Backstage Pass

by K T Morrison

  “I am!” She was shouting from the front hall.

  “Is Finn here yet?” he asked, coming around to lean on the kitchen archway and watch his young wife nervously prepare for the arrival of the guy who was taking her to the proverbial prom.

  “No, he’s not out there yet.” She practically bubbled.

  “How was work?”

  “The day went on forever,” she said and rolled her eyes.

  “I can imagine. Dorchester, baby,” he said and raised a limp fist.

  “You’re still a jerk for not coming,” she told him sulkily.

  Now he crossed the space between them, taking her in as he walked. She wore a pair of shorts he hadn’t seen before. They were black denim, jet black. Tight at her waist and kinda showing off her round bottom. Not too short—they had a rolled cuff that ended two inches above mid-thigh—but strangely short for Lib. Then in contrast she wore a white T-shirt, a V-neck, with billowy sleeves and when she moved her arms around, he could see the top side curve of her pale pink bra. The one she wore for Finn. His stomach grumbled.

  “I’m still so proud of you, I can’t believe you’re going to go and see Dorchester...”

  “Without you?”

  “No, I mean at all. I’m happy for you. You’ll have an awesome time.”

  “Imagine if Finn can get us backstage...”

  “He’s going to, he said he’s in and out of there...”

  “You think he’ll take me with him back there?”

  “He said he would.”

  Her gaze drifted down and her eyes bulged as she considered herself meeting real live celebrities she fan-girled out on when she was a cute little teen. She said, “Maybe it’d be better if I don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think I could handle it,” she said, and fanned herself.

  He caressed her bare arms, said, “You’ll kick yourself if you don’t.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “Yeah, I have to be a big girl.”

  “You’re a big girl, Libby. You’re the best girl…”

  She giggled, softly said, “And you’re such a jerk for not coming.”

  “I would be there if I could. I wish I was going...”

  “You don’t even like Dorchester,” she murmured.

  “But I like you,” he said, slinked his arms around her tighter. “Plus, there are lots of other bands playing.”

  She hugged him in return, said, “Do you think they’ll play Tom’s Everglades?”

  “I think they have to.”

  “They better.”

  “You like that song Holding Your Heart.”

  “They’ll play that,” she said.

  They held each other and began to rock from side to side, his wife clinging to him, her weight heavy on him as she leaned her weight; he gripped her shirt to keep her upright. She was reluctant to leave.

  A rumble approached, and he knew it would be Finn’s motorcycle. “I think he’s coming,” he said.

  She whispered, “I hear him...”

  12

  Together, he and Lib came down off their doorstep and onto the sunny garden patch out front of the house. At the mouth of their short driveway, Finn’s motorcycle had pulled up sideways. Chelsea was on the back, kicking out a long denim leg to dismount, then stomping her cowboy boots to get her jeans comfortable again. She flipped up the visor of the helmet and waved to him. He waved back.

  On Chelsea’s back was the pack Finn and Lib would bring with them. A change of clothes for both of them, their toiletries and other necessities. Libby had dropped off her overnight items to Chelsea the day before. Chelsea had packed the bags for the two of them. Chelsea doffed it, dropped it near the bike’s fat rear wheel. Finn shut it down, then kicked a leg out to dismount as well, popping off his helmet as he did. He wore a leather jacket that fit tight to his body and a pair of black canvas work pants. He gave Lib a hang-ten sign and called out: “Dorchester!”

  To Ben’s surprise, Libby let out a hoot and pumped a fist. His eyebrows raised as his heart raced. The sudden urge to stop this lunged out at him now, gripped his lapels and try to shake some sense into him. You don’t want this it said.

  I have to, I have to amend my guilt...

  It’s not about that anymore...

  It is, it is!

  Chelsea unzipped the slim leather jacket she wore and shrugged it off her shoulders. She wore a tank top underneath and no bra. Her nipples were dark coins seen under the pale fabric. “You all set?” she said to Libby as Libby came closer.

  “I am,” Lib said. “I’m so excited…”

  Chelsea held out the leather jacket like a bullfighter’s cape, luring Libby to put an arm through it. Libby turned her back and slunk an arm through the sleeve of Chelsea’s jacket. Finn came to join her, and now the couple was facing his wife as the jacket was zipped up. Chelsea gave it a few good stop-and-go tugs to get it over Libby’s chest. It made Libby sway on her feet but she got it done up to the neck, then patted Libby’s shoulders. She said, “Your tits are way bigger than mine,” and laughed.

  Finn laughed as well, and Libby swallowed the bottom corner of her lip, her bashful eyes turned up to look at Finn. Her cheeks blushed right before Ben’s eyes. A bright cheery bloom on her perfect little cheeks. Stop it, what you doing?—this is madness! My guilt! My guilt!

  “This is it, Lib,” Ben said, stepping up and running his hand over her leather arm, feeling the gathered sunlight heat there. “You got everything?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “You got your phone?”

  Chelsea held out her hand. “Give it to me, I’ll zip it in the pack.”

  Libby retrieved her flip-phone from a pocket and passed it to Chelsea, said to Ben, “Check.”

  “Money?”

  “Check.”

  “Credit card?”

  “Check.”

  “ID?”

  “Check.”

  “Switchblade?”

  “Ch—what do I need a switchblade for?”

  Finn hugged an arm over her shoulder, said, “How else you going to protect me, Lib?”

  Libby elbowed at him but didn’t connect. She said, “Aren’t you supposed to protect me?”

  Finn said, “I’m going to show you a good time, I was hoping you would be the muscle.”

  Libby’s cheeks blushed, and she said, “You’re the one with the muscles, Finn,” and that cute smile on Lib’s face as she looked up at this guy she was crushing on could very well break her crazy husband.

  13

  Ben took his wife aside, held her shoulders and looked in her eyes. He said, “Go have a good time. Have the best time of your life. I’ll be thinking about you and I’ll be hoping you’re having fun.”

  “I will,” she said, unable to hide that she was projecting a brave face because underneath she was timid.

  “You wear your helmet no matter what Finn says.”

  She frowned and smiled. “He’s not going to say I don’t have to.”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “I don’t want you getting a tattoo.”

  “I won’t.” She smirked.

  “Make sure Finn doesn’t go too fast.”

  “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before,” she said and looked nervously over her shoulder at the aggressive and muscular styling of Finn’s custom hog.

  “You hold on to him...”

  “I know how to do it,” she said, then looked back at him now. She’d put gloss on her lips. His stomach ached.

  He said, “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Ben,” she said, the worry creasing her brow.

  “Promise me you’ll have fun.”

  “I will.”

  Libby donned the nylon backpack, a sporty-looking thing with all sorts of racing striping and logos. She jumped up and down to get the pack’s weight to settle, and Chelsea made sure all the zippers were done up and the straps had been tightened. She patted Libby’s visor, rubbed a circle on her shoulder, guid
ing her onto the higher curve of the motorcycle’s leather seat. Libby’s leg was thrown over the saddle, her pussy humped snug up against Finn’s rump. He had his helmet turned to the side, watching them get her prepared.

  Ben came in, gave her a light hug, his head twisted away to make room for the bulb of her fancy helmet. She patted his back, and he gave her a thumbs up. She gave him one back, and Finn reached to grab her hand, and pulled it to his front. Libby leaned forward and rested her chest on him and hugged her arms around Finn’s body. Ben stepped back.

  Finn started up the bike, and Ben began to chew on his lip watching as the bike went into gear, the guttural motor sound changed and the bike rolled forward. Both Finn and Libby looked over their shoulders to see if traffic was coming, then Finn let the bike out, did a slow ‘U’ on their shady, tree-lined street, Finn waving as they began to grumble down Sarah Ashbridge in first gear. Libby was too afraid to wave, kept her hands clutched to Finn’s chest.

  He missed her already. The fainter the rumble of Finn’s bike grew, the more he wanted to call this off. The more he wanted to put an end to it. He would confess. He would throw his body on the gears of the machine and let it bend him at its will. At his wife’s will...

  Chelsea came to stand beside him, both of them watching the bike slow at Boardwalk, its indicator coming on showing left to take them to the highway.

  “There they go,” she said.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said.

  “Oh, shoot,” Chelsea said.

  He waited for more and when she said nothing he turned to regard her. “Oh, shoot what?”

  She held a hand out and wiggled Libby’s flip-phone at him. She said, “I forgot to pack Libby’s phone.”

  His stomach tightened further, and he groaned. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I’m a bitch,” she answered, obviously proud of it.

  14

  Libby didn’t call him until after ten o’clock at night and he was about ready to scream. He’d been driving up and down the 401 between Pickering and Oshawa waiting for her call. He was on a break, pulled over at the Tim Hortons, sitting in the parking lot, cursing and muttering, sweaty hands gripping his steering wheel tight. Why wasn’t she calling? She’d left before seven, she would’ve been there eight-to-eight-thirty, why didn’t she call right away? Did she not make it? Was she hurt? Did they check into the hotel, but were too busy getting sweaty under the sheets to let poor Ben know everything was all right? Poor husband was the last to know. Sitting here at proverbial home waiting for a call from his errant wife…

  Only he was the bad one. Why was he going back and forth on the highway? Well, when Lib calls, I have to look like I’m on the road to Niagara. You know… The whole reason I can’t go to Dorchester and she will end up cheating on me… Fucking crazy...

  When the phone buzzed, he jumped a foot off his leather. The god damn ring tone was set too loud. It was like a telephone explosion had gone off in the cab, someone dropping a telephonic grenade into his front seat. His heart hammered in his ears and he gripped the phone close, his eyes reading the screen. Finn calling.

  Right. Libby didn’t have her phone. Finn was in control…

  The call disappeared. The chance to answer it gone. “What the fuck?” he muttered. Come on…

  A new sound, a bubbling sound. A FaceTime call.

  He swiped the app open, received the incoming call. He was presented with a blurry image of his wife, smiling wide, her eyes turned low like she was looking off at the bottom of the screen. She was mid-sentence, saying, “...on?… I don’t think it’s… wait… No, I see him…” Now her face turned up to the screen, and she waved at him with gleeful exuberance.

  “Hey, baby,” he shouted, his voice as disturbingly loud as his jangling phone had been in the quiet cab. His truck filled with light from the white reverse bulbs of a lifted SUV backing out from a spot behind him. “I miss you...”

  “This is so crazy,” Libby said, then to her side: “How do I?...”

  There was a deep rumbling voice but he couldn’t decipher the words. The voice was Finn’s. A hand and forearm loomed into view. The forearm was muscular, covered with tattoos, the hand held a clear cup half drained of its beer; a wedding ring winked. Finn pointed at something on the phone, Lib said, “Okay, okay, that’s good now—I can hear you better now, Ben...”

  “I said I missed you so much—you got there okay?…”

  But she was ignoring him again, turning her face to the side as Finn said something else to her. She nodded, said something behind her hand, then laughed, slapped her knee, smiling and showing off her white teeth. She turned back and said, “Hold on, Ben…”

  Then she fumbled around, Finn helping her with something. Now the camera was back on her face, and Finn’s hand was tucking an ear bud into her ear. She was saying, “Okay, okay, that’s good... Ben?...”

  “Hi, baby,” he said clearly for her.

  “I miss you,” she squealed.

  “Are you having fun?”

  “I swear I am,” she said. Her face was so close the background was blotted out. He asked her where she was.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her face turning to look around. “It’s like a control room or something. The bands are doing sound check...” Now she loomed even closer... “I... saw... Dorchester,” she mouthed, pronouncing each word then stretching her mouth in a silent fan-girl scream while her head jittered.

  “Did you really?”

  “I did. They were doing sound check, and I was sitting up here in the booth. I didn’t get to meet them or anything, but I got to see them practice their set...”

  “That’s awesome.”

  She said, “They’re going to play Tom’s Everglades.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “They played it at sound check,” she said and squeezed at her nose.

  “What did you guys do for supper?”

  “Finn and I went to—” She turned away and asked Finn, “What was that place?”

  Finn’s deep voice returned an answer, his shadow passing as he leaned closer to Lib.

  She repeated, “Finnegan’s Irish Public House.”

  “What is it?”

  “A bar. Restaurant…”

  “What did you eat?”

  She got close and whispered, “Just a chicken breast and salad...”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  Her eyes darted sidelong. “It’s because my stomach is upset...”

  “From nerves?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re doing great,” he said.

  She glanced around the room where she was, the camera falling away from its close focus on Lib. He could see the glare off a large sheet of tinted glass, a man’s back turned his way; the guy had long stringy hair and sat at a control board of some kind with an array of lights and switches and sliders. Conversations threaded low in the air, undecipherable but decidedly all-male. Libby turned her face back, said, “It’s crazy here...”

  “Who else did you see?”

  “Sound check?—uh, Peter Frampton, Matthew Good... oh, uh, Aerosmith is here, but I didn’t hear them play but I saw the lead singer guy walk across the stage...”

  “How’s Finn?”

  “He’s awesome.” She turned her face away from the screen, looking up. She said to Finn, “I’m just saying to Ben how you’re awesome,” her voice quieter away from the microphone. She waited for a response, and he watched her throat gulp as she chuckled. Now she returned to him, saying, “Yeah, Finn’s good. We had dinner, then we went and checked in, but then we had to get to the show real quick... I didn’t have a chance to call you. And hey, why didn’t you ask me something?...”

  “Ask you what?”

  “How come I’m calling you on Finn’s phone.”

  “I know why you’re calling me on Finn’s phone.”

  “Not so I can do video chat...”

  “I know it’s not because you can’t do v
ideo chat on yours...”

  “I lost my phone,” she said in a husky conspiratorial manner, her comic tone making him wonder if she’d been drinking. Why not? She’d gone to an Irish bar. Of course she was drinking…

  “You didn’t lose your phone,” he said.

  “No, I did, seriously...”

  “It’s here.”

  “It’s there? Serious?”

  “I have it,” he said.

  “Oh, my God,” she gasped in relief, clasped a hand to her chest and let out an exasperated roar, her pouted lips tilted upward, a brief exhale making her hanging hair whisk away. “Oh, wow, Ben, I was really, really, really—”

  “It’s here,” he said, “I have it. Chelsea forgot to pack it.”

  “She said she packed it,” Lib said.

  “She thought she did.”

  Away from the camera, Libby said to Finn, “Ben has my phone. Chelsea forgot to pack it.”

  Finn said something, and they both laughed.

  “What is it? What did he say?” But Libby wasn’t paying attention to him, still listening to Finn.

  Libby laughed, and Finn’s shadow receded. Libby turned and asked him, “Where are you now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I’m not sure,” making a production of looking around. “I kinda zoned out. I’m on the highway somewhere, but when you called I was parked—I was feeling sleepy, so I pulled over to a Tim Hortons to grab a coffee...”

  “Don’t drive tired,” she said, her tone serious.

  “I won’t be,” he said, “I got a coffee now. I’m good, Lib, I’m good. What are you going to do now?” He asked to change the subject of his location.

  “I don’t know,” she said, leaning back from the camera again, her head turned to the side and he heard her ask Finn, “What are we doing now?”

  Libby listened and Ben watched her hand gather at her collar, her finger tracing up and down the fabric line where her T-shirt crossed her neck, absently caressing herself.

  Libby came back, her face blotting out the background, saying, “We’re here for a little bit longer. He’s got some stuff to do, then he said we can do whatever. There are a couple parties, and he said maybe the bands will have something going on in the hotel...” She widened her eyes, like she couldn’t believe it herself. She said, “Then I guess we’ll just go back to the room...”