chapter Seven
* * * * *
I settle in as we tear toward Center City. The Philadelphia skyline is lit up beyond the windows. Though I’ve been here all my life, the whole place looks different out the window of a fancy town car. I feel like I’m seeing everything again for the first time. Since Slade crashed into my life, everything is a little bit brighter. A little more exciting. As we approach the venue, I’m all but bouncing in my seat. This is going to be amazing, I can feel it.
Anders pulls to a stop behind the venue. I can see the snaking crowd around the corner jostling and yelling and vibrating with excitement. The driver helps me out of the car and walks me over to the back entrance. Two burly security guards stop us, but Anders mentions my name, and they let us through. I have to try hard not to laugh. I never in a million years thought I’d be on any sort of VIP list. Anders tells me he’ll be waiting in the car and disappears from my side. The backstage door snaps shut, and I’m suddenly immersed in this new, overwhelmingly exciting world.
In the darkness around me, people weave and tear by. I can’t make out anything around me, but there are a thousand sounds echoing around the backstage world. I hold very still, trying to get my bearings. Surely, if I can handle the bustle of an emergency room, I can handle this. My eyes slowly begin to adjust, keying into the small patches of light, the hints of shape. I can hear a great rumbling from just beyond my range of vision—it must be the audience flowing into the arena to watch Flagrant Disregard play.
A hand closes around my elbow, and I whip around to see who’s there. There’s a face very close to mine, though I can’t make out any features.
“Julia!” cries a familiar voice. I recognize it as belonging to Eddie Bayonne, the manager of Slade’s band. It’s comforting to know there’s at least one aspect of this crazy new world that I’m already acquainted with.
“Hey Eddie,” I yell over the hustle of the backstage, “Are you my babysitter for the evening?”
“You might say that,” he replies, ushering me through the blackness, “Slade wanted to make sure you weren’t abducted or anything.”
“Does that happen a lot at your shows?” I ask, somewhat alarmed.
“Not particularly,” he says, “But you never know. There’s a place you can watch the show from in the wings of the stage. Is that cool with you?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. We step into a patch of light from the house of the arena, and Eddie gets a look at my outfit.
“Goddamn!” he cries, unabashedly, “A far cry from those scrubs, huh?”
“Well, all my scrubs were dirty. So I had to go with this,” I say dryly.
“You look great,” Eddie says. “Slade is going to lose his mind.”
Usually I’d be annoyed with anyone dwelling on my looks for this long, but the thought of Slade seeing me all dolled up gets me excited. I’m halfway hoping that we’ll be able to meet up on our own so that we can cut right to the chase. After that kiss, my body’s gone into Slade withdrawal. I need my next fix soon, or I don’t know what I’ll do. As excited as I am to see him play, I’m hoping that the show goes quickly—the sooner we’re alone together, the better.
“Here we are,” Eddie says, halting just beyond a thick black curtain, “I think you’ll like the view.”
He draws the curtain back, and the arena opens up before my eyes. My jaw drops open as I take in the scope of the space from this vantage point. There are thousands of people out there, milling and seething, waiting to see Flagrant Disregard play. There’s an electric anticipation in the air, so charged I can practically see it sparking through the crowd. Crew members rush about the stage, readying instruments and microphones, making sure that everything is just right for the band. I turn toward Eddie with an excited smile on my face.
“This is amazing!” I cry out.
“Just wait until they start playing!” he says back.
“Are you sure it’s OK if I stay here?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says, “You’re a guest of honor tonight.”
That’s funny, considering the very dishonorable things I plan to do with Slade as soon as he gets off the stage. I try to memorize as much of what’s going on around me as I can. I know that I’ll want to remember this night for the rest of my life.
“Eddie!” says a high, wispy voice behind us. I turn around and see a tall, rail thin blonde woman grinning at the manager. She’s flanked by two similarly built brunettes, and all three women are ignoring me pointedly. Their tight dresses are heavily ripped, baring toned arms and flat stomachs. Tattoos run along their limbs and backs, their hair is perfectly tousled and messy, and their makeup is bold. They’re absolutely stunning, every single one, and I can’t help feeling a little intimidated.
“Girls,” Eddie says, throwing his arm around the blonde woman’s shoulders, “How are you all doing this evening? Ready for the show?”
“Always,” says once of the brunettes, whose pitch black hair hangs in a perfectly straight wave down her back.
“How long until they start?” asks the woman with chestnut curls.
“Any minute now,” Eddie says with a smile, “I bet they’ll be hot tonight—it’s the last show before we officially kick off the tour!”
“Yay!” giggles the blonde woman, clapping her hands together excitedly. The others follow suit, bopping up and down like toddlers in a bouncy house. There’s something too perfect about the way they fawn over Eddie, something that I don’t quite trust.
“This is Julia,” Eddie tells them, gesturing my way, “She took care of Slade in the hospital.”
“Oh yeah,” says the blonde, “You made us wait in the lobby.”
“It’s hospital rules,” I tell her warily. I suddenly remember her keening in the waiting room as Slade was whisked back into the hospital. She had told me rather frankly that Slade was the next Messiah. That level of adoration made me more than a little nervous.
“Take care of her, will you?” Eddie says to the girls, “I’ve got to go make some calls. Arrangements for the New York show.”
“Wait—” I say, but Eddie’s already disappeared into the darkness of the backstage world. It’s just me and the three towering beauties, alone in the wings. The instant Eddie’s out of sight, their demeanor changes instantly. The bubbly effervescence dies in a heartbeat, and a cold, calculated menace comes over them.
“I’m sorry,” I say with as big a smile as I can manage, “I didn’t catch your names.”
“I’m Helena,” says the blonde.
“I’m Jackie,” says the raven-haired woman.
“I’m Ruby,” says the woman with brown curls.
“And you’re the Supremes?” I joke. They’re not the least bit amused. Why am I not surprised?
“So, Slade thought he’d give you a little taste of the high life to repay you for not accidentally killing him in the hospital?” Helena says meanly.
“Something like that,” I say, “Though accidental killings aren’t really my specialty.”
“No, just shutting out Slade’s closest friends in his hour of need,” Ruby says, glaring at me.
“His closest friends...meaning you?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow.
“That’s right,” Jackie says, tossing her black hair over her shoulder, “We’re essential to the band. They wouldn’t be able to function without us.”
“I see,” I said, “And what function do you all serve, exactly?”
“Give you one guess,” Helena smiled.
“Ah,” I said, “That is essential.”
“You should just know,” Jackie said, “That just because you’re here for one night, doesn’t mean that you belong. Slade’s just being charitable, bringing you along. There’s no more room for another girl.”
“No, it looks like you three have that under control,” I say, “Don’t worry. I’m not really the sex slave type, in the end.”
“I should say not,” Ruby sniffs.
“I’m just here to see the show,” I tell them, “Trust me. Groupie duty is all yours. I have a little more dignity than that.”
“Dignity is an illusion,” Helena assures me, nonsensically.
“‘Kay,” I say, rolling my eyes, “You all enjoy the show, then.”
“We enjoy the post-show more,” Ruby says, winking. The three of them slink away into the darkness together, glaring daggers over their perfectly sculpted shoulders. I let out a long sigh. I should have known this whole thing would get complicated fast. It was pretty clear, the arrangement these women had with the band. There were three men in Flagrant Disregard, and three attendant groupies. One for each. And recalling Helena’s hysteria in the waiting room, it wasn’t hard to guess which of the guys was “hers”. I look down at my thrown-together ensemble, with my curvy hips and my protruding chest, and wonder how I’m supposed to compete with the stick figure goddess that just walked away from me.
But Slade invited me here for a reason. He came and found me after being discharged for a reason. He brought me back to see where he had come from, and he had given me a searing kiss before saying goodbye. I have to have faith that he isn’t just going to leave me by the roadside when the band leaves for their big tour.
Though I’ve only known him a few days, I have to trust Slade.
Trust the infamous partier and keeper of beautiful groupies...Right. No problem.
I look past the curtain, out into the gaping arena. The space is jam packed, now—not a square foot left that I can see. All these people are here to see Slade and the band...but not the Slade I’ve just come from seeing. It’s a whole other person, a whole separate identity that I’ve never even met before. I hope I like Slade the rock star as much as I like Slade the man.
The lights in the house of the arena suddenly shut off, and the entire space is plunged into darkness. A deafening roar goes up from the crowd, washing over me like a rogue wave. They’re stomping and screaming and shoving each other out there, jostling for a better view of the stage. For a long moment, the entire world is dark. Then, with a fiery blaze, a dozen panels of stage lights flare up to full blast. I’m blinded by the sudden glow, and stagger back under the intensity of the sudden lights and sound. It’s utterly overwhelming—and the show hasn’t even started yet.
The crowd’s mania ticks up another ten notches as four shadowy figures make their way onto the stage. I can only make out the outlines of their bodies through the blazing lights, but there’s one form that I would know anywhere striding across the wide stage. Slade Hale lifts up his arms as if in supplication to the audience. He walks toward the writhing crowd, and everyone in attendance goes absolutely mad. They love him, I can tell. He has their utter attention, their absolute, rapt adoration.
Slade steps up to the standing mic and screams, “How the f*ck are you doing tonight, Philadelphia?”
Another surge of sound crashes against the stage, but Slade isn’t thrown. He seems to be expanding, growing larger than life as if inflated by the crowd’s manic excitement. “We’re going to rock out with you all night,” he goes on, “So get the f*cking pit going and lose your f*cking minds!”
A roar of assent sounds as Slade turns his back to the crowd. The other band members have found their places on stage and taken up their instruments. Annabelle perches behind the massive drum set, wearing little more than a collection of tatters. Dodge has his legs spread wide, ready to tear into the opening number. Every muscle in Joe’s thick body seems to be tensed and ready to spring at Slade’s command. And Slade stands before them all, in perfectly fitted black jeans and a plain white tee shirt, his black curls hanging in front of his face, his jaw stubbled deliciously. His dark eyes are positively radiant with excitement. The sight of him, backlit by the blazing stage lights, buoyed by the utter adoration of thousands of fans, is incredible. He’s practically super human right now.
Slade takes a deep, swift breath, filling his lungs with air. Spinning back to the microphone, he lets out a deep, heartrending wail. For a moment, his voice is the only sound ringing through the massive arena. The entire crowd holds its breath, listening to the powerful, wavering sound of his voice. And then, all hell breaks loose. The band springs into their first song, pounding out a surging, aching beat that sweeps them up with it. The crowd is screaming now, shouting along with the song or yelling their own truths into the darkness. And Slade is the conduit for it all.
He strides across the stage, his every muscle straining under the intensity of his motion. His voice soars above the din, ringing through the arena and surrounding us all. Before I know it, I can feel my own body moving along to the raging music. I watch as the audience seems to split, and a massive black hole opens up in the center of the crowd. One after another, rabid fans charge into the pit, swinging their fists and dancing erratically. Usually, this kind of display would worry me sick, but I’m too caught up in the moment to be concerned. All that I care about is Slade’s voice, moving through me, the music pumping through me and bringing me to life.
All over the crowd, people are being tossed into the air, carried across the sea of people by a hundred hands. People soar up into the air and disappear from view, only to land once again in the churning, furious mosh pit. Chaos takes over the assembled crowd, and the lawless, turbulent expanse comes alive with its own aggressive fury. I’ve never seen something so terrifying and alluring as this circus of which Slade is the ringmaster, leading the way.
Sweat pours down Slade’s face and chest, his white tee shirt sticks to his rippling muscles. He leaps and charges across the stage while Dodge and Joe thrash wildly, throwing themselves into the heavy beat song after song. Melodies weave and change, songs bleed into each other. I’m dancing in my own little corner of the arena, swinging my hips and hair, thrashing and writhing along with the audience. I didn’t even know my limbs could move like this, without inhibition. I don’t want the music to ever end—I only want to be suspended here in this chaotic bliss forever.
Time loses all meaning as the band continues to play. We all descend into mayhem together, until no one can remember any world other than the one that the band has created here. Against all reason, I long to throw myself onto the stage, into the audience, to be as close as I can be to the raging, charged energy that surges through the entire space. I want to feel the press of bodies all around me, I want to be tossed into the air and carried along by hundreds of strange hands. I want to race through the pit, dodging fists and pushing past skirmishes. I want to throw myself at Slade’s feet and soak up the fury of his epic performance. I want to be right there with him now and forever.
Just as I’m working up the nerve, just as I think that I can truly toss myself into the fray, Slade lifts his arms triumphantly. The crowd ceases its furious antics and turns its attention to him. I bring my body to a halt, my chest is working furiously to suck in air. It’s over. The show is finished. Turning their backs to the cheering crowd, the members of Flagrant Disregard make their way offstage. I stand rooted to the spot as Slade heads straight toward me.
He stalks my way, his entire body seems bigger, stronger, more alive than I’ve ever seen it. He looks like he could tear through chain link, or concrete, or sheet metal if he wanted to. I know that he sees me, and I know that he’s placed me here for a reason. He wanted me to see him in this state, to see the change that comes over him when he performs. He wants to know if I can handle it, if I want him like this. And I’m going to show him how much I do.
As he gets closer, I know that he can see how game I really am. He can see the wild, furious glee in my smile, the sweat rolling down my skin, the charged, aching satisfaction coursing through me. Wordlessly, I tell him how much I want him. He doesn’t even pause to greet me as he approaches. In one swift motion, he draws up before me and sweeps me into his strong arms. Slade brings me close to him, and I hungrily leap up into his embrace, and wrap my legs around his hips.
He carries me two paces and pushes my back up against the backstage wall. We’re hidden behind the thick black curtains of the stage, tucked away in our own corner of the surging, full arena. I run my hands through his wet curls and bring my mouth eagerly to his. His hands grip my ass, as he kisses me deeply, letting his tongue glide against mine. He tastes like sweat and ire and lust, and I savor it. I tighten my legs around him, arching my back against the wall. Our mouths move together, our tongues sliding and probing into the other’s mouth. I’m dizzy with the taste of him, drunk on his sudden passion.
I let my hands trail down his firm chest, running along the strong, muscular planes. My breasts press against him, tantalizing him. He pins me to the wall with his hips, and he brings his hands up and cups my breasts. I let out a moan, the sound vibrates against his lips. My dress is bunched up around my waist as he lets his thumbs glance across my hard, erect nipples. I grip the small of his back, kissing him furiously as he kneads my tender flesh. Our hands and mouths are full of one another. We’re surrounded by the ecstatic, unimaginable energy he’s just created out of thin air. I want him right now, right here, with this entire world orbiting around us. But some nagging rational part of my mind knows that I’ll have to wait a little while longer.
He breaks away from our kiss, grinning at me in the darkness. His strong hands lower me down onto the ground, and I fall heavily back against the wall. We’re inches apart, our chests heaving with desire. I smile up at him, shaking my head in amazement.
“So, that’s a rock concert,” I say, “Are they all this exciting?”
“This is the most excited I’ve ever been at one,” he laughs.
“You don’t say,” I grin.
“Come on,” he says, taking me by the hand.
He leads me through the backstage world, pulling me along through the maze of doors and hallways. Crew members are bustling all around us, calling out to each other, breaking down the stage, moving platforms and instruments. We weave through the bustle together, Slade towing me along. I run to keep up with him, my hair snapping behind me. How he knows where he’s going, I have no idea.
We finally break through the block of motion and come to the backstage door. The portal opens to us as if by magic, and a hundred flashbulbs begin to fire away. Slade pulls me along with him, out into this new cacophonous riot. Fans and paparazzi are clamoring for Slade’s attention, but even as he indulges them with autographs and roughish smiles, he keeps my hand firmly in his. I blink out at the cameras and prying eyes, stunned by the intensity of their adoration and focus. I’ve never seen anything like this.
Anders is waiting at the end of the stretch, standing with the door of the town car held open. We vault toward the car together and climb into the backseat. Slade slams the door, and we peel away from the venue, tires screeching.