When Jamie came into the green room after Michael and I got our award, I couldn't take my eyes off him. His shouting ensured that no one would.
"Christ on a cracker, who the fuck put shag carpeting in here? This fucking couch looks like a leopard puked on it." Jamie stumbled over to the offending furniture and pawed the face of the rock star crashed out on it.
"Go introduce yourself to Jamie," Michael said. He took the canapé out of my hand and gave me a shove towards Jamie, who had lost interest in the rocker and was leaning against the wall, scowling.
"He doesn't look like he's really in the mood for meeting people."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, the impression he's doing of a wall support, for example?" I said.
Michael smacked me on the back. "This could be your only chance. Don't fuck it up."
"Have you ever considered coaching children's sports? I think they're looking for people like you."
He grinned. "Go on."
When I worked up the nerve to step up to Jamie—helped along by Michael shoving me towards him—Jamie looked at me as if I was a small dog that had wandered into a shopping center. Like I was something cute that just didn't belong in that setting. I couldn't disagree. No one belonged in a room that ugly.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jamie stumbled forward and slipped an arm around my shoulder, waiting to be informed if I was a stranger because he was drunk or for the more noble reason that we had never been introduced.
I willed myself to keep cool, a trait I had never owned. "My name's Andrew Brennan. I wrote your song. My partner Michael and I wrote it." Thank God I had that going for me. Jamie grinned, evidently deciding that I fell among the ever-shortening list of 'blokes good to know.' It was so much easier to meet people, I had found, when you had helped their careers.
"Fuckin' great tune, mate. Knew from the second I heard it. Dark, mate, really dark. I figured you were some fucked up little twat," Jamie said cheerfully. He tilted his head and regarded me with a drunken clarity. "You aren't, though, are you?"
Did he want me to be? Before I could ask if he was disappointed, a needle-thin woman pressed herself against him and saved me from making an ass of myself. He rubbed his hand down his molested arm and brushed her off like a housefly. She sneered and left, sweat-soaked limp hair flopping against her scalp.
"No. No, I'm not. Especially. Um, dark," I said when she had gone. "I wondered if you would think that. Honestly, I thought…" I stopped as Jamie clapped me on the shoulder. He kept his arm around me as if he were using me to keep his balance.
"You thought I was the twat," Jamie said.
"I wouldn't say… I mean, I didn't know, is what I mean." It was getting harder to breathe. He was so close. He smelled like sweat and alcohol. On him, it was attractive.
He pulled me to his chest. "I'll tell you a secret. You're absolutely right," he said. I could almost taste him. Another inch nearer, maybe, and my mouth would touch his neck. I raised my head towards his face. Suddenly, I understood magnetism. I wanted him like I never thought possible for anyone, not the boy I messed around with in high school, not the girls who caught my eye, not even my wife. It was only us. Jamie and me. He exhaled his vodka-infused breath into my mouth.
He closed the space between us with his lips. He was kissing me. Jamie Webster was kissing me. His lips were rough and the kiss was too wet to be pleasant, but my God, Jamie Webster was kissing me. My legs felt like jelly. Jamie's arm pressed into my back and kept me upright. When he pulled away from me, he wiped a line of spittle from his pinked lips. I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth and chewed on it. It felt raw. My brain was somewhere else… on his mouth. I was spinning.
"Tell you what, mate," Jamie said. His voice was barely there, so I leaned forward to better hear although my face was already in his neck, "You're a great snog." His arm was still around me, and I could feel him shaking.
"Are you all right?" I touched Jamie's forehead. Jamie pressed his hand over mine and the wet heat of his fever instilled itself in the back of my palm. He felt like fire.
"Jamie?" I asked.
He replied with a small, confused smile. Then he shook his head like he was trying to revive himself. His eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the floor. He lay in a bent heap at my feet. I stared at him, stunned, and torn between touching him and screaming for help. Before I could make a decision, one was made for me. A crowd gathered, pushed me aside, and soon the bodyguard appeared and lifted Jamie up and carried him away. I leaned against the wall and remembered to breathe. I stayed there, still as melting ice, until Michael came over, passed me a soda and said, "You look like shit. Let's go…"
"…home?" Keelin's voice snapped me back to the present.
I looked up. He was staring at me expectantly. "What?" I asked.
"I just asked when you were headed home." Keelin poked my knee and grinned. "Quit zoning."
"Wednesday." I pulled my right foot onto my lap, and tried to get my focus back. "Meeting with Paeder tonight and tomorrow, wedding rehearsal in the afternoon, wedding on Tuesday, more time with Paeder Wednesday, and then I'm catching the red-eye home."
"Busy," Keelin said.
"Yep."
The limo whizzed past twelve more of Jamie's posters before rolling to a halt in front of the hotel. It was a massive Greco-Roman structure that took up the entire block and probably had two or three more stars in its rating and three more zeros on its price tag than the place where I'd originally been booked. Paeder was standing on the curb between two bellhops. Did he have a psychic power that allowed him to predict our arrival? Deciding not to share my theory, I tumbled out of the car after Keelin. When I stood, Russell tossed me my duffel bag. I had held onto the garment bag. I could replace anything in the duffel, but I didn't know where I'd find another rose-colored cummerbund.
"Careful, there!" Paeder said in his declarative voice. That was the only way he spoke. In Paeder's mind, if it was not a command, then it was not worth saying. I immediately acquired a defensive squint only half caused by the sunlight that pierced Paeder's blond hair. "Andrew, lad! Good to see you here."
Paeder was barely twenty-five years old, four years my junior. "Thank you," I said. "Good to be here." I forced a smile. I would hurt Michael for making me do this alone.
Paeder took over the unpacking for his band mates. He orchestrated the bellhops' movements without touching a bag or moving more than his finger, which he pointed, wagged, and waved. Ignoring him, Russell tossed his luggage onto the cart and strolled into the building. A glance from Paeder stopped Keelin from following, and he waited, fidgeting, while Paeder watched a bellhop hoist up a suitcase. I wondered if, like me, Keelin was a little scared of Paeder. Keelin saw me watching him and pulled a face. I remembered what he had said about putting on a united front.
"Inside, lads," Paeder said. He nodded Keelin forward. I followed, keeping my bags to myself. "Mind the girls," Paeder instructed as we moved through the lobby. The place was teeming with adolescent females, eyes rimmed in sparkles, cheeks and lips rouged in pink, filling the space—lounging or standing in clusters, some giggling, some serious, and all waiting for something. There were two elevator banks, each with a few large men standing nearby, obviously security. They seemed attentive but otherwise pleasant. Obviously, whomever the girls awaited was not present.
"Who are they?" I asked, meaning the girls. I swung my duffel to avoid hitting one.
"Not mine," said Paeder without turning around as he headed for the elevator bank. He sounded both insulted and annoyed.
"You aren't still ticked at me, are you, Paeder?" It had been bothering me, this idea I had that he would remember how awkward I was in our past meetings and use it against me.
He stopped and turned around. "Ticked at you? Why? Should I be?" He looked puzzled, as if he really didn't know what I was talking about. I didn't believe it for a second.
He hated me.
"I just wondered." I hooked my duffel bag more
firmly over my shoulder and hoped that I did not look as insecure as I felt.
"Look, Andrew, we've had some issues in our past, and I think it would be best if we put them behind us," Paeder said. He sounded like he was addressing a crowd in a lecture hall. I checked to make sure he was only speaking to me. Some of the girls were looking at us with mild interest, as if we had arrived to put on a play and alleviate some of their boredom. Russell was slumped against the wall near the elevator call button, hat pulled over his eyes. Keelin stood near him, absently watching the floor numbers change, indicating the elevator's approach. Just talking to me, then. "You and Michael have done some great work in your career, and a number of people hold you in high regard. I'm looking forward to working with you both on this album, and I say we let bygones be bygones. Truce?" He concluded his speech by extending his right hand.
A few seconds passed before I understood that Paeder was not going to slap me. Half expecting our small audience to applaud, I slowly pressed my hand into his. It was warm and dry. I realized as he stared at me with his brightly focused eyes that I wanted to impress him. I could feel my soul protesting the emotion, its tiny ethereal fists pounding my ribs from the inside.
"Um. Yeah," I said.
"That's grand, lad!" Paeder clapped me on the shoulder. It stung.
"Excellent speech, Paeder," Russell said. "Didn't sound rehearsed at all."
Keelin was fiddling with his sweatshirt, paying no attention to us.
Paeder said, "Now, Andrew, after you check-in you'll want to be settled in tonight. Why don't you stop by my room tomorrow morning? Eighteen twenty-five. Sound good to you?" Paeder turned towards the now open elevator without waiting for my response. Paeder did not care whether his proposal sounded good or was convenient. He had said it, and by virtue of the words coming from his lips, he considered it law. Russell and Keelin followed him.
"See you tomorrow," Keelin said. It was the first time he had spoken since we got out of the car.
"See you." I marched through the painted girls, felt their eyes judge me and deem me unworthy of their teenaged attentions.
I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and draped my garment bag over the desk. I rubbed my aching shoulders.
"Hello," I said to the desk clerk. I laid my credit card and ID on the counter.
"Andrew Brennan," I said. "I'd like to check in, please."
"Welcome, Mr. Brennan." She smiled and handed me a keycard for the eighteenth floor. "You'll find the elevator bank to your left the most convenient, sir." She pointed to the bank opposite from where Icon had gone. "You will need to show security your keycard for access."
I gestured to them.
"Special guest?" I asked.
"All of our guests are special."
"Right."
Getting client information from hotel front staff was like pulling teeth. And, truth be told, I didn't care. I had enough on my plate this trip. I could almost hear Michael chiding me for missing out on a possible connection.
"It's just that I'm here to work and I don't want to be disturbed by any extra special guests, if you know what I mean."
"Well, Mr. Brennan, if you want a different room, I'm afraid the hotel is completely booked, but we will do our best to accommodate you."
I tried to understand what she was telling me. "Why would I want a different room? Am I on a floor with a bunch of teenagers?"
She tapped the keycard. "Sir, you're on the private floor."
"I'm sorry? Is that Paeder Brogan's floor?"
"He is on the floor, yes. We had a request from the person booking the floor that you have a room on it."
"But Paeder didn't book it?"
"No."
"His assistant must have?"
"No, sir."
"There must be a mistake. I don't know anyone else staying here."
"No mistake. They specifically asked for you. Spelled your name and everything."
"Well," I said. "If they spelled my name."
She smiled. "Have a good day, sir. And if you need anything, please just ask."
"I… Thank you."
I gripped my key and went off to the elevators, flashing it at the burly men to prove my right of passage. My head was reeling. Keelin and Russell had not said anything about booking an entire floor. Paeder had not said anything about security measures. The elevator doors opened. A head peeked out, saw the men, saw the girls, and disappeared. I saw a flash of face, a tuft of uncombed dark hair, but it was enough to give me my answer.
I could be a real idiot sometimes. I stepped into the elevator, slipping sideways through the closing doors. I hit 'eighteen' and pressed the 'close door' button. My stomach twisted with a nervousness completely removed from the kind I had around Paeder. Would he remember? I steadied myself and spoke to Jamie Webster for the first time since he had fallen at my feet.
"Hello, Jamie," I said. "Hiding?" By some miracle, I managed to sound casual.
"Is it that obvious?" Jamie asked. He punched the 'close door' button again, shielded his eyes, and sighed. "I caused a ruckus going out earlier, and now I'm stuck inside until tomorrow." Was he telling me this because he knew me or because I was the only one to talk to? He thumped the wall. I decided to introduce myself. Even though he'd told Paeder to call Michael and me, that didn't mean he would remember what I looked like.
"I'm Andrew Brennan. We met once before. At the Grammys?" When you kissed me.
He took his hand off his eyes and gave me a squinted smile. "I know. As I recall, I was there because of you."
"I didn't think you'd remember," I said. "You were a little—" Hammered.
"I remember you," Jamie said, cutting me off. "I wasn't wasted the whole time."
He remembered me. Of course he would. I wrote him a song that got him a mantel full of awards. He remembered that I… had just implied that he was in a drunken stupor. Even though it was true, people didn't like it when you mentioned that sort of thing. One of Michael's life lessons: "Drew, when I'm drunk, I don't need you to tell me about it the next day. My headache is word enough."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to imply…"
Jamie took a drag off his cigarette. He exhaled towards the floor. "It's all right. I get testy sometimes." He looked at me with something bordering on interest. "What room are you in?"
"Eighteen thirty-four."
"Eighteen thirty-four." Jamie repeated it under his breath. "Right."
"Quite a little fan club you've got down there," I said, just to have something safe to say.
Jamie shrugged. Had he been American, he would have said, 'whatever.'
Instead, he said, "I've a concert on Wednesday." The elevator hit eighteen. He closed the door and pushed the button for the top floor. I guessed that it was habit because after he did it, he apologized. "Sorry, Andrew. I'll let you off next time."
"Don't worry about it." As if I would be in any rush to walk out on him.
He looked amused as he edged towards me. He smelled different than I remembered. No alcohol or sweat now. Cigarettes and… it took a second for me to place it. He smelled clean, naturally clean. Not like soap. "So, is Paeder going to be occupying all your time?" he asked. He punched eighteen as the door opened to the top floor. The elevator door closed.
"Between him and my cousin's wedding, I should be pretty busy, actually. I understand I have you to thank for setting us up."
"When's the wedding?"
"Tuesday."
"Then you're free on Wednesday. Come to my concert. It'll be fun." He leaned forward as though he was about to impart a great secret, and said, "All the papers say so."
His breath almost touched my skin. Goosebumps rose on my neck and the sensation went straight down to my groin. Stay calm, I told myself. He didn't know what he was doing. He probably did it to everyone and didn't know.
I had to fight not to lean into him, to bring my neck close enough for his lips to brush against it. "I'm supposed to leave that day. I don't really care for New York. Bad memo
ries," I said, thinking of Kate and the open door as she walked through it.
"Bummer." What did he mean by that? Did he want me to stay? Or was it just an expression he used? His expression, mildly amused, didn't explain anything.
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out. Jamie led the way down the hall, pointing as he went. He swaggered rather than walked. Every step started from his back and seemed to shout, "Look at my ass. Is it not grand?"
He pointed. "That's Russell's room. Keelin's next door. There." He pointed to the door opposite Russell's.
"We just got here. How do you know that already?" I asked. I was accustomed to celebrities who were unaware of their surroundings. This was why they kept assistants. Jamie's knowledge was unexpected.
"My people made the arrangements. We've got two floors booked. It's only us on this one. My crew and band are on seventeen. You'll probably see them around. I had Rhona up here, too," he said, referring to his drummer, "but when I found out you were coming, I figured you'd prefer to be on the same floor as Paeder."
"Well," I said.
Jamie's grin indicated that I didn't need to finish my sentence. "Rhona's easy-going, doesn't care where she sleeps just so long as she sleeps. Paeder's there, next to Keelin, and Jeff's in there," he concluded, pointing at two doors across the hall from each other.
"Jeff?"
"Reichert," Jamie said.
"The photographer? He's done a few shoots with you, hasn't he?" I had an image of one of those shoots seared in my brain: Rolling Stone, 1996 — Jamie naked and dripping wet in a barren room with only a careful shadow across his body preserving his modesty.
"Everyone's favorite Glaswegian." Jamie said. "If you look closely at pages seventy-nine, one-twelve, and two-oh-eight of his latest pictorial collection, you'll notice that many of the young ladies aren't exactly…" he patted his crotch, "ladies."
"I… haven't seen that one." I winced as I bit down on my lip.
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