The leggy blonde sauntered toward him, discarding her clothing piece by piece. “Now is that any way to talk to the woman who’s going to keep you up the rest of the night?” she cooed.
Her suggestive words scraped his nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. Raising his hands palms up, he backed away from her and said, “That’s it. I’m callin’ security.” He reached for the phone and she immediately closed the distance between them, running her hands all over his body in an obvious attempt to dissuade him.
“Don’t. Please. Let me show you how good I can be,” she begged, tugging at the zipper on his jeans.
He took a deep, calming breath and pushed her away as gently as he could. “If you get dressed and leave–and I mean right this minute, darlin’–I won’t call. I’ll give you to the count of ten.”
The young woman stared back at him, saucer-eyed in disbelief.
“Ten, nine…best get moving, love…” James stood with legs braced apart and his arms folded across his chest.
With a choked noise somewhere between anger and anguish, she snatched up her discarded clothes and began yanking them back on.
“…eight, seven…”
“All right, all right,” she snapped, “I get it.” Pulling her strategically ripped tank top over her head she mumbled through the thin fabric, “I thought maybe…that we...sorry I bothered you.”
James took pity on the disappointed groupie. With his most disarming smile he captured her hand and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. “Darlin’, I’m sure I’ll be regrettin’ this moment for the rest of my life, because I know without a doubt we would have been wonderful together. I’m just out of sorts tonight. It’s me, sweetheart, certainly not you, lovely as you are.” He walked to the door and held it open for her as a broad hint. The young woman managed to summon the tiniest bit of dignity as she stalked past him, chin raised. He closed the door behind her and locked it securely.
After scouring the room to ensure no more unwelcome surprises, he cracked the balcony door open for some fresh air. Replacing his jeans with a pair of soft cotton sweats and tugging off his t-shirt, he turned off the lights again. He collapsed onto the bed and had nearly dozed off when the phone rang.
“Seamus! Did I catch you at a bad time?” a familiar voice asked.
James sat up, elated to hear his older brother on the other end of the line. “Nope, sorry. This room belongs to James Kelly, beloved and adored by millions the world over.”
“Seamus…”
“James–I mean, if you’re after calling me and all, the least you could do is use my name proper like…”
“My brother’s name is Seamus. That’s the name Ma sewed into his bloomers so that he’d know which way they went on.”
“You’re such an arsehole, Ian. I never…”
James could hear the grin in Ian’s voice. “No, but it might have saved you a lot of grief if she did. So, did I catch you at a bad time or not? “
“No, not at all, just finished…tidying my room a bit,” he said. “How are you? Is everything all right?”
Ian laughed. “Everything’s fine. I just called to give you a bit of news. I asked Lily to marry me and she said yes.”
“Em…bad connection, I think. Sounded like you said you and Lily are getting married. Didn’t see anything on the news about hell freezing over.”
Ian laughed again. “Nope, you heard right. We’re getting married.”
James whooped in delight. “It’s about time. I’m deliriously happy for you, old man. Can’t wait to meet her.”
“I’ve got to talk to her da to get his approval, but I think he’ll agree to it,” he explained, his voice softening. “I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am, Seamus.”
“I’m happy for you, my brother. Set a date yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can. You’ll be here, right? I can’t get married without you here.”
James smiled into the darkness. “I’ll be there, come hell or high water. You won’t keep me away.” Changing the subject, he asked, “How are you feeling these days?”
“Pretty good. I still get headaches here and there, doctor said they might be ongoing. They’re manageable, though. Lily’s good as new, thankfully,” Ian said. “I’m sure you’re busy doing rock star stuff, so I won’t keep you. It’s good talking to you, Seamus. I miss you, pompous wee git.” After a pause, he added quietly, “Are you well? You don’t sound so good.”
James felt a lump form in his throat. “I’m grand, thanks, just…a little tired. I miss you too, you big bastard. Call me as soon as you set the date so I can schedule around it.” He lay back on the bed after the call ended, letting the phone slip from his fingers. Ian willingly settling down and get married–that was something James never thought he’d see.
For a long time he drifted lost in thought, absently fingering the Celtic touchstone suspended on a leather thong around his throat. He untied it and held it tightly in his hand, running his fingers over the smooth surface. Within moments, he had turned the bedside light on and was digging around in his suitcase.
“Where’d you get off to,” he muttered, going through pocket after pocket of the oversized bag. He finally found the worn linen pouch hiding near the bottom and grunted in triumph. Taking his prize over to the table, he opened it up to pull out a cigarette lighter, an old white candle stub and a wooden holder. He held up the homemade candle and peered closely at it, still able to smell the fragrant oil Grandmother had rubbed on it. “No, dressed, Ian called it,” James corrected himself, lowering his voice to mimic Ian’s slightly deeper one, “and not to be used for romancing women in your room.” Smiling at the memory of his brother’s stern warning, he took a deep breath and lit the blackened wick, setting it in the holder.
He sat back in the chair and took several deep breaths, staring fixedly into the flame. He remembered his grandmother’s implicit instructions. Light the candle, ask the question, snuff–never blow–the flame and let the rising smoke carry the question to the wind.
Clearing his throat, he began to speak in a hushed whisper. “I want to find someone of my own, someone who will love me for me, not just because of who I am. Who is she? Where is she? What should I be looking for? How much longer am I going to have to wait for her?”
I’m gonna need a bigger candle, he thought with a wry smile. “Okay, last question. How will I know her when I see her?” When no mysterious voice issued forth from the flame–and James half-expected there would be one–he sat a few more minutes thinking about what he had asked for, then licked his fingertips and deftly pinched the flame between thumb and forefinger.
The rising smoke from the candle drifted toward the open balcony door and was gone within seconds. When he was certain all the smoke was out, he slid the door closed, then lay back on the bed. Sleep eluded him for nearly an hour before he gave up and reached for the TV remote.
“Wonder how I’m going to know her when I see her,” he mused. “Maybe there’ll be a clue or something. Trumpets…trumpets would be good.” He turned on the TV and began surfing through the channels.
He landed on a public broadcast channel concert featuring five men singing Celtic music. The group moved from one familiar song into the next. James gave a low whistle of approval. “Man, they’re tight. Good harmonies,” he said, singing along with the traditional “Raggle Taggle Gypsy.”
That was the last song before the commercial break so James moved on, his eyelids beginning to droop. His next stop was a classic movie channel. He watched as Charles Laughton’s Quasimodo tried valiantly to save the beautiful Esmeralda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. “Sanctuary,” he murmured in sympathy.
Another commercial and he began surfing again, landing on an infomercial for a Sounds of the 70’s CD package. When the image of Cher singing “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” filled his screen, he watched only a moment before clicking the TV off and tossing the remote on the nightstand.
He yawned wi
de and shrugged. “I’ll have to keep my eyes open,” he said. Pulling the spread and sheet up over him, he had one last fleeting thought before sleep finally claimed him. If Ian found someone maybe there’s hope for me yet.
* * * *
Myrtle Beach, SC–Three months later, Early Spring
Aaron Nicholson sat behind the oak desk in his expansive eighth-floor office, one hand drumming anxiously while the other clutched a bottle of Maalox. It was only 10am, but his stomach already felt like it was on fire and he knew without a doubt he had yet another ulcer coming on. When he got the phone call demanding an appointment last week, the pain started and hadn’t let up. He wasn’t in the habit of naming his ulcers, but by God he was going to christen this one James Kelly in honor of the man he was certain had triggered this latest flare up. He glanced out the window at the traffic whizzing by on Oak Street, wondering what he had done to deserve this latest internal assault.
James was the lead singer for his hottest and most lucrative commodity, the rock band Horizon. Their CD sales and merchandising were through the roof and scores of screaming fans mobbed them wherever they went. Every venue they played sold out within minutes. The show in Charleston the night before had been amazing with three encores and the crowd still chanting for more even as the band climbed into their limos to leave for the hotel. He had been their manager long enough to know that not everything was as rosy as he desperately tried to pretend and had the sneaking suspicion that this was the reason for Mr. Kelly’s visit this morning.
“Musicians,” he growled, taking another sip of the antacid. He looked up at the framed promotional poster on the wall of James in all his glory–wailing into his microphone, head thrown back a la a young David Coverdale, his open shirt showcasing the muscles of his chest and stomach. Twenty-three years old with eyes of dark emerald green, bedroom hair and a devilish grin that made female hormones stand up and salute, he was “six feet of gorgeous,” Aaron’s thirteen year old daughter had proclaimed, insisting her father introduce her to the talented young star. He categorically denied her on the grounds that he was certain just being in the same room with the man was a danger to her virginity. Eying his bottle of antacid morosely, he wondered if it was going to last the entire day. He doubted it.
A few minutes after ten, the intercom buzzed. “Mr. Nicholson, Mr. Kelly is here,” his persistently pert assistant chirped. It took all his strength not slam his head onto his desk surface just to end it quickly. He pressed the response button. “Thank you, Marie. Send him in, please.”
James Kelly had so much raw charisma Aaron felt the presence before he actually laid eyes on the man. Rock music’s favorite wild child strode into the room like he was on a mission, shadowed by a slightly taller, longer-haired version of the young Irishman. Fuck me, he’s brought reinforcements, he thought. Death by desktop was starting to look good.
“James! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my humble office this morning?” Aaron forced out a hearty laugh coupled with what he desperately hoped was a sincere smile. “And this is… he said slowly, knowing the family resemblance was so strong it could be none other than one of his brothers. On closer inspection, he realized which brother and one of his older ulcers flared up in recognition.
“You remember Ian,” James said curtly and without waiting to be invited took a seat on the sofa. Aaron and Ian exchanged a curt nod in greeting and Ian walked over to stand by the window, arms folded across his chest as he watched the traffic. Aaron sagged inwardly. Not good. Not good at all.
“I’m here to talk about my contract,” James began, stretching his long, jean-clad legs out before him.
Aaron stifled the look of panic he was certain swept across his face and swiveled around to look at Ian. “I’ll be delighted to discuss that with you, but wouldn’t you prefer that we talk privat–” James cut him off with an irritated wave of his hand.
“He stays. I’ll cut straight to the chase. My contract is up in July and I want some time off. I’ve spent the last three years dragging my ass around the world for you and I’m tired, Aaron. I need a break.”
Aaron forced another smile. “There’s nothing scheduled yet after the end of the tour in June, so I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t take a couple of weeks off…”
James cocked an eyebrow and snorted. “That’d be like throwing a deck chair off the Queen Mary to lighten the load. A week or two isn’t going to make a dent in the amount of tired I’ve got, Aaron. I want a year. Minimum.”
The older man pushed the call button on the intercom. “Marie, bring in some coffee. Right now,” he said through clenched teeth before adding mentally before I choke this arrogant sonofabitch.
James crossed his arms and waited. The assistant came bearing coffee and warm southern pecan rolls within a minute or two of the request. She poured three steaming cups, then after giving both visitors a long, appreciative look disappeared efficiently. Aaron busied himself looking through binders at the upcoming tour schedule and appearance calendar. The fine hair prickled on the back of his neck when he realized he was under very close scrutiny by James’s brother, who still had not spoken or moved from his position at the window.
Studiously ignoring Ian, Aaron brushed a piece of imaginary lint from his pants leg. “What has the rest of the band said about that?” he wondered aloud.
* * * *
James caught himself before his temper ignited at the obvious innuendo. “They’re tired too. We’re all tired. How are we supposed to write anything new at this pace? I’m waking up every morning with no fucking clue where I am, Aaron.” He paused and glanced over at Ian, who gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Let me rephrase this in terms you’ll understand. Either I get a whole year or I get a new manager.” James drained his cup, slammed it down with a sharp bang and stood. “My contract is up in July, you have until then to figure something out.”
Aaron jumped up and held out his hands in supplication. “James, there’s no need to work yourself up like this. Let me take a look at what’s coming up and see what I can work out for you. Please, sit down and have some more coffee.” He stepped around the desk to pour it himself and, James sat back down much to Aaron’s undisguised relief. The manager fled back behind his desk and began flipping rapidly through his calendar, mumbling to himself. “You know that your health and well-being come first. I had no idea you were this stressed out. You should have come to me sooner and not waited so long to speak up.”
James snuck another glance at Ian, who suppressed a smile and scratched his neck below his right ear. He’s lying, that scratch said.
James marveled at that little parlor trick, making a mental note to ask how it was done later. Thusly armed, he turned his attention once more to Aaron and pressed the issue. “So you had no idea that playing five or six shows a week for months on end would eventually become a strain?” he snapped, his tone biting and sarcastic. “Def Leppard once played three shows on three continents in a twenty-four-hour period, but that is a record I do…not…want. I am tired, Aaron, are you hearing me?”
The agent flinched and tried again. “Let me see what I can move around for you.”
Scratch. Still lying.
James gave his head a vigorous shake, sending his auburn hair flying. “I need to complete my degree before I turn twenty-five and the online courses I take on the road aren’t doing it quickly enough. One or two full-time semesters would go a long way.”
Aaron’s look was eloquent. Oh Christ, just kill me now. “Why do you have to get your degree? If it’s that important to you, I’m sure we can get you set up with tutors or something to travel with you…” he offered lamely.
With a noncommittal shrug James replied, “It’s a personal family thing, and that’s not the point. I’m not getting the credits fast enough, plus if it comes down to working calculus or heading to the after party, which one do you think wins? I’m only human, you know.” He flashed his most brilliant smile at the now-sweating man behind th
e desk. “I’m certain you’ll do the best you can. Just let me know what you work out.” He took a long sip of the coffee and helped himself to a pecan roll, ate it in two bites then licked his fingers. “You do understand, though, that I am serious about this.”
Aaron nodded. “I understand. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I’m certain we can work all this out to our mutual satisfaction.”
Scratch.
James stood and nodded once to Ian, who moved toward the door. Aaron cleared his throat uncomfortably as he thrust his hand forward and said, “Good seeing you, James.” James gripped it and shook, then turned and left the office with Ian close on his heels.
In the elevator, James and Ian were shaking their heads over the encounter with the music executive. “Bloody hell, some things never change. Doesn’t he ever tell the truth?” Ian snickered.
“When it suits him,” James smiled. “Thanks for going with me. It kinda…gave me strength, you know?”
It was Ian’s turn to smile as he regarded his little brother. “Anytime,” he said softly.
“And now,” James laughed, his light brogue thickening comically, “‘tis high time I’m rewardin’ ye for going to all this trouble on me behalf.” With a soft ding, the elevator arrived at the lobby where the limousine waited. “I’ve arranged us a wee bit of entertainment for the afternoon since I have the whole glorious day off.”
Ian visibly cringed at his words. “No women,” he said firmly. “I’m not getting myself in trouble with my girl just because you’re footloose for the–”
“No women, what with you being nearly married and all.”
“Well, that’s all right then…what did you have in mind?” His elder brother’s eyes positively danced with excitement.
James laughed. “So tell me, boyo. What size wetsuit are you wearing these days?”
The brothers Kelly, along with a couple of band members, assorted roadies and bodyguards headed for Cherry Grove and a riotous afternoon of surfing under the early spring sun. A storm building offshore sent in an obliging northeasterly wind, and it kicked the surf up to a respectable, rideable height. The afternoon passed quickly, and at sunset the tired surfers headed back to the hotel to regroup and get ready for an evening out on the town.
The Gypsy Ribbon Page 2
