“Though you make it quite difficult,” Holly murmured, liking the way he left an aftertaste in her mouth, “I must admit that I do love you back.” Tommy’s smile eclipsed genuinely. “But don’t expect me to sleep with you any time soon,” Holly added as she broke apart from him and turned to head toward the elevators.
“Let’s not be so conclusive on that count,” Tommy called after her before jogging over to the waiting woman. “Perhaps we could say maybe on the whole issue. What if I try to persuade you? I could make it the time of your life …”
Epilogue
Rolling Stone
October Issue
By Tyler Lindin
Pictures by Sabrina Kale
The cover is a close-up of Tommy Nye, lead singer of eighties band The Futurists. It’s predominantly of his face, though his neck and the outline of his shoulders are there as well. He is wearing nothing but an orange hoodie, the hood hugging the crown of Tommy’s head. His pale green eyes are staring into the camera, but he’s not quite looking there; his mind is somewhere else. His lips are slightly parted, as though he has seen something that has surprised him. There’s stubble around his lips, but it’s not too bad. The orange hoodie is slightly unzipped, revealing sprinkles of dark hair covering Tommy’s upper chest.
The next picture is of Tommy dressed up as a bandit from the Wild West. His has a classic black bandana on the lower half of his face, and his brows are pushed down as he looks at an impending train that’s heading toward him on train tracks. He’s wearing a white collared shirt with a black vest over it, dark blue jeans that fit him well, gun holsters that zig zag across his chest, and black cowboy boots. A matching hat is resting on his head. A pistol is cocked in his right hand, pointed at the train. An unknown woman is tied up, her body resting on the train tracks. If Tommy can’t stop the train, then she’s done for. The woman’s red hair is pinned up, though because of her struggle, it has become messy and has covered the majority of her face. The bold, blue dress she’s wearing is ridiculously tight, showing a lot of cleave due to the rope’s enhancement of her chest. Her legs are covered in fishnet stockings, and on her feet are matching blue high heels.
The next picture is of Tommy, dressed as a pirate. His dark hair is messier than usual, and the shot is of the profile of his body. He is wearing a white tunic, a blue bandana wrapped around his waist much like a belt, brown breeches, and matching, though very worn, knee-length boots. His eyes are focused on the woman before him, though it is impossible to see her face because her back is angled toward him. Her red hair is pooled over her right shoulder so the back of her dress is exposed. Tommy’s arm is reaching out toward her, his fingers holding a thick part of the lace that is keeping the corset she is wearing together and pulling, with obvious intent to undress her. She is wearing a very nice dress, obviously higher in status than he is, but because her back is slightly arched in his direction, it is clear that she wants him to do what he intends to do.
--
Tommy Nye has had an interesting year. His summer tour he and his band, The Futurists, went on did exceedingly well—better than anybody thought. This, of course, has inspired the band to go back in the studio, recording their fifth official studio record. Nye, notorious for his arrogant charm and bad boy ways, seems to have calmed down just a bit. I watch him come in to the small café he recommended in Los Angeles with shades over his eyes, jeans, his infamous combat boots, and a plain grey fitted T-shirt. What strikes me the most is that he seems … relaxed. Where is the party boy, the groupie king, the energetic animal we all knew from the late eighties and early nineties? Has he completely disappeared?
“No,” Tommy answers when I ask him this question, shaking his head and chuckling a bit. “But let’s face it. I’m nearly forty years old. No one’s going to take my music seriously if I don’t take it seriously, so that’s where my focus has been.”
His fourth studio album, named aptly after the band, bombed when it was released, and that’s putting it lightly. It consisted of more techno than what The Futurists were known for—rock—and many of his fans cried sell-out. Was he taking his music seriously then?
“Nah,” Tommy said, seemingly open to speak about anything really. “No, I wasn’t. My life was focused on the drugs, the drinks, the parties, the women. It wasn’t about the music, and that’s why the album sucked as hard as it did. I was fucking around. But, I learned my lesson.”
Or had he? The man is known for frequenting rehabs, totaling three stays and two relapses. So far, so good. Is he ever tempted to go back to his old habits, whether it’s drinking, snorting, injecting, or fucking?
“Since leaving Forest Green [the name of the third rehabilitation he stayed at, located in Colorado], I have never been seduced into wanting any sort of drug, not even weed,” he says firmly, seriously, before pushing his shades up so they rested on top of his dark hair. I can see his eyes now. “I can’t believe I was ever into that shit, but it’s kind of like high school.” Here, he shrugs, almost nonchalantly. “If you mix in with the wrong crowd, you’re going to do something bad sooner or later. But old habits die hard. There are times when I’m tempted to drink, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to handle it, to control myself, so I stay away. Lucky for me, my girl doesn’t drink so, if anything, she’s a good influence on me.”
So fucking is all right, just not with the usual groupies. The girl he mentions is Holly Dunn, his former inter-therapist. She recently graduated from UCLA with the intent to practice psychology, and became an aid to Victor Johnson, Tommy’s long-term psychologist, and managed to do a portion of her required thousand hours while on tour with the band.
When asked about her, it appears as though resident bad boy Tommy Nye is blushing. His eyes are staring down at the saucer that currently houses his coffee cup and there’s this secret smile on his face that reveals everything and nothing at the same time.
When I think he won’t talk about her, he lifts his eyes and says, “She’s amazing, man. I can’t believe she likes somebody like me.” It is here I should note that the two are nearly polar opposites. “But what can you do? I just gotta thank God for it, you know? Who knows where I’d be right now if it wasn’t for her? She brings out the best in me.”
And how did they meet, one might inquire?
“I’ll never forget this in my entire life,” he begins. Now his eyes travel toward the ceiling and his smile widens. It’s another inside joke, but this one, I’ll soon be privy to. “Her friend Tanya [engaged to Futurist drummer Mitch Sandburg] all but dragged her to see us play [at Hollywood’s House of Blues on the Sunset Strip], and even then she was studying for her final. So I called her out on it. I called her onstage, and then let her use the backstage to study. When I talked to her more, I invited her on tour. I’m not exactly sure as to why I did that, it just kind of happened. And man, she hated me. Well, maybe hate is a strong word. But we were always butting heads. I liked it. She’s really cute when she’s angry. But for some unspoken reason, she fell in love with me, and we’ve been together ever since.”
And will this relationship last?
It takes a long moment before Tommy responds. “One can only hope,” he tells me, his voice somber and yet hopeful at the same time. “I mean, I’ll never let her go if I can help it.”
So groupies don’t tempt him even in the slightest?
“I find it refreshing to wake up in the morning next to someone who knows all of my flaws and still loves me,” Tommy says, and then furrows his brow. “Ah. That sounded really corny, didn’t it? Oh well.” Again, he shrugs. “Groupies are in love with what they think you are. They want to fuck you because fucking a rock star is the closest they’ll come to fucking a god. But they don’t give a shit about you. And before, it was fine because I didn’t give a shit about them. I still don’t, but I just don’t feel the need to go fuck ’em anymore.” His arms are crossed over his chest now, and his back is leaning against the back of the chair.
So the main
focus then, is the music.
“The main focus is and will always be family,” Tommy corrects me, though there’s no animosity in his voice. “But, see, I’m lucky because my family supports and encourages me with my music. But my creative energy is solely focused on my band and our music. We take it seriously, of course, but we like to have fun, too.”
And the new album?
“It’s like our older stuff,” he promises with a mysterious twinkle in his eye. “None of that futuristic shit. Just hardcore rock and roll. I guarantee you it’s going to kick ass.”
For whatever reason, I believe him.
Acknowledgements
Honestly, this book was inspired by Billy Idol and his amazing collection of music. For that, I’m forever grateful. I loved writing these two characters, especially since we can relate to them both.
My mom and my brother. Patrick, you’ve taught me more than I could ever imagine, and you challenge me to be a better analytical thinker.
Dad and Sue. I still remember that car trip where I read my hand-written Harry Potter fanfiction, and you guys both thought I was the best writer ever in that moment. I’ll never ever forget that.
Melissa, for your hard work, dedication, and concise notes. You clean up my mess so well and make me a better writer.
Debbie, for an amazingingly awesome cover design. How do you see what’s in my head when I can’t even do that?
Frank, as usual. My husband. My soul mate. My everything. Thank you for being exactly who you are and making me a better writer with your millions and millions of questions and points. I love you.
Kylee, my love. Jacob, my bae. Josh, my smartypants.
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