Metal Urge (22 page)

“Deanna,” he sighed, pushing her back gently.  The look of desperate need on her beautiful face sent a jolt of white hot electricity throughout his entire body and suddenly the two of them were scrambling to get out of the tiny car.

Thom lifted her onto the car’s bonnet, and she leaned back to get her balance on its slippery surface while he fumbled with his half zipped jeans.  His movements seemed to drag on like he was in a slow motion film as he pulled free of the heavy denim.  Pulling her close, Thom kissed her deeply, the sweet aftertaste of the rich Thai tea lingering in her mouth heavenly on his tongue as he felt her legs wrap around his hips. They began to move in unison, staring into other’s eyes, the heat of their arousal turning red hot, fanned by the flames of desire flaring deep within their smoldering bodies.  When they climaxed together it was the perfect ending to their carnal dance on that dark, deserted street.  Deanna leaned back and smiled at him and it felt like the sun had just burst through the darkness to shine down on him, warming him in the silent shadows of the seedy buildings.

She stroked his face and then cupped it gently.  “I love you, Thom McCordy.”

He searched her face for any subtle clues that her words were only to pacify, or to please him, but there were none.  Pulling her tightly against his pounding heart, Thom let the words sink in.  Kissing her once more before murmuring that he loved her more than life itself in her ear, he reluctantly moved back so that they could adjust their clothes.  He helped her off of the uncomfortable metal bonnet before reaching into his pocket.  Taking a deep breath, Thom knelt down on the hard, gritty street, balancing on one knee and smiled up at her nervously.  Deanna’s hands flew to her face in disbelief as he opened the black velvet box and held it out to her with trembling hands.

“Deanna, will you marry me?”

****

“Wake up sleepyhead,” Thom whispered in Deanna’s ear.  She mumbled something incoherent and turned over, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“You’re dressed,” she said, squinting at him.

“I’ve got loads to do today.”  He kissed her on the mouth then kissed the tip of her nose.  “I’ve no idea what time I’ll be home so don’t worry about tea.  He stood up and rolled back the billowy sleeves of his paisley poet’s shirt.  “Are you working tonight?”

Deanna propped herself up against the myriad of pillows she loved to snuggle into while sleeping.  “Only for a couple of hours.  If I make up five hours this week I won’t have to work Saturday which means we can spend it together.”

She reached for him, and he plopped down on the bed and into her outstretched arms.  Resting against her warm, naked breasts, he lifted her left hand and studied the sparkling diamond ring he had placed on her finger after she eagerly accepted his marriage proposal the night before.  He still felt as though he was in a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

“It’s so beautiful,” Deanna murmured against the top of his head.  “How did you know that I've always wanted a Victorian setting?”

Rolling over, Thom pulled her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her.  “Dunno.  I s’pose I thought something really delicate and intricate suited you because you remind me of a charming little flower.”

“How many charming little flowers would do this?” she laughed as she tried to straddle him.

“Now, now, my delicate little lily,” Thom laughed, wrestling her down onto the bed.  They kissed long and lovingly until the buzzing doorbell broke the spell.  “That would be Jayson,” he announced grimly.  “Haven't I always said he has the worst timing?”

Deanna giggled and sprawled back against the pillows to admire her engagement ring.  She heard the two men talking and then Thom’s heavy footsteps on the stairs.  He leaned in the doorway and said a quick goodbye before shooing Mims inside to “go have a cuddle with mum.”  She blew him a kiss and gathered the wildly purring Mims into her arms.  “Life just doesn’t get any better than this,” she thought brightly, turning her hand to watch the diamond explode into a rainbow of colors in the morning sunlight.

Thom watched Jayson bound up the steps of the rehearsal hall and disappear inside.  Not really knowing why he wanted to make this visit today, Thom drove toward the area he had looked up in his London A to Z guide book.  He would join his band mates later but for now he had a few hours to kill while Jayson got in a few extra hours of drumming without the rest of the lads.  For some daft reason he had got it in his head to go and visit Trevor Hampton who was still sweating Methadone out of his ruined system.

Elysian Field’s reception area was rather inappropriately cheery, considering the dirty little secrets hidden away behind locked steel doors.  As the nurse led Thom down a dingy gray-green corridor, the odor of sickness and desperation surrounded him like a shroud.  He almost turned back, but he felt compelled to see the man who had gotten Metal Urge on the charts and on their way to the States.  He owed Trevor for that.

The room was dark and Thom could barely make out a stick-thin figure curled like an overgrown fetus on a small bed in the corner.  The figure stirred and called out in its dry, papery voice, “Well, well, what a surprise.”

Trevor struggled upright and leaned over to switch on a table lamp, bathing the room in sickly yellow light.  Thom didn’t mean to stare but the deaths-head grin was unnerving, and it took a few moments for him to shake off an intense feeling of horror at Trevor Hampton’s nightmare appearance.

“Do sit down, Thom,” Trevor rasped.  He gestured to a chair at the foot of his bed, and Thom pulled it to the side of the bed closer to Trevor’s hunched form.

“Sorry for my abhorrent appearance, but I somehow contracted Hepatitis C and just returned from a month’s stay in hospital.”

“Bloody hell, Trevor!  How did that happen?”

Trevor opened a small drawer in his bedside table and pulled out a pack of Silk Cut cigarettes and a black lighter.  He shook out a couple of cigarettes and held out the pack to Thom, who declined the offer.  Trevor lit a cigarette and tilted his head back to suck the smoke deep into his lungs.  His Adam’s apple was so pronounced it looked like it might break through the thin, mottled layer of flesh that covered it.  “That Nazi war criminal who fancies himself my doctor refuses to admit that someone in this concentration camp was spreading it about because I haven't been near a needle since July.”  Trevor paused and took another hit off of his cigarette. “Who knows?  Who cares?  I survived, and he’ll get his bloody fee whether I walk out of here on my own or am ferried out on a stretcher wrapped in a body bag.”

Thom shifted uncomfortably on his seat and tried not to watch Trevor smoke.  “If there's anything I can do…”

“Oh no, dear boy!”  Trevor chuckled, a sound like sandpaper on stone.  “Please talk to me about anything other than this unfortunate mess I've gotten myself into.”

“Alright then,” Thom nodded.  “Have you seen Maggi?”

Trevor stopped inhaling.  The smoke curled from between his lips like a fire breathing dragon getting ready to strike.  “No talk of Maggi either.  Please.”  He blew the smoke out and turned away for a moment.

“Sorry, mate,” Thom said, but Trevor waved his hand and turned back to face him.

“How is your lovely Deanna?”

The mere mention of her name made Thom grin like a fool.

“Ah,” Trevor chuckled.  “I've always liked you, Thom so it does my shriveled little heart good to see that you lured the lady fair away from that bloody prat, Nigel Guilford.”

“He treated her like rubbish so he deserved to lose her,” Thom said almost angrily.

Trevor bobbed his head in complete agreement, tickled pink that the self-serving prick had gotten what was coming to him.  He hoped it hurt like hell.  “I recall the night you tried to mop up the floor of the Hammersmith-Odeon with Guilford.  As much as I would have loved to see you do it, the press would have swooped down on Metal Urge like vultures and picked your bones clean.  The band might never have survived the bad press, you know.  You lads are too bloody good to risk becoming one-hit wonders.”

Thom shrugged. “Yeah, well…”

Trevor leaned towards him and grinned with his horrible deaths-head leer.  “Are you still considering hiring a new lead singer?”

“Not at the moment.  This tour is too important.  I mean, let’s be honest, Nigel’s voice is bloody amazing, not to mention we have this musical connection which makes writing songs together almost effortless.”  He leaned back into the chair and sighed.  “What can I do?”

“Indeed,” Trevor sighed.  “I tell you what Thom.  If there is anything, and I mean
anything
, I can do to help you, just let me know.  Comprenez-vous?”

“Ah, oui,” Thom answered dryly.

Trevor looked at him in complete surprise.

“I may have grown up working class, but I’m not ignorant.  I passed my O levels and all,” Thom quipped.

Trevor threw his head back and laughed until his body shook.  “Brilliant!  I certainly deserved that, so well done.”

Thom got up and placed the chair at the end of Trevor’s bed.  He walked over to the quivering wreck and clasped his hand which felt as brittle and light as a bundle of dried twigs.  “I'll visit you again, mate.”  He laid a folded piece of paper in Trevor’s hand which contained his phone number and left.

Trevor nodded and smiled at the kind gesture, tears welling up in his eyes.  He
would
do anything to help Thom.  The guitarist only had to ask once and all of his problems would magically disappear. Trevor switched off the lamp, lay down, and grinned with his deaths-head leer.

Chapter 29

“I’m home, love!”  Thom called out.  He took off his sopping wet jacket and hung it on a peg in the entryway.  “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

“Don’t track mud in the house, babe.  Take your boots off,” Deanna shouted from the dining room.

Lugging his guitar case inside, Thom struggled to get the door closed as the strong wind pummeled it about like it was made of cheap cardboard.  “Bloody hell, it’s pissin’ down.  My car threatened to blow over like a plastic toy in that wind.”

Deanna hurried in, draped a couple of towels over his shoulders and handed him a steaming mug of tea.  She peered out of the small stained glass window set into the heavy
front door and mused that summer was definitely on its way out as fall blew in with the first serious storm of the season.  Instead of drying his dripping wet hair, Thom used one of the towels to soak up the droplets of water covering his guitar case.  She stood back and watched him tenderly remove his Flying V from its case and rub the other towel over it gently.

“What?” he said when he heard her chuckle.

“You baby that guitar.  You can catch you death but don’t let a drop of water touch your Flying V.”

He turned to her, frowning.  “This guitar is my livelihood in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You couldn’t buy another one?”

Thom huffed and placed the V back in its case with loving care.  “Me and that instrument have a bond, Deanna.  I could play hundreds of different guitars and never achieve the sound I do with that one.”  He stood up and wiped his face with the towel.  “Of course I don’t expect you to understand unless you feel the same way about your rickety typewriter or mascara or something.”

“Oooohkaaay,” she drawled, making her way back to the dining room table where books and papers were spread out in a jumbled mess.  Banging hard on the typewriter keys Deanna sang out, “I’m becoming one with my Underwood.  I feel the karma flowing through its keys and into my fingers.”

Thom sauntered in with a towel wrapped around his head like an Indian mystic, leaned against the arched entryway sipping his tea, and watched her with a wry little grin.  “Give it a rest, my sweet little girl,” he cautioned, wagging his finger at her.  He drank the rest of his tea and disappeared into the kitchen.

She heard the refrigerator door open as he rummaged through its contents for something to eat.  She was tempted not to tell him there was a steak pie warming in the oven since he was being moody, but she couldn’t let good food go to waste.  After clearing a space on the table, Deanna strode into the kitchen, removed the pie, and motioned for Thom to follow her.  Getting him settled at the table, she opened a can of his favorite lager and poured it in a glass, bringing it to him along with eating utensils and a napkin.  She curtsied like a serving maid paying respect to the Lord of the manor, and returned to her seat.

“Are you quite finished?” he snapped.

“I am if you are.”

He threw his napkin down and crossed his arms.  “I was only making a point, Deanna.”

“So was I.”

Thom drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, mentally counting to ten. “You're bloody exasperating.”

“And you're a total jerk.”  She gathered up her books and papers glaring at him.  “Take that stupid towel off of your head.  It makes you look like an idiot.”  She stomped up the stairs and down the hall, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

Thom resumed eating, refusing to let their silly little row ruin his meal.  When he was finished, he washed the dishes, put them away, fed Mims a heaping bowl of kibble drenched with rich cream, and took another lager into the living room.  Unwinding the towel and tossing it aside, he combed the tangles out of his hair while Mims lay down on the discarded towel.  Thom laughed and shook his head at the ridiculous animal purring contentedly on the wet towel.  He leaned back in the comfortable chair with the cold can of lager resting on his belly.  The bitter brew relaxed him and he sipped it slowly, checking his watch to confirm
that enough time had passed to safely approach Deanna with a heartfelt apology.  He hadn’t meant to upset her, but he wished she would show a bit more respect for his music and his guitar.  It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?