed to get to the point where he wanted to be, there was no reason to suspect he would be able to make it out with his goal achieved.
Well... There was almost no reason, anyway...
Yet at the same time, maybe there was a reason to suspect as much, even if it was only the tiniest, slightest little sliver of a reason.
And the reason, it seemed, was that he'd made it this far, hadn't he?
Hell, that seemed like an awfully damn good reason in his book...
If he was hoping for miracles, then that frankly seemed as though it largely qualified as one in his book.
Think about it, he told himself. He'd gotten back stage, in a ski mask, with a weapon on hand, without anyone intervening up to the present point in time. Hell, he'd actually had to stop and second guess whether he was really at the right venue- was this really the Desiree Starr concert with somewhere in the vicinity of fifty-thousand fans in attendance, and not some up-and-coming nobody whose name you'd never heard of, whose security people couldn't be bothered to keep an eye out for creeps like him, and keep them from doing what he was about to do?
He speculated about the reasons in his mind- maybe no one thought someone could be so bold, or foolish, as to even make such an attempt. Or, maybe everyone was watching all the wrong places, and he'd managed to twist and worm his way back here by stealth and intelligence, going everywhere they weren't, and throwing them off his trail in the process.
Whatever he'd done up to now, he knew he needed to keep it up if he wanted to have a hope in hell of succeeding. He couldn't let his very real anxieties get the better of him, or let his courage drain away now that he was already so far into this.
Okay... Calm down... You can do this, he told himself, and oddly enough it was the same kind of thought process that Desiree had employed during the night of her first performance on the tour, easing herself back from the brink of implosion.
He wasn't going to screw this up...
He wasn't going to falter now that he was suspended up here in the air like this. He was going to make it to the other end of the tight rope, moving in the same way which he'd done up until now- not allowing himself to panic and freak out, or speed up and lose his balance, plummeting to a grisly death so many dozens of feet below him.
He would get to the other side. He would do what he'd come here to do. He would cross back over with as much calm as he'd had the first time, and no one at all would be the least bit wiser about. Then, finally, he would get the hell out of here, and reap the benefits of his level-headed collectedness.
He took a deep breath, and then smiled.
Thoughts of the future he was building for himself, rather than the present terror of danger, helped compel him onward, and mitigated, to at least some extent, the distraction of his fear.
He went on, certain he could handle this, as long as he controlled himself and didn't lose his cool.
Several more steps along the hall, and he could now see the doors of the dressing rooms coming into view.
Then- a sudden flash of movement.
With a spike of anxiety, he ducked back behind a curtain, gripping the fabric like the hem of his mother's dress, holding his breath so as not to make a sound.
His heart thudded in his temples.
A man had emerged from around a corner, one hand pressed to an earpiece, the other wrapped around a clipboard, which
he studied intensely as he made his way forward.
His throat constricted. His knees felt weak again.
Every muscle in his body tensed, and he slid his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers tightly around the hilt of the knife, readying to draw it in a heartbeat if the circumstances dictated it necessary.
The man, however, was oblivious.
Totally absorbed, utterly immersed in the conversation at hand as well as whatever was written down on the clipboard, he walked right past the point where the criminal was hidden in shadows and the flowing fabric of the curtains, proceeding all the way down along the hallway, and then turning another corner, leaving him just as abruptly as he'd arrived.
His grip eased around the curtain, and he gasped with relief.
Damn it, that was close...
Thank God these showbiz airheads didn't know their asses from a hole in the ground, and couldn't be bothered to pay the least bit of attention to their surroundings.
Taking a quick look around him to make sure there would be no more surprise appearances from any unwanted interlopers, the man then locked his sights on the door of the first dressing room, bound and determined that he would make it there this time, with no further diversions.
He took a single step out from the sanctuary of the curtains, then raced across the hallway, seemingly abandoned, and rushed into the door jamb of that first room, flattening himself against the door enough so that, hopefully, no one would notice him if they happened to suddenly round a corner.
Another deep breath.
He looked down.
There was light bleeding out from a slender crack beneath the door, hopefully indicating that the room in question was occupied.
He bit his lip. Looked back over his shoulder to make sure that the coast was still clear, then turned back to the door.
He weighed his options.
He could burst in, startling the occupant within, and doing what he needed to do before they had time to realize what was going on.
Or, he could open the door slowly, and first have a look inside.
This carried with it a couple of risks- the occupant may notice him approaching and have time to react, and he would be forced to stand longer in the hallway like some sitting duck, remaining visible for longer than he wished for anyone to see.
Nevertheless, this seemed the more viable option.
This whole operation had been carried out with careful precision up to this point, succeeding as well as it had because of his level-headedness, and his avoidance of sudden, explosive movements.
It was best, he decided, that he keep it that way.
He wrapped a hand around the doorknob, holding his breath.
He twisted.
To his relief, it was unlocked.
He pushed carefully forward, the door creaking open a mere fraction of an inch.
He pushed his masked face against the crack, peering in with a single eye.
It was tough to see much of anything at first, but at the very least there were no signs of movement.
He pushed a bit further.
Still nothing.
He stepped inside, and closed the door quietly behind him.
The room was, by all appearances, completely empty.
Nevertheless, he held his knife aloft, ready to use it should the circumstances necessitate him doing so. He paced slowly across the floor, looking about for any signs of- well, signs of anything really. Just on the off chance someone could be lurking in the closet, or were else simply not immediately visible to him.
There were very few places for anyone to hide in here, however, and he soon saw past his paranoia and included, inevitably, that the room was genuinely abandoned.
He let out a deep sigh, one of simultaneous relief and disappointment.
He slumped down on the chair in front of the mirror, thinking that, although he wished he'd found who he was looking for in here, he was at the very least grateful for an opportunity to rest and recharge, to have a few brief minutes during which he wasn't forced to sneak around stealthily and remain totally on edge to preserve his safety.
He closed his eyes for a moment as though in meditation- he knew he couldn't get too relaxed, but it felt good to catch his breath.
When he opened his eyes again, a masked face was staring back at him in the mirror.
His masked face.
It sent a shiver along his spine.
God, he thought, how the hell had he gotten to this point?
How had he allowed himself to be driven here?
It felt surreal, like he was operating inside of a dream or something.
But no...
He shook his head.
He couldn't get remorseful about it now.
He had to keep going, and see this through no matter what the cost.
He tilted his head down, and his eyes fell to a few photographs standing tilted against the mirror.
He reached forward and picked up one of them, then brought it to his face.
There was Desiree Starr, the attractive young woman with her flowing brunette hair, her piercing green eyes beaming at the camera, a beautiful smile spanning across her lips. She was standing with someone he recognized, but whose name he couldn't place. It was some pop star or another, some douchebag from a boyband or something he'd seen on the covers of the tabloids at the grocery store.
He was far from being up on the music of today. It was all pretty much crap, although he had to admit that Desiree could at least carry a tune compared to the rest of her peers.
He placed the photo back down, and stood up from his chair, slightly invigorated by the knowledge that this was, in fact, the venue he was looking for- there had been no real signs of who was in attendance here since he'd made his way into the building and, though bizarre, the paranoia that he might have broken into the wrong place had continued to linger up until now.
He stood up from the chair, aching to finish this and have it over with. He made his way to the door, placed his hand upon the knob, then froze- the sound of female voices, making their way toward him, talking and laughing, about what he couldn't clearly perceive.
Fuck!
He stepped away from the door, suddenly certain that the two of them were coming straight for the dressing room despite a total lack of evidence to indicate as much.
They were getting closer, and he looked down at his feet, suddenly thinking that their silhouette must be visible against the light beneath the door.
He ducked into the corner as quickly as he could, his knife drawn- his thought was that if anyone came in, he could spring out before they had a chance to notice and silence them efficiently enough from his present position.
But, alas, he saw the shadow of footsteps moving by under the door, and they continued on without showing any signs of stopping.
The voices receded.
His muscles eased.
He counted in his head, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, giving the women enough time to clear the vicinity before emerging.
Then he stepped back into the hall, looked around, and made his way over to the door of the next dressing room, a few mere feet away.
So great was his relief at his continued elusiveness, and so certain did he now feel that this room would be just as empty as the first, he slipped inside without the precursory care of before, not bothering to make sure it was unoccupied, and closing the door before he even had a chance to think about it.
Another sigh, hoping that this would all be over soon.
But then, after a moment, he sensed that something wasn't quite right.
He sensed a presence... A fellow occupant there in the room with him.
His stomach lurched.
He turned, very slowly, dreading whatever it was he might find.
And that's when he saw him.
Shade. The drummer.
His eyes wide, his stupid mouth hanging slightly agape.
The two of them stood there, gazing at
one another, neither seeming quite sure what to make of this. It would almost have been funny, under very different circumstances than the ones that now transpired.
“Um...” he said, and found himself suddenly thinking it would have been better if he hadn't worn this damn ski mask to carry out the operation. It concealed his identity, sure, but it also announced his intentions vividly to everyone around him. At least if he'd come in without it, he could pretend that this intrusion was a mistake, he was just someone who'd gotten lost, and had ended up back here by mistake.
