Chapter 3 Friday, September 13, 1985

Friday

September 13, 1985

Unfortunately, reality set in on Friday. I walked out of the bathroom, fully dressed, and disappointed that I had to get back to the other part of my life. Season was awake, watching me.

Goddamn, she was beautiful, her black hair tousled around her head, her eyes sleepy, her skin fair and devoid of make-up, making her appear so much younger than her mere twenty-two years. She looked like she’d barely reached puberty, and I felt like a pedophile for a moment.

And the guys wonder why I want to get married.

She bit one side of her lower lip, and the crotch of my jeans got a little more uncomfortable.

She’s gonna kill me.

“You clean up pretty good,” she yawned. “No glasses today?”

I rubbed my freshly-shaved jaw one last time, and tossed my hair over one shoulder. “No, I’m back my original, charming rock loser image today.”

I sat down next to her on the bed, leaning down to kiss her neck. She still smelled like sex…and maple syrup. “Doctor’s appointment.”

Her expression changed, from morning-after euphoria to full-fledged concern. “Have you been all right?”

Don’t get serious on me now. I’m gonna be going through enough of those kinds of questions this morning as it was.

“I’m perfect,” I assured her, meaning every word, at least at the time. “The Elavil is working.”

She nodded slightly, toying with the buttons on my shirt. “So you’re gonna be okay?”

“Of course I am.” I took her hand and kissed her wrist, moving my other fingers into her hair, smoothing the tangles from her face. “You’re here, the band’s doing great, and I’m getting married to the most incredible woman in the world in just a few short weeks.” I rubbed my thumb across her collarbone. “Everything is more than okay.”

She looked into my eyes, into my soul, and I felt more naked then than I did hours before with her legs anchored around my hips and her hot breath in my ear. What I saw in her green gaze was love, happiness…and a hint of fear, something I hoped would disappear in time as the dark memories of last summer faded away.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Yes, I was sure. I was never more sure of anything in my life. And the more I told myself that, the more I was inclined to believe it. Oh, the doubt was still there…those moments in the dark when I was alone, and I’d hear a whiskey bottle calling to me, like a Lewis Carroll-inspired nightmare: Drink me, drink me, so I can tear another hole in your stomach and make you bleed, because you decided you can’t handle your life anymore.

Those moments were few and far between now, and I hoped and prayed they’d disappear forever, especially after she was legally bound to me and I’d never have a reason to fear my life again.

Somehow I had a nagging feeling it wasn’t going to be quite so simple.

I kissed the back of her hand. “I’m absolutely sure.”

I glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. Damn, it’s early. “I gotta split. My appointment’s at ten-thirty.” I gave her one last kiss on the cheek and headed for the stairs. “Marietta’s coming at one. Oh, and I won’t be back until around four.”

“Why so late?” She sat up, pulling a sheet around her.

“I gotta go get…stuff.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What stuff?”

I tried to stall, like a guy. “Y’know, stuff.”

“It’s not illegal, is it?”

I shrugged sheepishly. “Not all of it.”

The phone rang. Just in time.

I bounced down into the living room and picked up the receiver. “Yeah.”

“Well, thanks for finally plugging your phone back in, asshole.”

“Well, you damn well know why it was un-plugged, dickwad.”

Terry laughed on the other end of the line. He sounded like he was standing in the middle of traffic. “How many rounds did you go, schlonger-man? Can the poor woman even still walk?”

“The question is, can I still walk,” I answered, bending my left knee. I must’ve torn some cartilage or something last month. “What do you want? I gotta see the headshrinker this morning.”

“Turn on CNN,” he announced. “They’re prepping for the PMRC hearings next week.”

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.” I grabbed the remote control off the coffee table and switched on the television, trying to remember what channel CNN was. There was a Suburu commercial on. “Did we make the “Filthy Fifteen?”

“Nah, but your oral sex rape fantasy song got a nod.”

I laughed like a wicked schoolboy. “I know how to write ‘em, don’t I?”

“Yeah, Tipper Gore needs someone to spread her legs and taste her sweet hot love.”

About that time, another sweet, hot love I knew about was coming down the stairs, wrapped in a black silk kimono with blue dragons embroidered on it.

“What’s going on?” she asked, yawning.

I had to get out of here now, or I’d miss my appointment. I handed her the phone. “It’s Terry. You two can discuss the deterioration of society due to nasty song lyrics. I gotta go.”

Terry was still chattering. “Y’know, if you weren’t such a deviant sexual freak we wouldn’t be the hottest band around!”

I picked up my keys from a table near the foot of the stairs. “Remember we’ve got Anton Greeley’s party tonight.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

I could hear Terry all the way across the room through the phone. “Season! So does he still ‘rock your world at every turn’? How many times can he go now that he’s on a drug that causes lack of sex drive? Nutcase poon-a-nator.”

She ignored him and turned to me. “Who’s Marietta?”

I had almost made the first landing to the garage. “The housekeeper.”

Season looked up to the bedroom loft where flower petals still littered the floor, along with several wine glasses, miscellaneous silverware, and empty containers that once held maple syrup, honey, and hazelnut spread. She grimaced.

“She’s gonna shit.”

“Did Season make it home okay?”

Dr. Joseph Ratcliff, a young-ish psychiatrist with questioning blue eyes behind aviator-style glasses, tapped a ballpoint pen on a legal pad.

“Yes, she did.” I was getting more and more comfortable in the “passenger seat,” a leather easy chair that had probably seated the most prominent psychos in Phoenix. I didn’t squirm quite as much as I did when I first sat here last summer, after I downed a bottle of Chivas and disappeared into the desert for almost three days without telling anybody. I woke up in Durango, Colorado with no idea how I got there. “She came home Wednesday.”

“She’s excited about the wedding, I’m sure.” Dr. Joe leaned back in his own expensive leather desk chair, propping his elbows on its arms.

“I think so,” I said. “We’re trying to keep things simple but it’s anything but.”

“You’re still making the entertainment news.”

I scratched my nose nervously. “Yeah. And they’ve got all the information wrong. Thank God.” MTV announced we were getting married in L.A., Entertainment Tonight had us eloping, and The National Enquirer had completely called us off. But I knew the real story: Our publicist was purposely sending out bogus press releases so we could have the real private wedding we wanted, right in my back yard with just family and friends, and only one photographer, Mickey Stephens, who worked exclusively for Tarax and Rampage.

“Are you excited about it?” Dr. Joe found me an interesting case, having never analyzed a rock musician before, at least not one as high profile. Well, high profile for me. My band still wasn’t as big a deal as Motley Crue or Ozzy Osbourne, but we were getting very close.

“Oh, yeah.” I got up, which I was known to do from time to time during my “sessions,” in order to pace out whatever angst or elation I was experiencing. Today was all about elation, at least for a while. “I think marrying Season is the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Ratcliff nodded slowly. “You’re much happier now than when I first saw you.”

I crossed my arms on my chest and stood in front of the window, the town of Mesa spread out before me. “Maybe it’s just the drugs finally kicking in.”

“No, you’ve come a long way in a short time.”

“I just hope I can keep it up,” I said, my voice darkening somewhat. I didn’t want to talk about my…fears.

“Don’t you go back on the road soon?”

Ugh. You just can’t fool a psychiatrist.

“We’re gone a week doing some Canadian dates,” I explained, “then to New York. But that’s before the wedding.” I paused, feeling the demon in my stomach stir quietly. “Season leaves for Japan the day after Thanksgiving.” I swallowed hard. “She’ll be back in the States in January.”

“And you’re going to Europe.”

I nodded slowly. “New Year’s. I won’t be back until the middle of March.”

Ratcliff steepled his hands. “Will you be able to see each other at all?”

I dragged in a long breath through my nose. “I don’t think so.”

Ratcliff was studying me like a lab rat. “Distance can put a strain on a marriage, especially one so new. Have you talked about it with her?”

Sort of. Maybe. Not really. We hadn’t talked about it at all, because we were too busy trying to have as much sex as we could before we took off to the opposite ends of the world. After that last gig in L.A., Season went to San Francisco, then Atlanta, then New Orleans, then came home two days ago. We’d discussed wedding plans on the phone during that time - what to wear, who to invite, what to eat…

“No,” I finally said. I stared out the window, remembering how shocked she was when I suggested we get married before she left…

September 8, 1985

“October 12? That’s only five weeks from now.” She was on the phone at her mother’s shop in New Orleans, trying to keep herself occupied while she tried to come down from being on the road for three months.

“I don’t wanna wait,” he said. “This will give us a month to get settled in before you leave.”

She didn’t want to wait either. She wanted the ring on her finger before she was forced to go overseas and be away from him for nearly five months. She wanted everyone to know she was off-limits to the wolves, and that he was unavailable for groupies to pounce on, though most groupies didn’t even care about wives. She wanted to pack up everything in her grungy loft apartment across from Jackson Square and make herself at home in his rustic mountain hideaway.

And he sounded like he had it all figured out, just like he always did. What was so nice about his confidence was that it wasn’t contrived. To some people it might have sounded crazy, the typical ramblings of a dreamer, but he always made it happen, and somehow managed not to screw a bunch of things up in the process. He wasn’t your typical flaky artist; he was smart, sensible, and terribly clever. Despite what he believed about himself, he really did have his shit together.

He could talk her into anything, and always made it sound like a good idea.

“You can take care of whatever you need to while I’m in Canada. Then there’s a couple of weeks where we can plan everything together.” He paused for a second, catching his breath. Is your grandmother gonna be too devastated if you don’t have a big Catholic wedding?”

“I don’t want a big Catholic wedding.” She checked out a customer as she spoke, briefly excusing herself from the conversation with her future husband to inform the young man that the herbal mixture he’d just bought should be divided up into three parts, and one should be scattered on the floor of his bedroom in order for it to be completely effective. The young man smiled, recognizing her, and asked if that’s what worked for her. She replied, “No, all I needed was Crown Royal.”

“What was that about?” asked the anxious fiancé on the other end of the line.

“Love potions. Don’t worry about it.”

“Your family does some weird shit,” he said. “You’re sure Mama Claree didn’t work some of her hoodoo on me that one day?”

She laughed, recalling his tarot card reading. “If she did, she’ll never tell us about it.” She closed the cash register drawer. “Why do you care, as long as it worked?”

“I didn’t need hoodoo that day on the bus,” he said, referring to when he viewed her album photo for the first time. “I think it was you dressed in leather.”

“Well, that usually does the trick, too.” This was all fine and grand, but she needed an explanation for his urgency. “My parents don’t really care where I get married. They got married on the beach in Biloxi by one of their commune members who thought he was a J.P.”

She could almost see him cringe. “Are they really married?”

“Oh, yeah. They got an official license after I was born.” She wondered how she managed to lead a normal life after all the LSD her unconventional parents did in the mid-sixties. She was surprised she’d been born without defects. Maybe Mama Claree’s hoodoo had something to do with that, too. At least they didn’t name her Saffron Sunflower like they’d originally planned.

Her Arizona military brat grumbled through the receiver. “We’re getting one the second you get home.”

“Doesn’t your mother want her son to be married in a church?”

He grumbled again. “I’ve been through that already. We’re not getting married in Tombstone at the Methodist church. No way, no how. This is our wedding.”

“You sure you want a wedding at your house?” She leaned on the glass display counter, like she had numerous times as a teenager, surrounded by bulk herbs, candles, voodoo dolls, and the usual touristy knickknacks. She felt like a teenager again, talking to her boyfriend on the phone, and trying to get her homework done before she got home and could practice her rock singing, belting out tunes from Heart’s “Little Queen” album.

“It’s perfect,” he said. “And that way every time I stand on the deck I can look down and see exactly where we made ourselves legal.”

The fact that he was this sentimental would be more shocking to his fans than the dirty lyrics he could write. If they only knew how normal he really was…

“Besides,” he went on, “we won’t have an entire press corps chasing after us.”

“You’re sure they haven’t figured out where you live?”

“They can’t get past the cattle guard,” he said. “And since I’ve put the gate up, they can’t get up the dirt road.”

“Some still have helicopters.”

“I’ve got that covered, too. Dad knows the commander of the fighter wing at Luke AFB. They’re gonna keep guard over the airspace.”

She had to smile. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“I want this to be the best day of your life,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re making a mistake.”

She choked back tears of joy. “I’m not making a mistake.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

I prayed she was right.

“Jon?”

I jerked back into the present. “I’m sorry.” I turned from the window and leaned against the credenza beneath it. “I just didn’t want her to get away from me.”

He watched me as I continued. “I wanted her to completely belong to me before we were split up. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her.”

I stared at the floor a moment, stewing, remembering an off-hand comment she made during a rather pointless, heated argument that occurred just weeks ago, something about not wanting to be stuck with a crazy man. I sighed deeply, trying to fight down the fear. “Whatever it takes.”

Ratcliff tapped his pen on the legal pad again, reading my mind. “Your depression isn’t going to go away,” he said. “Your diagnosis is chronic.”

Thanks for the newsflash. “I know. And so does she.” I didn’t want to talk about this, but it didn’t look like I had a choice. “I know it’s not always gonna be this…happy. I know the honeymoon will be over one day and we’ll have to learn to live with each other.”

When were we gonna find time to do that? Here it was two weeks after I’d proposed and we’d barely spent more than forty-eight hours together. She’d spent three weeks nursing me back to health last summer, but that wasn’t exactly “living with each other.” And the time we’d spent on the road together, on and off tour buses and in and out of hotels…that wasn’t real life. That was fodder for Bob Seger lyrics.

Presently though, I felt better than I had in months. I felt lust and passion and euphoria, like a permanent high, and I didn’t want it to end, ever. But my common sense nagged at me, my mother’s conscience in my head. Don’t get too caught up in all this romantic nonsense…you’ll have to come back down to earth sometime and provide a decent life for that girl.

Francine had a way of taking the fun out of everything.

The thing I feared most was that Season might never see the person I was before the road got to me so bad, before I drank too much and got so moody and angry, before I started…doing things I’d never done before, like tearing things up and hitting people.

Like hitting her.

I never meant to do it, and was so ashamed of myself after it happened that I wanted to die. I didn’t draw blood or break bones…but if there was ever anything I truly wished I could take back in my life, that night, that part of that night, would be it. She had no reason to forgive me for it, either, but she did, and gave herself to me, making love to me like no other woman, and now I could never get enough of her. I wanted her again and again like a drug, because she told me she’d love me no matter what I did, and I felt alive.

My fits of temper scared me. I never had them before this last summer, and didn’t understand what exactly had happened to me to make them happen. It was like there was this beast inside that had lain dormant for twenty-three years and all the sudden it just…woke up. I don’t know what woke it up: Drugs? Alcohol? Mind-altering sex? I didn’t know. I just knew it had just surfaced out of nowhere, and I wasn’t sure how well I’d be able to control it.

“All couples have to learn to live with each other,” Ratcliff said, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s part of the process.”

I nodded slowly, feeling helpless.

“Don’t worry,” he concluded. “I think you two will be just fine.”

I drove all the way to Apache Junction to get our wedding rings from a custom jeweler who specialized in both Indian and European designs. I’d used him before, to make an earring, ring, and necklace set for my mother’s fortieth birthday, and when I saw the Celtic knots he could do, I knew that was what I wanted for Season and me. Maybe it wasn’t fair for me to make the choice without consulting her, but I knew she would love them, and she wasn’t allowed to see them until I put hers on her finger on the big day. They didn’t match: hers was wider, almost a full inch, intricately-woven, rounded strands of sterling silver that would complement the skinny band of her engagement ring. I wanted to it be a big ring, so everyone could see it, especially when she was onstage.

My ring was flat and angular, and not as wide, to allow more freedom for my fretboard hand. I didn’t play well with a lot of rings on, but Season had given me two more to wear on my right hand, aside from the tiger’s eye ring my sister had given me when I went off to college. One was a gold band inlaid with amethyst, my birthstone, and another was a pinky ring, silver and onyx, shaped like a tiger. Season got the idea for the ring when she discovered I was born in the Year of the Tiger, according to the Chinese, and that her grandmother had determined that the tiger was my animal spirit guide. She seemed to think that was a big deal.

Still unsettled by Mama Claree’s hokey religious practices, all I could say was, “Okay.” I thought maybe they’d been listening to too much Survivor, or seen Rocky II too many times.

Hoodoo and weirdness aside, I was pleased with the wedding rings, and it would be hard to keep them a secret. And I was taking a big risk by entrusting them to my best man until the wedding day.

Terry.

No one else would be able to stand by me on October 12. He was more than my brother, and we’d been through more shit than most brothers. And I believed because we were the best of friends, it made us better musicians…drummer and bass player, the stalwart rhythm section, two halves making a whole. It sounds as hokey as Mama Claree and her animal spirit guides, but Terry and I just have a connection that works, even if he does have the attention span of a flea and the mentality of a junior high cheerleader.

Uh…male cheerleader, of course.

I had one more important stop to make before I sped back into town, making me ten minutes late to the band meeting at Sam’s Tavern, and Barry was certain to let me hear about it.

“This meeting started at one.” Barry, seated in the same round booth we’d sat in when we started mapping out “The Power to Kill” tour last January, drummed his fingers on the rough-hewn wooden table, chewing on his cigar.

“Yeah, so?” I asked, sliding in next to Randy, who was most assuredly on his fourth cigarette since he’d sat down.

“You’ve got a certain “glow” today,” the guitarist said casually.

Steve, still hacking with his cold, and in a strangely jovial mood, grinned and pointed at me. “You been having sex?”

I flipped him off. “Not with my shrink.”

Terry was sucking down what was left of his soft drink, making gurgling noises with his straw like a little kid. “I’ll bet that’s the only sound you’ve been hearing for the last couple of days.”

“That’s more than I can say for you,” I retorted.

“You pick up your rings today?” Bryon asked. He was calmly nursing a pint of Guinness.

“Yeah, wanna see?” I reached into my front pocket and pulled out a tiny Ziploc bag holding both rings. “Cool, huh?”

They passed the bag around the table, oohing and aahing.

“That is too cool,” Randy said. “And she doesn’t know what they look like?”

I shook my head as he handed me the bag and I tucked it back into my pocket. “I want it to be a surprise.”

“You better hope she’s surprised,” Barry grumbled, puffing on his cigar.

“What do you mean?” I asked, always pissed when someone wanted to play devil’s advocate when it came to marriage, making it sound like it was the stupidest thing on the planet.

“Some women get a little bent out of shape if you don’t consult them about something as important as what their wedding ring is going to look like.” He tapped ash into an ashtray. “You better get used to that.”

I ignored him, knowing his attitude toward his own marriage, which wasn’t a marriage as much as it was a “living arrangement.” “I paid for them, so she really doesn’t have room to complain.”

The guys laughed.

“Yeah, show her who’s boss, Jon,” Randy quipped.

“Whatever.” I took the drink the waitress brought me and ordered lunch. “I know what I’m doing.”

Over barbecue ribs and Mexican food, Barry presented our itinerary for the Canadian dates, and spent a good twenty minutes harping about what he would and would not tolerate as far as extracurricular activities. “If the Canadians were as strict on Vince Neil and his stage clothes…blah blah blah…”

Steve and Randy got into a minor tiff about playing the correct leads in the songs, an insignificant squabble that started in L.A., but the confrontation came and went without too much fanfare. Bryon spoke briefly about Nita’s morning sickness and how he wasn’t sure he was cut out for dealing with pregnant women and that going back on the road for a while might be a good idea. Terry tried to be upbeat about his mother’s continued struggle with chemotherapy. We sat around discussing the PMRC hearings for a while, then Barry brought up a new issue.

“The label wants us to think about doing a video for “Shock Me.”

I raised an eyebrow as all eyes fell on me. I chewed on my straw. “Oh, really?”

“The edited version of the single’s doing rather well,” Bryon said. “I heard it on KKLT this morning.”

“Edited version.” I tossed the straw on the table. “They made us cheese it up like an Air Supply tune.”

“It’s not that bad,” Randy laughed. “At least they didn’t make us add a string arrangement.”

“That keyboard sounds like a baseball park organ,” I complained. “Cleaning up the lyrics was bad enough, but did we have to put that in?”

“It’s number twenty-two this week,” Barry said. “Without it we’d be minus a hit.”

“And you managed to keep it dirty enough to cash in on all this PMRC stuff,” Steve said to me. “I see lyrics getting nastier and nastier if they pass that warning label idea. Album sales with explicit content are gonna skyrocket.”

I stewed quietly, not really concerned about warning labels. I figured they’d help more than hurt also, but I was feeling like the misunderstood artist. I practically had to rewrite the entire song. All my double-X-rated oral sex expertise turned into a PG-rated Harlequin Romance.

Steve eyed me suspiciously and then glanced over at the manager. “I assume this video will feature our bass player here rolling around naked on the floor with his new bride?”

Terry and Randy started to giggle and make lewd gestures. I kicked both of them under the table, upsetting dishes, like I did yesterday when I was actually rolling around naked with my new bride.

“No deal,” I said.

“You didn’t seem to mind a few weeks ago,” Steve coughed, leaning back and crossing his arms on his chest.

“We weren’t naked,” I amended. “And we weren’t rolling around on the floor.”

“You almost were,” Randy laughed, and the others joined in.

Barry was about as amused as I was. “They want it to be sexy, yes.” He seemed reluctant to continue, cutting his eyes back over at Steve, then gave a long grave look at me. I assumed a blow to the ego was coming up in the next few minutes.

“They do want it to feature you and Season.”

A weird, funky silence settled over the table. I could almost see steam coming out of Steve’s ears. Everybody else was waiting for his tantrum.

At first I thought, “Cool!” But…

“Nah, she wouldn’t go for that.” That comment was about as believable as me telling the PMRC I agreed with their tactics on cleaning up the music industry. Season already had ideas about us doing videos together, but that was mainly for Rampage’s next album, which she wanted to get started on as soon as she got back from Japan.

Would she still want to do that almost five months from now?

And no, the guys didn’t buy my excuse.

“I’m so sure,” Terry cackled.

I started in with another comment before he could say anything else that annoyed me. “I won’t go for that. If it features anybody, it should be Steve.”

In many ways, I stood by what I said, but at the same time I was stroking Steve’s sensitive lead singer mentality, which had gotten steadily worse the more he nursed his heroin habit. And the more attention the bass player got.

“Well said, Jon.” Steve tossed his head, straightening in his seat.

The remainder of the band just groaned, shaking their heads in disgust.

“I haven’t made a decision yet,” Barry stated, stubbing out his second cigar.

“Shouldn’t it be our decision?” Bryon asked simply. He wasn’t trying to make waves, because he rarely did, but usually we planned the content of our videos.

“So, what we’re saying is that instead of Jon rolling around with Season, then Steve should be?” Randy joked.

Catcalls resounded around the booth.

“Denied,” I said.“That’s a big ass no if there ever was one.”

“I don’t know,” Steve grinned. “Maybe she’ll find out which one of us she should be marrying.”

More juvenile hooting. I knew he was only kidding but part of me wanted to reach out and snap his neck.

“Sorry, but there’s a major size issue there,” Terry said, pinching his forefinger to his thumb.

“You got that right,” Randy agreed.

Terry decided to add even more comedy. “Which Hooters waitress are you bagging this week, Steve? I guess she could be in the video.”

Steve didn’t think that was funny. “Kiss my ass, moron.”

“Okay, okay.” Barry stuck a fork into Terry’s ribs and the drummer squealed in mock pain. “The label shot me some ideas and I’m still throwing them around.”

“Like Jon throws Season around?” Bryon said.

I threw a napkin at him. “Shut up.”

“What we’ll probably do is just shoot concert footage in Canada,” Barry went on, ignoring us. “We’ll discuss this later. Right now…” He paused to glance at his watch. “I’ve got another meeting with the director at three.”

Steve got up, glaring at me before he sauntered out of the restaurant. I was not about to get into some power struggle about who got more screen time in our videos, or who eventually ended up with the most prime female to ever cross our path. I remembered his crappy comment at rehearsal the other day and wondered if he still felt I was “distracted.”

Bryon and Randy followed the singer, and I shouted at Terry before he could get away.

“Wait for me outside.”
The drummer looked inconvenienced, though I know he had absolutely nothing else to occupy his time that day. “What?”

“Remember you have to go with me to pick up the car.”

“Ah! Yes! The car! The other wedding present.” He lit up a Camel. “Does this mean I get to keep the Austin for the weekend?”

“Hell, no.” No one, not even Terry, borrowed the Austin. Except for Season, of course.

He grimaced, poking me in the shoulder. “The shit I do for you and you won’t even let me have your car.”

“Just wait outside, asshole.”

He walked out of Sam’s, demonstrating that he was the only man I ever knew who could fidget so much by just “walking.”

I fell in step with my manager.

“Go home,” he mumbled. “Go have some more sex.”

“I will, eventually.” I wanted an answer for the question I put to him earlier in the week. “Can she come with us or not?”

He stopped and stared straight at me. Now I was fidgeting.

“No.”

I wanted to throw my own tantrum. “Barry, please...”

He tucked his cigar into his right fist. “We agreed, years ago, we were not bringing women on the bus for any extended period of time.”

I started to protest, but he waved his hand in front of my face.

“Bryon’s wife didn’t even come with us. For the couple of days she was around she was in a separate car.”

“Barry…” Nita’s transportation to and from Las Vegas was paid for by the television studio, for her Knight Rider episode…

He shook his head adamantly, watching the wheels turn in my head. “I don’t have the money to bring her along.”

“I’ll take care of that…”

“That doesn’t matter, either. No girls, no wives.”

Why did I make that rule years ago? Before we even had a manager? Because extra hangers-on got expensive, and were just in the way. And sometimes women were a damned nuisance, especially when they weren’t getting the attention they thought they deserved. But not my woman. She was…special.

“But this is Season…” She was a musician, too, and didn’t make demands on me twenty-four hours a day. Actually, I think it’s more like me making demands on her, wanting to keep her in bed all the time.

“I said no, I meant no.” He clamped his teeth down on his cigar and started flipping pages on his clipboard.

I tapped my foot, glowering, my hands on my hips, wanting to throw things.

After a while, he sighed, knowing I wasn’t about to give up the fight, even though I wasn’t going to win.

“Maybe she can come to New York with us.”

I perked up then. “Really?”

“Maybe. Now get out of here before I kick your stubborn ass.”

“This is a Chevrolet.”

“So?”

“You’re buying your wife, the most beautiful, sexy, rock and roll superwoman in the universe….a Chevrolet.”

“It’s what she wanted.” I tucked the last of the paperwork in my back pocket. “She didn’t want a Mercedes, or a Beemer. And I can’t afford a Porsche.”

“Not yet.” Terry looked over the black Blazer from bumper to bumper, scratching his head. “You sure you’re not buying this for you so you can haul musical gear around?”

I shrugged. “Not really. What she really liked was the fact that you can lay the back seat down.”

The lights came on inside the drummer’s head. “Oh! Now I get it!” He wiped his forehead, the hot Arizona sun making us both sweat. “So you can do it anywhere, any time. The Nookie-Mobile.”

“She needed a car,” I said. “Her brother wrecked her Pontiac.”

Terry squirmed. “Ooh, I’ll bet there was hell to pay for that one.”

I presented the keys to the Austin-Healey. “I’ll drive the new car.”

He practically jumped in the air. “Hot damn! I finally get to try out your car!” He snatched the keys and ran to the Austin.

“Be careful with it!” I cried in alarm. “It sticks in third gear, so don’t force it!”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He leaped into the driver’s seat without opening the door. Thank God the top was down. He was so tall his head was almost completely over the windshield.

Maybe he should drive the Blazer… “And I just put new tires on it. Make sure the oil pressure doesn’t get too….Shit!”

He ground the key into the ignition, and the car roared to life. He laughed obscenely.

“Don’t rev the engine!”

“Oh, come on. You drive like Richard fucking Petty.” He pumped the accelerator. “A little revving up can’t hurt it.”

“It’s an old car, Terry,” I explained. “You can’t…”

He grinned, and pulled away. “See ya at home, Jonny!” Tires squealed as he raced out of the parking lot, making me cringe. It was then I hoped he remembered where I lived.

After I nearly beat Terry’s ass for almost smashing the Austin into the gate I’d put up to bar the entrance to the dirt road that led to the house, I was choking on the dust he stirred up. If he put one scratch on that car…

As soon as we pulled into the driveway, I yelled out the window. “Go ahead and pull into the garage. I’m parking up front.”

He waved over his head and disappeared around the back of the house. I really hoped Season wasn’t watching for us because I really wanted this to be a surprise.

I burst into the front door, and ran into the housekeeper.

“Oh, hi, Marietta.”

The rotund Hispanic woman shook a feather duster in my face. “Your new girlfriend is as bad as you.”

“What?”

“I tell her like I tell you.” She tucked the feather duster into her supply bucket. “You don’t clean the house before I come to clean the house!”

I just smiled. That’s my girl. Always wanting to make a good first impression. She wasn’t too used to having a housekeeper either, I was certain.

“I’ll let her know.”

“And you should be ashamed of yourself, eating all that food upstairs!”

I rolled my eyes, and noticed Season coming out of the kitchen, dressed in jeans and her torn-up Tulane baseball jersey, a t-shirt so tight it could barely contain her curves. On her face was a kind of “oops, we’ve been caught” look. I winked at her.

Marietta shook her head and swore in Spanish, something about young gringos not being able to control themselves. I replied in said language, “Solamente es porque eres casada todavía. Sabes que te amo.”

She called me an asshole, ruffling my hair and laughing. “I come back next week.” She waddled out the front door.

My future wife was staring at me with her mouth open.

“What?”

“You never told me you spoke Spanish.” She tucked her arms around my waist.

“You never asked.” I heard Terry trying to get up the stairs from the garage. Clump, crash, stomp…

“That’s sexy as hell.”

I could see our relationship becoming a lot like that of Morticia and Gomez Addams, like how he’d go nuts every time she spoke French, a language both Season and I could speak because of our similar family history, hers Creole, mine French-Canadian.

“En ese caso, chingame, mi vida.” I kissed her on the mouth.

“Okay. Stop that right now. Or I’ll have to get out the video camera.”

I hate drummers. “We have company.”

“So I see.” She let go of me. “What’s going on?”

“He’s got something he wants to show you,” Terry said.

“I’ve already seen it,” she countered.

“Not that.” I took her by the hand and led her to the front door. “Stand right here. And no peeking.”

“What are you two up to?” She giggled as I moved behind her and covered her eyes with both hands, motioning to Terry to open the door. I pushed her outside as she tried to pull my hands away from her face. “Come on!”

Once we’d cleared the small walkway in the front of the house, I released her, and she squealed in delight. “Oh, wow! It’s mine?”

I nodded, dangling the keys in front of her nose. She grabbed them and threw her arms around my neck, slapping a big, wet kiss on my chin. “You are the most awesome man alive!” She leaped into the driver’s seat.

Terry propped his elbow on my shoulder. “Nothing like a woman who drives an SUV.”

I watched as she turned the key to listen to the new stereo system I’d had installed. The Blazer, black with silver trim, was a brand new ’86 model, fully outfitted with everything: four-wheel drive, leather interior, cruise control, so on and so on. This was before the age of the luxury SUV, but it was as close as you could get at the time. I was shocked she didn’t want a ritzy, little sports car, like the fully-restored ’76 MGB that I’d originally wanted for her. But my cousin, Tony, who restored classic cars for a living and was responsible for my hunter green Austin-Healey, said he’d keep it on hand if she changed her mind.

Her birthday wasn’t until November…

She was going on and on about the car, and I was one satisfied man.

“So,” Terry went on. “You want me to leave you alone so you can lower that back seat?”

About that time, Randy’s Mustang pulled into the driveway to pick up his temporary roommate.

“Yes. Get the hell out of my house.” I quickly handed him the small bag containing the wedding rings. “Guard these with your life or I’ll have your left nut.”

“If I lose these, you can have them both.” He tucked them carefully away in his jeans pocket. “See ya at Anton’s.”

Phoenix-native Anton Greeley was an independent filmmaker, as well as a good friend of Steve’s. Anton used an obscure B-side tune of ours, “Indian Summer,” in this freaky little movie called Cacti Indefinitely, his first entry to Sundance, which was fortunately turned down for competition. It was a little too “Fellini meets bad high school biology documentary” for me. I’m not a big fan of oddball independent films. I was too busy waiting for a good car chase or hot sex scene, neither of which was present in Cacti Indefinitely. But Anton was a huge fan of the band, so we always made it a point to go to his latest screenings, and everyone always turned out to see Phoenix’s elite, who weren’t quite as hip as the L.A. crowd, but we had a good time, and this would be the first time Season and I would be out and visible in our new hometown.

I was in the kitchen, getting a headstart on the evening by enjoying some Crown and Coke, trying to cheat my way around not drinking. I figured as long as I wasn’t drinking whiskey straight I’d be okay. Is it smart to drink alcohol at all while taking anti-depressants and taming an ulcer? No, but I still believed I was young and invincible.

I nearly choked on my last drop when Season appeared in the doorway.

“Do I look all right?”

Her black hair curled and flowing over her bare shoulders, she was wearing a black halter dress with a full skirt that swirled around her calves. Rhinestone T-strap sandals, her toenails painted a dusty rose color. Around her neck was a rhinestone choker and she wore the same chandelier rhinestone earrings she had on the first time I met her in person.

Suddenly I had no intention of going to this party. Why did she always give me the urge to take off my clothing? “Goddamn.”

She smiled brilliantly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I set my glass on the island and started toward her. “Sure you don’t wanna just stay at home?”

“Don’t you need some rest?” She moved her hands over my chest, and I shuddered at their warmth through my white dress shirt. “Didn’t you say your knee was bothering you?”

I placed my hands on her skinny waist, brushing my lips against her cheek. “You could be on top.”

She laughed. “I think we’re both worn out.”

“Nope. Don’t think so.” That perfume…or body lotion rather. Having her permanently in my home, I finally knew the secret of her signature aroma: a specialty brand body cream that Nadine sold in her shop. It was like nothing else I’d ever smelled before, and I loved it, because it stirred every dirty fantasy I ever had.

I was about to entertain one of those fantasies, wanting to raise her skirt and lay her out on the floor, but she dangled the keys of her new Blazer under my nose and asked, “Can you drive?”

I sighed heavily, disappointed. “Yeah, I guess.”

There was already a crowd outside the theater when we pulled up, and I was almost reluctant to let the valet park the Blazer. I’m so paranoid about my cars…but I had more to worry about as the fans lining the entrance screeched in delight as I went around to the passenger side to open Season’s door. She smiled, holding my hand, and sensing my unease. Why I was uneasy I didn’t really know because I should be used to all this adoration, but for some reason tonight it made me nervous. I was proud as hell to be seen with her, looking so much like the rock diva superstar she deserved to be, and cameras were flashing, nearly blinding us. I could see Terry inside the lobby, waving at us like we were his parents picking him up from summer camp.

“Weren’t you supposed to bring a date?” I asked, as the sound of the crowd dissipated with the closing of the theater doors.

“Nah,” he said, tossing his black hair over one shoulder. “I’m gonna try to pick someone up at the party later.”

Randy must have had the same idea, walking up sans female. “That’s the loudest crowd reaction I’ve heard yet tonight. You could hear it through the walls.”

I cleared my throat and didn’t reply, especially after he said, “Steve even commented that ‘Jon and Season must be here.’”

Maybe that’s what my problem was. As addictive as media attention can be, I didn’t want to be singled out from the rest of the band just because of who I was marrying, or that I was getting married period. I had a feeling that trying to separate my private life from my personal life was just going to get tougher and tougher.

“Hey, I knew it was you two.” Steve, still amazingly cordial even after our contention over the potential “Shock Me” video, sauntered up with a blonde resembling a Penthouse Pet on his arm. “I take it you brought the new car? Some wedding present, huh?” He leaned over and lightly kissed Season on her cheek.

I cringed somewhat, but she didn’t seem to mind the gesture. She hadn’t been impressed with Steve after first meeting him last summer, but she’d grown harmlessly fond of all my bandmates. I hadn’t had time that afternoon to tell her about the video. We’d been too busy breaking in the car.

“I’ve never had anyone buy me a car before,” she said. “I guess he’s really serious.”

“For at least thirty-two payments,” Bryon joked, his petite Asian wife, Nita, by his side. Strange how she didn’t look three months pregnant…

Oh…I’m getting married and I hadn’t thought about that. Yet.

There was more conversation but I didn’t hear it, lost in my own thoughts.

“Hey! Are you awake in there?” Terry was waving his hands in front of my nose.

“What?”

“He’s thinking about sex again,” the drummer joked.

“Well, duh!” Season tugged on my arm. “Let’s go watch this quirky little movie, before I have to take you home.”

Owl 56 was just as over my head as Cacti Indefinitely, but the inclusion of “Assassination,” a song off our first self-titled album, during a rather bizarre gunfight scene involving roadrunners, was pretty cool. I think I fell asleep at one point, only to be awakened by Season’s hand on my crotch.

“Remember the last time we were in a darkened theater?” she whispered.

Ooh, all too well. We’d all sneaked out to see Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome in San Francisco last August, and Season, bored after Tina Turner’s first brief appearance in the film, opted to service me in the back row. After that we all went to a bar called Zecki’s and drank until six a.m. Well, she, Bryon, and Terry did. I had to abstain, under strict orders not to have anything heavier than red wine. I’d decided then that merlot really sucked, and that you should never get involved in a heated discussion about the differences between Star Trek and Star Wars.

The after-screening party was at Anton’s huge loft apartment downtown, and there were people everywhere, even some people I never expected to see again in my life. But I did live in Phoenix for over a year before we moved to L.A., and after you’ve hit it big, those people start to turn up again. What’s bad is that some of those people…are women.

Women you’ve slept with, and wish you hadn’t. Or don’t remember, which is even worse.

Unfortunately, I remembered the tall brunette wearing the red dress. How she got there, I didn’t know, but once she showed up, there wasn’t a helluva lot I could do about it.

“Jon Warren. I knew I’d run into you eventually.”

I was choking on Crown and Coke again, but for an altogether different reason. I wanted to pretend I didn’t know who she was, but Season would have seen right through that.

“Renata Collins.” I swallowed hard, thinking how I’d really not prepared myself for meeting up with old “girlfriends” with my fiancée by my side. I guess my mother was right; I needed to remember my common sense on occasion. “Long time, no see.”

Renata was not what you’d call pretty, but she was attractive, like most of the women I was drawn to, with a slightly different, more exotic look about her. She was part Navajo, part Irish, with a long nose, square jaw, and dark skin. “And this is…”

“Season Trovisar.” Season introduced herself, hugging my arm a little tighter, digging in her fingernails just a tad.

Was that a cat spitting? I downed my drink in one gulp.

“You two are getting married, I hear.” Renata was staring straight at me, and I stared back, as if to say, “And your point is?”

She didn’t even blink. She looked back at Season, who seemed so delicate and petite compared to the broad-shouldered and athletic Renata. Athletic…I shouldn’t have thought that…

“I thought you’d be taller,” she said.

Season raised an eyebrow. “Heels help.”

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. Season was self-conscious about her height, wishing she was at least five-seven or eight. Her heels made her that tall, but I liked her like she was, fine-boned with womanly curves, making me feel more masculine and solid in the process, being the scrawny wuss I was for so long. Renata, standing 5’11 in bare feet, was built almost like a man, no waist or breasts, with square shoulders and heavy legs.

There’s nothing scarier than a woman who could kick your ass.

Renata seemed intrigued by Season’s response, and I could see the wheels turning in her head, knowing she’d met her match. Renata was a well-known meddler, who liked to gossip and cause trouble just to keep the shit-pot stirred. As a man, I did think it was kind of cool to have women fight over me, and there’s always that thought that goes through your head about having them take turns at doing certain illicit things to your body at the same time…but I’d once watched Season beat an unsuspecting groupie with a metal folding chair…

It wasn’t pretty.

There was an odd silence for a moment, then I asked, “What are you up to these days?”

“I’m finishing medical school in December,” she announced. “I’ve already got a job lined up at St. Joseph’s.”

“Congratulations.” I needed another drink.

Season curiously glanced up at me, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. There’s a running “joke” of sorts among the guys about how I manage to snag what is deemed “quality pussy:” women who are smart, educated, gainfully employed, classy, all of the above. Trashy girls are not attracted to Jon, they say. He gets the prime stuff.

And the proof was standing next to me, wearing a five-carat engagement ring.

And yes, Renata would fall into the category as well. She’d been a pre-med student at ASU when I met her…or when she met me, I guess.

“Interesting,” said my equally-as-educated companion, with a bachelor’s degree in music education to her credit. “A doctor.”

I could hear the innuendo starting to unfold.

“Jon would have made good one,” Renata purred.

Oh, shit.

“Are you a specialist?” There was this tone in Season’s voice...MEOW….

Renata was meeting her head-on. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“A urologist?”

Somebody kill me. Kill me now.

Renata laughed, and I knew she had immediate respect for Season, because the singer wasn’t about to take any of her bullshit. “Actually, I’m an OB-GYN. But I was inclined to extensive study of the male anatomy after examining your boy here.” She reached up and stroked my chin, pressing one fingertip into the indented center.

What is it with women and cleft chins? I hated mine, but Season, who often touched me the exact same way, loved it. Renata had been impressed with it also, along with other things, only three short years ago.

The coy smile on Season’s lips disappeared with that intimate gesture, and I felt her nails sinking further into my arm. I gulped at the sensation and took a deep breath.

“Don’t you have other people you need to visit with?” I asked Renata, my voice crackling somewhat as I fought down visions of threesomes, leading to my eventual death.

She just laughed again, unfazed. “Of course. I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you two. You are going to live here, correct?”

No, I think I’m gonna move us to Afghanistan…

“Yes, we are,” Season answered for me.

“It was nice to finally meet you.” She turned on her black, spike-heeled pumps and disappeared back into the crowd.

I blew out another puff of air and gestured with my glass. “I need a refill. You want me to top off your wine?”

She just studied me, and I couldn’t tell if she was amused or pissed off. There were moments when she left me completely muddled. “What was that all about?”

“It’s not important,” I grumbled, taking her wine glass. “I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared into the ladies’ room minutes later and was checking her make-up when that strange Amazon-looking woman appeared in the mirror next to her.

“Just how did you do it? I could never even get him to stay the full night in my apartment, and you got him to propose to you.”

She was stunned, though she knew she should be more blasé about running into Jon’s old girlfriends. Growing up a simple Southern girl, she was still astonished at how brash people were in this business. Granted, this Renata person wasn’t in show business herself, but she must be pretty important if she was mingling with independent filmmakers and rock musicians. Plus, it was a little unnerving that she’d run into yet another woman who had carnal knowledge of her future husband. That had happened only once before, and she’d been too loaded and pissed off at the time to deal with that one.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I didn’t really want to be tied down either at the time,” Renata went on, pursing her lips and studying her own face in the mirror. “But I was always curious what it might have been like, to have him around all the time.” She looked directly into Season’s eyes. “He’s an incredible fuck, isn’t he?”

He’s more than incredible, Season thought. Probably better now than when you knew him…

She didn’t answer directly, but asked her own question. “Just how do you…know him?”

Renata shrugged, answering as if she’d just been asked to give directions to the nearest McDonald’s. “I saw them for the first time at the Red Mustang in 1982. I told him I’d suck him off if they’d play some Rush.”

Season blinked, somehow pleasantly surprised at the woman’s honesty. “And did they?” She’d have to hear that story sometime…

“Oh, yeah! I never saw anyone pull off Geddy Lee better than Jon.” Renata propped against the counter, folding her well-toned arms across her chest, her long, red nails tapping her elbows. “He’s a good player. And not just on the bass.”

“So you’ve mentioned.” Season squared her shoulders, knowing the woman was trying to piss her off. She wasn’t too upset, because she was the one with the ring on her hand, but part of her wanted to put this bitch in her place. “Did you just tear his jeans down right there in front of everyone in the club or did you at least have the decency to duck into the bathroom?”

Renata laughed. “Oh, give me some credit, honey. I was a slut then, but he was still a challenge.” The Native-American woman sighed wistfully, recollecting.“They played the Mustang three more times after that night, before they left for L.A. He came home with me each time. What I wouldn’t give to ride that man just once more.”

Season stood up a little straighter in her stilettos, thinking of a few choice words for Renata and the horse she rode in on. And you’re sure as hell not riding my horse. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

Renata raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I heard he got pretty wild once he moved to L.A., and I know what kind of lives you people lead.” She studied the shorter, more feminine woman, and leaned a little closer, admiring Season’s creamy white skin and ample cleavage. “Are those real?”

Season retreated a step. “As a matter of fact, they are.” This she was used to, questions about the authenticity of her C-cup size breasts, as well as come-ons from women.

“They’re fantastic. I can see how you caught his attention.” Renata licked her lips. “I bet joining the two of you would be mind-blowing.”

Season’s eyes narrowed. What nerve… “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to be a gynecologist? I mean, are your patients aware you’re bisexual?”

Renata shrugged. “You’ve seen one pussy you’ve seen them all. And that’s just my job. What I do for recreation is strictly my business.” She tossed her thick black hair over her shoulder casually, and reached into her small handbag. She handed Season her business card. “When you two decide to have children, give me a ring. I’m sure you’re already getting in a lot of practice.”

Her gracious Creole upbringing overshadowing the urge to kick Renata Collins in the groin, Season took the card, then tore it in two and threw it on the floor.

Renata just smiled coquettishly. She loved being met blow for blow. “Well, well. You’re a tough little thing. But he’s a road musician, honey. He’ll always be on the lookout for new blood, just like he was before.”

That didn’t sound right, Season thought, but then again, I have only known him since June…She’s just trying to mess with my head. “He’s grown up some since then.”

Renata laughed. “That may be. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you two around. He’s always managed to turn heads everywhere he goes.” She turned, and left the ladies’ room.

I stood at the bar, brooding. I’d seen Renata follow Season into the bathroom and I could only imagine the conversation. I nursed my drink, watching the door.

“Hey.” Terry walked up and thumped my arm.

I mumbled some kind of greeting.

“Some movie, huh? Did you get it?”

“No.” I shifted my position, resting an elbow on the bar and cradling my glass.

The drummer looked me up and down. “I saw Sitting Bull.”

“You mean Sitting Bullshit.” I sucked down alcohol, feeling the room spin a bit. “The last person I needed to see.”

“We told you they were gonna turn back up,” he said, enjoying his Heineken. “Every woman you ever knew in this town is going to come out of the woodwork.” He laughed. “Let’s just hope they’re not carrying a two-year-old that looks just like you.”

I grumbled inwardly, unamused. “I was always careful.”

“Yeah, Mr.-Ribbed-for-Her-Pleasure himself,” he joked. “I think you actually bought stock in Trojans.”

“I wasn’t about to get anybody pregnant,” I said. “I didn’t want to catch a disease either.”

He pinched my cheek like a grandmother. “You’re so responsible.”

I glared at him. “Whatever.”

Dressed completely in black, he resembled a skinny Johnny Cash with long, silver earrings in each ear and shaggy, glossy black hair cascading over his shoulders. He motioned to the bartender to get him another beer. “You sure about this marriage thing?”

“Haven’t we already had this conversation?” I asked.

“Well, it does mean being with one woman forever.” He took a drink out of the new bottle.

“What is with you guys?” I took a long drink of my own. “Last month you guys were happy for me. Now every time I turn around you’re throwing this “one woman” thing at me.”

“But that’s what it means, Jon.” He joined me in observing the crowd. “You won’t get that occasional dive into new territory. Or extra company if you need it.”

“I’m not even thinking about that,” I began.

“Not right now,” he interrupted. “Right now you’re enjoying banging her every day, now that you can. But that’s gonna wear off quick.”

“I doubt it,” I amended. “How many guys get to bang someone who looks as good as she does?”

His black eyes lit up. “And can bang as good as she does! Goddamn, I’m surprised you’re even still walking after the night in L.A.”
My knee ached at that comment. “I’m so glad you’re not coming with us to Belize.”

He snapped his fingers ruefully. “I know. It’s a damn shame. But…are you so sure you can stay faithful? After she leaves in November, you won’t see her again until March.”

I frowned. I didn’t want to think about that. Not tonight. I didn’t even want to be gone next week to Canada. The fact that Barry wouldn’t let her come with us still gnawed at me.

“You just had to bring that up.”

“Seriously though. You’re only twenty-three-years-old. That’s young to get married.”

Age didn’t seem so important. “So? It’s not like we’re twelve. Like the girls you’re always chasing down.”

He flipped me off. “And you’ve only known each other, what? A few months?”

Time didn’t matter to me, either. “What’s your point?”

“You sure you don’t want to wait? You could at least be engaged for a while. See what happens after we get back from Europe.”

“I want to get married now,” I reiterated for the hundredth time that week. “I’m in love with Season and I want to marry her. I want her to be the first person I see when I wake up in the morning and the last person I see when I go to bed at night.”

“What about when she’s not there?” Terry was serious suddenly. And that’s a frightening thing.

I shut up immediately. Yeah, what about when she’s not there? When she wasn’t even at home, when she was on the other side of the world, and I couldn’t just pick up the phone and call her?

Terry let that sink in. “You’ll get your first glimpse of what that’ll be like when we leave for Canada on Sunday. It’ll be the first time since you met that you won’t be on the road together.”

I brooded for a minute. I knew he was trying to put things in perspective for me, because he knew I was caught up in the “romance” of it all. I was in denial, big time, thinking I was man enough to rise above all the rock-n-roll “code-of-the-road” bullshit.

I’d failed before, and he knew that, too.

Renata Collins emerged, either from the ladies’ room or the depths of hell, and waved at us. Terry tipped his bottle in her direction, and I threw her a surly frown. She smirked at me.

“That’s trouble with a capital T,” Terry mused.

“You got that right.” I downed the remainder of the Crown.

Another woman came out of the ladies’ room, and my heart skipped a beat. She didn’t look too happy.

“And there’s more trouble.” Terry slurped on his beer, nudging my arm.

I ignored him, watching her. Several people stopped to speak to her as she moved through the crowd. Despite the furrow in her brow, she was cordial, polite, laughing and smiling at the appropriate times. Anton Greeley himself, his brown hair pulled into a slick ponytail, his tall, stocky frame encased in a dashiki and black dress slacks, cornered her, and, like everyone else, seemed completely charmed by her, showing great interest in her engagement ring and throwing knowing glances toward me.

Say what they will, with their stupid talk about being with one woman. She was everything to me, and not just because she was beautiful and successful and could screw me better than a porn actress…but because she was…Season. I wanted her the second I laid eyes on her and no one else could satisfy the need I had for her. And we had to get married as soon as possible because no way in hell was she getting away from me.

But I worried. And what Terry and Randy had started did not help. Would she be able to accept the fact there’d been other women before her? Women like Renata who would resurface with all kinds of “stories” about me? Not that I was as much of a womanizer as Steve, but there were women, many of which wanted to be right where Season was, with a guaranteed commitment.

“Does she know how many women you’ve been with?” Terry asked. “She told me she asked you but you wouldn’t tell her.”

I sighed heavily. “Is it really that important?”

“Could be.” He finished his beer. “You never know.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “At least we’re not in L.A. anymore. Then you’d really be up shit creek.”

I hated that he was right. L.A. did get a little crazy.

Season was at my side again, looping her arm around my waist.

“So, is that how you snare all your women? By imitating Geddy Lee?”

A slew of swear words raged through my head.

Terry suppressed his laughter, rather badly. “Oops.”

I squirmed slightly. “You shouldn’t listen to idle gossip.”

She looked at Terry. “It’s true, isn’t it? At a place called the Red Mustang?”

Terry grinned, thoroughly enjoying my discomfort. “Yeah. It was quite a place.”
“What song was it again?”

““Limelight,”” we stated simultaneously.

“That’s it.” She smiled coyly, pressing her magnificent body closer to mine. “Not an easy task. All those meter changes.”
“Neil Peart is a mother,” Terry said in praise. “But we pulled it off, with Jonny’s leadership.” He poked me in the chest. “And we did it all for you.”

I was ready to kill him, chewing on the inside of my mouth. I leaned over and whispered in Season’s ear. “Let’s get out of here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, but I’m having so much fun meeting your old “friends”.”

Ouch. Please don’t be this way. I looked her straight in the eye. “I think it’s time to go,” I said, my voice edgy.

A muscle twitched in the middle of her forehead. “Maybe that’s a good idea after all.” She eased her hand down the middle of my back, making my spine sizzle.

“Yeah, go do what you do best.” Terry lit up a Camel and I knew exactly what he meant. “Go play some Rush.”

I ran my middle finger along the side of my nose, flipping him off in the process. Season laughed, and I was relieved. Somewhat.

The drummer giggled. “You dog.”

“Woof,” I answered glibly.

“You make him do that?” Terry asked Season.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I may have to request “The Spirit of Radio.””

“Okay, that’s it, we’re leaving.” I set my empty glass on the bar with a little more force than I intended. “I’ve had enough of Anton and his coked-up imagination.” I took Season’s hand and began to lead the way out.

“Don’t wear him out too bad,” Terry called after me. “He’s still gotta play next week!”
There was a lull in people traffic as we made our way for the door, and while we waited for others to file through, I caught sight of Renata again, speaking to another one of Anton’s Hollywood friends. She leered at me, raising her wine glass. Season’s back was to her, so I used the opportunity to make good on our growing reputation as blatant exhibitionists. I placed my hand around Season’s neck and kissed her full on the mouth in front of God and everybody, making the people around us murmur with shock. I barely heard cameras whirring and video starting to roll.

And I just felt like doing it anyway.

Breathless, Season looked up at me and grinned. “You are ready to go home.”

“I was ready before I left home.”
Renata was still watching with great interest, but as quickly as I could, I led us out, my hand planted firmly on the small of Season’s back.

We walked in silence to the Blazer, parked just up the block, and after helping Season in, I sat quietly in the driver’s seat as she buckled her seatbelt and smoothed her skirt over her lap.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, leaning back in her seat and placing her hand on my arm.

I didn’t know where to start. “I’m sorry about that.”

She giggled. “About what? It’s not like that whole world hasn’t seen you kiss me before.”

“Not that.”

Catching on, she removed her hand and I missed its warmth. “That’s not a big deal.”

There was a hint of laughter in her voice, even if it was a little steely. I loved how she knew exactly what I was talking about without me having to explain. Some women loved to play dumb, or may have thrown some kind of fit, but Season was not the type. She could be terribly realistic. And sometimes that’s not necessarily a good thing.

“I wasn’t…I didn’t…” I hated to fumble for words. It wasn’t like me, but she made me do a lot of things I’d never done before. “I wasn’t prepared to deal with any other women who might “reappear” from my past.”

As far as I was concerned, there were no women in my past. Season’s presence obliterated all memory of other women. She had that much power. And at times, I believed she was very aware of that.

She laughed softly. “Well, I knew you weren’t exactly a virgin when I met you, Jon.”

I had to smile. “No, not quite.”
“And you used to live here, so of course we’d run into somebody.” She turned slightly, resting her cheek against soft leather. “It’s just like when Tommy Montreaux showed up in New Orleans.”

A dark cloud settled over me. “That was a little different.”

“Not really,” she said. “And you handled that…”

“Rather poorly,” I said quickly, but she kept going.

“Just like you should have after what he said to you.” She ran the back of her fingers along my forearm and my muscles tingled. “You beat his ass like he deserved.” She glanced out the windshield, a satisfied look on her face. “It was actually pretty cool.”

I guess. Tommy was a special case, abusive, and a rapist. I couldn’t go around beating up all her former lovers, any more than she could mine. She’d be awfully busy if that were the case. Granted I wasn’t exactly a gigolo in the past, and usually just got laid on gig nights if I was lucky, but I was no saint either. And I was never too emotionally involved with any of them, not anything like I was with her.

“What exactly did she tell you?” I asked, referring to Renata.

Her expression changed, and she took a deep breath. “You were with her more than once.”

Unfortunately… “It didn’t mean anything.”

She turned her head to look at me, and I didn’t like the look.

“It didn’t,” I repeated.

“They all mean something,” she said. “Especially if they weren’t just one-night-stands.”

She’d been talking to Terry. My best friend would know that I had a habit of going back for seconds if I enjoyed the first round. It wasn’t so much that I liked the girl, it was more the idea of knowing I wouldn’t have to work as hard to get some if I knew she was still interested in me. And I rarely fooled around with more than one girl at a time. You keep too many around all at once you’re bound to have more trouble than you need. Terry called it being “monogamously promiscuous.”

When he could prounounce it.

And if they knew club owners, like Renata did in those days, your cash flow could suffer tremendously, if you pissed them off.

The road was different. You breezed into town, perused the local selection of willing females, and then tried to get them out of your room as quickly as you could, or left them there when your manager came around to collect you the next day. Those girls you didn’t necessarily worry about, unless they started writing weird fan mail and needed to be under psychiatric evaluation. We’d all had those, and most of them were making shit up anyway.

But for the months at home…either here in Phoenix, or L.A., or Albuquerque, where I’d stay with Terry from time to time, or even in my hometown, Tombstone, there were some women I knew quite well, and they knew me even better.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat, tapping my forefingers on the bottom of the steering wheel. “I just didn’t want you to feel…uncomfortable. You were honest with me about your past, so I…need to be up front about mine.”

What I could remember of it.

“It’s the past,” she said. “It doesn’t really matter.”

But it does. She was trying to be brave, and maybe it didn’t bother her, but everyone feels that freaky twinge when old lovers turn up unexpectedly. Surely she couldn’t deny that no matter how hard she tried.

I gazed at her, her face bathed in shadows and red neon. I didn’t want strange women walking up to her out of the blue and telling her about their sexual escapades with me. didn’t want her to know how I’d try to escape a girl’s bedroom as soon as my needs were met for the week. I wanted her to love the rock and roll superstar hero she saw me as, not some dope-smoking punk who went through the stage of seeing how much pussy he could score before the age of thirty. I wanted her to know only the man I wanted to become, the man who wanted to give her all that he had, to lay the world at her feet and die trying. I wanted to see that look in her eyes the night I asked her to marry me, see it every day until I did die, preferably in her arms when I was about a hundred years old.

“I love you,” I said.

She touched my face and I kissed the heel of her palm.“Then take me home.”

The beauty of the American West lies in the vastness of the night sky, which can only be truly appreciated when you live out away from town, where the city lights don’t intrude. The sky was completely clear, a golden half-moon hanging just about the treeline, and stars as far as the eye could see.

Yes, there are times when I believed my life was awesome. And nothing makes a man’s life more awesome than a partially-clad woman with a killer body standing on his back porch.

I leaned on the deck railing, taking in the other view I enjoyed just as much as a sky full of stars. She had just stepped out of the kitchen, her black kimono draped open, revealing her exquisite naked body underneath. A gentle breeze lifted her raven hair, making it drift across her breasts, and if I had any memory of previous women left in my head, the movement of silken hair against a taut, pink nipple wiped it out completely.

I drank the last of my nightcap, feeling a mellow surge of drunkenness. It’s still good to be drunk and horny at the same time. I set the glass down, bracing my hands against the rail and crossing my bare ankles, feeling cool treated wood under my feet.

“Anything I can do for you, ma’am?” I joked.

“It’s more about what I can do for you.” She stepped forward. “Or do I have to make a song request?”

I hung my head. “Season…”

She just grinned, walking slowly and stopping right in front of me. “That seems to be the order of the evening.” She gingerly unbuttoned the last three buttons at the bottom of my shirt. “Let’s see? “Closer to the Heart”? “2112”?”

“That one takes too long,” I said, feeling my breath hitch as she raked the pads of her fingers upward across my bare stomach. “In fact, “Working Man” always got a good response.”

“Ooh, was that the second night she came to see you?” She wrapped her tongue around my left nipple and a long “ahh” escaped from my throat.

“No, I don’t think so…” I reached to touch her, but before I could lay my hands on her breasts she grabbed both wrists and adopted an accent I’d never heard her use before, shaking her head.

“No touchy, touchy,” she said, nipping her teeth on my chin. “You been bad boy.”

Whoa…I could groove on this “hot Asian girl” technique. “Ah, so, you torture young grasshopper.” I’m surprised she wasn’t trying to sound like a Codetalker.

“You be good or you no come back here,” she went on, sounding like a waitress in a Chinese restaurant. She planted my hands on the railing behind me, the tips of her breasts brushing ever so lightly against my chest. I groaned, tormented.

“I’m really gonna pay for this, aren’t I?”

She slipped back into the ever-so-slight Cajun accent I was used to. “You got dat raht, ma cher.”

Yep, I was right about that Addams family thing.

She knelt down, sliding her body over mine as she did so, and began to unhook my belt. She nudged my legs apart and drew out the erection between, taking it between both her palms and blowing hot air on the head.

I threw my head back, sucking in air through clenched teeth. Jesus…

Her lips teased at me, laying hot kisses down each side, her fingers stroking me, her tongue moving slowly up the ridge underneath then flicking against the cleft at the tip. I grunted deep in my chest, thanking every god I could think of for creating woman. Trying to clear my vision, I looked down at her, seeing where her kimono had slipped off one shoulder, watching as she took my entire length into her mouth, something no other woman had ever really been able to do. Must be something only a singer would know how to do, opening her throat and sucking me back as far as she could. Instinctively, I reached out my left hand to touch the side of her head, but she caught my wrist again almost immediately and drew her head back, the warmth around my penis disappearing and replaced by the cool, night air.

I cursed. She scowled, her right hand clenched around my wrist and her left thumb and forefinger wrapped tightly around the base of my erection, cutting off the orgasm that had been building for several minutes.

“I meant what I said about touching,” she growled, scolding me as if she were a harsh junior high librarian. “You try that again and I’ll stop.” She pushed my hand back toward the railing.

I wrung out my fingers, her grip nearly cutting off my circulation. “Yes, ma’am.”