Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2) (3 page)

Chapter 4
For Those About to Rock

              There was always a sense of relief on the flight over the Cascades on our way home to Spokane. Seattle sprawled into the ascending white-peaked mountains. Mountains smoothed into  tumbling foothills and craggy crevices, home of rolling, glittering rivers. The foothills spread like giant fists, fingers balled and bared against the earth. Half-way home the land flattened and turned into a patchwork of brown, green and gold circles and squares—the land covered in a enormous homemade quilt of farmer’s fields. I laughed at one gaping circle that looked like a giant PacMan ready to swallow the homestead. Finally, innumerable lakes and ponds sprouted across the land, glimmering puddles scattered haphazardly across the scraggly land.

             
Spokane may not be a huge city, but it was sufficient for me. Big enough that I could lose myself and not be recognized, too much. Vast housing developments led to landmark sights like the bold green and gold water tower in Shadle Park and the rising bastion of the courthouse downtown, as we banked sharply over the city. And of course, there was my man, Jesse, waiting for me at home. With his warm brown eyes and safe strong arms, it was always something to look forward to.

             
Tonight, we had a gig at the Factory, so we headed straight from the airport to the venue. We parked on the North side by the load-out doors and hauled the equipment from the van into the equipment room. DeWayne, the sound guy, led us to the stage, then to the elevator that took us to the second floor green room. They were more than adequate accommodations with plush, comfy couches; a gigantic screen television; arcade games and private bar and bartender, though no one was on duty at the moment.

             
“You guys want anything?” DeWayne asked from behind the bar. Yvy and the guys ordered beer and DeWayne turned his attention to me. He ran a cold calloused finger suggestively down my arm. “How ‘bout you, little missy?”

             
Jack snorted, and pressed forward but I caught his arm and warned him off. “Fireball, on the rocks.”
Asshole!

             
I wandered around the green room sipping my drink, while DeWayne explained everything to the guys, loud enough so I could hear also. After several minutes, a pimple-faced, leather-glove-clad teen boy emerged from the elevator.

             
“My guys are ready whenever you are,” he announced, after introducing himself as Jacob, head roadie for the Factory.

             
The guys headed for the elevator and I downed the last of my drink, sucking up one of the ice cubes in my mouth and setting the glass on the bar. DeWayne’s fingers fished around in the glass and he pulled out a cube, sucking the alcohol off the ice and tracing the cube down my chest where his fingers lingered at my cleavage. The elevator fairly exploded with testosterone and rage, but I had the asshole face down on the floor, his arm twisted behind his back with my knees pressing on his kidneys before the guys could reach us. I crunched the ice and blew the chunks into DeWayne’s face, and leaned into him. He grunted.

             
“If you ever so much as
look
at me wrong again,” I spat and cranked his wrist to a precariously dangerous angle, “I will break your fucking wrist and you will be damn lucky if that’s all I break. You got that?” I pressed the angle of his wrist a little further.

             
DeWayne whimpered and nodded.

             
“I didn’t hear you.”

             
“Yes ma’am. I got it. I understand.”

             
“Good,” I hissed. “Now stay the hell away from me.”

             
“Yes ma’am.”

             
DeWayne whimpered as I pressed my knees into his back. As I got up, I tweaked his wrist a little further for good measure. I thought, perhaps, I heard something pop inside as I shoved away from him. Yeah? So what? He deserved it. The prick. I picked up the remnants of my glass and scowled because his nasty fingers had contaminated it, then dumped the remainder of it over his head, and clunked the glass back on the bar top.

             
Drey and Yvy high-fived me and Jack and Kylen put their arms around my waist to escort me onto the elevator. DeWayne was just pushing himself up off the floor when I turned around. I double-birded him as the doors closed in front of me. Just for good measure.

              The show went off without a hitch, as home shows usually did, despite the fact that DeWayne ran sound for us. At one point after the show, I caught sight of a large, bald, black man glaring down at DeWayne, jabbing his finger into the sound man’s chest. DeWayne shrank, cowed by the magnitude of ass chewing he was receiving and the sheer size of its deliverer. The black man walked over to me and introduced himself as the venue owner, Antonio Kohlhauff, and offered his apologies for his inept sound man. Apparently, my guys didn’t think my personal chastisement was sufficient enough punishment for the arrogant bastard and had gone to the head honcho on my behalf, as well.

             
Later, as we headed out for the night, DeWayne approached me, abashed. “Miss Sweet?” He reached for my arm but withdrew his hand as though in fear of losing a finger or two, or that I’d make good on my promise to break his effin’ wrist.

             
“What?” I had no compassion for him whatsoever.

             
“I, uh, wanted to apologize for earlier,” he stammered. “It was…uh…I shouldn’t have treated you that way. There’s no excuse…”

             
“No. Duh-Wayne.” I spit out his name like a curse. “There isn’t.” I stepped up into his face looking up from my all of five foot two stature. He flinched as though I towered over him, and backed away. “Tell me something,” I stepped up to him again and poked my finger into his chest. “You got a sister? DeWayne.”

             
“Yes ma’am. She’s fourteen.”

             
“So in three years, you want some ass wipe of a sound guy, who thinks he knows everything about music but doesn’t, so all he can do is run sound, to be fondling her? You think she’ll be old enough then?”

             
“No ma’am.”

             
“‘No ma’am.’” I snorted. “Let me ask you this—DeWayne. Do you think Mr. Kohlhauff would think twice about firing your sorry ass if it meant me and my guys would never return to this here fine establishment?”

             
“No ma’am. He’s said as much.”

             
“Well, there’s one intelligent man here. The Factory’s saving grace as far as Cuimhnigh is concerned.”

             
“Yes ma’am.”

             
“Shut up. Just shut the f…” I clenched my fist and backed off before I did something we might all regret. “Don’t fake the respect with ‘ma’am’. You got that?” I growled venomously. “It’s bullshit, and we both know it. You step up with some balls and some genuine respect for the ladies who come to this place. You are nobody, Duh-Wayne the sound guy. Nobody. You don’t even have a girl, do you?” I didn’t wait for his reply but I could tell by the way he flinched, like someone stuck him in the butt with a cattle prod, that I was right. “Women aren’t objects and every one of us deserves to be treated like a queen. You got that?”

             
“Yes m—yes.”

             
“Yeah, good luck with that. Duh-Wayne the sound guy.” I turned my back on him and strode away to the guys, who were waiting a few yards away. Kylen wrapped his arm around my waist and shoved his fingers into my back pocket, his thumb gently, reassuringly stroking my hip. I took one last look at Deflated Duh-Wayne the sound guy, and snorted. Shaking my head, I wondered if he really got it, or if he was just an innate idiot, and walked away.

             
Home was grand. Being in my own house with my own stuff, doing my own things on my own time was amazing, relaxing, wonderful. Jesse was there with my favorite late night snack, peanut butter and crackers with a glass of cold milk. He had the house all warmed up, and candles burning so I didn’t come home to the cold mustiness of an empty house. Bless his heart. He always reminded me when I got home, why we had so many ‘on again’ times. I gratefully entered the comfort of his arms and breathed in his guy and Fahrenheit scent.

             
“So how was the tour?” Jesse breathed in my ear when we were finally snuggled up on the couch watching Jimmy Fallon.

             
“Great,” I feigned enthusiasm. I did not want Jess to know about the mystery man. His Puerto Rican blood tended to boil, under such circumstances, and I didn’t need him going off when I just got home. Besides, it was nothing I couldn’t handle. So, I snuggled against him and traced the contours of his forearms, muscled from heavy lifting. Now, that got my blood boiling, and it didn’t take long for us to head back to the bedroom for a little welcome-home canoodling. I fell asleep to the rhythmic beat of Jess’s heart, and wrapped in the heat of his body.

              Old burlap enshrouded me, smelling of dust and dung. I gagged as the filth rushed into my nose and mouth. A heavy boot struck me to the ground, where I wallowed, unable to right myself. My hands were tied behind my back with a course fibrous rope that lacerated my wrists. I tried to speak, to defend myself with words, but the boot connected with my gut, forcing the air from my lungs.

             
“Will…” I gasped, my voice low and gravelly as a country road. “I didn’t…” But the boot launched me off the ground. “I loved her, Will. I loved Sarah Rose.”

             
Rough hands grasped my shirt front and slammed me against the rocks beneath me. “Don’t speak her name. You’ve no right. Do not speak her name.” Will thrust me against the rocks with each word. “S’blood I’ll see yours spilled or least your neck wrung as hers.”

             
My world swam. I choked and gagged, trying to expel the dirt from my mouth and the grief from my heart. It was no use. Will was determined to kill me. Convinced I was responsible for the death of his beautiful sister.

             
“Thomas. String him up.”

             
I was lifted onto the back of a prancing anxious horse, and wobbled in the saddle as blood leaked down my cheeks. Dirty burlap stuck to my hair and face. Tiny squares of daylight filtered through. The horse skittered sideways as something hard struck my head. Then, I felt the rope forced over my head; the knot thrust down, hard as granite against my left ear.

             
“Vengeance for my sister, James. The blood that gives me life, did not run within her veins. As she died at your hand, so will you die at mine.” With that, and a roar of fury, Will slapped the horse I was astride in the rear. The steed bolted from beneath me. I fell. The rope made a reverberating snap and I heard the crunch of bone echoing through me.

             
Then…all was darkness.

              I awoke with a gasp and bolted upright, clutching my throat and heaving for air.  Jesse sat up beside me in bed.

             
“Hey Sweets. What’s wrong? Nightmare?”

             
“Yeah.” I struggled to breathe. It had been so real, like I’d truly lived it. I’d smelled the coarse, dirty fabric, felt the blows, felt the heartache, felt my death—
his
death, the man that invaded my dreams. The man who hijacked me, forced me to relive his miserable life and even more miserable death.

Chapter 5 Freak Like Me

             
Sultry, pheromone-laden air washed the stage, drenching my skin, seducing my heart. The people loved us and made it difficult to not love them back. My hands ached to reach out and touch their skin, transfer the energy and exhilaration I felt within me; to touch all of them, as many as my hands could reach. Yvy’s anointed fingers conjured music fit for a god, and my very soul soared. Kylen drifted into one of his magical solos at a signal from me, and I disappeared into the wings of the stage. The crowd roared and chanted his name, while I made my escape from the bright lights and pounding beat. The spell of his fingers echoed through the corridors, chasing the patter of my running feet. I’d planned my route earlier, just in case the need arose. Somehow, I’d known tonight that it would. I drifted into the darkness and paused to let my eyes adjust, then wove my way between the bodies. Finally finding my perch, I flipped on the power to my mike. I’d only sung a couple of notes before the spotlight found me, to the delight of the already-incited crowd.

             
Their bodies pressed around me, hands reaching to touch, to grasp, to convey their enthusiasm. I clutched hands, arms, shoulders—sang a line to this one and another line to that one. And we all fell deeper in love. I cruised through the crowd, touching as many as my hands could reach, hugging any who were bold enough to step within my embrace. I climbed over the railing, turning to sing to the audience further back, the ones in the ‘cheap seats’, who couldn’t afford the arena seating, couldn’t press themselves to the stage in hopes of clasping my hand, or catching a guitar pick. I reached, touching fingers, momentary presses, flesh to flesh, the slide of fingertip to fingertip—and then I saw him.

             
Those eyes were unforgettable—obsidian blue, radiant in the spotlight. His hand extended to mine, his eyes forging a spell of their own upon my heart. He
was
stalking me. But I wasn’t afraid. I was mesmerized. I wanted him, wanted him to touch me. My fingers reached for his, our fingertips brushed with an electrical shock. I gasped…

             
And then I was falling. I’d felt the fingers wrap round my leg, felt the sudden jerk that launched me backwards into the crowd and the spell was broken. The incredible eyes disappeared in the crowd. Realization struck.
I’m falling. I’m falling and this is going to hurt.
I laughed,
it’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop at the end that does it.
And I did stop, abruptly, borne up in the hands of my loved ones. They caught me; strong, zealous, passionate hands that grasped and groped every inch of my body, passing me hand over hand, conveying me over their heads, back to the stage.

             
I sat on the edge of the stage, swarmed with people, still reaching, still stroking, still clasping. I murmured my thanks and returned their caresses with appreciation. Finally, I dragged myself to my feet.

             
“Well, that was fun!” I told the crowd a little unnerved, and they roared with delight. Unnerved or not, the show must go on. If Marley could perform with gunshot wounds, surely I could handle this. Yet, my eyes drifted often to the small landing at the front of the upper level, searching, seeking the elusive gaze that now followed me into my dreams.

             
“He was here,” I told Kylen after the show. I lit a smoke with a deep draught and, very unlady like, blew it out my nose. “The guy—with the eyes.”

             
“They’ve all got eyes, Em,” taunted Jack.

             
“Shit!” was all Kylen said before he stuffed his hand in his skin-tight jeans and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He growled his protective mama bear growl as he stormed out the door, pressing his cell to his ear.

             
Kylen was the overprotective big brother. This was going to get bad before it got better. I didn’t know how to explain to him that I wasn’t afraid of the guy, that I actually kinda wanted to meet him, even though he was a creepy stalker guy. There was just something so—familiar—about him. Something unassuming and safe. But, that’s what people thought about Bundy—until he killed them.

             
I had to confess it was strange. He’d shown up at the Vail concert, the alley in Seattle and now this show. It was too much to be coincidence. And he always disappeared, like into thin air. Just
poof
—vanished, leaving only the lingering image of his sparkling ink-blue eyes.

             
The image of them stirred something deep inside me, as though I’d known them but had forgotten. But how could I forget something that seemed so passionately important? How could I forget the face of a god? Or, at the least, the face of perfection? And why did his gaze follow me even into my sleep? Beckoning me, come? And why the hell did I think I could trust this man, this face, these eyes? What was the spell they conjured over my heart? That, in itself, was reason enough to stay away from him.

*          *          *

              I wasn’t allowed to be alone out on the road anymore. Wherever I went, one of my guys went with me. Kylen called in a couple of extra roadies, big guys, with hams for biceps and lot of extra beef in places that made their bodies look deformed. They were a regular Rocky and Rambo, standing guard at the front of the stage, glaring ominously at anyone who pressed too close.

             
“Look, Kylen,” I yelled at him, after a show one night. “Those two muscle-bound thugs of yours are pissing me off. The fans expect to get up close and personal, and your Brutuses out there won’t let them within 10 feet of the stage.”

             
Kylen put his hands on my shoulders like placating a temperamental child. “They’re there to keep you safe, Em.”

             
“They’re there to spoil my fun,” I retorted, with my arms folded hard against my chest, I gave a defiant stomp of my foot, and sounded every bit as recalcitrant as he was treating me.

             
“Em…”

             
“I’m warning you, Ky. Call off your goons. I won’t punish the majority because of the one.”

             
Kylen’s shoulders sagged. “It’s your life, Em. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

             
“Move ‘em. Or else.” I didn’t know ‘what else’ but I’d think of something and he knew I would. Like an audience dive and surf.

             
I knew fans could be crazy, even dangerous at times. The gig in Phoenix proved that, with someone yanking my feet out from under me. It was just over-exuberance. I doubt it was the fan’s intention to make to me fall. And the fans kept me safe. I’d heard stories from other bands about lunatic fans that made their way onto the stage. One of the girls from The Belles told me about a fan who raided the stage to dance with her and then bit her in the breast. Just chomp. No reason. I’d had fans sneak past security and come stand beside me in the middle of a song, so they could take a selfie with me on their cell phone. It was all in good fun. Usually no one got hurt, well, except maybe the guitarist with teeth marks on her boob.

             
I promised Kylen and the rest of the guys not to crowd surf for a while, to stay on stage like a good little rocker, to be careful. No more audience recon. As long as the Stallone twins stayed in the wings and left my ‘peeps’ alone.

*          *          *

              “Check one. Check one,” I intoned into the mike. My voice echoed off the wall and back into my face. The floods were warm but not the fevered swelter that washed over me during a show. The quiet felt eerie. Empty. Jack banged out a fill on the drums, messing around, getting sound levels. Kylen picked a soulful song that we’d been working on in a park in  Phoenix the day before.

             
The Rambo twins, both with double-barreled guns, hovered at the foot of the stage. I shot a glare at them, though I shouldn’t. They were only doing their jobs. They couldn’t help it that their job got in the way of my fun. I wanted to kick the smartass scowls off their smartass faces, but Kylen would kick my smart ass if I did.

             
The venue stank of stale hazer smoke and sweat but it lacked the atmosphere of the press of bodies, the palpable love shoved onto the stage by riotous fans. Kylen and the Rambos just didn’t understand my need for contact with the people. It was a fix I craved as desperately as any drug addict jonesed for a drug. The press of flesh sent adrenalin coursing through my veins. My heart raced with euphoria, my soul set free from the bondages of life.

             
So what that there was a creepy stalker guy showing up at all our shows. He hadn’t done anything to me. Just looked. Never touched. And something within those incredible eyes hypnotized me. But was it a gossamer web that drew me into the spider’s web, a ploy to capture and consume me? Somewhere deep inside myself, a war raged. Half of me wanted to let the stranger reel me in; wanted to give in to the magnetism of his eyes. The other half feared what the stranger might mean, what he might do if I allowed him to ensnare me.  

             
We hit Portland like whirlwind and did a gig at the Roseland. The standing room only arena surged with adrenaline and bouncing boobs. The crowd pressed the stage, head-banging and hammering the stage floor at our feet. Geezus, they were riled tonight. One especially voluptuous woman raised a double shot of something amber for me to drink. I sang my way to that side of the stage, but as I approached, she lowered the drink and placed it in her cavernous cleavage and gave me a little shimmy. I flicked a look back at Drey, as he hammered on his bass and gestured him forward.

             
“All yours, Sweet cheeks!” he bellowed.

             
Aw, what the hell! 
I roamed my hands down body and gave this girl her own personal show. Her scream pierced the roar of the crowd, as I stripped out of my t-shirt and tossed it to her. There was no way in hell those tits were gonna fit into my small shirt, but I had no doubt she’d give it go. I dropped to my knees and stalked her, lithe and lupine. Amber liquid jostled and splashed, and evaporated into that heaving canyon. She pressed her chest closer in offering. I leaned down and withdrew the little plastic cup with my teeth. Surprisingly, there was still more than a shot left. I raised the glass to the woman, who threw kisses at me. The Fireball seared my throat as I threw back the first swig and continued singing.

             
As we ended the bridge and launched into the final chorus of the song, I felt my heart pull to the opposite side of the stage. In the crowd, he was there. My wanted stalker. His gaze lured me in. His lips moved in concert with mine, singing the words in unison. I drew closer but Kylen gripped my arm and yelled at me over the music.

             
“Lizzy! What are you doing?”

             
“I was just…he’s…” My world felt crowded and fragile. Like the stranger was home and all else was false. I felt my eyes narrow at Kylen. “What did you call me?”

             
“Emari, get a grip!” he bellowed.

             
I wrenched my arm from his grasp. “It’s fine. Trust me.”

             
I sank to my knees before my stalker; gave my second private concert of the night. Drawing the drink to my lips, I ran my tongue around the rim, gathering the sweetness. Then, I tipped the cup to the strangers lips and drained it into his eager mouth. A drop of liquor sparked on his lower lip, a beacon calling me home. My heart yearned to taste his mouth, to lick the remnants from his lips. As our faces grew closer, the rest of the band gave a simultaneous hiccup and hit a discordant chord. And still, my mouth longed for his, even as the music came to a crumbling end.

             
Jacks drums clattered to halt with the clash of a cymbal as it hit the floor and the bass drum kicker slammed home. Drey’s bass thundered one last awkward note that reverberated around the theater, while Kylen’s guitar chirped out in alarm. Yvy, the consummate professional played on alone, then slowly faded out as she realized only she continued to play.

             
I refused to be moved by any of it, despite the dissonant wrongness of the sounds around me. Confusion tugged at the fringes of my logic. But I
had
to kiss those lips;
had
to taste that warm sweet mouth.
Had to
. The only necessity left in my tiny universe—this overwhelming urge to kiss this man. No lips ever tasted better. Sweet. Warm. Gentle. Electricity arced from his lips to mine, as his polarity reeled me in.

             
The grumble of the crowd peaked with discontent, then faded to the background and finally disintegrated into silence. And the silence was wrong. As much as I wanted to submit to his gravitational pull, the strangeness of this silence dragged me away from his supercharged snare. I glanced up to see the arena pixelate around me, the audience turned to dust and blow away in the wind. My eyes narrowed and the tightness of confusion corrugated between my brows. If the audience vanished, where was the band? The silence slashed fear through my chest, but I had to know. I turned to face the stage and found only darkness and Cuimhnigh gone. The arena was a silent void, and as I turned again to find the stranger, even he had vanished.