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Taking the Lead(57)

By:Cecilia Tan


As I was climbing the stairs I was still fuming a little about what an asshole the security guard had been, but then it struck me: he really had treated me like a groupie trying to sneak into a concert because that's exactly what I looked like. He'd bought it. Even when I'd told him who I was he'd either not believed it or didn't know my name. That was possible: I was far from a household name. But a thrill ran through me as I realized how convinced he'd been.

I came out on an upper platform where a couple of other people with passes around their necks were watching the show, too. Several of them looked like groupies to me and I wondered if the guard had been partly serious when he'd said some of the guys were "available."



       
         
       
        

But I didn't spend long looking at the other people there once I started watching the band. Axel, the lead singer, was at center stage, but on the side of the stage closest to me was the guitar player, Mal. We'd met once or twice in passing at industry functions. My impression of him from those occasions was that he never smiled and rarely spoke, looming in the background like a judgmental gargoyle.

But on stage he was animated, explosive, leaping into the air with his guitar and then landing, flinging his long, dark hair forward and then flipping it back with a head toss. He still didn't smile, but he matched Axel's energy with a feral grimace as he sang, and then he sauntered out onto the long runway into the audience, playing a solo and practically humping the guitar as he went.

Pure sex. One hundred percent pure sex that walked on two legs and played the guitar. When that song was over he tore his shirt off and flung it into the audience. His arms and chest looked like something from a fitness craze infomercial: You, too, can have these abs! These biceps! I certainly wouldn't have minded if he'd let me touch them for a while.

I was so caught up in the performance that I didn't notice the others had left the viewing area until the band was taking their bows. One of the women I'd seen before came back up the stairs just as I was trying to figure out what to do with myself. "Come on," she said. "If you want to get picked, right after the encore is the time."

Get picked? I wasn't sure what she meant, but I had some ideas. I followed her downstairs and toward the green room. We passed several doors with paper signs taped to them: VOCAL WARMUP ROOM, WARDROBE, BAND ONLY. She led me into a room that was unmarked.

About a dozen women were there-some drinking bottled water from a tray on a table, some applying fresh lipstick, some gossiping. There were a few folding chairs but most of them were standing. I took my own lipstick out of my bag to give myself some time to figure everything out.

"I've been with Samson before," a woman with thick, black cat-eye liner was saying to another. "But he tweeted this morning that he's got a cold so I don't know if he's partying tonight."

"Last night of the tour? You better believe they're all partying tonight," the woman who'd come back to get me said. She had red hair and a thick studded belt wrapped twice around her hips. "I don't care if he does have a cold. I wouldn't mind being the bread on a Samson meat sandwich." She gave the other woman a high five.

Okay, so it seemed as if "getting picked" in fact meant what I guessed, i.e., getting picked for sex.

I should go to the party, I told myself. I didn't really belong here. But I was curious just how long I could keep it up. When would someone notice I didn't belong? 

A third woman joined them, downing a bottle of water. She looked like she had been dancing, her thin T-shirt sticking to her skin in places. "Is it true Mal is really rough?"

"Never been with Mal," Cat-eye said with a shrug. "But you figure with all the bondage and stuff in their videos at least one of them has to be mondo kinky."

That would be Axel, I thought, smiling to myself. Axel who was so kinky he had even brought out my sister's kinky side. I decided to see if I could keep up playing the wild child character. "What've you heard about Mal?"

The woman who had brought me downstairs shrugged. "I saw them in Indianapolis with a friend. She said he's huge."

"Pictures or it didn't happen," I snapped, and several of the women burst out laughing.

"Yeah, no pictures but she did have trouble walking the next day," she said, which caused even more laughter.

A roadie came in then and everyone quieted down instantly. He was a lean guy with a shaved head and a slouch. He had a flashlight in one hand but it wasn't on. "Okay, pussycats," he said. "Mal's ready."

No one moved.

"Are you seriously telling me none of you is into the kinky shit?"

"I am," I said, starting to raise my hand like I was in grammar school, then thinking, wild child wouldn't do that. I ended it with a snap of my fingers.

"Great. Come with me."

I followed him farther down the hall, past several more doorways, until we came to one that had a paper sign taped to it that read: KENNEALLY, GUITAR. The roadie took out a Sharpie from his pocket, added the words DO NOT DISTURB to the bottom, and then said, "Okay, honey, go on in. And be careful."

I wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that but I opened the door, slipped through, and closed it behind me, with no idea what I was going to see on the other side.

What I saw was Mal Kenneally, leaning back on a couch that had been covered with a batik-print cloth. The whole room had been hung with patterned fabrics so that it looked like laundry day at a pasha's harem, and lush, exotic-sounding music was playing from somewhere. A woman was raking her long red nails through his hair, spreading it out behind him like the glossy black wing of some legendary raven. He was wearing leather pants and nothing else.

His opened his eyes when he realized I had come into the room and murmured something to the woman, who patted him on the shoulder and then quickly left, giving me a cursory glance right before she exited.

I reminded myself I wasn't here to play demure, good-girl Gwen. I put my hands on my hips and announced, "They told me you like to play with fire." I tossed my flame-red hair for emphasis.

He let his eyes travel up and down me slowly, as if he were drinking in every detail, from my black lambskin boots up the fishnet stockings to my denim cutoff shorts, tank top, and fake tattoos. (Well, I had one real tattoo, but that one he couldn't see.)

His voice was low. "The question, my dear, is whether you like to play with fire."

"I'm game," I said, thrusting my chin into the air.

His smile warmed slowly. "Are you? I'm not your typical rock star lay."

"I'm not your typical groupie," I answered. Well, that was certainly the truth. Maybe too close to the truth? My heart rate sped up as I worried he might see through my ruse. That would be humiliating.

Just how far are you going to let this go? A little voice in the back of my head was asking. You can chicken out anytime, I told myself. I decided I'd leave as soon as he got too rough. If he grabbed me or manhandled me, I'd tell him it wasn't my thing and walk out. Otherwise, I figured I'd play along and see what happened. Wild child, I thought to myself. Wild child.



       
         
       
        

"Lose the shorts," he said.