Deeper Than Dreams (8 page)

“So were you officially Corroded Corpse by then?”

Adrian nodded. “We were hanging out in the flat, drinking and listening to records, when Rick picked up the cover to Iron Maiden's brilliant debut. He gestured to the artwork, which featured a gape-mouthed zombie-like creature, and scoffed that we could do better than some corroded corpse on our album cover. We all just looked at one another and it clicked.”

So with the name and lineup firmly established, and shortly thereafter a demo under their belt, the band began playing regular gigs around London, gaining an impressive loyal following of denim-clad teens, their leathers covered in badges and pins to prove their allegiance to the various bands of the era. The U.K. youth in the London heavy metal scene were a recognizable force by 1981. In fact, there wasn't much difference between those on the stage and those in the audience. Digger was 18, and knew the ins and outs of almost every club in town as both a musician and a concertgoer. His reputation led to secondary jobs as a stagehand and guitar tech at larger venues like the Marquee and the Rainbow.

“Were you a roadie?” I asked him.

“I was more like local crew for the clubs. Not only did I get to see a ton of quality shows, buckshee and front and center, but I also met a lot of musicians, managers, and A&R blokes from various record labels. Every connection was a step closer to discovery. But it was a chance meeting in a pool hall that led us to our manager.”

The edge in his voice was palpable. Several of the book's glossy pages crumpled beneath his death-grip. I smoothed my hands across his, soothing as I moved up his arms.

“It was Wren who suggested Rick shorten his somewhat ‘ethnic' surname to Rotten. When we moaned that it sounded like a blatant rip-off of the Sex Pistols' Johnny Rotten, Wren pointed out, ‘Do you really think Chaim Witz would have gotten very far leading KISS?' See, he just knew all these bizarre rock facts, like Gene Simmons's birth name. He could recite how many albums a band had sold or what a venue's capacity was without batting an eyelash. And when that eighty-page contract from the label was couriered to our doorstep, he was able to offer up valuable points of advice, like ‘Get a feckin' lawyer so we can sign this thing!'”

“Wow. How did your parents . . . and Rick's . . . react?”

“Rick's parents had been ever-supportive of us, so long as Rick continued with school. They always expressed interest, even attended shows when they could. I hadn't seen either of my parents since moving to the big city.” He waved his hand to dismiss the memory. “I couldn't be arsed; I had a contract with my name on it! We took it straightaway to my brother, who was in law school. We didn't exactly have the money to put a professional on retainer, or the foresight to have Wren's own deal examined at the same time, unfortunately. But Michael did all right by us. The most important revision he made, and to this day I am in his debt, was to stipulate that ownership of the masters from both the EP and from
Ruins of Decay
be retained by the band.”

“Why was that so important?”

“Well, when a band breaks big, often several albums into their career, their less-commercially-successful back catalog increases in value. It was money that Wren could never touch, no matter how big he made us.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

“Our contract was a five-album deal with two firm, and the label was hot to get the band in the studio. Recording near home rather than being on the road fit in perfectly with Rick's schedule, as he and Simone had—surprise!—a baby on the way and a wedding to plan. The elder Rottenbergs were none too pleased.”

“Didn't they care for Simone?”

“Oh they were very fond of her, but once they learned Rick planned to juggle the band, the books, a wife
and
a child . . . they knew something was going to give, and from the looks of things, it wasn't going to be the music.”

“Oh man. How old were they?”

“Simone was twenty. Rick, going on nineteen.”

“Her parents must not have been too thrilled, either.”

Adrian shook his head. “But Rick and Simone were in their own little bubble of bliss and refused to let anyone pop it for them. That's how things were, back in those days. Me and you and let's shut out the rest of the world. Until, of course, contractual obligations forced us to tour in support of the album, ad nauseam. None of us saw our families much that year.”

I turned the page and was surprised to see one of Marissa's favorite bands during her high school years.

When the band returned home to London, they learned that while they had been out playing some of their best shows yet, another British band was sashaying through the living rooms of America.

“Whoa, what are they doing in your story?”

“While Corroded Corpse really didn't care what Def Leppard was up to musically, we were intrigued by America's reception of them via a new channel called Music Television.”

“Ah yes. I remember them entering my living room.” I giggled. “My friends and I would rush to my house after school to watch hours of MTV.”

“Ach, probably the worst thing that ever happened to rock and roll. Personally, I'd rather watch wallpaper peel. So yes . . . Def Leppard. We didn't give a toss. But Wren had a way of making us feel we had to. He dangled their
Pyromania
in front of our noses like a carrot. And vowed that if we stuck with him, it would soon be
our
album on the turntables of every teenager on earth.”

He flipped to the back of the book, revealing a full-color photo of the band labeled “Rock in Rio, 1985: 350,000 strong.” Leather-clad, sweating and screaming for the crowd that spilled well past the recommended bleed lines of the glossy page. Adrian slowly shook his head, as if he could scarcely wrap it around the notion. “And well . . . you know the sordid story from hereon.”

“Yet here you are.”

“As are you.” He smiled and caressed my knee. “Your chariot awaits.”

***

One spell was broken, yet another began as Adrian's doorman ushered us through the heavy brass entryway of his building. Manhattan was alive at street level, the night's pace frantic in every direction. Headlights swept north and south, and to the east loomed the dark leafy wilderness of Central Park; the valley I had stared down at from high windows today was now a backyard filled with secrets.

Mixed feelings slowed my steps. Was all this fuss just preparation? Adrian buttering me up, just to tell me he was leaving for another two months? He had talked of longer fuses . . . had a new countdown to detonation already begun?

“Would it be silly to suggest changing into sweatpants and ordering in Chinese instead?”

Or would it be delaying the inevitable?

“Come on, now. My Cinderella isn't getting cold feet, is she?” Adrian asked, a west wind tousling his hair against mine as he turned to face me. “That's not how I recall the fairy tale going.”

“There's that “f” word again.”

He laughed. “Just enjoy it, luv.”

“While it lasts?” I added. Had he planned this whole fairy tale evening because he was going to be on tour and we weren't going to have many nights like this together anytime soon?

He smiled, and it hurt my heart to think it.

Our limo was waiting curbside, its glossy black exterior blending in with the night. Adrian chauffeured me right to the open door. Remembering Mindy's words, I plunked down, ass-first, and swung my legs in. I heard pleasantries being exchanged between him and our driver as he walked to the other side and climbed aboard. Soon we were sailing past Columbus Circle, sealed in our luxurious surroundings.

“Funny, I feel like we've done this before.” Adrian gave me his cheekiest grin.

“Yes, I remember it like it was yesterday,” I joked. It was hard to reconcile the man in the bespoke tux sitting beside me with the leather-clad, sweaty rock god who had brought an entire crowd to their feet and then down to their knees in worship last night. I fingered his bowtie, appreciating that he had taken the time to hand-knot one, rather than opting for a premade clip-on that would have cheapened the look. “You clean up nice,” I added.

Adrian's laugh was lost to the night air as he opened the moonroof and leaned back. The neon dazzle of Times Square lit his eyes like a marquee on opening night.

“I love you, Kat Lewis. You absolutely rock.”

His lips lingered near my earlobe, adorning it with words so beautiful and polished, my glittering teardrop diamond earrings had competition. About how stunning I looked, not just now, but this morning, as I slept. And how he felt he could conquer the world with me on his arm and by his side. Not to mention he was thinking of violating me six ways to Sunday
in my fancy dress. All delivered in that flowing, murmur of an accent; it was enough to make me want to scream “Home, James!” to our driver and let the gala tickets go to waste.

“Promise me I can mess up your makeup later,” he breathed, his hand spanning from my chin to cheekbone with a barely there touch that left me straining to meet him. “After we've hobnobbed with the literary elite.”

My own hands drifted, mingling with the long locks that rested against the peaked lapels of his tuxedo jacket. Under the grosgrain tailored threads and crisp, spotless shirt, a colorful wilderness awaited me that I longed to explore, leaving lipstick kisses along every path to mark my way. Or to lose myself completely. “I promise,” I whispered, and made a silent vow to myself to stop worrying.

“Right, here we are, then.” The limo had glided past the cross-streets of 42nd and Fifth, the epicenter of Manhattan. “You ready for this, luv?”

Never had a New York landmark been transformed before my eyes more than the 42nd Street building tonight. There had always been something deliciously mysterious about the library when merely walking past it after hours, but knowing we would be ushered into its lavish confines was beyond thrilling. The layers of marble and stone rose regally up, its twisted ivy veil showcased by the glowing spotlights and pops of camera flash. Tall pillar candles in hurricane vases lit the path up the majestic stairs.

I hadn't expected crowds . . . no, make that throngs of people on the sidewalk. I observed the necks craning and eyes straining to catch a glimpse through the tinted windows as we slid to the curb.

“Think mermaid, be a mermaid.” Mindy's mantra had stuck with me, but I felt more like a fish out of water as our driver stepped lively around to open my door.

Adrian squeezed my hand. “I'm right behind you, Kat.”

With my legs demurely pressed together, I swung them out first, high heels hitting the pavement. Like a regal footman, our driver claimed my hand and hoisted me up. Success.

The chill in the air hit me first, before the night exploded around us. There may have indeed been a carpet, and it could very well have been red, but all I saw were the blinding white flashes of video and still cameras training across me and above me, seeking out their prize as he climbed out of the limo behind me.

“Digger! How does it feel to perform again, after all these years?”

“Tell us how the long-awaited reunion went last night!”

A sea of arms reached out, some wielding cameras, some with microphones, others waving pens hopefully. It was hard to tell the professionals from the amateurs, but it was obvious; the lion's share of people scattered across the glittering sidewalks were fans of Digger Graves.

I waited for Adrian to correct their hopeful questions, to clarify that it had been a one-off gig. That it didn't, as Rick had warned me during that first lonely phone call, spell instant reunion of the band.

“It went off without a hitch,” Adrian called out. “It feels great to be back!”

There was an excited murmur from the masses. A dozen flashes caught my face, frozen in time next to their money shot, as his sound bite echoed in my ears.

Our pathway seemed to shrink as the crowd surged forward, and I felt one ankle wobble in my spike heels as I sidestepped to avoid a sign-waver. Luckily, Adrian quickly pressed himself to my opposite side, offering me the crook of his arm and keeping me snug against him as we started to make our way toward the building.

“I fucking love you, Digger!” The sign woman practically blew out my eardrum, screeching the words that were written in glitter paint on her poster board, minus the expletive. She seemed out of place among the Pulitzer Prize–winning authors and MacArthur Geniuses who were filtering by us with less fanfare.

“Are you performing tonight?” someone hollered, and a buzz of excited laughter followed.

“Goodness, no.” Adrian turned and smiled at me. My heels brought us to roughly the same height. “I'm just escorting my lady love on her busman's holiday.”

“Who are you wearing?” This time the question was directed at me, and posed by a showstopping blonde twig of a woman with a dazzling smile. Her own gown was expensively draped over her model's figure, and a microphone boasting the logo of one of the new fashion channels dangled between her long, lacquered nails. “Is it a Chloe? A Stella?”

“It's an Ana,” I heard a calm, confident voice say, and I realized it was mine. “She's an up-and-coming local designer.”

The cameraman accompanying the woman made a whirlybird sign with his finger, and Adrian loosened his grip on me enough so I could give a quick twirl to the left to show off the clever layering and flow of the skirt.

“Fabulous,” she raved, “simply fab-u-lous!”

I grinned, thinking of Ana dancing at the nightclub last August to Los Fabulosos Cadillacs in her crazy-high heels.

“Cameron Cook, Digger, from MTV. Can we have a minute of your time?”

“When you start playing music again on your channel, I'm all yours.” Adrian allowed a smile in the direction of the news anchor, who didn't appear old enough to have witnessed MTV's original launch.