by Molly Joseph
“Lady Paradise. Lady Paradise!”
Ransom’s head whipped around when he heard the voices. “We need to get going. When you don’t run, people recognize you.”
Lola nodded and waved to the approaching group of teen fans, then followed her bodyguard as he jogged away. “Sorry,” she called, pointing at him. “I have to go.”
They waved and smiled and didn’t run after her. In Rome, a paparazzo had followed them for two blocks on a scooter, taking photos. He sold them and they ended up online, photos of her huffing and puffing, red faced, in her shitty workout gear. “This is your fault,” she’d shouted at Ransom, pulling up the offending sites.
His answer to her meltdowns was always, “You wanted me to stay.” Worse was the silent threat: I can still leave.
She wondered if he suffered as much as she did. Not at running, of course. He jogged along beside her without getting winded, while she felt close to death. No, she wondered if he ever thought about that night they’d spent together, about the heat, the pleasure, the scent of their bodies in the throes of climax. She wondered if he ached for her the way she ached for him.
Doubtful. He only talked to her now if he absolutely had to. He refused to be drawn into any teasing or flirtation, rebuffing her words with a warning glance. He was the ultimate standoffish professional, just as he’d been in the beginning, but way too much had happened since then, and Lola was losing her mind.
Because she didn’t just miss the sex. She missed having Ransom as a friend, or at least a semi-friend. For a while he’d been nice to her. Not anymore.
She jogged along the running path, a two-word mantra droning in her head. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Never mind that she felt better because of the spinach and water and exercise. Never mind that she had more energy and better concentration than she’d had in years. That energy and concentration was focused on wanting sex, and he wasn’t giving it to her, and if she stared at his hot ass for too much longer, she was going to cry.
She sped up and ran beside him instead, trying to keep pace with his much longer stride. He looked over at her with a smile, like this was fun, like they were two pals out running together. Ugh, why did he have to look so gorgeous, even when he was covered in sweat? Several fan sites and tabloids had begun calling attention to her handsome bodyguard. She didn’t even want to think about what she looked like, chugging along beside him, sweating and out of breath.
The next day was a performance day, thank God, and Ransom let her sleep late before he ordered her a healthy breakfast, complete with a spinach-and-strawberry smoothie in a nauseating shade of green. “Why do you get to drink coffee?” she groused.
“You can drink coffee if you finish that smoothie.”
So cold. So professional. She couldn’t take it anymore. When she dressed for the show that night, she slutted out in petty rebellion, piling on the eyeliner and bright red lipstick, and wearing her tightest pair of silver sequined shorts. When she was finished she turned in front of the mirror, studying the overall effect. Wow, her ass looked better, didn’t it?
No, fuck him. She wasn’t going to be grateful for being bullied to better health. She tied on her tiny matching silver bikini top and struggled to cinch the back.
“Ransom,” she called. “Can you help me?”
Don came in the bathroom instead, and retied the string several times while staring at her over her shoulder. “That’s fine,” she finally said.
He regarded her in the mirror. “New look with your makeup? I like your hair.”
She’d slicked it every which way and dotted it with silver star barrettes, a style that looked as wild as her emotions felt. “Whatever,” she muttered.
Ransom carried her laptop as Don hustled her out to the bus, complaining that she was always late. This from the guy who’d played with her bikini strings way longer than necessary. For God’s sake, she wasn’t trying to attract Don with her skintight, silver-sequined get up. She was trying to get the attention of the tall, dark shadow in her peripheral vision, the bodyguard who refused to be her lover anymore.
When they got to the bus, she cut in front of Ransom and sashayed up the stairs, even though he normally boarded first to check for stowaways.
“Wait,” he said, touching her arm.
She hoped he had noticed her ass before he nudged past her. If he had, he gave no sign of it as he performed the usual security check and then told the driver to head out. Rather than sit near her the way he did before they had sex, he engaged Don in conversation, an additional cut to her ego.
How could he be so unaffected after the things they’d done together? Why didn’t he want her?
Well, someone would want her. Once they arrived at the festival grounds outside Milan, she flirted her way through the backstage area, kissing and hugging all the sound techs, and hanging on muscular roadies as Ransom stared at her from five feet away. The Italian security dudes were top notch. She singled out one of them, a rugged, sexy manwhore with a wide smile, and planted herself in front of him, cooing over his long sideburns and beard.
She didn’t like sideburns. She hated beards. But she wanted to make Ransom jealous, so she pretended she loved them.
“Are you going to stand guard for me tonight?” she asked the guy, batting her eyes. “Keep the crazies away?”
“Yes, of course.” His smile widened. Unlike Ransom, he seemed moved by her tiny bikini top. His eyes dipped down and meandered over the swells of her breasts.
“And what are you up to after the show?” She slid a hand across his chest and tugged at his security badge. “Maximo? My goodness. What a fitting name for a big guy like you.”
She could feel Ransom’s frown boring into her back. Another Italian security grunt sidled over as she massaged Maximo’s shoulders with a suggestive moan of appreciation.
“Wow,” she cooed. “Who’s your sexy friend?”
She was in the middle of giving the second bouncer the same chest-stroking, ID-checking attention when firm fingers wrapped around her elbow.
“Time for the sound check,” said Ransom through gritted teeth.
“I already did the sound check. Hey, I was in the middle of setting up another threesome!”
“You’re not funny.”
She shied away from him. “I’m not trying to be funny.”
He pulled her into a quiet spot behind the lighting console and let her go. “You don’t have to whore around to get my attention. I see you.”
“Shut up.” She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. She tried to leave, but he blocked her with his body.
“Do you think it’s going to make me jealous, to see you hang on the stage crew? Do you think I won’t be able to resist you because you dress like this?” He raked a gaze over her mostly naked body, lingering on her booty shorts. “Do you think I’ll want you more if I see you coming onto someone else?” When she turned her face away, he wrenched it back with firm fingers on her cheeks. She shoved at him.
“Don’t screw up my face. I already did my makeup.”
“And I already want you as much as anyone can want you. So these games you’re playing are pointless.”
“Oh, you want me?” Lola repeated his words with biting sarcasm. “You have a really weird way of showing it. You won’t talk to me, won’t even look at me. Can you blame me for hitting on someone else?”
“Yeah, I can blame you, when you’re only doing it to annoy me. Stop it, okay?” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to her ear. “I’m not worth this. I’m not worth you acting out like this.”
She wanted to smack his earnest face. She wanted to punch his beautiful mouth, because he refused to kiss her.
“Why do you fucking care?” she snapped. “You’re only here for the job, right? The paycheck?”
Don waved and beckoned her from the stairs. “Hey, Lola!” He looked irritated with Ransom, Ransom looked irritated with her, and she felt irritated by everyone. Now she had to go out in front of all those happy people an
d do a happy show when she felt like shit.
He touched her arm and she shoved him away, storming toward Don while giving Ransom the finger over her shoulder. Fuck him. She had a show to do, and slutting out wasn’t helping, and flirting with other guys wasn’t helping because she only wanted him. Basically nothing was helping, and while she might feel great physically after pumping herself full of fucking spinach, her feelings were screwed up as shit.
No feelings. Just beats.
Lola squared her shoulders and went up the stairs, ignoring Maximo’s wave as she passed him. Ugh, those sideburns. So gross. As soon as the crowd could see her, they made a comforting amount of noise. Ransom said he wanted her? Bullshit. If he wanted her, he would take her. No, these beautiful people, these ravers wanted her, and she was going to give them a fucking show.
She checked over the sound console, making sure her tracks were imported and all the components were working. She grabbed the mic and cued up her #1 EDM anthem from the year before. Her kickass single, her screaming crowds, her musical creativity, and her voice shouting through the forty-foot bank of speakers.
“Milan, are you ready to fucking party?”
The crowd roared with approval. Ransom watched her from the place he always watched, at the top of the stairs, but she tuned him out, focusing instead on building the musical wonderland her audience deserved. If Ransom wouldn’t appreciate her sequined booty shorts, at least they looked awesome reflecting the lights.
She danced from one track to the next, delivering the seamless mixes and quirky samples she was famous for. Each time she built to a drop, everyone screamed in manic appreciation. She partied along with her listeners, riling them up until they were an undulating mass of fluorescent happiness. When her time was almost up, she hopped on top of the sound console and moved her body to the music, pointing at the ravers. You’re inside me. I’m inside you. We got this.
Ransom had told her no stage diving. Her contract said no stage diving, but this Milan stage was perfect for it, not too high, with the crowd right up on the barriers. Sometimes you just had to do shit you weren’t supposed to do, because you were irritated and angsty, and because you wanted to piss off your bodyguard. As soon as she threw out her arms to signal her intention to the crowd, Ransom came running toward her from the stairs. Too late.
She soared off the sound console and into the audience just as the song pounded to its peak. The crowd caught her, laughing and shrieking. People always asked if stage diving hurt, but it didn’t hurt at all, high or sober. The noise hurt, the shouts, the squeals as the spectators found Lady Paradise suddenly among them, but the hands were always careful. No one pinched or punched her, or pulled her hair.
“I love you,” she said as they passed her back and forth in a meandering circle. She opened her eyes and saw Ransom standing at the edge of the stage, yelling and gesturing for the crowd to bring her back.
“Fuck him,” she said to her fans. “Don’t listen to him. We’re having fun.”
Crowd surfing didn’t hurt. It only took you out of the world into another, different world, which was sometimes a really necessary thing.
*
Ransom stood in front of eighty thousand screaming ravers, waving his arms like a maniac. They ignored him. All eyes were on Lady Paradise, floating upon the palms of her minions. He shouted for them to return her to the stage as a thousand dire scenarios filled his brain. Broken bones, asphyxiation, trampling, rape, kidnapping, head injury, mob stampede, death…
He was going to kill her. He was going to fucking slaughter her for this.
He was so wrought up, so livid by the time security waded into the fray that he could barely look at her. They plucked her from her admirers and handed her over the barricades. When she was close enough, he reached down and pulled her into his arms.
“What the fuck?” he shouted over the din of the crowd. “What the everloving fuck is wrong with you?”
She grinned at him. “I can’t help it. It’s fun.”
When he continued to glare, she laughed and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him on the lips. The crowd screamed louder, encouraging her to continue. His body reacted, hardening, responding even in front of all these people. Even when he knew it could ruin him.
He tried to peel her off. Cell phones pointed at them from all directions. One of his friends back in L.A. had sent him a link to a social media blog dedicated solely to him, Lady Paradise’s bodyguard. They called him Gilberto. There were fan fiction stories about their romance. None of this was okay, and holding her here in front of all these people wasn’t going to put that kind of speculation to rest.
“Get the fuck off me,” he said. “Finish your fucking set.”
Even through the arousal, through her intoxicating closeness, he couldn’t rein in his anger, because it was a fury born of fear. He cared for her. He worried for her. In some way, he thought he was falling in love with her, which was the worst thing of all. Was he driving this wildness on her part? Had this been another stunt to get a reaction? She seemed pretty pleased with herself as she picked up the mic and stirred up the audience again.
He stood beside the sound console for the last few minutes of her set. She wasn’t going into the audience again, ever, and as soon as they returned to the bus, they were going to have a talk about her attention-getting tactics. When she finished and signed off, Ransom took her arm to lead her downstairs.
She jerked away. “Leave me alone. Don’t get in my face. That was a great set and I don’t want you bringing me down.”
She ran down the stairs ahead of him, only to be corralled by Don, who looked equally pissed. Ransom watched as the two started bickering in the midst of the backstage chaos.
“Let’s take it to the bus,” he suggested, talking over them.
“Gladly,” Don said.
The next artist ran up the stairs, more beats, more shrieks, more glowing, flashing fireworks polluting the air. Lola waved to someone and tried to peel away from them. Ransom redirected her with a belligerent “No.”
“You two are so fucking joyless.” She stalked to the bus.
“And you’re so fucking reckless,” Don retorted.
She stomped up the steps after Ransom checked the interior. “It was one fucking stage dive. Are you seriously going to chew me out? Nothing happened.”
“Something could have happened. Sit down.” Don gestured toward the sofa.
“No, I don’t want to sit down. That sofa is fucking uncomfortable.”
Lola was in full diva mode, and it pained Ransom because he’d come to understand that all these histrionics came from a place of sadness. He restrained himself from interfering as she got in Don’s face.
“I asked for a different bus four weeks ago, Don, a comfortable fucking bus. You’re my tour manager, so why won’t you help me? When are those MadDance fuckers going to get me a different bus?”
“When you start adhering to the terms of your contract.” Don held up a hand as she started making excuses about the stage dive. “It’s not just that. Someone recorded that unauthorized set you played in Hamburg. Now they’re peddling the video and audio versions online and your label is pissed, not to mention the ‘MadDance fuckers.’”
“It’s not my fault someone recorded it!”
“You played the set without authorization,” said Don. “You signed a contract that stipulated no extra performances on this tour.”
“It wasn’t a set.” She turned to Ransom. “You were there. Did I play a freaking set? All I did was monkey around in the DJ booth.”
He spread his fingers in a helpless gesture. “I haven’t read your contract. I don’t know, Lola. I don’t know what makes it a set.”
“Well, I do,” Don broke in, “and I watched the video and listened to the remastered version, which is all over the Lady Paradise chat boards. I’d expect to hear from Vanguard’s lawyers shortly. Those record labels don’t fuck around. And MadDance is going to be up my ass tha
nks to this stage dive, which goes against the terms of your goddamn contract!”
She shook her head as the tour manager’s voice rose to a shout. “This is bullshit,” she shouted back. “I can do what I want, I can play what I want—”
Don held up a jabbing finger. “That’s the thing though. You can’t. You’ve convinced yourself you’re some untouchable, irreplaceable genius. Well, guess what? There are thirty or forty DJs who’d be happy to take your place, who spin better than you. I know them. I’ve worked with them.”
“Oh, really? They’re better than me? Did you see me out there tonight? Fuck you. You’re an asshole.”
“Because I’m telling you the truth?” The jabbing finger came perilously close to Lola’s nose. Ransom watched, his body poised to spring if Don touched her in violence. “And you know what else?” said Don. “Those people are real artists, actual professionals who know how to abide by a contract.”
“Real artists?” Lola spluttered in a fury. “What right do you have to talk to me about artistry?”
“I have every right. I’m your manager on this tour, and I’m going to do my job, you spoiled little piece of shit.”
“Back the fuck off,” she screamed in Don’s face.
“Okay, kids.” Ransom stepped between them, holding up his hands. “Why don’t you two discuss things later, when tempers have cooled?”
“What is there to discuss?” Veins popped in Don’s neck and forehead as he held out his phone. “In an hour or so, I’m going to start getting messages from my boss about your shenanigans onstage, or rather offstage. This is the third time you’ve willfully ignored the personal safety codicil of your contract that restricts you from entering the audience.”
“Blah blah blah. Those stage dives are how I made my name in this business. That’s what people want, that’s what they remember.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Don, and Ransom had to agree. It was one thing to dive into the crowd at a small venue. At these festivals…
