November 1st. That was one day after the Nashville show, and our tour schedule called for another night in town. Not for a second sold-out concert, but for a party. A birthday party, if I remember correctly, for the fragrancier who'd produced the "Confession" cologne Jesse had recently modeled for. It was your typical black-tie affair. Private, no red carpet, easy and predictable.
One develops a routine for this sort of thing. I shadowed Jesse closely for the first hour or so, wearing whatever cocktail dress he'd coaxed me into. It was my job during this time to record any phone numbers or invitations he received, remind him of names he'd forgotten, detect any previous one-night stands in the room―and remind him of how they'd gone―, take candid photos, and order the drinks. It was a triathlon in heels, but I was made for it.
This particular party was proving nothing more than average. A spacious loft rented out for the evening and decorated to the hilt. House music with the occasional country number thrown in for local kicks. Big names in fragrance and cosmetics, a couple of designers, some Nashville elite, and a sprinkling of celebrities. Jesse mingled, floated, kissed, and pinched, while I tagged along, doing my time. After a mint cosmo and a cherry manhattan, he drifted off into the deepest part of the crowd, and it eagerly consumed him.
That was my freedom cue. I took a seat at the bar, which, customarily, was the final destination for assistants, chauffeurs, stylists, and other accessory people. Rather than feign interest, we tended to drink ourselves through the remainder of these events while our employers fawned over one another. It's a survival technique.
On this particular night, I clearly remember drinking and flirting with someone's bodyguard. I don't remember what he looked like or anything, only that his name was Charles. Or maybe Christopher. Whatever. I was distracted―I had only four days left to endure my status as a contracted employee of Jesse Cannon.
I'll admit now that I was a little conflicted. More than a little conflicted. Instead of thinking about any immediate plans―what to do next, where to move, where to vacation―my mind was chronically preoccupied with the way Jesse had been acting. That pissed me off to no end, but there was no way I could simply ignore the changes, not after breathing the same air as this man for the past five years. Ever since he’d let on about the dreams, I'd been picking up on other things in spite of myself. Jesse seemed to have less energy before every show. His eyes needed more moisturizer in the mornings. He wasn’t sleeping; I could tell. He was taking on less sex to compensate, but it wasn’t working. Most disturbingly, he seemed almost contemplative and silent at times. That was something entirely new altogether.
I'd decided that plain old exhaustion, poor habits, and age were probably starting to catch up with him. The dreams he'd described to me were written off entirely. It wasn't unusual, after all, for Jesse Cannon to be dreaming about attractive young men.
He was looking much better at the party, however, and that reassured me during my bar vigil. Jesse was in high form, hogging the floor and commanding the mood effortlessly, and of course those people out there were just eating it up. This was the only side of Jesse that still impressed me, the one talent of his that always held me in a kind of trance. Someone of Jesse's caliber could easily make anyone else begin to feel smaller, uglier, or lesser in some other way, merely by existing in the same room. But that was never the case, not with him. I can't explain it, but being around Jesse Cannon always seemed to make people feel more beautiful, more graceful, more sexy, more happy. This phenomenon occurred wherever he went, as if his very nature commanded everyone in sight of him to have a good time. The more people present, the greater the challenge became, and the harder he worked to spread himself around. Jesse was fearless. He left no person outside his circle of excitement, or for that matter, too far from his hips.
Speaking of which, he was positively ravaging the fragrance mogul's wife out there while I waited for his watermelon martini. I had to smile. Jesse was dancing behind this stately older woman, singing close to her ear in a dramatically sultry way for the benefit of onlookers. She was laughing helplessly, and I believe she was wearing his tie. Everyone around them was going nuts.
"Watermelon martini. Two sugar cubes."
I took my eyes off the dance floor and turned to test the drink. I always did that. If it was crap, I sent it back. No one gets a poor drink past me. I'm Jordan Murphy. I know my beverages.
A little heavy on the sugar, but acceptable. I had just made this assessment when I heard the commotion. No screams―just that unsettling ripple of gasps that you get when something happens in front of a crowd. Praying that Jesse hadn't dropped the birthday boy's wife, I turned to see everyone facing the middle of the dance floor, looking at the ground. But I couldn't see Jesse anywhere.
I couldn't see him because he was the one on the ground.
If I was at all tipsy, then I sobered up at record speed. With watermelon martini all down the front of my dress, I charged across the floor, clawing my way through all those size-zero waifs and pushing them aside to get to the center of the room. The seconds seemed to stretch indefinitely while I took in the scene. Jesse was face down, out cold. I dropped to my knees beside him and helped a few onlookers turn him over, discovering with great relief that he was breathing steadily. I checked his pulse. Normal. People were arguing about what had happened. The general consensus was that he'd just stopped moving and fallen over. He hadn't tripped, he hadn't been pushed; he'd just passed out on the spot. Bam. Fainted.
"Give us some air," I shouted. "Has anyone called an ambulance?" My mind raced. What was this? Meds? Anemia? Is this a seizure? I slapped at the sides of Jesse's face. Charles-or-Christopher the bodyguard dumped a glass of water on him. No response. I noticed that his eyes were swiveling back and forth beneath their lids, a motion that continued rapidly―to my complete horror―even after I gently pulled one of them open.
"Oh god, oh god. Jesse?"
A thin stream of blood slid out of his nose. I pulled my hands away and screamed for an ambulance again when I saw more of it pooling in the curve of his ear.
Jesse was the lucky one.
Su Kim Khan passed out in the middle of a Missouri train yard during a blizzard.
Whitney Jackson passed out behind the wheel of a moving fire truck during that same blizzard.
Corin Livingston III passed out on a Manhattan side street. Strangers helped him, of course, but not before his wallet and shoes and other things had been taken.
Ghiyath Ayman passed out under the hot lights of an auditorium stage in front of fifty or more of the nation’s leading neurologists.
Vessel, Book I: The Advent Page 9
