Tracks (Rock Bottom) (10 page)

He leans in an
d kisses me once more, a little harder this time. I bravely push myself against him, but he pulls away with a chuckle. “Do you want to come to the sound check?” he breathes, quietly.

I think I need to sit down and think a minute.
All of this happened so fast- between me opening up to him and that somehow leading into our first sexual encounter- that I am confused, almost dizzy. “You go, I’ll catch up.”

He smiles and runs his fingers through
my hair. He releases me and walks over to the end of the sofa to pick up his silver guitar, admiring it with love before putting the strap around his neck. He walks over to the door and opens it, pausing to turn to me again. I’m still frozen in my place with my arms wrapped around my chest.

“See you out there,” he says low
toned with a smoldering look, his eyes piercing me.

I tense.
“Break a leg,” I say, breathy.

He turns and walks out, shutting the door behind him.

            
 
I head over to the couch and plop down. My body feels like jelly. So that’s what an earth shattering orgasm feels like. I smile silently. I pick my head up and look around the room. There are so many empty bottles scattered haphazardly everywhere that I wonder how many people he had in here last night. I almost feel sick again with the thought. I look down at the couch and wonder how many women he’s had on it. He has performed here several times before. I look down at my hands, considering that. Was I just used? For someone who doesn’t want to be a slut that sleeps with rock stars, I certainly gave a lot up to him within only 3 days. I put my head in my hands.

‘Remember,’ I told myself. ‘Jeremy is one of a kind. Don’t tai
nt this memory. Just have fun.’ I am so uptight all the time, maybe it’ll do me good to let loose.

I shake the thoughts away and get up quickly. I throw on my sandals and walk over to the white desk with the mirror.
I adjust my hair that, surprisingly, isn’t too messed up. I smooth it with my fingers. It lies plainly to the middle of my back. My cheeks are rosy, my skin glistening. I’m happy with what I see.

I smile and turn to exit through the wooden door. I enter into the dark hallway and pass the smoke ro
om. No one is in it this time. The hallway is eerily quiet as I continue towards the steel door. I push it open and see a bunch of people running around, playing with cords and sound boards. A group of young people, some I recognize from the smoke room, are standing on the far right of the room near the stage. A few girls are sitting on folding chairs in front of the first row, whispering to each other and giggling, all with lanyards around their necks. Most of the girls were young, maybe around my age, but some were older women trying way too hard to relive their glory days. I shut the door quietly and see Jeremy up on the stage, wearing a long sleeve sheer grey shirt and black jeans. He’s barefoot and sweating. His dark blonde hair glistens in the stage lights. He’s talking to one of the male stage hands. He nods and says something, and the stage hand walks away. I stand beside the row of folding chairs with the girls in it.

             
Jeremy turns towards the front of the stage where there is a single microphone on a stand. He struts up to it, the grey guitar slung around his neck. He looks down at the girls and sees me there. He gets a delighted, boyish smile on his face, and his eyes glow. My breath catches as I coyly smile back.

“Dylan,” he breathes into the microphone.
My name echoes all over the large theater. Everyone turns their heads to see who he’s looking at. I freeze and blush, embarrassed.

“Come up here,” he says. He walks away from the microphone and extends his graceful arm out to me.
I reach out to his hand and grab it, walking up the black stairs leading to the stage.

He pulls me close to him, throwing his hips against me. “My girl
sits on stage with me,” he whispers, kissing me softly. The girls in the front row gasp when he kisses me. My face burns. He points to the wing behind the left side curtain, and I detach myself from him and stumble over to my seat, gladly escaping the attention.

Ok, so he just pretty publically acknow
ledged me. Was I ready for that? What does that mean?

I look at Jeremy on stage, again up at the microphone, as he strums his first
cord. The sound sends shivers down my spine. His hand comes up above his head and he arches his back. He is a liquid sex rock star. I decide, in a 12-year-old girl kind of way, that he can acknowledge me whenever he wants… just as long as I get to touch him.

His hand returns to his guitar and he begins to play fast. His fingers move like lightening against the bridge, holding down the strings.
The sound echoes beautifully around the theater, loud and jolting. His eyes are closed as his head moves to the music he’s making. His guitar sparkles slightly in the stage lights. He lets the rapid sounds pause for a moment, and the crowd of young people whoops and claps. He doesn’t acknowledge them in any way; his eyes stay closed as the music changes and he strums a slow, sad tune on the guitar. He raises his lips to the microphone, almost softly kissing it. I blush, thinking of where his lips were only a half hour ago…

He opens his mouth, “Oh darlin’…how could I ever let you go, now…” he croons. His voice is so bluesy and painful. Mick Jagger plus Ray Charles plus an Italian model all roll
ed into one. He is spectacular.

‘And he could
be yours,’ I think, and smile.

He plays grace notes, his fingers moving quickly on his guitar again. He raises his lips again, “Oh oh oh oh, darlin’. How could I ever ever let you
go. I’m bringing you back, bringing you back. I want you to come on home.” He drops his head and strums his guitar. The girls in the front row are screaming. “I love you!” one screams. “I want you!” screams another.

He stops playing and looks out towards the back of the stadium. “We good?” he says into the microphone. He nods, obviously seeing some kind of sign, and throws his guitar on his back
, walking off stage towards me.

I stand when he comes over to me, and he gives me a confused look. I realize my mouth is hanging open. I look down in embarrassment
. “You did great,” I say, picking my head up to look at him. His blue eyes catch me off guard, and he puts his hand on my arm, stroking it. “Amazing…” I say in wonder.

He laughs
like a little boy again. “You were at the show last night, but you look like you’ve just seen me play for the first time. And this was only a sound check. Was I that yesterday?”

He’s still smiling but now I think I’ve offended him. “No, no it’s not that,” I say, putting my hand on his lower chest
. His eyes smolder. “I just haven’t seen you play before we were…before you were…”

“Yours?”
The word purrs out of his mouth.

“Mine?” I say as a question.

He sighs. “Well I’m definitely committed to being yours for at least the next two weeks that I’m here. All yours.” He kisses my cheek, moving his lips to my chin, and back up to my ear, taking it in his mouth. I moan quietly. It feels amazing.

“Jeremy,” a stage hand calls. “Can I use you to work on the lighting?” He drops his head, surpri
singly breathless. I’m panting.

“Yea
h,” he says without turning around. The stage hand walks back onto the stage.

He pulls away and looks at me, apologetically. I decide that
this
is probably going to happen tonight, because if it doesn’t, I might burst. I’d feel ill. So maybe I should take this opportunity to privately freak out at home. I need Theresa.

“It
’s ok,” I say, putting my hand on his face. He smiles. “I’m going to go home and freshen up for the show. I have a few hours, right?” I pat my pockets, looking for my phone. I pull it out and look at it. “It’s 4:00.”

“The show starts at 8:00. I want you here, on stage.” It’s a demand and not a request. I’
m ok with that. It’s better than being trampled on by the stampede of wild girls. “I’ll get Rich. He’ll bring you home and pick you up later.”

I smile. He walks over to a man standing behind the stage. “I need Rich,” I hear him say to the man, who in turn taps on the headset he has in his ear. The man says something, and almost simultaneously, I hear the creek of the metal door by the stage open. I poke my head out of the curtain and see Rich, a wall in a red T-shirt and jeans, waddle in front of the stage. Either he moves really fast for such a big
man, or he’s never too far off.

Jeremy walks past me onto the stage. The girls talking in the front row freeze and look up at him. “Richie,”
Jeremy says. “Take Dylan home.”

Rich nods and I appear from behind the curtain, walking down the stage steps.
Rich gives me his huge, dark hand. I take it as I come off the last step.

I stop and turn my head over my shoulder, looking up at the stage where Jeremy stands. The girls in the front row are s
till quiet, but I hear them shift uncomfortably in their seats. Jeremy stands, still as a statue, with the guitar still thrown around his back. Sweat drips off his forehead. I tremble.

“See you soon,” I say, quietly.

He nods. I smile and turn back towards the steel door, allowing Rich to open it for me. I am jovial.

Rich and I walk quietly through the green hallway. We make a right and go down another corridor towards the other steel door I had come in earlier.
I look up at Rich. His face is stern, as usual. I wonder what he thinks about all day.

“So,” I say, he turns his head slightly to peer down at me. “Ha
ve you worked for Jeremy long?”

“21 years,” he says, in a low voice.
Wow, I wasn’t expecting that. I did the math in my head; that would mean Jeremy was 7 when he met Rich.

“You don’t look that old…” I say in amaz
ement. I see a hint of a smile.

“I’m 42.
” He says in his booming voice.

“Wow
. Wife? Kids?” I say as he prepares to open the steel door.

“No, thank God.”

I laugh. I guess he doesn’t seem like the wife and kids type, to be honest.

As soon as Rich
pushes open the steel door, I’m immediately surrounded by people screaming and pushing me. I stumble back a few steps, completely surprised, while lights blind me. I feel Rich grab me around the shoulder. I steady myself, and feel my pulse quicken. I feel trapped and claustrophobic. I put my hand over my face to block the bright lights as Rich moves me forward through the thick mob of fans and reporters. “Back,” he yells towards the crowd. “Back away!”

“Dylan!” I hear a man say. I try to look at him
, but it’s so bright and I’m being pulled in a hundred directions. “What’s it like to be Jeremy’s latest girl?” I feel a microphone at my mouth. “Um…” I say, but Rich smacks the microphone away.

“Dylan! Over here!” I hear people yelling. I am overwhelmed. There are people everywhere, hands all over me, pushing me and pulling me.
“Bitch! I fucking hate you! Die! You ugly whore!” I hear girls screaming. Instinctively, I drop my hand from my face and try to look around. They couldn’t possibly be talking to me, could they?

I turn towards the car again, l
ooking up just in time to see a girl’s hand above me, open palmed. Before I can grasp what is happening, the hand comes down towards me, hitting me hard in the face. “Hey,” Rich screams, pushing the girl backwards. “Don’t touch her.”

I hold onto my face as I scream. It felt like something had stung me.
I can feel the blood rushing up to my cheek. Finally, after pushing and pulling a few more seconds, we reach the car. I hear Rich open the back door and push me in. He gets into the front seat and I hear the locks click. People are banging on my window, the rear window, even the windshield. Rich starts the car and begins to drive. People seem to get the hint and get out of the way.

We speed out of the parking lot
as soon as the car maneuvers its way out of the crowd. “You ok?” Rich says, with as much worry as his voice probably can have.

My hand
is still clutching my stinging face. I have tears in my eyes. “Yes,” I say shakily. A tear escapes and runs down my cheek. Hold it together, Dylan. No crying.

I’m relieved to be away from those people. Their mean words stung
my already wounded self-esteem as much as the slap did. I don’t understand how they knew I was even there, or why they care about me. I’m not anyone important.

Just when I think I can breathe, Rich hits harder on the accelerator.
Before I can ask him what’s wrong, I turn around and see three or four cars with people hanging out of the passenger’s window. They are holding cameras, clicking away as they follow us very closely. “Oh my God,” I say out loud, ducking below the window. “Are these people serious?” I say to Rich.

He slams on the breaks, and I peak out of the side window and see the
familiar sidewalk in front of my house. To my horror, there are at least 40 people camped outside of my door. Their cameras immediately start flashing and they stampede around the parked car. Rich jumps out of the front, pushing people away from my side of the car as he goes around. He opens the passenger’s side door and practically scoops me up and places me on my feet. I walk under his arm up the stairs as the cameras flash. When we reach the door, I pat my pockets to find my keys, but instead the door flies open and Rich and I almost fall inside. Rich turns around and shuts the door behind him, locking my padlock immediately. He turns and stands with his back against the door and takes out his cell phone, pushing a button before raising the phone to his huge, dark ear.