Heartstrings (17 page)

The show has begun.

I’m mesmerized by the band, the way their bodies thrash and
jolt. It’s like something is moving through them, possessing them. Slade’s
voice tears through the space, energizing the entire crowd. The whole thing is
one huge circuit—the crowd, the band, the music. It’s amazing. Before I know
it, I’m dancing right along with the rest of the audience. I’m bobbing my head,
gyrating my hips, unembarrassed and engrossed. This is the power of live music,
I realize. I’m not immune to it—I doubt if anyone is. I let the music carry me
straight into the heart of this crazy world.

The first song bleeds into the next seamlessly. A guitar
riff wails through the space, hard and fat and brutal. They’re moving into
their harder stuff, I can tell. I stand there, rapturously, as Slade turns
toward the crowd once more. “Get the fucking pit going!” he demands, “I want to
see some fucking mayhem out there!”

In front of my eyes, the center of the crowd seems to drop
out. I let out a startled yell as a wave of empty space crashes toward me. I
try to break away, to get myself as far away from the growing mosh pit as
possible. Three sets of hands close around me as I struggle. I look around
wildly as see that the groupies have surrounded me. They’re grinning at me
maniacally as people begin to throw themselves into the pit, swinging their
arms wildly. The edge of the gaping hole is right next to us, we’re hovering on
the precipice of chaos. I try and make a break for it, but the girls’ hands
only tighten. There’s pure hatred gleaming in their eyes, and I suddenly
realize the danger I’ve gotten myself into.

“Let me go,” I scream, “I don’t want to be here.”

“You don’t belong here, then,” Ruby yells.

“I don’t want to be near the pit,” I plead.

“But this is the heart of it!” Jackie tells me, “You have to
stay!”

“No,” I say, “Just let go of me. I don’t want to stay here.”

“If you insist,” Helena says, “We won’t make you stay.”

“Thank you,” I say, relieved.

“Try this, instead,” she cries.

I let out a shriek of terror as all six hands shove me
straight into the seething, manic orgy of violence that is the pit. The chaotic
whirlpool swallows me up, and a rush of panic surges through me. I feel myself
pitching forward, off balance. I’m tumbling now, my hands and knees hit the
hard concrete floor. I cry out as pain shoots up my arms and legs, and want
nothing more than to roll into a little ball and wait for this whole ordeal to
be over. But I know I can’t do that. I’m here now, and I have to stand up for
myself if I’m going to make it through. I pull myself to my feet and look
wildly around.

There are people all around me, flying past with flailing,
lethal limbs. I can make out the edges of the pit all around me, and I race
forward, trying to find my way out. A thick body lands from a leaping kick in
front of me, blocking my view. I stand still, hoping that no one will notice me
if I don’t call attention to myself. These things happen all the time at
concerts, without any tragedy striking. I’m going to be OK. I have to be. I beg
my nerves to settle, to let me process what’s going on around me.

Two men are brawling beside me, falling on top of each other
and swinging their fists madly. I skirt around them as quickly as I can, and
slam into a patch of women thrashing and lashing out. I catch one of their wild
blows on my shoulder and reel away. The band is wailing away above us, and I
can see Slade above the crowd, striding across the stage in his glory. I try to
make my way toward him across the circle, thinking wildly that maybe if he
feels me here, he’ll be able to keep me safe from afar.

I feel a thick arm close around my waist. I’m pulled against
a hard, sweaty form, and hands wander up and down my body. Furiously, I whirl
around to see who’s got his hands on me. My face is pressed up against a hairy
chest covered with tattoos, and I look up to see a buck toothed grin. The
skinheads I spotted in the crowd earlier are all around me, four at least, and
the biggest has his arm around me, pinning me to him. This can’t be
happening...this doesn’t happen at shows. I thought these places were supposed
to be sacred?

“You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” the man
holding me sneers.

“Let me go,” I shout, all but bearing my teeth.

“She’s a feisty one, guys!” the man laughs, taking my ass
into his meaty hands.

Before I can stop myself, I haul back and spit directly into
the man’s eyes. He roars, losing his grip of me. I bolt away, looking for a way
out, but four other hands grab me, pulling me back. I’m lifted into the air,
carried back to the middle of the circle. I look wildly toward Slade, pleading
silently for him to notice me. To save me. There are hands all over me, groping
and gripping. I fight back tears of anger as I struggle against their wandering
hands. I kick and cry out, trashing wildly in their arms. I’m held aloft, and
yet no one among the vast crowd is coming to help me.

Slade looks straight out into the audience as another song
winds to an end. “Let’s get a look at your gorgeous fucking faces!” he screams.

The stage lights swivel toward the audience, bathing us at
once in a wash of bright light. My flailing, set upon body is illuminated in
the air, and I reach for Slade desperately. Can he even see out into the crowd?
Will he even notice me among so many people?

“Slade!” I scream, reaching toward him once more. “Slade,
please help me!” His eyes scan the crowd appreciatively, taking in the very
edges of the room. He’s not going to see me in time. What am I going to do?
“Slade,” I screech again. “SLADE!”

His eyes land on the mosh pit, and for a second his face is
filled with gleeful abandon. But I watch his eyes stop, focus, and turn to
steel. He’s looking at me, suspended by the band of horrible men. For a second,
it’s like he can’t comprehend what’s going on in front of him. Like he doesn’t
want to believe it. But the cold, furious cast of his eyes spreads throughout
his entire body like wildfire. His every muscle coils like so many springs, his
face pulls into the deepest, angriest grimace I’ve ever seen on him. Slade
drops the microphone, even as the rest of the band is racing into the next
number. It hits the floor with a burst of screeching feedback, and the entire
audience reels back. Even my captors falter, their hands pause against my
trembling skin. I watch, motionless, as Slade drops into a crouch and flies off
the stage, into the crowd.

The people around me have no idea what to do. Audience members
reach up to catch their rock idol, mistaking his leap for crowd surfing, or
something, He brushes their eager hands aside as he barrels forward. The crowd
parts for him like the Red Sea before Moses, and a new tinge of panic ripples
through the arena. No one has any idea what’s going on. Onstage, the remaining
members are playing through their set, desperately trying to carry on despite
what Slade is doing. I watch people dive out of the way for him, and those who
don’t are promptly pulled or shoved into submission. He’s coming ever closer,
flying to me, his jaw set.

“Is he coming this way?” asks one of the skinheads.

“Looks like,” grins another, “The golden god wants to throw
down, huh?”

I’m handed off to one of the men while the other three await
Slade’s careening force. I push against the arms that hold me contained. I need
to go to him, to find solace in his arms. But the skinheads have other ideas.

Slade doesn’t even slow his pace as he approaches. A scream
erupts from my throat as my rock star flies through the empty space around us,
bringing a crashing fist down hard against the biggest skinhead’s jaw. The
man’s head nearly twists off, and he stumbles backward, disoriented. Slade
leaps on him again, kicking him ferociously in the gut. The man who first
grabbed me curls into a ball on the floor, but the other two are still
standing. They circle around Slade like vultures.

One of the skinheads rushes toward Slade, leveling a
roundhouse kick at his face. Slade catches the man’s leg and swings him aside,
sending his opponent crashing into the wall of people at the edge of the pit.
The final man approaches, trying to get his arms around Slade’s neck. But Slade
is too quick—he ducks under the man’s grasp and catches him around the middle.
Just as the biggest man is pulling himself back onto his feet, Slade pushes the
guy in his arms forward. The two skinheads collide and go down in a big heap.

The fighter tossed into the crowd is staggering back now,
fists raised. He and Slade circle around the two fallen skinheads, growling at
each other. I watch, horrified, as the skinhead licks his lips in Slade’s
direction, taunting him. Slade loses it, swings around the circle with his fist
cocked back. Something glistens in the skinhead’s hand, and the world goes
quiet as I see what it is—he’s pulled a knife on Slade.

“Slade, no!” I scream, but it’s too late. The men collide,
and Slade cries out. They tumble to the floor together, and for a moment I
can’t tell whose limbs belong to who. There’s blood on the floor, and I nearly
lose consciousness with worry. I feel my captor’s limbs loosen as he watches,
and I take advantage of the moment. I drive and elbow deep into his gut, and he
releases me with a grunt. I run across the circle to Slade, not caring whether
or not it’s dangerous. I scuttle to a halt in front of the brawl just as Slade
places the knife against the skinhead’s throat. I gasp, stopping just short of
the fray. Slade’s teeth are bared, his eyes furious.

“Just know,” Slade pants, “That I could have killed you, if
I wanted to.”

He tosses the man into the pile of skinheads and closes the
switchblade, slipping it into his pocket. The crowd around the skin heads goes
wild and swallows them up, fists fly and the four shit heads receive the beat
down of a lifetime.

Slade looks up at me, and his face collapses in simultaneous
relief and regret. I run to him, throwing myself against his chest. He wraps
his arms around me, and something wet is spreading through his tee-shirt.
Something too thick to be sweat...

“Slade,” I breathe, looking down at his tee shirt in horror.
There’s blood spreading across his abdomen. He smiles weakly as a team of
security guards comes into the pit, apprehending the four skin heads. I wrench
up the hem of Slade’s tee shirt, ready to perform whatever ER miracle I need to
right there in the mosh pit. The cut is long, but blessedly shallow. I can feel
fat tears pouring down my face—tears of relief, of fear unleashed, of
gratitude. 

“Why are you crying?” he asks, with a kind smile, “I’m the
one with the knife wound.”

“You saved me,” I say, my voice thick with tears.

“Of course I did,” he says, throwing his arm around my
shoulder.

“I was...I was going to surprise you,” I say, laughing at
how ridiculous it sounds now.

“Well...I’m surprised, that’s for sure,” he says, “Next
time, throw me a party or something.”

“Are you OK?” a security guard asks Slade, surveying his
wound. The skinheads are getting carted away in handcuffs, and good riddance.
Slade smiles bravely and waves the guard away.

“We should get you to a hospital,” I tell him.

“Hospital?” he says, “It’s a paper cut! And besides, I’ve
got a show to do.”

“You’re still going to do they show?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, “And you’re coming with me.”

Slade grabs me by the hand and leads me back through the
crowd. I only now realize that the place is going mad. People are cheering and
shouting to Slade, showering us both with encouragement and support. Two
security guards move heavy barricades out of our way, and Slade pulls himself
up onto the stage. I shake my head in amazement at his blood red tee shirt
below his wide grin. It’s like he truly is invincible. He offers his hand down
to me, and I take it. I pull myself up after him with his help and straighten
up on the stage. I turn to see the massive sea of people looking at us.

We’re staring out over the seething crowd, at more people
than I could even put a number to. I’m utterly dumbfounded. I look to Slade,
who’s beaming down at me.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask over the roar of the
crowd.

“Kiss me,” he says. He doesn’t wait for me to understand.
His mouth finds mine, and I melt at the taste of him. Our bodies are pressed
together under the bright lights of stage. His arms close tightly around me,
and I throw mine over his broad shoulders. We kiss for the entire world to see.

“Stand right over there,” he says, gesturing to a spot just
offstage, “I want to know exactly where you are. The rest of the show is for
you, Julia. Thank you for coming here.”

“Of course,” I tell him, holding onto his hands, “Thank you,
Slade.”

“It’s all for you, you crazy, crazy woman. What were you
thinking, getting into the mosh pit?”

“That’s a story for another time,” I tell him, not wanting
to throw him off any more.

“Go on,” he says, giving me a little nudge. I rush to the
wings and turn back to see him spread his arms to the audience and dive into
another song. He’s unflappable, unstoppable, and he’s all mine.