Chapter 8 Back Home

MONTREAL, OT

Saturday, September 21

            I finally had twenty minutes of free time before we left the hotel for sound check. My first opportunity since last night to use the phone.

            She picked up after two rings, and I was relieved, but it was all I could do not to launch into a “Where the hell have you been?” speech. It was just so good to hear her voice, I almost forgot I was pissed off

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey.” Strange. She sounded pissed off, too.

I tried to sound jovial, considering it wouldn’t do me any good to rant and rave over the phone when I was on the other side of damn continent. “Where were you last night?”

She sniffed. “I was here.” Pause. “Did you call?”

Darkness settled over me, and I choked back the scream developing in my throat. “Several times. The machine didn’t pick up. Did you unplug it?”

She took a while to answer. “I…must’ve pushed a wrong button on it or something.”

I tried to convince myself she wasn’t lying. “Are you all right?” She sounded stoned. Either she’d finished off what was left of the stash or she’d been into her muscle relaxers again. Somehow I didn’t…I wasn’t sure what I thought.

“I’m sorry, I’m not feeling very well. I’ve come down with a cold or something.”

Okay, maybe she was telling the truth. She sounded congested…like she’d been…

Crying? About what? Maybe I needed to drop my suspicious nature after all and concentrate on someone else besides myself.

“I went to bed pretty early last night,” she went on. “I didn’t even hear the phone. I’m sorry.”

There’s one right by the bed, can’t miss it…unless you’re completely deaf or under the influence of really heavy drugs…or you’re ignoring it intentionally…you and your pool man…

 “It’s okay,” I said, though I was obviously a little cranky. “I was just worried when you didn’t pick up.”

“I’m just getting used to the climate, I guess,” she said. “It gets cooler at night here this time of year.”

As opposed to the ninety percent humidity and eighty-plus degree heat New Orleans has in the middle of September…I supposed she was right. Maybe she didn’t feel well, maybe she had zonked out and not heard…that still didn’t really explain the answering machine.

I kept telling myself I was making a big deal out of nothing. What with Steve and his bullshit, and that girl reporter…on to bigger and better things…

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” I said, attempting to brighten up the tone of my voice. “That should make you feel better.”

“It would.” She said that, but it didn’t sound like she meant it…

“So I’ve got an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you feel like doing some shopping?” 

“What kind of shopping?”
            “Well…I’ve told you before about what I do to wind down after a road trip…” It was my typical “coming-off-the-road” habit to spend a day or two completely toked up with any willing female, having lots of sex and filling up on junk food, and I was more than ready to start making it a habit with her. “You can buy whatever you want. Or I’ll call Marietta and have her bring it to you.”

“That’d be good,” she yawned, and I wondered how long she’d slept that day. It was three o’clock in Montreal, making it noon in Phoenix. 

“Hey, listen, I may not be able to come pick you up tomorrow…”
            What? What could she possibly be doing on a Sunday? And why wouldn’t she want to come pick me up at the airport? Wasn’t she happy to see me? Couldn’t wait to…Well, if she’s ill, you stupid ass…

“If you’re still not feeling all right, I’ll have someone bring me home,” I said. “It’s no problem.”

“Okay.” Then she was awfully quiet, as was I. I really didn’t like this conversation.

“I love you,” I said, trying to make it a better one.

She returned the sentiment, but it sounded oddly subdued.

“I can’t wait to come home,” I went on, trying harder.

“I know.”

Shit. What was going on?

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Season…”

She hung up.

I stared at the phone for a long time, thinking five hundred things at once but unable to concentrate on any of them.

Terry banged on the door. “Hey, let’s go! Let’s wrap this puppy up and go home!”

One more gig…there would always be one more gig.

Sunday, September 22

We flew back from Montreal early Sunday morning, putting us back in Phoenix around nine a.m. I was barely awake when we touched down, not having had a lick of sleep in almost thirty-six hours. The video shoot had gone on longer than expected Saturday morning, and we ended up having to re-shoot more footage before we flew out. I wasn’t going to be worth shit for the next couple of days, and we were leaving for New York Monday afternoon.

            At least Season would be coming with me then. Or at least, I hoped she would. She wasn’t standing at the gate when we walked in, and that really bugged the crap out of me.

            I heard the snap of a Zippo lighter behind me.

            “She did say she wasn’t feeling well yesterday, right?” Randy was on his second cigarette after getting off the plane only about five minutes ago. “That she might not make it?”

            I chewed on the inside of my mouth, brooding, scanning the terminal. “Yeah.”

            “My local tech was supposed to leave the Mustang here,” he said, readjusting the carry-on bag on his shoulder. “I’ll give ya a ride.”

            Steve walked by, and a tall blonde standing near the desk started heading his way. She was wearing red hot pants, a yellow t-shirt that looked about four sizes too small, and wedge-heel espadrilles that laced up her tanned calves. In one hand dangled a set of keys that I figured were to Steve’s Corvette. Steve blew her a kiss and jerked his head to one side in a kind of come-hither motion. Was she…skipping?

            He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. They shared some inaudible dirty exchange, then he glanced over at us, making sure we saw everything.

            “Nobody here to pick you up, Jonny-boy?”

            I ran my middle finger up and down the center of my nose. 

Randy rolled his eyes. “You asshole.”

Steve grinned, and clamped his hand around his latest blonde’s ass. “See you guys tomorrow.”  They turned to leave, then Steve turned back again. “Season is coming with us, isn’t she?”

My nostrils flared, but I kept my cool. “Yes, she is.”

“Sure she is.” They proceeded out of the terminal, joined at the hip.

Randy exhaled harshly. “I don’t get it, Jon. I don’t know what the hell he’s trying to do.”

I didn’t either, but I wasn’t concerned with Steve. “Take me home. And drive fast.”

Randy pulled up to the house, which even in the bright morning light looked dark and deserted. 

Terry was in the back seat. “She’s not rushing out to meet you?”

I was still pretty tight-lipped, hardly speaking for the entire half-hour drive. “Maybe she’s still sick.” Why didn’t I believe that?

Randy shut off the engine and opened his door. “We’ll come in.”

“Do I look like I need reinforcements?” I asked brusquely.

Randy and Terry exchanged looks, then stared at me. “Yeah,” they chorused.

I swore, shaking my head, and got out of the car. Randy opened the trunk, tossed my carry-on bag to me, and hoisted my other bag over one shoulder. Terry simply tagged along.

The front door was unlocked, so that meant she was home. Or she left in too big a hurry…it was awfully quiet in here. I fought back the fear that she wouldn’t answer and called her name.

“Season?”

Randy and Terry followed as I peeked around the staircase down into the garage. Randy had just tossed my other bag on the couch when I heard the back door close. She came into the kitchen from the deck.

“Hey!”

She was a sight for sore eyes, and I felt again like I hadn’t seen her in ages. She stood in the frame of the kitchen entrance, wearing torn jeans, her slender arms folded across her white t-shirt, the top half of her hair pulled back from her face and secured in a ponytail at the base of her neck. Loose tendrils fell over her ears and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. She was barefooted again, and I was ten times more excited than I was helping Camille St. John pick her notebook up off the floor two nights ago.

I was about to throw down the bag I was carrying and gather her into my arms like I did that day at rehearsal, but the look on her face discouraged me. It was not so much of a frown as it was…a blank stare, like she was terribly angry but wasn’t ready to unleash the fury.

And she didn’t look sick. At all. 

She glanced around me. “Hi, guys.”

They returned the greeting, and I looked back at them, noticing their rather distressed expressions. They looked really uncomfortable.

As was I.

She looked right back at me, her mouth set in a firm line. She blinked, as if to say, “Could you get them to leave, please?”

I took a long, slow breath and approached her slowly. “What’s the matter?” I whispered.

She furrowed one eyebrow, and spoke to the guys. “Thanks for giving him a ride home, Randy.”

“Sure thing.” He smiled and winked at her, hoping to ease her ill temper. He’d already lit up another cigarette. “I didn’t want him to have to walk.”

Terry observed quietly, then said, “Well, we’re gonna get out of here.” He tugged at Randy’s jacket sleeve.

“Yeah, Jon, we’ll catch you later.” Randy backed himself toward the door. “See you both in the morning?” He glanced at Season again. “You glad to be coming along this time?”

She nodded slowly. “Uh, huh.”

All I could do was stare at her, feeling my exhaustion starting to set in all the more. I did not need to come home to this.  

Terry and Randy took their leave and closed the door behind them. I waited, watching through the windows that lined the front door, making sure the car was out of the driveway and they didn’t stick around to eavesdrop. Season disappeared back into the kitchen. I eventually followed.

She stood on the other side of the island. I finally set my bag on the floor and placed my palms on the counter.

“What is wrong?”

She turned and slid a bulky manila envelope about the size of a videocassette across the island.

“This came in the mail Friday afternoon.”

            It came to a stop right in front of me. There was no return address and no postmark. The only marking was “To Jon Warren, Phoenix.”

            “This didn’t come regular mail,” I said.

            “It came by private courier,” she said, raising her chin slightly. “From Monica Renard.”

            I lowered my head and wanted to die, right there. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

            She spoke after a long silence, her voice like thick ice. “Is it a full-length feature film or is it various scenes from your other on-screen appearances?”

            Denying this would have been pointless.

            “It’s actually an afternoon at her apartment,” I answered truthfully, meeting her evil stare. “You didn’t open it up and find out for yourself?”

            “I don’t open other people’s mail,” she said. “And I would expect you to show me the same courtesy, if I’m going to be married to you.”

            If… “You mean, when, right?” Don’t you dare back out on me, not now, even with this… “When you’re married to me?”

            She dragged in air through her nostrils. “Maybe.”

            I felt like she’d just slapped me. And I guess she probably should have. I leaned on the island for support, feeling my knees weaken, and not just from exhaustion now. I felt my ulcer rumble, and tried to think of some kind of explanation.

            “It was her idea, not mine.”

            “Really?”

            Oh, I knew that tone too well. If there was ever any woman who really knew how to be a bitch at the worst possible time…

            “You know what she did for a living…”

            She nodded. “You have two of her films in your collection upstairs.”

            Oh, well, I guess she knew where everything in the closet was now…

            “You’re not in those.”

            And she’d watched them, too, by the sound of it.

            I almost laughed. “I’ve never made a porn film.”

            She glanced at the envelope, then right back at me. “Then what is that?”

            I rubbed a hand over my face and around the back of my neck, feeling the muscles tighten like piano wire. “She knew I was leaving L.A. And her. She wanted…something to remember me by.”

            She just stared at me, furious.

            I threw my hands in the air and paced for a second. “I told you about Monica. Hell, you even met her.”

            Season looked down a minute, trying to keep her resolve. “I thought she left the business.”
            “She did,” I said. “She was finishing her last film when she met me. You know this whole story.” I had to stop moving and placed one hand on the island again. I was so tired, and so terrified I didn’t think I could stand anymore.

            She walked closer, and took a knife out of the holder next to the stove.

Oh, shit, she’s gonna kill me. For real. Or she’s gonna slice my nuts off right here in the kitchen…

She leaned her right hip against the island, and pointed the knife handle toward me.

“Open it.”

I sighed heavily, tossing my head backward. “Just let me destroy it,” I pleaded. “I don’t even have to take it out of the envelope…”

She shook her head and tapped the knife handle on the counter. She repeated her request. “Open it.”

“Why?” Don’t do this, please…

She tilted her head sideways, her bottom lip puckered in anger. “I wanna see it.”

I groaned in frustration. “You can’t be serious.”

She wasn’t letting up. She stood patiently, holding that knife just inches from my groin.

I glared at her, feeling that same rush of fifty thousand emotions all at one time: embarrassment, terror, anger...I took the knife then opened the envelope.

            A videotape, labeled “J-Jan 6, 1985,” dropped out, along with a folded piece of expensive vellum-finish stationery paper. I unfolded it, and read it.

Jonny,

I just can’t go anywhere without hearing about your wedding, so congratulations!

She’s so beautiful and you deserve to be happy. That’s why I sent this to you. I’d hate for it to fall into the wrong hands by mistake, knowing that someone could use it to exploit you or upset your new wife. I know it will be safer with you and you can do whatever you want with it-keep it, burn it, I don’t care. I’m also trying to get rid of a lot of things from my past, in an effort to start a clean slate with my husband. It’s hard to let it go…but you were always honest with me, and are still a good man. I hope she realizes what she’s getting-she’s one lucky girl.

Best of luck to you and love always,

Moni

            I handed the letter to Season, and before she could question me…

            “I have nothing to hide,” I said. I really needed to sit down.

            She read the letter quietly, then placed it back on the counter and picked up the videocassette. She moved past me, headed for the living room.

I ran my hands over my head, feeling I was going to pass out any minute.

She stopped at the entrance, awestruck that I didn’t follow. “You’re not watching?” she asked, for what reason I couldn’t begin to imagine. She had to be nuts.

“I’ve never seen it,” I confessed, over one shoulder. “And I’m not ever gonna see it.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

I turned to face her, still groping the side of the work table and pulling myself onto a barstool. “No. Why would I wanna watch myself doing that?”

She studied me, incredulous. “You’re not curious?”

“Just because you are doesn’t mean I have to be,” I muttered, looking away. I’d only watched myself in a mirror once. I wasn’t impressed. Despite what everyone else seems to think of my sexual prowess, all I could see was what I could be doing better, just like I do when I hear playbacks in the studio or watch myself in a music video. I constantly critique myself, and sex was no exception. 

I guessed she might be impressed. Why was she even doing this? How could she torture herself this way? She must really want to get back at me…

            I met her eyes again. “It was for Monica. Not for me.”

She turned away, disappearing to the left into the living room. I listened as she slipped the tape into the VCR. The TV clicked on and there was no sound for awhile.

I stumbled over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of J & B, then went to the cabinet next to the refrigerator. I took out a glass, filled it with ice, and sat back down. I poured a strong drink and downed it in one gulp, remembering that afternoon in January as if it were yesterday...

            I was drunk after the second gulp, trying to drown out the sound of the television. Did she just turn the volume up on purpose? I put my head down on the counter, squeezing my wrists against my ears. I didn’t want to hear the end of that particular lovemaking session…but I could still hear it sometimes in my head, when I was feeling guilty about things I probably never should have done…

           

            The woman in the video looked up at him, stroking the sides of his face, her voice hushed and sweet as she spoke.

            “Jonny.”

            Season was shocked not only by its tenderness, but that it could even be heard over the harsh breathing and the sounds of The Brothers Johnson’s “Strawberry Letter 23” in the background. He opened his eyes and looked down at the woman.

            Were those tears in her eyes? It was hard to tell in a non-porn porn tape. No close-ups, not repeated shots of breasts jiggling and hips thrusting…

“I love you.”

            His shoulders tensed, his body slowed, and a look of intense guilt covered his face. He didn’t respond verbally, just lowered his head, closing his eyes again. Season caught the unmistakable clench of his jaw, something he always did when he was distressed. Monica’s hands moved back down over his arms, and she raised her head to whisper to him, and Season made a note to remember what she said.

            That little phrase might come in handy some time. Like later on that evening.

            And he did as she asked…moving his body faster and harder, the unmistakable pleasure rumbling in his throat, the tension rising in his shoulders…but even that was different also. There were things he wasn’t saying in the heat of the moment eight months ago…

            Two minutes later the VCR shut off. Season removed the videocassette and returned to the kitchen, finding him fast asleep, leaning over the counter, his head resting on his right arm, his left hand draped across the back of his neck, and a glass of melting ice cubes in his hand. 

            Suddenly she just couldn’t be mad at him anymore, and thanked God he was finally home. In the flesh.

            “Y’know, you’re good, but that wasn’t your best.”

            I jerked awake, nearly sliding off the barstool. I balanced myself on the edge of the island, rubbing the side of my face where it had been smashed into the counter. It took me a minute to figure out where I was, and why I had an empty glass in my hand.

            Oh, yeah, I was on the verge of being dumped because I got caught with my videotape down.

            I cleared my throat and wiped hair out of my eyes. “What?”

            She was back in the kitchen entrance again, her weight balanced on one bare foot, the cursed video in one hand. “I’d say you’ve improved since January.”

            Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. “Thanks,” I murmured, embarrassed as well as…insulted.

            “Maybe we could make our own and we could check your progress.” She tilted her head to one side, giving the tape a shake. “You’re very different now.”

            I think I had too much to drink already. “Different?”

            She nodded slowly and pointed to her quarry. “You didn’t make as much noise as you do now,” she observed. “And you move…more…aggressively, now, I think.”

            I made a face similar to one I always used to give my mother when she was criticizing me. Good God. Let’s hope she never sees the tape. Oh, wait, she saw me live. That’s even worse. Talk about criticism.

“I have more exciting company now,” I said. “And I was not in love with Monica Renard.”

“I could tell,” she said. “That wasn’t the same for her, was it?”

I looked down, studying the countertop, and didn’t respond.

She strolled in, and set the tape on the counter. “That must have been really hard for her.”

Oh, so she’s on Monica’s side, now? Women.

“She’s done just fine without me,” I said, resting my elbows on the counter and running fingers through my hair again. Damn, I was so tired…

“You basically used her, then?” she asked.

I didn’t want to admit that, but I guess that really was the case. I had a porn star, a woman desired by millions of men, wanting me twenty-four hours a day. It was real ego boost for a twenty-two-year-old rocker nerd, but I didn’t feel a damn bit of “love” for her. She was pretty, she was smart, she had a killer body, though most of it was fake, and she really knew how to please a man, but as far as anything serious…no way.

“I didn’t see anyone else while I was with her,” I began, then caught myself. “No, wait, I faltered a couple of times.” Ugh, more blasts from the past…I gotta cut this shit out or Season’s never gonna marry me.

She raised an eyebrow. “A couple of times?”

Damn, could I have more of a big mouth? I chose to tell a little bit of a white lie. “Monica knew.” About one, in the middle of December in Oakland, but not about the other. New Year’s in San Diego…

Season and I stared each other down for a second. 

“You falter often?” she asked.

Shut your mouth, now, Warren… Well, hell, the woman was a porn actress. Did it really matter if I was sleeping with someone else if she was? Did it matter that it was her job?

“No,” I said, knowing I looked as guilty as I felt, with my energy completed drained. I had nothing left to even put on a good show, not that I really needed to anyway. I was pretty transparent at that point.

She was still looking right into me, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking to save my soul. All I could think of was how I could get her naked in next few seconds before I collapsed. I just heard myself having sex with a porn star. This didn’t help the frame of mind I’d been in all week, thinking of it every damn minute of the day and having to go without. I didn’t want to go without for a minute longer.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never thought I would…” I gestured toward the videotape, resting on the counter as innocently as a stray piece of silverware. “…see that again.”

She picked it up, along with Monica’s note, and stuffed them back into the envelope. She laughed softly. “You didn’t even see it the first time.” 

I rubbed my eyes again. “Not my best, huh?”

She shook her head. “Nope.” She folded the edges of the envelope around its contents. “I thought you used to always wear a condom?”

Oh, yeah. “Monica was clean,” I said, referring to her status of being disease-free. “And on the pill.”

Season nodded. “You never worried about that with me.”

“I remember what you told me in Houston,” I said, remembering a discussion we had about AIDS only days before we’d gone to bed together for the first time. “And I knew you were on birth control.”

She bit her lower lip and I nearly pounced on her right then. When she did the innocent little girl stuff it just drove me nuts. Then she raised an eyebrow like a seductress and I was in bigger trouble. “Even if you didn’t love her emotionally, you made a decent impression of it physically.”

Decent impression…I poured another glass of scotch. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

She moved closer to me. “Where did you learn to do some of those things?”

 “I’ve got a good imagination.” I drank and cringed from the sting. “So it wasn’t my best. Do I not rate as well as some of Monica’s co-stars? You watched her movies.”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to show me how much better you really are.” She leaned forward onto the counter, making her breasts push upward to form a rather excellent view of cleavage through the V-neck of her t-shirt. “Think you can do that?”

If that wasn’t a cue to nail her on the island again, I don’t know what was. I slid off the barstool and reached for her. “I know I can do that.”

I took one slim arm and pulled her hard against me, latching onto her mouth with mine. From there on out, there was a lot of groping and tearing off of clothes. Pretty soon she was completely naked and impaled to the wall between the entrance to the pantry and the oven, my shirt thrown off my back and my jeans undone, and I was pretty sure I was doing a much better job than the performance I’d given nine months ago with the same video director I’d just worked with in Thunder Bay.

My life is so strange.

I rested my head on her shoulder, weakening by the minute. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“You do look pretty tired.” She lowered her legs and set her feet on the floor, massaging my back. “I did what you asked.”

I was practically asleep already, the smell of sex and her perfume lulling me into dreamland.  “What was that?”

“I’m all set to help you wind down after your road trip.”

Ah, sex, dope, and sugar. I knew there was a reason why I wanted to marry her. “Thank you.”

Chapter 7 Friday, September 20

THUNDER BAY, ONTARIO

Friday, September 20

            This had to be the most boring video shoot we’d ever done. We were standing at various points around an old power station, and it was raining, much to the director’s delight because now he didn’t have to use the rain machine. I wondered if the station was totally shut off, because every so often sparks would shoot up from out of nowhere. I was wearing black leather pants, a black leather vest, and black boots, soaked to the skin, cold, holding an old Fender Precision with the electronics taken out. I wasn’t happy about my current condition because I never thought I looked good with my hair wet, and didn’t want look crappy in a video. But then again, this video wasn’t about me, it was about Steve, and the tall, busty, leggy model from Toronto. She and he were on the highest platform, just above Terry’s kit, a makeshift Pearl set that barely resembled the huge Custom kit he played onstage. I glanced up between takes, hearing Steve and the girl giggle, and I was pretty sure she’d end up at the hotel with him after the show tonight, or sooner. They were off to a pretty good start already.

And all Terry kept saying was, “How come we all don’t get girls to hang on us?”

It was six in the morning, and we’d been there since four-thirty. We’d had no sleep, and were expected to come back after tonight’s gig to finish. The director wanted to shoot at night, and was already starting to lose the darkness. And he was more than pleased that it was supposed to keep raining.

I was miserable.

Season had done okay defending herself against the “ladies who lunch,” but I still hated that she’d been out with her mother, discussing wedding plans with Carmen, just having lunch…then to have to hear that. And who was that woman who called me a pompous ass? I always tried to be nice even if I was turning them down…the Canyon…how many times did we play at the Canyon? Who would’ve been with me? I couldn’t even remember that one. Maybe…

Stop this. You have no reason to inventory your former sex life. Season said it didn’t matter, so what’s your fucking problem?

The video director, Blaine Van Dyke, who’d done four other videos for us, was hollering for playback.

“And Jon! How the hell did you come up with this shit?” he yelled, referring to the song’s lyrical content. “You’re one dirty-minded motherfucker!”

I flipped him off. I’d had about all the oral sex jokes I could take for one night.

“Tipper Gore’s gonna come after you bad!”

I wandered into the dressing room, exhausted. And still had a show to play.

I collapsed on the couch next to Terry. “Is it time to go home yet?” I complained, stretching out my legs and resting my head against the armrest. “I think I’ve got pneumonia.”

“Y’know, I used to love things that were wet, but after this video…” Terry stuck his drumstick in his ear. “I’ve got water rolling around in my head.”

“That’s all you’ve got rolling around in your head,” Randy muttered, his voice muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. He was sitting across from us in a folding chair, strumming his Ibanez. 

The drumstick flew into the air and caught Randy square in the temple.

“Ow!” the guitarist shrieked. “Fucker!” 

“Bite my ass!” The drummer answered.

I started singing a Vanity 6 song, complete in falsetto. “I think he’s got more water upstairs…”

“…than he’s got sugar on the candy cane…” Bryon, also seated in a folding chair near the dressing table, joined in. 

Terry stood up and thrust his hands onto his bony hips. “Okay! That’s enough! Stop picking on me!”

More singing. “Charlie Brown” by the Coasters. “Why is everybody always picking on me?”

“Fuck y’all!” Terry retrieved his drumstick and sat back down. 

“You’ve been hanging out with Rick and Trace too much,” Randy said. “What’s this ‘y’all’ shit?”

“I’m surprised Jon’s not the one saying that.” Bryon finished tuning his Jackson. 

“Ah ain’t quaht got the drawl down yee-et,” I replied, exaggerating a somewhat Southern Louisiana accent. “Ah’ll hafta work ahn that ‘un.”

“Ooh, you’ve almost got it!” Bryon laughed, standing up and placing his guitar in a stand. “I remember when Dad was stationed at Fort Hood. But Central Texas isn’t quite New Orleans.”

“I’d rather she spoke French all the time,” I said. Ah, Morticia…

“That would be cool,” said Randy.

“That she does very well.” Steve sauntered in, looking incredibly…satisfied. He sat down in the chair Bryon had left and tucked his hands behind his head, propping a snakeskin-booted ankle on one knee. “Among other things, I’m certain.”

I raised my head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He just grinned smugly. “I’m talking about her singing, of course.”

I scowled at him. He’d been making weird insinuations all day.

Randy took a drag from his smoke and tapped the ash onto the floor. “So how’s…what was her name?”

“Brandy,” Terry said, elongating the syllables of the model’s first name. She and Steve had disappeared into his hotel room almost immediately after the shoot. He was almost late for sound check.    

“Yeah, like the drink,” I muttered.

Steve grinned. “She’s much better now, since she got so cold being out in the rain all day.” 

“Like all the rest of us.” I turned from my side onto my back and put my feet in Terry’s lap. He started drumming on the soles of my boots. 

Randy gave a har-rumph under his breath. “At least you got plenty of screen time like you wanted,” he said. “You didn’t have to share the girl with anybody.”

“Like I have before?” Steve winked at him. “And I’m not just talking about you.”

Steve and Randy had a habit of “sharing” women a lot, sometimes during the same night in the same room…but like he said, he wasn’t talking about his old friend from high school who’d helped found this band. He was talking about the only other founding member in the room.

“Isn’t that right, Jon?”

I sat up almost immediately, staring straight at him, and feeling the room spin a bit because I was so tired. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re not the only one who slept his way to the big time.” He turned to admire himself in the mirror, pushing his fingers into his white-blond hair.

“Hold on,” I said. “Number one, I didn’t sleep my way to the big time…”
            He laughed hysterically. “Come on! What about that girl who tended bar at the Rainbow? And that promoter’s daughter who got us on the bill to open for Quiet Riot?”

I bristled. The other band members were silent: Terry doing paradiddles on his thigh, Randy still plucking away at his Ibanez, and Bryon…standing quietly. I remember those instances, vaguely. I didn’t want to think of those instances as “screwing my way to the top.” I was just in the right place at the right time. And…well…

Truth be told, the women came on to me. I know that sounds like I’m copping out of a real explanation but it’s true. The bartender at the Rainbow just happened to be interested in me.

“You look as good in person as your voice sounded on the phone,” she’d said. “And you’re so polite.”

I’d simply said, “Uh, well, thank you. Did you hear our demo?” Then one thing kinda led to another…

And I got conned into sleeping with that promoter’s daughter. Barry had just sent me over to her bungalow talk to her. At two in the morning. The sex just kind of…happened. 

Hell, I was twenty-years-old and in Los Angeles for the first time…

“So what?” I said. “I still don’t hump every female that’s ever spoken to me. And what’s that gotta do with “sharing” women? I don’t think we have that in common, Steve.”

“Oh, but we do,” he said smugly. “She probably just forgot to tell you about it.”

I was on my feet immediately, wide awake. “What the fuck…”

“Hey!” Randy stood up, placing his guitar on the dressing table. “You know he’s lying. Bite my ass, Steve.”

The singer just laughed. “You think I mean Season? Well, that’d be more than perfect but no.” He turned away from the mirror. “This person knew who to turn to when you weren’t worth the effort anymore. C’mon, you know about it.”

I stared at him, feeling my blood curdle. Terry’s drumsticks stopped diddling.

“Oh, you don’t?” Steve’s eyes brightened. He seemed to really enjoy messing with my head this week. “I figured you were smarter than that.”

Randy shoved him in the shoulder. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“She was always available for you when we played the Mustang, but there were other days in the week, Jon.”

Renata again. So, I guess it wasn’t enough for me to emulate Geddy Lee for her. She liked bagging Robert Plant and Ian Gillan also, in the form of Steven Ivey. Why did I even care? Renata meant nothing to me, she never did. But still…the thought of her rolling around with Steve…and what was with that off-hand thing about Season?

Steve eyed Randy, then me. “I could’ve had Season, too, if I’d had the chance to persuade her a little bit more…”

Terry flew out of his seat, and grabbed my arm, anticipating my next move, which was a quick step forward, my hands ready to reach out and snap Steve’s neck in two.

“Don’t you ever say shit like that again,” I said through clenched teeth. “If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I’ll break your fucking skull.”

“Hey! I’m just kidding, asshole.” Steve crossed his arms on his chest. 

“That’s not funny, Steve,” Bryon warned.

Steve ignored him. “Y’know, Jon, your temper’s really starting to become an issue. What are you gonna do if Season tells a joke you don’t think is so funny?”

We all knew exactly what he was doing but none of us could figure out what to do about it without causing a big scene before the show.

“You need to lighten up, Jonny.” Steve stood, looking me straight in the eye. “Or maybe you’ll make the same mistake you did with Renata.”

“That was no mistake,” I said, knowing full well what he meant. She must have told him everything after that last night. “She got what she deserved.”

Randy shook his head. “Don’t listen to him, Jon. He’s just trying to rattle your cage.” He gave Steve another shove. “Though I don’t know why.”

Steve shoved Randy back and kept on rattling the cage. “I could’ve had her that night in Shreveport,” he said, now back to talking about my fiancée. “But I kept my cool then.”

“How much heroin did you shoot up today?” I asked. “Why don’t you go top yourself off?”

“You ever gonna tell her the truth, Jon?” he countered. “How maybe you’re not so honorable?” 

I just stared at him, livid, trying to maintain my composure before I tore his face off. 

“If any more of your women turn up, she may start having second thoughts.” He tossed his head, making his hair fall around his shoulders. “She’ll find out her “rock star in shining armor” might be a little tarnished.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve.” Randy started pushing him out of the room. “Go plug yourself into your syringe.”

“She deserves better,” the singer said, sauntering out as if this whole episode didn’t phase him. “You better make sure you can give it to her.”

I drew in a hard breath, grinding my back teeth. Terry’s hand was still on my arm. 

“He’s full of shit, you know that,” the drummer said as Randy followed Steve out, and was most assuredly on his way to berate the singer for his stupid outburst.

I sat back down on the couch, even more exhausted than before, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Why the hell is he doing this?” He started something similar to this last summer, right after Season and Rampage joined the tour. Then later on he acted as if he didn’t even remember. And he probably didn’t, what with his growing smack habit. Was he just jealous? Because of the publicity? My pending marriage? Tipper Gore’s attack on my rock lyrics? 

Who the fuck knows.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Bryon said, removing his t-shirt to dress in his stage clothes. “Steve doesn’t even know what planet we’re on anymore.”

“Yeah, he’s just…a crap head.” Terry twirled his drumsticks in both hands. “You think that model has a sister or something? I could really use a good lay myself.”

I wanted to laugh, but I had a funny feeling, like something wasn’t quite right.

With the video shoot postponed until the next morning, and still stewing over Steve’s comments, I drank too much Crown when I got back to the hotel and ended up losing my dinner. My ulcer was definitely acting up again, but as long as it wasn’t bleeding, I was okay.

I wiped a wet washcloth over my face and checked the time. Two-thirty a.m. Thunder Bay time, meaning eleven-thirty p.m. yesterday, Arizona time. No wait, ten. Arizona wasn’t on daylight savings. I picked up the phone.

Twelve rings. The machine didn’t even pick up. That meant the phone was unplugged.

I checked my watch again, as well as the digital on the nightstand. There was only about two minute’s difference.

What the fuck.

Suddenly that joke about the “pool man” wasn’t so damn funny.

Damn. Maybe Steve was right…

I rested my elbows on my knees and held the sides of my head. Okay, okay, pull it together. Maybe she’s just tired and didn’t want to be wakened. Maybe the phone lines are down; it happened a lot out in the country. Maybe…

Where the hell was she?

Terry stumbled into the room, with a giggling, and very young, blonde girl in his arms. He had a bottle of vodka in one hand and her ass in the other.

“Oh, shit, Jon…” he gurgled when he saw me. “I thought you were still downstairs…”

I stood quickly, with effort, and grabbed my shirt off the bed, where I’d tossed it when I came in, running for the toilet. “It’s okay, I’ll stay down in Bryon’s room.”

He frowned, reading the scowl on my face, and dumped the girl on the other bed. She continued to giggle.

“What’s the matter?”
            “Nothing. I’m all right.” I pulled the shirt on, buttoned a couple of buttons in the middle and leaving the rest undone as was my custom. I messed with my hair for a second and headed for the door.  “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Wait! Wait!” He followed me, shaking a finger at his…companion, telling her he’d be just a sec. “What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath, my hand on the doorknob. “Season won’t answer the phone.”

“Won’t ans…Aw, c’mon, man. She’s probably just asleep. She popped some Percodan and she’s out of it.”

“She hasn’t been taking Percodan,” I said. “Not since…the first night in L.A.” I shuddered a moment. I didn’t want to remember that first night in L.A. The second one, though...

He raised his eyebrows, rubbed the back of his neck, his silver bracelets jingling together. “You leave a message?”

“Machine didn’t come on.”

He knew what that meant as well as I. “Maybe she’s hanging out with Gina.”

I almost laughed. “Gina’s with us, moron.”

Gina, Tarax’s make-up artist, and Season had become great friends, so much so that Gina was in full charge of Season’s bachelorette party, scheduled a week before the wedding. But Gina was still on the road with us. I guess in his drunken stupor, along with the four lines of coke he just couldn’t pass up earlier, he forgot she’d been putting make-up on him for the last four days.

He giggled with as much enthusiasm as his party guest. “Oops, well, yeah, I guess I should pay closer attention to my surroundings, huh?”

I just shook my head. “I’m outta here.”

“No! No!” He took my arm. “Hey, look, it’s probably nothing. Maybe she went shopping…”

“At ten-thirty at night? In Fountain Hills, Arizona?”

“Well…or she went to a movie…or something. Look, it’s okay, man.” He looked at me earnestly, chewing on his bottom lip. “She’s okay. I doubt she’s run off with the Domino’s guy.”

No, that would be the pool man… “They don’t deliver to my house,” I joked. Sort of. 

“Terry?” The giggler was getting restless, standing at the foot of the bed with one foot on top of the other and her hands behind her back.

“Y’know,” I began, sizing her up. She was…cute… “I think pedophilia is just as illegal in Canada as it is in the U.S.”

“She’s seventeen,” he whispered.

I took another look at her and she grinned, waving at me. Hmm… “That’s not eighteen,” I said.

“Close enough.” Terry ogled her, then put a hand on my shoulder. “Come back in about an hour. I could really use this.”

He had a strange look in his eyes, and I wondered if he’d heard from his mother today. Her cancer prognosis wasn’t looking good, and though he’d tried to be “normal,” not drinking, or doing coke, or doing really young girls…he wasn’t holding up as well as he was letting on. He looked lonely, and scared for a second, and I knew I was the only person he was going to reveal those feelings to.

Yes, there are people in the world who have bigger problems than I.

“It’s cool, Terry. Have some fun.”
            He smiled, looking much more like his old self again. “Thanks, man.”

I left the room, and wandered down to Bryon’s. He was propped on the bed, drinking a can of Guinness and watching a rebroadcast of some football game on ESPN.

“You get kicked out of your room?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I grabbed the phone, dialed home again. Ring…ring…ring…three football plays transpired, plus two commercials…I slammed the receiver back down into the cradle with a bang.

Bryon actually jumped. “Hey! No answer?”

I didn’t respond. This was starting to piss me off.

Bryon studied me curiously. “She’s probably asleep.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly the door swung open and Randy poked his head in. “Jon, are you available?”

“That depends,” I muttered.

Randy cleared his throat nervously, reading my mood. “There’s someone who wanted to meet you.”

Great. Another giggly, yet pleasantly nubile and extremely willing under-aged female wearing nothing more than a pair of tight jeans and a low-necked tank top maybe?

“She’s from the Lakehead University press,” he said. “She speaks French better than she speaks English and I thought you might be able to talk to her.”

I hesitated, wondering just how true that really was, but I knew Randy was usually pretty honest about that kind of thing, and wouldn’t have steered her in my direction if he didn’t think she was legit. Reluctantly, I said, “Where is she?”

“Down in Barry’s room.”

Okay, that was another safe bet that she wasn’t just scamming to bag a rock star. If Barry had allowed her into his suite, she was the real deal. I left Bryon and Randy, and went downstairs, pushing past the usual crowd of hangers-on that seemed to gravitate toward Barry’s lodgings.

She was sitting on the couch, talking quietly to the road manager, who stood as I entered. ”Jon, this is Camille St. John. She writes for the Lakehead U. newspaper.”

She extended a slim hand and I shook it, and tried not to look at her face for too long. She was terribly attractive, looking a lot like Natassia Kinski, with an exotic face, brown hair, green eyes. She was about average height, wearing jeans, a black velveteen blazer, and a thick wool scarf around her neck. She reminded me a lot of Season.

I thought about an unanswered phone located over a thousand miles away…

“She wanted to do an article for the French-speaking students,” Barry explained. “And since you know the language…”

I simply nodded, and hoped he wouldn’t…

“Why don’t you two step into that bedroom over there so you can have some more privacy?”
            …suggest that. It wasn’t because he was trying to put me into some compromising position, it was because he knew how tough an interview might be with all these extra people milling around. And unfortunately, the only other rooms in the suite just happened to have beds in them.

Why this suddenly had become a problem for me…I wasn’t sure. Regardless of the ongoing discussion of my former indiscretions that weren’t really indiscretions because I was a carefree young lad when I committed them, I never took advantage of women in the past, unless they just insisted. Even if they did insist, and I didn’t find them attractive, I didn’t normally oblige them. That wasn’t my style. If they weren’t really “doing” it for me, I sent them on their way, unlike Steve, who just wanted to sleep with everybody whether he liked them or not. 

Unfortunately, Camille was “doing” it for me, only because she looked incredibly like someone else that I missed desperately.

Why wasn’t she answering the goddamn phone tonight?

I tried to remember my language skills. “Bon soir.”

She looked relieved, and started rattling on in her own language. “I’m so glad I’ve found someone else who speaks French around here!”

“We’re tough to find in this business.” 

Barry steered us toward the bedroom, and I prayed there was a table and a chair in it.

There wasn’t.

He closed the door behind me, but I reopened it, keeping it ajar.

She sat down on the bed, and I opted to stand, leaning against the window sill. She took a pad and pencil out of her bag and started asking questions, mainly about how the band got started and how the tour was going. Then she asked about my personal life.

“You’re getting married?”

“In October.”

“How do you know French?”

“My grandparents were originally from Mont-Laurier.”

She nodded, wrote something down. “What does your fiancée think about you being on the road so much?”

“She’s on the road a lot, too,” I said, not really wanting to address that issue. “We just…make it work.” Bold statement. This was the first time we’d ever had to make it work. Not having that phone answered was not making it work for me.

Camille seemed satisfied with all her answers and stood up, thanking me for the interview. I escorted her to the door, and she “accidentally” dropped her notebook. We both reached down to pick it up, and my arm brushed against hers, the first intimate female contact I’d had since I’d stepped back on the bus last Sunday. My body responded accordingly.

I held my breath for a moment, kneeling on the floor and catching a whiff of perfume. In another time and place, which would’ve have been any day before June 19, 1985…this moment would’ve ended very differently.

She apologized for being so clumsy, and looked up at me, embarrassed, her face just inches from mine. I made a comment about dropping things all the time, and she smiled.

Shit. A carnal thought flashed through my head, and I wanted to kick my own teeth in. Somebody pulled the door shut and I immediately stood, and reopened it.

She thanked me again, said something about my language skills that I didn’t quite get because I didn’t recognize a word or two, then she stood awkwardly for a moment, giving me a long, almost seductive look as if she were expecting something else to happen.

And…it didn’t.

Still in French, she said, “We could talk some more if you’d like.”

In English, I said, “I’ve had a really long day. I think I’m done for a while.”

She frowned, though I was pretty sure she understood what I said, because her English was pretty good, probably even better than she was letting on. Now I wondered how legit her interview really was, because she’d made a pretty good show of it at that point. I would never read a publication from Lakehead University, so I would never know.

“Thanks again,” she said, in English, and showed herself out.

I leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling, fighting down the erection in my jeans. It’s the nature of the beast, I suppose, but I was a little ashamed of myself, for even thinking about…what I was thinking about.

Barry walked up. “How did that go?”

I shrugged. “An interview’s an interview.”

He calmly raised his cigar to his lips and clamped it into his teeth. “Of course it is. Aren’t you glad you know two other languages?”

“Whatever.” I didn’t like his tone.

“Comes in handy, I think.” He removed the cigar and exhaled smoke. “It’s gonna be real helpful in Europe.”

“Uh, huh.” Can I leave now?

“You do remember Europe, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Not him, too, please…

He looked at me hard, like a parent trying to get into the mind of a reckless teenager. “You’ve got four months of this, y’know. Your wife miles away and beautiful women making advances on you.”

I was so sick of this. “Fuck you.”

He grinned. “You’re not gonna make it.”

“Fuck you twice.”

“Get used to it,” he said. “You made your choice. So you’d better stick with it.”