Heartstrings (16 page)

This is certainly not how I thought the final days before my
long-awaited vacation from the hospital would go. I thought that, in the day or
two leading up to my taking to the road, I’d be able to get everything in order
around my home. I would clean and straighten, pack up all my things nice and
neatly, give Gustav as much attention as possible before my mom took over his
care and keeping. I thought I would be taking bubble baths and drinking
chardonnay in the tub and painting my toenails for the first time in three
years. Instead, here I am throwing on the best rock chick makeup I can and
chasing down the rock star I’ve fallen head over heels for. These things have a
way of surprising you.

I barrel back down the stairs, stumbling in my heels. Gustav
cocks his head at me as I run out the front door. If my cat thinks I look
ridiculous, what is the rest of the world going to think? I wrench open the
door and step out into the fading sunlight. An aggravated groan escapes my lips
as I take in the scene before me.

The paparazzi have followed me home. Not all of them, thank
god, but a good handful of enterprising gossip hounds are ready and waiting.
How they got my address, I don’t even want to know. I hurry to my car, trying
to look as dignified as possible with my midriff on full display.

“Don’t you people have better things to do than bother me?”
I ask a bright and shiny young woman who’s all but chained to my front tires.

“Nope,” she says cheerfully, “And if you’re trying to stay
with Slade, you’d better get used to us.
Are
you trying to stay with
Slade, Julia?”

“I am trying to get to a rock concert. That’s all,” I say.

I realize, as I tell her this, that I have no idea what my
plans with Slade are. I’m just following his advice and living in the moment.
And at this moment, all I want is to be backstage again, watching him move
thousands of people. I shoo the reporters away from my car and hop in. I swear,
it’s like these people want to get run over for the sake of their silly little
stories. Never in a million years would I have thought my life would be
something that the tabloids wanted to know about. The only time anything has
ever been written about me before was when I set a new town record for Girl
Scout cookie sales when I was eight.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as I careen
through the streets, flying toward Center City as fast as I can. I know that
this venue is the biggest in the area, and that the show sold out after
eighteen seconds of tickets being on the market, thanks to Slade’s heroic viral
video. It’s going to be a mad house. I haven’t given any thought to how,
exactly, I’ll go about getting in. I’m sort of hoping for some kind of divine
miracle at this point. It’s really all I have left to do.

All the way to the venue, I’m talking myself down from
turning around, going home, and putting on a face mask and some acoustic rock
instead. My rational mind is screaming at me that it’s not worth it. That Slade
isn’t worth the trouble or the heartache or the cameras in my front lawn. But
my rational mind isn’t doing the driving, my body and my heart are. And those
two trump rational thought every time. The arena comes into sight, and I push
the pedal practically through the floor of my little car. I can feel the space
between Slade and me closing up.

Chapter Eleven

* * * * *

I swing into a nearby parking lot and leap out of my car.
Who knows whether or not I’m allowed to park here—I couldn’t care less. I all
but sprint toward the huge press of people milling outside of the concert
venue. The place itself is gigantic—it looks like some alien spacecraft all lit
up at night. It looks like every rocker between the ages of fifteen and fifty
is here tonight. I draw up to the edge of the crowd, and realize something
rather crucial: I don’t even have a ticket to get in.

I edge around the crowd, and finally locate a security
guard. He looks stern and beleaguered. Not exactly the type of qualities you
want from someone who you hope might do you a favor.

“Excuse me,” I say with a bright smile, “Can you tell me
where the backstage door is?”

He lets out a short, mean laugh. “And who are you, Miss
Thing?”

“I’m Julia,” I tell him, trying to make myself seem as tall
as possible. “I’m the...Um...press secretary?”

“The press...? This isn’t the White House, Miss. It’s a rock
concert. If you’re a groupie or something, just say it.”

“I am not a groupie,” I insist.

“Are you here to sleep with one of the band members?” he
asks. “Be honest, now.”

“Well,” I say, “Well, yeah. Actually. But—”

“Backstage is that way,” he says, pointing, “I always try to
help out the ladies, when I can.”

“You’re a real gentleman,” I grumble, rolling my eyes. I
push past the guard and run toward the backstage door. The crowd thins out a
little as I go, but there are still hundreds of bodies to push through. A
little surge of indignation shoots through me as I notice how many of the
people hanging around the backstage door are scantily clad women.

I spot the bouncer and approach him with a breathless smile.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m Julia.”

“I’m Carl,” he says in a tone of unshakeable boredom.

“I need to get inside,” I tell him.

“Get in line,” he says.

“No, you don’t understand,” I insist, “Slade will be really
happy to see me.”

“Again,” he says, “Get in line.”

“I’m not just some groupie!” I yell, “Haven’t you seen the
tabloids today?”

“If you think I read that smut, then you’re out of your damn
mind,” he tells me pointedly, “There’s no way you’re getting backstage.”

“Julia?” says a sultry voice from behind me. It’s a voice I
know. I turn reluctantly toward the sound and find myself face to face with
Helena and her flunkies. They’re grinning at me with cold, fixed amusement. I
try and imitate their terrifying cheerfulness, but it probably just looks like
I’m grimacing.

“Helena,” I say as politely as possible. I’m trying very
hard not to think about the fact that this woman has slept with Slade before.
Trying not to think about their limbs all entangled...it’s not going well.

“What are you doing out here?” the blonde woman asks me.

“Well, it’s a funny story,” I say, laughing in what I hope
sounds like a lighthearted manner, “I couldn’t work my shift at the hospital
today because there were so many reporters hanging around. I got sent home, and
I thought I’d catch the show. Surprise Slade, and all.”

“How sweet,” says Ruby, smiling.

“Yeah, well...” I shrug, “I’m not having much luck getting
inside.”

“Roger,” Jackie says, addressing the bouncer, “Are you
giving Julia here a hard time?”

“Sure,” the man says, “I didn’t realize she was legit.”

“She’s with us, Roger,” Helena says. She holds out a
manicured hand to me, “Come with us, Julia. We’ll get you inside to see Slade.”

I stare at her hand for longer than is polite. This is like
making a deal with the super sexy groupie devil. But what choice do I have? I
clasp her hand, smiling gamely. The girls lead the way as Roger opens the
backstage door for us. We step over the threshold and are once again plunged
into darkness. But this darkness is different than it was during the last
concert. This darkness seems dangerous.

All around us, people are running and shouting, shoving each
other out of the way. I can’t see a thing, but Helena is towing me along with
the authority and certainty. I have no choice but to follow her. The darkness
itself is writhing, and I can hear the raucous audience somewhere in the near
distance. But this crowd doesn’t seem to be happily enthusiastic about the
show, the way they were last time. This time, I can feel their aggression,
their pent up frustration and anger. A shiver runs across my spine. I’m not
sure if I like this place.

“You’re going to love this,” Helena yells over the backstage
chaos, “I bet you’ve never seen a concert like this before.”

“Not at all,” I say.

“Even better,” Ruby shouts.

I make out a dull, glowing light up ahead that must be the
house of the stadium. Jackie pulls back a heavy curtain and the space opens up
before us. I gasp, shocked by the scope of the arena. This place has to be
twice as big as the last one—I had no idea it would be like this. There are
thousands and thousands of people out there, and the space stretches so far
back that I can’t even see where it ends. There’s something terrifying about
this endless sea of people.

“I’m glad we’re watching from up here,” I say.

“Up here?” Helena scoffs, “At a concert like this? No way.
We’re getting right in the thick of it.”

“Wh-what?” I stutter, “No...No, I’m just going to—”

“You don’t know where you’re going,” Ruby says, “We’re like
your tour guides! Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with us. Just relax and enjoy it,
would you? You can’t really understand Slade until you’ve watched him perform
from the crowd.”

She has a point. I silence my pesky rational mind again and
decide to let the groupies lead the way. The know their way around places like
this, I’m sure. Much better than I do, anyway. And it’s not like they’re going
to shank me in the crowd. They seem mean, but not necessarily dangerous. For
tonight, I’ll trust them.

Helena tugs me along, moving toward the edge of the stage.
We vault down some stairs, the crowd growing nearer and nearer. There are big
barricades set up around the ramps up the stage. Climbing over them feels like
getting out of the trenches and heading into no man’s land, but I do my best to
swallow my panic.
Live in the moment,
I chant to myself,
Live in the
moment, live in the moment
.

We plunge into the sea of people, and it’s an immediate
shock to my entire body. People push and shove at us like it’s nothing, yell in
our faces. This is not how I’d imagined the night going at all. Everyone seems
on the edge of some horrible act of violence. I just hope I’m not on the
receiving end. Part of me wants to hide under Helena’s legs and wait for it all
the be over—but that’s not really an option.

The four of us come to a stop beside a huge group of
skinhead-looking guys. Helena turns to me, smiling wildly. All three of them
seem to be tapping into some energy that I just don’t get. The entire crowd is
like a big generator, and everyone’s egging each other on. There’s a power here
that I’ve never seen before, especially not up close. I guess this is why
people come to concerts at all—to be a part of something this huge.

Just as I turn toward the stage, the lights above us cut
off. The audience lets out a roar of approval, of excitement, of pure energy.
My voice is paralyzed, and the smile I have plastered to my face begins to
quiver. I’m overwhelmed, and nervous, and I just want this all to be over. The
stage lights blast on, bathing the space in a bright, harsh light. The people
around me press forward, trying to get as close to the stage as possible. I
feel bodies all around me—I can’t move even if I try. I take a deep breath to
calm down, but even that’s hard with a bunch of people crunching your chest and
ribcage. Why do these people put themselves through so much discomfort like
this?

The crowd lets out a wild, unabashed howl as four figures
make their way onto the stage. My eyes fall upon Slade, and I feel the wind leave
my lungs. He’s got his standard uniform on—perfectly tailored dark jeans and a
plain white tee shirt. His long curls hang down over his face, and his mouth is
pulled into a wide grin. He looks like a super hero, like a mythical god. He’s
something bigger than a man up there, and yet I can still see the person I
love. It’s the crowd that’s doing it—it’s their energy that’s building him up
inch by inch. It’s like everyone here has come to an agreement; that Slade is
the epicenter, the conduit, of all their warring rage and love and lust. He’s
the ultimate expression of everything these people desire, and fear, and rally
behind. When he’s on that stage, he
is
more than just a man. I can see
that now. And I know, too, that I want this version of him as much as the
version who tucked me in last night. Before I know what I’m doing, I find
myself extending my arms to him, reaching out through the darkness. Helena lets
out a laugh.

“He can’t see you, babe,” she tells me. “But maybe he’ll
feel that you’re here anyway.”

“I hope so,” I scream, “God, I hope so.”

Slade grabs the microphone as the others take their places
on stage. He kicks over the mic stand, sending another wave of approving noise
through the crowd. “How ya doin’, Philly?” he screams. The audience surges
around me, as a huge cry rises from the masses. “You know the drill,” Slade
goes on, “Go. Fucking. CRAZY TONIGHT!”

All around me, people are writhing and shouting, the entire
mass of people seems to be one huge, breathing organism. A particularly hysterical
organism. Slade turns his back on the audience, his muscles rippling through
the thin cotton of his tee. I let my eyes linger on his broad shoulders, the
black curls tumbling down his neck, the rock solid rise of his ass. But he
doesn’t stay still for long. With a bellowing cry, he spins back toward the
audience.