Missez (Wild Irish Silence Book 4)

by Sherryl Hancock

  Jerith followed her into the studio a few minutes later. The day was tense; the whole band felt it. Alan Rothe caught up to Jerith on the way out of the studio that evening.

  “Kid! Wait up!” he said, jogging to catch up with Jerith’s long-legged strides. Jerith was carrying his guitar and chewing on a pick, as was his habit when he was irritated.

  “What do you want, Rothe?” he said, removing the pick from between his clenched teeth. His tone was tired and anything but nice, but he stopped in the hallway all the same.

  “Hey,” Alan said, smiling his record deal smile. “I’m not the bad guy here. What the hell’s goin’ on with you and Billy though?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You know what I mean. It’s like you two were on different planets today. I just wondered if there was anything I could do to help?” Alan’s tone was honey-sweet, and it served to irritate Jerith further.

  Jerith looked at the other man, his eyes narrowed just slightly. “Why don’t you screw her again, see if that’ll help?”

  Alan was taken aback. He hadn’t known that Jerith knew about his and Billy’s sometime thing now. Every time Billy got really irritated at Skyler, she went to Rothe to “take the edge off.” Alan didn’t like that Jerith knew about it; he knew Jerith didn’t like him, and he didn’t want to give him any real fuel to get rid of him. Alan knew that he was one of the best in the business, and that if he wasn’t Billy and the Kid’s manager, he could be someone else’s, but Billy and the Kid were on their way up, especially now that they’d signed with Badlands. It was going to be an incredible ride, and Alan Rothe wanted to be there for it. But Jerith Michaels wasn’t in it for the money or the fame, and he was the driving force behind the band. Alan knew that if Jerith wanted him gone, it would be him or Jerith, and he was smart enough to know that Billy and the Kid was at least fifty percent Jerith “Kid” Michaels. He wasn’t about to make that career-fatal mistake of thinking he could get the band another guitarist. He knew to tread lightly here.

  “Look,” Alan said, his voice an undertone. “You know Billy—she’s wound pretty tight most of the time…”

  Jerith rubbed at his eyes in frustration and exhaustion, not really in the mood to get into this with Rothe right now. “Fine, whatever, Alan. What is it you want from me right now?” His voice was gravelly from all the hours in the studio; it had all begun to wear on him.

  “Well, fact of the matter is, I need a big favor from you.”

  Jerith nodded, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes as he waited for the hammer to fall.

  “I need ya to talk to this young lady from Rolling Stone.” Alan held up his hands in a pacifying gesture as Jerith started to shake his head. “Now hold on, Kid. Before you say no, she asked to do this interview with you. She’s coming all the way from London to do it.”

  “I don’t do interviews.”

  “I know, I know. But this could be an important one. It’s always a good idea to keep the fans interested while you work on the album—you know, keep ’em on the hook.” Alan sounded like a used-car salesman. “Hey, if nothing else, maybe you can counter some of the negative press our little Billy has gotten you…”

  Jerith looked at Alan with disgust prevalent on his face, narrowing his eyes at him. “I’ll think about it,” he said, and without further ado walked past the manager, gripping the neck of his guitar tightly, thinking that if he didn’t value the instrument so much he’d smash it over Rothe’s head. He hated the blackmail Rothe liked to pull. He always made it Jerith’s responsibility to clean up after Billy, especially when it came to publicity. Even though Rothe felt that any publicity was good publicity, he also knew that with all the changing attitudes about drugs, and the fact that parents still had to pay for albums, concert tickets, and memorabilia, he needed to keep up the propriety of a “clean-cut” band, even if the kids thought differently. Jerith was his clean-cut, straight-arrow, all around nice guy, his ace in the hole. Alan knew it, and so did Jerith, and it irritated Jerith to be used in that way.

  ****

  Jerith talked to Nicolette about it on their almost nightly phone call. He had already vowed to pay her phone bill when it came, although he tried to be the one to call her. Sometimes they talked for an hour, sometimes longer. A few times they even talked late into the night. Tonight, Jerith had paced, waiting until he knew she’d be home. She answered on the second ring.

  “’Lo?”

  “Hi there,” Jerith said, his voice a caress.

  “Hi,” Nicolette said, smiling. “Calling a little early tonight, aren’t you?” She didn’t sound like she minded at all.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said tiredly.

  “You okay?” She had detected instantly that something was wrong.

  “I guess, if you can call getting into a fight with Billy first thing this morning okay.”

  “What did you fight about?” Nicolette removed her holster so she could lie down on her bed. She could tell he needed to talk.

  Jerith was silent for a long moment. “Honestly? You.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Long story,” Jerith said. He didn’t want to tell her everything, afraid that mention of the “marry” part might make her nervous at this point. “Anyway, I had a lousy day, and to top it off, Alan wants me to do an interview with Rolling Stone.”

  “Okay…” Nicolette said, her voice indicating she didn’t understand why that was bad.

  “I don’t do interviews,” Jerith explained. “They always twist everything you say and make you sound like the kind of person they want you to be, and it’s never the kind of person I am.”

  “Don’t you get to read the article before they print it?”

  “Not usually, no.”

  “Well, I’d insist on it,” Nicolette said, not wanting anyone making up lies about the man she loved.

  “Okay,” Jerith said, grinning. He was enjoying the protective tone in her voice.

  “Why does he want you to do an interview, anyway? Is it Billy?” Nicolette didn’t like Alan Rothe either. Jerith had told her enough about the guy for her to make her mind up.

  “Basically. Well, that’s what he’s saying, anyway. I think he just wants me plastered all over everything that doesn’t move, just in case it might improve his commission. He couldn’t care less if I lost a little bit of myself for it.”

  “Lost a little bit of yourself? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jerith said, sighing as he lay back on his bed. He stared up at the ceiling. “I guess in a way, I feel like every time I do an interview, the public knows just a little more about me, and then that little bit’s not mine anymore—it’s everyone’s. Does that make any sense?”

  Nicolette furrowed her brow, contemplating what he’d just said. “God, Jerith, I never even thought about it like that, but yes, it does make sense. It’s like everything about you ends up being out there for public consumption, and you lose more privacy, more of you… right?”

  “Yeah,” Jerith said, ever astounded by her depth of understanding for him. He’d never met anyone who was so willing to listen and empathize. He’d been with a lot of women willing to pay lip service to him, willing to let him talk but never able to come back with anything resembling an intelligent response. Even the anthropology professor had been devoid of understanding for how hard his business could be.

  “So what are you going to do?” Nicolette knew his sense of responsibility for the band was warring with his need for privacy.

  “What do you think I should do?” he asked, really wanting her opinion.

  Nicolette was quiet for a long moment, then said, “I think you should talk to the writer of the story. You should find out what he or she thinks you’re about, and if you don’t think they understand you, you shouldn’t do it.”

  He grinned. “Pretty simple, huh?”

  Nicolette laughed lightly. “Yeah. Hey, maybe I should be your manager.”

  “Maybe you will be
someday,” he said, his tone only half joking.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind,” Jerith said, and went on to change the subject.

  Much later, as he lay in bed trying to go to sleep after talking to Nicolette for two hours, he thought about what she had said, and he knew she was right. He needed to know what this writer thought she was going to write about before he even did the interview; then he could see if it was the right thing for him to do. Band or no band, Jerith Michaels was determined to maintain some modicum of privacy.

  ****

  Two weeks later, the young British reporter from Rolling Stone was due to arrive. She was supposed to meet Jerith at the studio at 5:00 p.m. Jerith purposely wrapped up the session at 4:00 to give himself some time. After Billy and the rest of the band left, Jerith went into the sound booth with the producer. Johnny Seeley was listening to an old Queen album, and Jerith sat with him, guitar in hand, picking out the chords.

  “Hey,” Jerith said when one of the songs ended. “Would you do me a favor without a bunch of questions if I asked?”

  “Sure, Kid,” Johnny replied without hesitation. “What’s up?”

  “I want to try something—just try it, okay?” Jerith stood and walked back into the studio.

  Johnny flipped on the intercom. “Okay, what gives?” he said, grinning.

  “Do you have any Journey tracks in there?”

  “Probably. What track you lookin’ for?”

  “How about “Ask the Lonely”?”

  “Hold on…” Johnny started searching through a cabinet full of tracks. “Got it!” he exclaimed, triumphantly holding up a reel.

  “Run it,” Jerith said as he pulled a stool over to the mike and sat down. He reached for a headset and readjusted the mike to his height. He felt a twinge of guilt, feeling like he was doing something behind Billy and the rest of the band’s back, but he was just testing it out.

  “You’re gonna sing?” Johnny was surprised. He’d expected Jerith to play guitar; he knew Journey was one of his favorite bands.

  “Yeah,” Jerith said, not sounding at all sure of himself.

  “You want it without lyrics, then?”

  Jerith hesitated, then nodded. “Can you dub them out and run a track?”

  “Of course I can,” Johnny said, sounding indignant but grinning at Jerith all the same. “Cue me when you’re ready.”

  Jerith took a deep breath, then nodded and closed his eyes. The piano and guitar intro played in his ears as let himself get into the music, forgetting Johnny, the studio, and the fact that he was doing something that he normally only did in private or with the radio blasting. The words came to him as if they were actually playing in his ear as well; he sang them, feeling them.

  He belted out the song as if he’d been doing it forever. He didn’t see Johnny’s eyes widen as he rechecked to ensure that he was indeed recording this moment in time.

  As the last strains of the song faded out, Jerith opened his eyes and found himself looking at a young blond woman who could only be the reporter from Rolling Stone. He winced comically, feeling like the kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  Sherri Sophield had walked into the sound booth right as Jerith started to sing. She was surprised. Johnny looked over at her. “Rolling Stone?” he asked simply. Sherri nodded, but was intent on listening to Jerith. His voice was a maelstrom of both sensuality and at the same time simple force. The intonation during the chorus was pitch perfect, and held a quality that Sherri couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was a kind of a pulse, almost a throb that left her all but trembling when his voice faded. She was even more shocked when Jerith opened his sky blue eyes and stared directly at her. She laughed when he winced, as did Jerith and Johnny.

  Jerith stood and walked into the sound booth, glancing at Johnny. “You got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good,” Jerith said, grinning, then looked at Sherri. “Burn it.” He extended his hand to the young woman, and she took it with a trembling hand. “Ms. Sophield, I’m Jerith Michaels.”

  Sherri grinned at him. “I am aware of that,” she replied, her English accent not as thick as Jerith had expected it to be.

  “Great,” he said, smiling. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll get my stuff and we can go, okay?”

  “Sure, Mr. Michaels. No problem.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He smiled again as he walked back toward the studio.

  Sherri looked over at Johnny, who was studiously running back the track he’d just made. “I didn’t know he could sing,” she said conversationally.

  “I don’t think he knows it either,” Johnny said, grinning to himself. “But Billy better damn well watch her step.”

  Sherri looked back at the producer, surprised by his statement but making no comment on it.

  Jerith was back a few minutes later, guitar and leather satchel in hand. “Let’s go,” he said, gesturing with his head.

  Sherri followed him out to his car. He pulled his keys from his faded jeans and opened the trunk, putting his guitar and satchel inside then closing it. He armed the car’s alarm and turned to Sherri.

  “Mind if we go across the street here and get some coffee?”

  “No, not at all,” Sherri said, always hesitant at first in these types of situations. It was hard meeting celebrities and trying to get comfortable with them enough in a few short days to be able ask them questions and write a good story.

  She followed Jerith across the street. He held the door for her, and asked her what she’d like as he escorted her to a table. Then he went off and ordered. Sherri could see the young girl at the counter was absolutely thrilled to be serving Kid Michaels; she watched as Jerith talked to her and made her laugh a couple of times. And when the nervous girl spilled one of the coffees all over the counter, Jerith helpfully took the towel she was cleaning the counter with and got the areas she couldn’t reach from her side. He didn’t even mention that the coffee had gotten on his black leather boots. Sherri was surprised. Most stars would have been irritated at the holdup, or at the coffee on the obviously expensive boots; the last thing they would have done was help clean up.

  Sherri heard the girl apologize to Jerith profusely, but Jerith waved it away and said, “I have bad days all the time—don’t worry about it.” He even dropped a twenty-dollar tip in the jar. Sherri realized as Jerith headed toward her that he might be doing all this just to make her write a favorable story, but somehow she couldn’t convince herself of that.

  “Okay,” he said, sitting down across from her, his blond mane falling over his shoulders as he handed her a cup of coffee.

  Sherri looked at him as he settled himself in the chair. She could easily see that he didn’t have the “star” thing going on. He sat with a casual air of assurance, but certainly not with any sort of arrogance. She decided that she liked him right off; she knew she was supposed to stay objective, but she couldn’t manage it with him.

  “So, Mr. Michaels…” she began, but she trailed off as he shook his head at her.

  “No ‘Mr. Michaels’—my dad’s Mr. Michaels. I’d like to think I’m not that old yet,” he said, grinning boyishly.

  “And that would be how old? A grand total of thirty-three, I believe.”

  Jerith nodded. “You got it.”

  “So what should I call you?”

  “Some people call me Kid, other people call me Jerith—you pick,” he said, much as he had to Nicolette when they first met.

  “Kid’s your stage name…”

  Again, he shook his head. “Kid’s my nickname, has been since I was about five.”

  It was something she didn’t know. “Really?” she said, surprised. “And I thought I knew all there was about Kid Michaels.”

  “It’s not something people really know.” He tilted his head at her comically. “Guess that’s changed now, huh?”

  She smiled. “Is it a national secret?”

  Jerith looked as if he
were considering the question. Then he sighed melodramatically, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “No, I guess not.”

  “So where did ‘Kid’ come from?”

  “My grandfather, he used to call me Kid, and it stuck.”

  Sherri nodded, wondering if Jerith’s grandfather had any idea that his grandson would grow up and become internationally famous, known by the slang name he’d given him.

  “I think I’ll call you Jerith, if that’s okay,” she said.

  Jerith smiled. “Fine by me. You realize, however, that you picked the one that only my family and one other person call me, right?”

  “If you’d rather—” she began, but Jerith cut her off with a laugh.

  “No, it’s fine, really. I was just giving you a hard time—I’m sorry.” His smile more than made up for any damage he may have caused.

  “Well, Jerith,” she said, testing out his name. “I’d like to start by telling you that the reason I wanted to do this interview is basically very simple. I think your band is very important, and incredibly good, and I’d like to see you continue on your meteoric rise in the music industry. My main concern has been the bad press you’ve been receiving with your lead singer. No one seems to know Kid Michaels.” She paused, looking at him seriously. “And while I know that has probably been by design on your part, I think it’s a mistake to allow Billy Montague to be the only press your band gets. Billy, while being a highly attractive woman and a compelling singer, is a bad image to project in this day of drug abuse and addiction. It’s been my understanding, through the people in the business, that you are basically rock’s all-American golden boy, and I think your fans need to know that now too.” Her eyes were shining brightly as she spoke, and it was obvious to Jerith that she meant every word she was saying.

  He blinked a few times, surprised by her vehemence. “Okay…” he said, not sure how to respond to such an impassioned speech.

  “I’m sorry,” Sherri said, looking embarrassed now. “I get a little fervent about things sometimes. I just hate to see your band sullied by the cloud of drug use, when it seems that only one member of the band has a problem—it just happens to be your lead singer. That’s right, isn’t it?” she asked, realizing she’d assumed that what she had said was correct.