To Catch a Falling Star (40 page)

“Yes and no,” I answered. “You’re right about the temptation. It will stare you in the face and cry your name, demanding attention. You’re strong enough to say no. But I worry about your motivation. You should be your first and foremost reason for which you want to remain sober, Tarry. Not me.”

He was silent after that. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. This morning, as with most mornings for the past few months, the half hour that had been filled with my despair was filled with our moans and groans.

“YOU SOUND TIRED,” I say. This is our last phone conversation before I see Tarry. Live. In concert. Oh, God. I’m nervous, excited, and, above all, horny. Though we have had some routinely steamy conversations for several weeks, I miss him inside me desperately.

“Exhausted, but very excited. Socrates is looking up at me. He knows who I’m talking to.”

“He’s a perv.”

“Hey, can’t blame him. Your delicious mouth was the one seducing the poor guy, not to mention your sweet pussy.”

“Tarry…” I say with a ragged voice when I intend to sound reproachful.

“Socrates just told me to jerk off again.”

“Tarry!”

“What, he tells me he likes when we talk dirty on the phone. And I love hearing you come.”

“Tarry!”

“I miss you, Mel.”

“I miss you too, Tarry.”

From the window, I see the limo Tarry sent for me arriving.

“I gotta go, my ride is here.”

“Socrates says to hurry up, he’ll meet you backstage.”

“Tell Socrates he will meet me in my bed, later tonight,” I say with a smile.

“I’ll tell him no such a thing. The poor bastard will go into cardiac and I won’t be able to perform tonight. A musician has to have a motivation when he is performing, Mel.”

“Bye, Tarry. See you in a bit.”

I hang up and head to the door. To say butterflies flutter in my stomach would be the understatement of the year.

The driver has the door open. I smile at him and slide in the black leather seat. Before he closes the door, I ask, “Excuse me, do you have anything to drink?”

“Yes, ma’am, please help yourself from the minibar.” He nods politely and shuts the door.

I rummage through the fridge and open a bottle of wine. It will help me calm my nerves. I think about the conversation I had with Portia earlier today, when I dropped off Ella.

“PORTIA, I’M NOT going to work tonight,” I say. It’s time to confess.

“Oh, no?”

“I’m going to Tarry’s concert.” I study her surprised expression. She pats her large stomach. Jeez, I hope she won’t go into labor. She is due any day.

“Yeah…” Portia raises a brow.

“We’ve been… together for a while. We’re going to tell Mom and Dad tomorrow. I’m telling you today, so you can tell Will.” I look at my crossed fingers in my lap. “Will you wait until I leave for Manhattan to tell him?” I ask.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle Will.” She smiles.

“Thank you.”

“I knew it. Tarry did a good job of lying, but he couldn’t hide the way he looked at you. In fact, neither could you. It was all over your face.” She sighs with a grin. “But I was afraid to ask. Will mentioned a few times he would kill Tarry if he made you suffer.”

“Did Will suspect?”

“Sorry, Mel. Like I said, the tension between you two was palpable. We just minded our own business. I actually had to calm down Will a few times. He almost punched Tarry at the New Year’s party. I can’t blame Will. Tarry seemed to devour you with his eyes. Poor guy, Mel. I’ve never seen Tarry look at someone the way he looks at you. I wanted to talk to you about this, but wasn’t sure how to approach it.”

“Sorry we kept our relationship from you, Portia. The reason we didn’t tell you is that for someone who won an Oscar, you’re the worst liar.”

“Yeah, it would be hard to keep it from Will. Impossible even. God knows how he’s going to react. Tarry doesn’t have a good track record with the ladies.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Mel, please be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”

“I’m not worried about you, Mel,” she said.

SIPPING THE WINE, I finish my second glass as we reach Manhattan.

The multitude of lights is intoxicating. I’ve always loved the city at night. Portia says New York is the heart of the world. I agree. One can hear its beat. It’s exhilarating. Cruising down Broadway, I make a mental note to come here more often. I always make that silent promise. Even though I live less than an hour from here, life happens and I seldom visit this fabulous city.

The driver parks in front of Madison Square Garden. Photographers hover around only to turn away in disappointment when they seem me exit the limo.

Blissfully inconspicuous, I take a step toward the entrance when a man with a buzz cut approaches me.

“Miller, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

He smiles sweetly, which contrasts with his gigantic and intimidating build. “I’m Brat. Mr. Francis assigned me to escort you for the night. Please follow me.” He places a hand on my back to guide me through the building.

I don’t know why, but the cameras have a sudden interest in me. People step aside and whisper as we walk through the throng of people and enter the chaotic building. We bypass the escalators from the lobby and head to the elevators. With a glance at Brat, security parts for us. Apparently, I don’t need a ticket when I’m with him.

“Whoa, people must like you,” I say when, in few minutes, I’m seated in my VIP seat.

“Well, I’ve been Mr. Francis’s personal body guard since he was a teen idol.” He smiles. “What would you like to drink?”

“Oh.” That’s why the photographers took an interest in us. They deduced that I’m linked to Tarry. Shit. “If you are escorting me, who’s with Tarry tonight?”

“Don’t worry, he is safe. We have a great team. I’m the chief of security. He wouldn’t have any of my men guarding you, ma’am.”

“Mel.”

“Of course, Mel.”

“Where is he?”

“He is in already. He can’t wait to see you.” He breathes in deeply. “Please forgive my momentary lack of professionalism, but in my more than ten years with Mr. Francis, I’ve never seen him nervous prior to his performance. The man was made for show biz. Tonight, he is a nervous wreck. I suspect you are the reason.” He smiles. “Also, six months ago, I believed I would need a new client. Mr. Francis was at the end of his rope. Whatever you are doing to him, keep it up.” He signals to a server and, as if he had never said the personal things, he asks, “What are you going to drink?” I can’t believe they have waitresses here.

“Perrier water, please.”

My heart pumps hard inside my chest. It’s been five excruciating weeks since last I saw Tarry. Now this all happens at once. I get to see him perform live for the first time, get back in his arms, and we get to tell my family that we are together.

The opening band begins its performance. I wish I could pay attention to them and enjoy the show, but dozens of thoughts rush through my mind.

Tarry and I have talked over the phone every single day. Even Ella monitors the phone expecting his calls. Every single night one phone call is for her. She almost floats away as she gets on FaceTime with him.

Tarry is always attentive. We text multiple times a day and he sends me pictures of every little thing he sees. Last night, he sent me a picture of chamomiles. The text read
“It’s late. I’m hungry, tired, and missing you. I stopped at a health food market for some snacks and look at what I saw. Love, T.”
I saved the picture on my home screen.

Before his first concert, he called me from a bathroom. He told me how badly he wanted to toss away his sobriety and get high to perform. He doubted he could do it sober. He talked to me for about a half hour, delaying the beginning of the show. I made him promise that he would call me after the show.

According to a fan site that I follow, when he bid his good-bye he said, “Thank you all for coming. This was my first sober concert. Well, I never noticed before how great you look from up here. Got to go now, I’ve got to call my girl.” I swooned when I realized that I’m his girl.

The lights on stage blink a multitude of colors. The electrified crowd grows silent and the stage goes black. I don’t see Tarry, but I know he is on stage. His presence electrifies the crowd.

The drummer’s beat follows an explosion of lights. The guitarist strikes a chord, sending vibrations through the crowed. Then, Tarry’s voice roars. A beam of light focuses on him at center stage. My heart jumps. He is handsome wearing dark jeans and a ragged shirt. His eyes search the front row until he spots me. He removes the mike from the support and walks toward my seat. He looks in my direction and winks. My heart drops and the girls that surround me go berserk. He swaggers on the stage, singing and dancing. Like the other fans, I scream his name and sing along to the song.

The song ends, the background lights change colors, and he starts a new high-energy song. The audience claps and screams, singing along with him. I’m such a fan right now. A lady behind me throws her underwear on stage. The air smells of pot and dry smoke. Tarry’s energy is contagious as he cruises from one side of the stage to the other.

Before the third song begins, his guitarist plays a solo and Tarry bows to the man.

“How are you guys doing tonight?” he asks and the screams become deafening. “It’s great to spend the evening with you. This next song is one of the songs I don’t recall composing. Thankfully my drunken mind has the sense to write.” He begins singing.

I remember reading Tarry’s response to a reporter who asked why he didn’t do a bigger, flashier show. The reporter stated that people went to concerts looking for entertainment. “Well, I’ll damn retire the day I need to rely on lights and fanfare to do a good concert. If people want to see a show, they can go to Las Vegas. If they come to my concert, they will settle for a few cool lights and my band and me doing what we like to do best. Sing.”

The stage reflects just that. It is sleek, simple, some amazing lights, and them. Singing.

Tarry interacts and flirts with the audience. At one point, he snatches off his shirt, wipes the sweat off his face, and throws the shirt to the audience. I don’t see where it lands, but the screams turn deafening, and I’m too enthralled by his yummy chest. And to think I will lick those pecs later in the evening. A thrilling tingle travels from the tip of my toes through my body.

Tarry teases the girls on the first row. He is so sexual and confident. He is the complete opposite of the Tarry I know intimately. This Tarry prances on the stage as a tiger, proud of its stripes. He is aggressive, immortal, confident, self-sufficient, and extremely arrogant. This is a contrast to the sad little boy or the thoughtful, playful Tarry who ruins blue slippers and tucks me in, who cries at my shoulder and carries me in his arms. He is not the Tarry who is still when I shave him, who holds me in his arms whispering that he loves me. This is the public Tarry the world knows.

Tarry sits on a tall stool and sips from a water bottle. He sweeps his long fingers over his hair. He is quiet. Someone hands him an acoustic guitar and positions a microphone in front of him.

“I hope you all are having a good time tonight.” The audience screams as if he just announced they were the winners of a jackpot. Wow.

“Well, I usually end my performance with ‘Sweet Death Agony.’ Tonight, it was my opening number. So I had to find a song to end the night. Some of you might relate, but recently I’ve become one smitten son of a bitch.” His deft fingers play with the guitar and his hair falls over his face. I want to run to him.

Brat glances my way and smiles.

“Well, I’ve been trying my damn hardest to write a song worthy of this girl I’m madly in love with, but I come up empty every fucking time. So, why not borrow from the masters? Here is ‘Unchained Melody,’ the 1965 classic from The Righteous Brothers.”

Tarry closes his eyes and his deep, husky voice purrs in the mike. He gives his own spin to the song. An electric current runs through my body. I want to jump on stage and propose marriage to him. Tears burn my eyes.

Tarry opens his eyes and stares in my direction for the remainder of the song. When he ends the song, he grabs the mike and says, “Good night, everyone. Thank you all for coming. I’ve got go now.” He rubs his face, looks at me, and adds with a wicked smile and a promising wink. “I need a shave, badly.”

My inside melts. Desire pools inside my belly and I almost combust. I want to jump him on stage.

“This way, Mel.” Brat places a protective hand on my shoulder and guides me around the stage. Some people start dislocating from their seats already, forming a disorganized line leading to a double door. Two men wearing security uniforms stand at the door. They check the passes before allowing people in. When they see Brat, they lock the doors, interrupt the flow of people going in, and signal to us. The people in front of us complain and mumble. But Brat ignores them, presses a gentle hand on my shoulder, and propels me forward. Without a word, the security guards open the door, allowing us access backstage.