by Virna DePaul
But what made tonight’s show even more awesome was when it was time for the orchestra to come out for their two songs. In the darkness, I watched as they shuffled in, took their seats, and that pervert Richard lifted his conducting baton, then the bright lights spilled all over the string section. Friggin’ yeah! Abby was dressed in her black skirt with a different white top, but still wearing her pearls, looking ever so classy, the hot NYC girl. She glanced at me and did a terrible job of holding back a smile.
What happened between us earlier in the garden was a shock to me, and yet it wasn’t. I’d kissed a lot of women, but they all knew who I was, they’d all listened to our music, and they’d all flocked to me because of it. They wanted me before they’d even met me. I was a fantasy to them.
With Abby, it was different.
I was pretty sure she’d never even heard of Point Break until she arrived in LA. And I was fairly sure, at that crucial moment in the garden, she’d been overcome by the raw need to feel close to me. I’d felt the connection, too. I hadn’t wanted to leave her.
So what now?
With any other woman, I’d have one night with her, maybe two or three, and then we’d go our separate ways. It was understood that I wasn’t looking to get married and settle down. I hadn’t made that crystal clear to Abby—that I wasn’t looking for a relationship. If I didn’t, she might expect more. Fuck, she deserved more. Not to say other girls didn’t deserve more, but the other women I’d been with knew the score. And besides, even if Abby agreed to something casual with me, something temporary, I knew it wouldn’t be the kind of casual I was used to.
For as long as we were together, Abby would demand attention. She wouldn’t put up with backstage parties, Tucker, Wes, Corbin, or any of our roadies’ shenanigans, for that matter. And yeah, it would’ve been nice to meet Abby a few years down the line. That way, I could seriously give her everything, but I was only twenty-two, about two years younger than I wanted to be when that happened. So I had no choice but to be honest with Abby about where my head was at. I also had to make sure that I really could follow through on whatever limited promises I made her. And I had to believe that when things did end between us, Abby wouldn’t be the worse for wear. That maybe she’d even smile as we said good-bye. That she wouldn’t collapse. That I wouldn’t see her lying on the floor, the way I’d seen…
No, stop. It wasn’t your fault. It was on her, all on her…
I couldn’t compare Abby to Vanessa. They were completely worlds apart. Abby was older. Stronger. And, truthfully, she was smarter. She was under no illusions about the life I led. So long as we were honest and up-front from the beginning, there was no reason we couldn’t take things one day at a time and explore the intense chemistry between us.
Starting with another kiss—or two or ten or twenty—as soon as possible.
*
After the show, I searched for Abby through throngs of photographers, celebrity friends, contest winners, and all our tech crew. She was trying to find me, too, I could tell, because we kept running circles near each other, only for someone like Helen or Robbie or Wes to spin me around and make me take a pic with someone waiting nearby.
Even backstage, the show never ended.
Shots all around, and liquor flowing freely, the girls—our companions—were let in, the usual ones and a few new ones who were giddy, nervous, and dressed to sex, something that titillated the fuck out of me when we first started but now made me sad. Why was this the only way we’d let women backstage, showing cleavage, baring asses, or plain walking around naked? Because we liked blow jobs after the show, sure, okay. But weren’t there any elegantly dressed women who also liked having sex? For once, I would’ve loved to see some CPA, doctor, or lawyer lady in a suit be admitted backstage for some fun. They were probably more refined and better lovers anyway, since they were more restrained in real life.
Anything for variety.
“Dude!” Wes hobbled up to me, downing a bottle of Grey Goose straight from the spout, his arm hanging around some other guy I’d never seen before. “This is Ben. Ben went to elementary school with me in Little Rock a long-ass time ago, and now he’s in Seattle. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Hey, Ben, good to meet you,” I said, shaking hands with the short, button-down shirt guy with glasses.
“Big fan,” he said, star-struck and studying me.
“Right on, dude.” Behind him, I spotted Abby waiting in the wings, checking me out every few seconds. That violinist friend of hers who looked like that Pulp Fiction chick’s hot string bean of a daughter kept stealing glances, too, but Wes went on and on, talking about how he and Ben used to ride bikes down the street then spend the rest of the day at his older sister’s house playing air hockey. A fun time was had by all.
“That’s great, you guys. Really great!” I patted them both on the back. “I gotta go, though. I’ll see you around in a bit.”
Wes locked a grip on my arm. “Where you going, man?” A worried look crossed his face, and I knew it was because I had almost missed the fan club meeting this afternoon. Wes probably thought I was misusing my rock star license, or not using it enough. He wanted me to stay and party more. He’d heard about me leaving Robbie’s house the night before the tour, too.
“Not far, just want to go say hi to someone.”
Abby crept closer, laughing quietly, primly, so out of place—a thing of oddness amid the craziness.
“Okay, man. Just don’t be gone too long.” He gave me a nod and tousled my hair like I was two years old, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. “Corbin says the porn stars are here for the whipped cream fight, and you won’t want to miss it.”
Ugh, you and your fucking words, Wes…
A shadowy darkness crossed Abby’s face, like she thought maybe she shouldn’t be here.
“Did somebody say whipped cream fight?” Corbin charged into us, nearly knocking me off my feet. “YEAH, BABY! LET’S DO IT!” he shouted, his presence forcing Abby closer to the wall. Then, in his drunkenness, he wrapped an arm around me and blasted into my ear, “Hey, buddy! Barely saw you all afternoon. Helen says you were sucking face with our cello player? You sure about that, bro? We gotta make sure you keep yourself available for the world’s women. I mean, it is a world tour.” He laughed like the idiot he was, slapping me hard in the arm.
“Our cello player is right behind you, dude. Shut up,” I whispered, but Corbin was too drunk to hear me or care. I looked over at Abby, and her face said it all—she’d overhead.
“That’s right, Jagger Swagger!” Tucker joined us, messing up my hair even more, and a line of photographers formed before us and started shooting, now that we were all here together. “Say cheeeeeese!”
“Cheeeeese!” I said, my arms around Wes and Corbin.
“Whipped cream!” Wes echoed next to me, holding up his vodka bottle.
“Fucktards!” Corbin bellowed.
We laughed like idiots, because, well…we were. At that precise moment, four girls in string bikini tops and tight shorts pranced by, pushing two shopping carts full of cans of whipped cream—light cream, heavy cream, chocolate cream, strawberry cream—dildos, silver vibrators, double dildos, you name it.
“Gentlemen,” one of them said, a gorgeous brunette wearing immaculate makeup. “The Cream Team is here!” The girls cried out with glee as they picked up cans of whipped cream, knocked off the tops, and literally hopped on top of us, winding their legs around our waists, tilting our heads back, and swirling whipped cream into our mouths. They jumped off at once, high-fived, and continued pushing their shopping carts of goodies toward the back of the venue. “Excellent work, ladies. Onward to the Orgy Room!”
“Orgy Room?” Ben, Wes’s old school buddy, laughed.
Corbin wrapped a death grip around my neck and whooped. “Yes! We are the masters of our destiny!” Then he turned and promptly smacked his forehead into a column. Everyone broke into a fresh round of snot-flying laughter.
Abby was probably watching all this, not caring to talk to me anymore at this point, and when I glanced over to give her an apologetic look, she was gone.
A terrible feeling—something that felt very much like guilt—assailed me. Instinctively, I pushed it away.
What did I have to feel guilty about? I hadn’t said or done anything to betray Abby. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have told Abby I’d see her later, knowing full well that my friends would keep me prisoner after the show, that they’d pump me full of mezcal Negronis until I was swirling, falling down a colorful rabbit hole. But was that any reason for me to feel like shit? Awkward and uncertain and out of place amongst the guys when I never had before?
I didn’t like it.
I stared hard at the place Abby had been, remembered the uneasy look on her face before I’d looked away the last time, and imagined that uneasy look transforming into one of disgust as she listened to us. Suddenly, I heard Helen’s voice in my ear, shouting, “You don’t want a repeat, Liam.” It’s like the words paralyzed me. My brain told me I was being a stupid ass. That I needed to break away from the guys. To go after Abby. To find her, like I’d told her I would. To kiss her again, like I’d been jonesing to do all day. To reassure her that the Cream Team didn’t have anything on her, and that while my friends might be idiots sometimes, they’d want me to be happy, and right now what would make me happy was being with Abby.
But then again, she’d left. She’d walked away from me.
I was damned if I’d go chasing after her like I’d done something wrong.
No, if something was going to happen with Abby—and I definitely still wanted something to happen between us—it was going to happen with her knowing exactly what kind of life I led, and with me knowing that she was strong enough to deal with it. Otherwise, I’d just be putting us in a situation that wouldn’t be good for either one of us.
That’s what I told myself.
That I stayed away from Abby for her sake as much as mine.
But even as I did, I couldn’t ignore the tiny voice in my head proclaiming that sometimes I could be a fucking idiot.
*
I awoke in my suite to slivers of sunlight filtering through the curtains. Thank baby Jesus there was nobody in bed with me. I’d had too many drinks last night, and I vaguely remembered the Cream Team painting whipped cream bikinis on each other, licking them off, then launching into a five-girl fuckfest, but I hadn’t partaken.
Participating would not have been the best way to win Abby’s affections.
But then I remembered—I hadn’t gone looking for Abby last night. After I told her I would. “Shit,” I muttered, pressing my hands against my eyes. Despite all my bullshit mental gymnastics last night, it was suddenly abundantly clear why I hadn’t gone after Abby. Fear and hurt pride. Fear of being responsible for someone else’s feelings. Hurt pride that she’d walked away. Fear that I’d already hurt her and that I would again.
But most of all?
I’d doubted my ability to truly give up my backstage partying for her, even for the short time we might be together. Because some part of me doubted that once I got involved with Abby, our time together would be short.
The girl did something crazy to me.
And despite the fact I’d run from my feelings for her at the first opportunity, I missed her. I’d do anything to turn back time and do things differently.
God, I really was a fucking idiot.
I sat up in bed. Scattered around my room was a mélange of people. Corbin and the blond porn star were asleep on a sofa, her tanned arm curled around his shirtless middle, face resting against his furry belly. Two of the other girls were asleep on the opposite sofa, naked and tangled in a blanket, cradling each other like newborn twins. Wes wasn’t around, but he never was in the mornings, always preferring to sleep in his own room.
The clock told me it was eleven, way too fucking early to be awake, but Abby would probably be up already, maybe at the lunch we catered daily, and I had to find her. I had to explain things and beg forgiveness.
I pulled on some jeans and threw on my Ramones T-shirt, heading down the elevator—empty, thank God—and out the back of the hotel. Our security guard, Nathan, gave me a thumbs-up. “Morning, Mr. Collier. Will you be needing a car today?”
“Nah, gonna walk, man. Thanks.”
“Just call if you need us to pick you up again,” the tall, black man said in a deep, übercool, rumbling voice.
“Ah, yes. Thank you for not letting me live down ‘The Incident,’” I said.
During last year’s tour in Seattle, some crazed Point Break fangirl had camped outside all night, knowing exactly which hotel we frequented, and accosted me with demands. Her brother was in the hospital, and could I go visit him? Her mother had cancer, and could I go lay my healing hands on her? She went so far as to corner me against a waiting car, shove me inside when the back door opened, then slide into the passenger seat, as her wingman drove one block before hotel security blocked their path.
She apologized profusely, so I ended up dropping the charges after her father called Robbie to explain that she suffered from some sort of mental illness I’d never heard of before. It was fucking crazy, but I had to be on the lookout for her again, just in case.
It was partly cloudy as I walked the three blocks to the venue, but it was a warm day, perfect for strolling the city. I reached the parking lot, showing the security guard my ID. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Collier,” he said. Everyone was so nice around here. Well, they damned well should be. We were paying them.
Trying the sleeper buses first, I went up to the buses one by one, knocking on their doors, waking up half the drivers. “Is Abby here?” I asked each one, feeling like a middle-school kid looking for his girlfriend at her trailer. Only one knew who I was talking about, and he mumbled and pointed to the main venue. “You just missed her. She went inside with that violin case.”
“Cello,” I said.
“Violin, cello, it’s all the same shit to me.”
“Thanks, man,” I saluted him for the tip, pivoting and breaking into a jog toward the back entrance to the venue.
Once inside, finding her was easy—I just followed the sounds of sheer awesomeness. Pausing at the doorway to a rehearsal room, I leaned against the doorframe and peered inside. She was there, facing away from me, the only person in the room, the only one rehearsing. Possessed by music, swaying her instrument in time with her song. I wished I knew which piece she was playing, so I could appear to know my shit around her. I even thought of using Shazam to see if the app could recognize the song, but she must have sensed me standing there, because she stopped and turned her head to the side, listening.
“That was sexy. What’s it called?” I asked.
She said nothing for a long time, and I thought I was pretty much done for. Then she mumbled, “Serenade,” without looking at me.
“Beautiful. Who’s it by?”
“Me.”
Whoa. “You wrote that?” Slowly, I stepped into the room.
“Yes. Is there a problem with that?” Icy eyes.
Yikes. “No, I’m just…amazed. Wow, that’s talent.” I hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding overly excited, but I was seriously in awe.
“It’s a piece I created for my audition for the New York Philharmonic in September,” she said, then stopped as if remembering she was supposed to be mad at me. “What do you want?” Her words were darts, tiny, sharp points pressed against my heart.
I took tentative, slow steps toward her. “Abby, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she hissed. Ugh, the quintessential girl reply, the number two ranking answer when asked if everything was okay, after the number one I’m fine.
“Well…” I said, choosing my words carefully, “because yesterday we had a very nice conversation in the garden, and then last night, as you know, I didn’t follow through on finding you.”
“That’s correct,” she snarled. “Now, if you don’t min
d, you can go suck it.”
I spit-laughed. “Abby”—I coughed, pounding my chest to bring air back into it—“listen, it gets crazy after a show. You have to learn this about us. You shouldn’t think anything of it. The mayhem is normal. It’s always pure chaos until I return to my room for the night.”
“When it starts to get even more interesting, I’m sure.” Her eyebrows did that thing they did when a girl doesn’t believe you and she’s waiting for you to redeem yourself.
“You think so?” I asked, hands on my hips. Two could play this game.
She gripped the neck of the cello hard. Her knuckles were white. “Well, you did have plenty of women to choose from. The Cream Team. All five were beautiful and surgically enhanced, so why not?”
“First of all…” I held up a finger. “None of them was beautiful. None. You, you’re beautiful, and that’s not horseshit. They were enhanced maybe, if you call fake body parts enhancement. Personally, I don’t see fake tits as an improvement. I’m more into natural breasts, if you must know.”
“I prefer not to.” She pursed her lips and returned to playing her song.
“Listen…Abby…” I fought for the right words. “I would have talked to you after the chaos died down, but I don’t have your number. We never exchanged. Why don’t you text me now, so I have it and this won’t happen again.”
“I don’t want you texting me.”
“Come on, you can’t mean that.”
“Well, I do. If you want to talk to me, I prefer you come see me. Texting is lame and lazy.”
That made me smile pretty fucking big. Here was this girl demanding to be treated with respect. Everyone else got texts. She wanted a physical visit. She was right, and I liked it. But there was more… “I really wanted to see you last night. I want you to know that.”
