Groupie/Rock Star Bundle (2 page)

So moving to the fashion capital of the United
States? I don’t think so.

Despite this reticence to take over the big
city, I was fairly comfortable with my curves. In fact I found them
rather useful. Superficial guys usually didn’t give me a second
glance and thus spared me their games and bullshit. The men who did
ask me out appreciated my rounded hourglass figure and often
treated me like a queen because of it. The kicker? These guys were
often better looking and way more charming or successful than the
ones that needed something pretty on their arm as their own measure
of manhood.

I had begun to suspect this wasn’t a
coincidence.

So it was all a matter of playing the odds,
really. Simply put guys in Tennessee were more appreciative of
girls like me. I was never the kind who would order a salad only to
proclaim “I’m full,” halfway through. I had no problems eating and
drinking alongside the big boys, often throwing it down with
good-humored contests that I generally always won… including
wrestling matches and tickle fights.

I was in no way a dainty girly girl, and I
liked it that way.

Despite being told by the media that I’d never
get a date if I didn’t lose those pesky extra pounds, weight was
never really a factor for me. I ditched trying to find happiness by
the scale the very first time a man whistled at the way I wore my
jeans. I never had any trouble getting any guy I wanted regardless
of the size dress I wore.

The trick was actually finding one I wanted. I
had been infatuated once or twice (I think) but lightning never
really struck. So aside from some casual petting, kissing and one
fairly extensive love affair my first year of college, my viewpoint
on dating sort of mimicked my viewpoint on makeup. Too much hassle
and not enough payoff.

So this afternoon with Iris was more
for her than for me, or for any guy I was supposed to impress with
the results.

The way I figured it, the right guy would like
me for me, as is, anyway. Otherwise, what was the point?

The driver took me to a restaurant
where I knew immediately I’d be deprived the Philly cheesesteak
that I really wanted. Instead I was likely to be forced to sit in
front of a skimpy meal I’d have to eat half of and proclaim, “I’m
full,” to fit in with Iris and her ilk from The City.

Hopefully there would be time to
stop off and get that cheesesteak before the concert
tonight.

Iris hopped out of her chair with an
exuberant squeal the moment she saw me stride across the room.
“Andy!”

I walked into her full-bodied hug. No matter
how big city she got there was just something wholesome and country
about how Iris greeted people. Made me feel like home wherever it
was we were in the world.

“God, I missed you,” she said in full twang,
something she’d never really ditched from her days in Tennessee.
She swore that the men in New York found it charming and endearing,
but I’m sure that she meant on her. On Iris Kimble just about any
trait was charming and endearing. “When are you moving to New York
so I can hug you whenever I want to?”

I laughed. It had been a familiar
refrain the last few years, one that no longer even really needed a
response. I knew Iris was not hurting for friends, as evidenced by
the beautiful blond woman sitting at the table, bestowing upon me a
sunny smile. Iris broke apart to make the necessary introductions.
“Andy, this is Alana Pendleton. She works with me at Schuster and
Beckweth.”

Another publicist promised to make
the day more interesting; I’d get to hear all the gossip that is
not fit to print with no real outlet to make money off of the
endeavor.

At least not yet.

I reached out a hand, “Andy Foster,” I said as
I sat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you finally,” Alana said with the
same dazzling smile. “I’ve heard so many things about you from
Iris.”

“Not everything,” Iris interjected. “I left out
the stuff that was illegal, immoral and just plain fun.”

We all shared a laugh as a young, fit and
beautiful boy brought us our menus. I cast a suspicious eye over
the top of the page to my friend. “Vegan?” I asked my meat-loving
friend. Iris Kimble happened to be the reigning champ at our local
barbecue joint for four years running after scarfing the most ribs
in a two-hour sitting.

She just laughed it off. “It’s not a lifestyle
change,” she assured. “Alana’s a vegetarian and most guys in the
band are either vegan or vegetarian, so…”

“When in Rome,” I concluded for her.
I glanced over the menu and ordered what looked reasonably
familiar. I never really met a vegetable I didn’t like so it was
calculated risk at best.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t join us last night,”
Iris said as she handed over her menu to the waiter, along with her
order. “The band was in rare form. This show is going to be a
game-changer.”

I tried to feign indifference but
that was impossible to do with Iris. Her bubbly enthusiasm was
infectious, and quite simply I was curious. “How so?”

“I only got the biggest name in music to come
down and check them out.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially.
“Jasper Carrington.”

Even I knew who that was, and I
wasn’t in the biz like Iris or Alana. Jasper owned one of the
biggest record labels in America, and his superstar wife had
charted four top-ten singles in the last year alone. This was,
indeed, a big deal. I was more grateful than ever that Iris thought
to include me. If this band took off, my career as a freelance
journalist could as well.

In entertainment it was all about
hitching your wagon to the right person.

I spent the entire lunch grilling Iris and
Alana on things you couldn’t find out from a press release. Within
an hour I knew how the band had met, where they had performed and
how they even hit Iris’s radar at all.

Alana was the one who turned Iris onto Dreaming
in Blue. She had fallen for the bassist, Iain Wallis, when he
arrived in the States from England. Practically a Londoner herself,
Alana knew Iain from his starving artist days in Camden. He moved
to New York City in part to chase his dream but mostly to be near
her, and their relationship hit overdrive since then.

Two months after he answered the ad for
Dreaming in Blue, Alana took this fledgling band’s demo to Iris in
part to help her boyfriend’s band get some exposure. Mostly she
just believed in the music and the group of guys brought together
to create it.

Iris was sold from the very first performance.
The entire band was phenomenal, she guaranteed me, but it was
Giovanni who would sell the music on a national level. Alana
agreed, though not dismissing her boyfriend’s contribution at all.
She could understand why someone like Vanni, as they both called
him, would give them international exposure and acclaim.

“He’s a star,” Iris concluded.
“Women fall in love with him and men want to be him. It’s the
perfect combination… with the talent to back it up, of course,” she
sent a smile to Alana, who simply nodded.

She believed in Iain’s talent, but
again – it’s whose wagon you’re hitched to. She was savvy enough to
know what his best chances for success were.

“Okay, I’m sold,” I said as I tossed my napkin
onto my empty plate. Surprisingly, even with the absence of animal
fat, the meal was quite good. “Let the torture
commence.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent driving
around Philadelphia, in and out of several boutiques where Iris
insisted upon trying to makeover my wardrobe. I held her off as
best I could; I knew at this rate she’d have me purchasing luggage
that I would have to check at the airport for the trip back home. I
finally caved on some sexy black leather boots and a lace top which
showed a lot of cleavage I typically did not break out until such
an occasion called for it.

I had two lethal weapons in my
physical attraction arsenal, one of which was cleavage that could
stop a clock.

I used it with the kind of caution that kind of
weapon demanded.

It was during the makeover that Iris
made sure the other weapon, my half-green, half-brown hazel eyes,
were shown to perfection under a glimmering gold dusting of powder
with golden brown liner.

I looked, and felt, sexier than I
ever had.

Iris truly was magical.

By the time we got to the club I
felt as though I fit in with all the rocker babes who had turned
out for the concert. They were in equally boob-enhancing outfits,
or tight rocker T-shirts, with tight jeans and heels and hair
teased to the ceiling. For a moment I wondered if I had stepped
back in time, but then I remembered that Dreaming in Blue was
mostly a cover band for 80s metal and 70s glam rock.

They had a table set aside for Alana
and Iris up in the balcony, but the girls insisted that I see the
band the way the fans do – down in front. We wedged ourselves in
between the squirmy, wiggling bodies to get down by the stage. The
music was already so loud in the joint that it made my ribcage
rattle, but in a way it was exciting to hear that primal beat
thunder from the inside out.

Iris glanced overhead at the balcony and
prodded both of us to see that Jasper was taking his spot unnoticed
by the fray. I couldn’t hear a word she was saying but I knew my
best friend was squealing in her excitement. This was
it.

I hoped for everyone’s sake she was
right.

The lights dropped in the club and I
could hear the bass thunder out a beat accompanied by the drums.
That was Iain, of course, and Felix Soto – a name I remembered
because it was so rock sounding and cool. They hammered out an
extended intro of the song I immediately recognized as a classic
metal tune from the 1980s.

The music hit all senses like a frontal attack,
with swirling lights overhead to match the frantic beat which built
up the anticipation. By the time Giovanni launched into his vocal,
I was screaming to see him too though I really didn’t even know
why, other than they had hidden him from view for most of the
intro. Shrewd, I thought briefly, as my eyes scanned the darkened
stage to see him for the first time.

He didn’t jump out of the shadows until the
chorus, which he nailed vocally with a pitch-perfect wail that
would have made Bruce Dickinson proud. He stood almost right in
front of me, screeching into his microphone with his eyes closed,
allowing me carte blanche to inspect him head to toe – which you
really couldn’t avoid doing because he was only
half-clothed.

He wore skin-tight leather pants that nearly
showed me what religion he was, but no shirt to cover his six-pack
abs he no doubt did a thousand crunches – upside down – to
maintain. His skin was tanned and golden, and his long brown hair
fell like molten chocolate halfway down his back. He shook that
mane full of crazy waves around his head and across his bare
shoulders while he clomped around in heavy biker boots. Chains
dangled from his belt loops, and he wore leather cuff bracelets on
either wrist, with silver rings on each finger and nails painted
black.

Never one to fit in the pack I was
totally digging his alternative look, which made him seem like a
taller, more muscular, Italian version of Criss Angel.

His eyes were rimmed with dark
eyeliner, which made their dark intensity even more striking when
he stared out into the crowed. I was both begging to look into them
and afraid to be caught in their snare as I saw lesser females
around me wilt under their power.

But it was his voice coupled with
his Robert Plant/rock god persona that really sealed the deal for
me. Music was his foreplay, and I was powerless to stop the
seduction the minute he opened his mouth and pure velvet poured
forth. When he sang a 70s hit about making love, I understood why
women used to throw their underwear onstage during a Tom Jones
concert.

Giovanni was pure sex.

Ever masterful in this art he sang that verse
to every girl in the front row, standing over each of them with his
thumb hooked to his belt loop, drawing attention to the promise of
the bulge in his pants. When it came my turn and my eyes finally
met his for the first time, my knees nearly buckled. Those brown
eyes engulfed me with an intimacy so strong it was as if we were
the only two people in the room even after he went on to sing to
the next girl.

Iris nudged me with a knowing smile. Now I
understood. This was the seductive power that was going to make
Giovanni Carnevale and Dreaming in Blue stars.

They finished their set with an ode to girls
with substantial backsides, which I found both ironic and
promising. He sang the song with particular gusto, though he did
not make eye contact with the girl with the fattest bottom on the
front row. I know because I was waiting for it.

Truth be told I was waiting to be ensnared into
that captive embrace from the very second I was released from it.
But I was starting to suspect he was either avoiding me or had
overlooked me altogether amidst the crowd of screaming
girls.

Instead they finished with flourish and he
bowed to all of us adoring female fans in the front row. He blew a
kiss to Iris and then spared me a wink as he trotted offstage. The
headliners had yet to perform but Iris was propelling Alana and I
back through the throng that was crushing to get a better
spot.