Warlord Metal (26 page)

The limo pulled smoothly into a parking structure off of famed 42nd Street. Warlord was headed for an interview on MTV, a guest VJ kind of thing. They would be required to film a couple of commercial spots plugging the cable company, do the interview, sign a few autographs and the like. All the publicity stuff that Jordan was definitely not in the mood for. Even as the vehicle parked near an elevator with four people awaiting, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

The band, three security guards, Sonny and Tramuto exited the limousine. Introductions were made all around, the four individuals waiting for them being a junior vice president, his aide, and a couple of technicians. The crowd climbed into the elevator and they took off. Jordan purposefully avoided the teenager, putting herself into a crowded corner with one of the techs and the aide. She had a cross look on her face as she focused on staying awake until this fiasco was over. The voices of the occupants chatting back and forth washed over her, irritating her further.

"You okay?" the tech murmured, peering down at her.

"Fine," the woman snapped.

Nonplussed, he shrugged, still watching her. "You look like you could use a little pick up or something. Have a bad night?"

Emerald eyes narrowed. "Something like that."

The elevator reached its destination and the doors opened. In the activity of people getting off, the technician reached out and shook her hand. "Well, lemme know if you need anything else, okay? I'm sure I can be of assistance."

Jordan felt warm glass in her hand and raised a red gold eyebrow. She accepted the handshake and palmed the vial. "Thanks." Yes!

"No problem," he said with a warm grin before turning to join the rest of the crew that were preparing to tape the interview.

As everyone was briefed on who was going to be where and what was expected of them, Jordan gained the directions to the nearest womens' room. Upon her arrival, she found a large expanse of room with several stalls to the left. The redhead went to the furthest stall and stepped inside, anticipation coloring her thoughts.

She pulled the vial from her pocket and studied it closely. Looks like crank. Unscrewing the cap, she covered the small opening with a finger and tilted it. Jordan took a closer look at the powdery substance on her fingertip. A light dab to her tongue brought a familiar, bitter mental taste.

Yes! Cackling gleefully, the guitarist glanced around the stall, finding a folding shelf just behind the door. She pulled it down, using her elbow to brace it against springing back into place. Jordan poured a small amount of the precious white powder onto the metallic surface.

She heard the outer door open and froze for half a second. But the call of the methamphetamine was not to be denied. The guitarist pulled out her wallet, thankful that the substance was more powder than crystal, and pried out her identification card, using the edge to form lines. The stall walls shook as the other woman entered nearby and used the facilities. A dollar bill was removed from the wallet and made into a straw. As the other toilet flushed, Jordan snorted the crank deep into her nostrils.

The initial euphoria was mild but, to her tender nerves, it was ambrosia. Jordan exhaled and slumped in relief, her forehead resting against the cool surface of the door. She took a few moments to savor the feeling. The door shook as the other occupant left the stall. Then there were the sounds of running water and paper towels being used, echoing in the room.

Jordan waited for the woman to leave. Once the outer door thumped closed, she raised her head and took a deep breath. She sniffed and wiped at her runny nose before cleaning up the shelf and letting it snap back into place. Stepping out of the stall, the redhead went over to the vanity and ran some water, splashing her face. The door opened behind her and she looked into the mirror to see her lover.

A smile broke out on the guitarist's face and she turned off the water and turned around. "Hey, sexy," she greeted as she pulled some paper towels from the dispenser.

Sonny smiled in return, though her pale eyes studied the redhead intently. "Hi. I've been sent to find you." She's high again. Why'd she wait until now?

Jordan tossed the used towels into the trash and swung her arms open wide. "Well, here I am! They ready to go?"

The dark teenager nodded. With little prodding, she sank into an embrace, smelling leather and soap. "About this morning...."

"Nope. Don't say it," the redhead rumbled, her hand caressing the back of Sonny's head. "My fault. I was just being overly sensitive." Before her lover could argue the point or make further comment, Jordan soundly kissed her, reveling in the sensations that were altered by the drug in her system. "C'mon, sexy. They're waiting."

Sonny allowed herself to be led out the door.

The mental hospital was fairly pleasant as mental hospitals went. A score of white buildings on a hill encircled by a few acres of well kept grounds. The tall chain link fence surrounding the property was the only thing that looked out of place, clashing with the old Southern plantation feel of the property. On sunny days, the inhabitants would come out to play or sit on conveniently placed park benches to enjoy the occasion. Various nurses and doctors and aides would also be seen, interacting with their patients, observing their behaviors or having lunch meetings.

It was raining today, however, the cool drizzle speckling the windows and keeping everyone inside. There were rooms where group therapies were going on, individual office sessions, staff meetings. There were also common rooms where quite a few of the residents gathered. Here they were vegetating, fidgeting, rocking repetitiously or talking to themselves and others. Games were being played, pictures drawn, jigsaw puzzles worked on and television watched. Additionally, it was visiting day which increased the hospital's population a bit. Sadly, not by much.

Sitting in front of a rainy window was a woman. Her hair was dark with just a smattering of gray, cut short in a manageable style. She was wearing a pastel blue button up shirt and tan slacks, a beige sweater draped across the back of the wheelchair she was perched on. She appeared to be about thirty years of age. She stared off into space, appearing to be looking out the window. But her gray eyes never moved, only blinked occasionally. She was focused inside and had been for about five years.

Nearby sat two other women - an older and younger version of the patient. The elder one, the patient's mother, was prattling on about the family news as she worked on a needlepoint project. The younger, the patient's sister, listened idly and watched, occasionally interjecting her own comments. Their voices droned on and on, never impinging on the inner horrors their relation held close to herself. Nothing and no one ever made it through the walls she had erected years ago.

But there was a voice that worked its way through the thick barrier she'd erected. It was the voice of her personal demon, her terror. Most times it would only be inside her head and drive her to bouts of violence but, lately, she'd begun hearing the voice outside her head, tickling her ears, pricking at her barriers, dredging up memories and terrors in her mind.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the woman's head turned. Her eyes, rolling in her head, straining from their lack of use, searching.

Nearby was a ratty television set and a cluster of donated couches and chairs that held a handful of the residents. One of them, a young man with stringy black hair and smoking a cigarette, was avidly watching an interview. His body vibrated from the constant tapping of his slippered foot and he held himself close, pulling at his upper lip between puffs. It was his television time and he'd chosen a station that played music videos. His mother had told him that Warlord was being interviewed on MTV and he'd been an absolute angel all week long to obtain the privilege.

The woman in the wheelchair focused on the television screen.

"So, how is success sitting with you?" the VJ, a blond young man with a nose ring, asked.

The members of Warlord were seated to his left. Behind them was a large floor to ceiling window that showed the famed corner of Broadway and 42nd Street.

"So far, so good," Jordan responded exuberantly. "It's been a wild ride!"

"We've been on tour for... what? Five months now?" The drummer looked to his band mates for confirmation. "It's definitely been an interesting progression in that amount of time."

The VJ nodded. "And how's the tour doing? You're opening for Type O Negative right now. Is it any different than when you were opening for the other bands?"

"Well, yeah," Atkins answered. "Different bands have different... flavors, ya know?"

The VJ laughed. "Well, I haven't heard it put quite like that before, but I understand what you mean." He shook his unruly blond dreadlocks from his eyes. "From all reports, your song 'Face' has been the most popular. I'm kinda curious. The song appears to be about a rape. is this true?

There was silence for a moment. Finally, Jordan spoke up. "Yeah, it is."

Jordan's demeanor cued the VJ that he was treading on a very tender subject. The baleful gazes directed his way, not only from the diminutive guitarist but the teenager behind the cameras, made it rather obvious. Howard Stern, I'm not. He diplomatically let the matter drop, turning to camera #2 and said, "Wow. Talk about a sensitive subject. Let's go ahead and give it a listen. Here's Warlord with their hit single, 'Face'."

The screen faded to the video, a standard concert scene.

At the hospital, the woman's strange behavior had been noticed. The younger woman interrupted her mother's blatherings by tugging on the sleeve of her blouse. "Mother!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice. "Look!"

The older woman looked up from her needlepoint. She'd seen the behavior in her eldest before, this almost lucid reaction to some outside stimuli. But, she knew better than to dash the younger woman's hopes. They had argued for years over what triggered the response. She had long ago stopped getting excited about it. Her afflicted daughter would follow this behavior by either returning to her catatonic state or screaming and fighting off her hallucinatory attacker until she was sedated.

"Yes, honey, I see," she said, returning to her project. She kept a close eye on her daughter, giving the appearance of not paying attention.

"But, what's she looking at?" the younger woman wondered curiously. It had been her theory that, if they could just figure out what caused these breaks, they might be able to reach inside and pull her sister back out. She rose to her feet and stepped over to the wheelchair. Kneeling beside it, she took her sister's hand. "Sylvia?" She followed the nearly sane gaze.

"Wow!" the VJ exclaimed with a smile. "That's a pretty intense song!"

"Yes, it is," Hampton agreed. "That's why we decided to include it on the CD."

The VJ nodded. "But, we've had reports of a lot of... negative response, as well. People have been petitioning at your shows and record stores that carry your CD all over the country. How do you feel about all that?"

"Personally?" Jordan asked. "I consider it free publicity. By raising hell over it, they're putting more light on the CD and we, in turn, get more publicity." She looked directly into the camera and said with a triumphant gaze, "Thanks for the support!"

"Mother! Isn't that Jordan Chizu?"

Silvia looked into the evil green eyes of her demon, heard the honeyed voice thank her - thank her! - for her support. And the voices and screaming welled up from her wounded soul, obliterating the vision.

Sonny lugged her suitcases up the stairs and to her bedroom. She dumped the bags on her bed and looked around, hands on her hips.

It felt really weird to be back at home and in her own room. The teenager had, in effect, been living with Jordan for the entire tour, sleeping in the same bed every night for seven months. Returning to sleeping alone wasn't going to be easy.

It was the end of September and a typical Portland day. A light drizzle kept the air smelling clean and fresh. The cloud cover kept everything in a light gray. Sonny went to her window overlooking the backyard and stared at the scenery that was both familiar and not.

Sonny saw the redhead, an unfinished cigarette dangling from her lips. Jordan clambered down the wooden stairs from her room. She stopped at the patio long enough to take a final drag before tossing the butt into the can. Beneath her, the teenager could hear the sliding door open and close.

Well, maybe she'll chill out on the drugs now, the dark woman hoped, moving back to the bed and fumbling with the fastenings on a bag. No need for her to be up all the time anymore. A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts and she looked up.

Jordan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and an easy grin on her face. "Hey, sexy."

The smile was returned, despite the mood. "Hi. Got everything unpacked already?" Sonny got the bag open and peered down at the jumble of clothes.

The redhead shrugged. "You could call it that," she allowed. "At least all the clothes are in the same corner."

"Ah, you're a slob," Sonny laughed.

Moving into the room, the guitarist chuckled as well. "And you're a neat freak." She settled down on the corner of the bed and captured one of her lover's hands, pulling her close.

Sonny closed her eyes, feeling the redhead's arms around her waist and a cheek resting against her belly. She ran a hand over the older woman's shoulders and back, the other caressing red gold tresses. A feeling of love welled up from within her heart. The urge to speak it was so strong, it hurt. The teenager bit the words back.

Ask her, ask her, ask her! a voice whispered urgently. No way, Horny Jordie! It's been nice with a steady piece of ass, but let's face it.... You ain't the 'living with' type! The redhead inhaled deeply, trying to draw all the comfort from the embrace while she could. The tiniest voice murmured, Stay with me, accept me, love me.

Feeling her lover stiffen, Sonny sighed imperceptibly and slid out of the embrace, knowing it was going to end soon anyway. She returned to her bags as if nothing were wrong, sorting through her clothes. God, how much longer can I do this?