His cock twitched. Her mink-colored hair wasn’t far off, either.
“Is that so?” He did his signature wink, excitement blooming below his belt. He was a man, after all, a man with needs. Why not enjoy, now and again, some of the countless women who made themselves available? Christine was offering herself. Flirtatious foreplay games were as clear to him as checkers.
“Yeah,” she whispered in his ear, threading the slim black cord under his shirt, treating herself to a feel of his chest. Long nails gave a bit of scratch, offering a preview of wildness. A stew of arousal, shame, and loneliness churned in his lower belly. “That’s so. Hyatt Regency, room eight-sixteen. Come by later and tell me in that hot accent of yours all of the filthy fucking things you want me to do.”
She patted his arm and sauntered back to her interview chair, swinging her hips and presenting her full, round bottom to his gaze.
The air grew oppressive with gamy odors of human bodies doused in grooming products, the stench of too many people in a room. He squinted at her backside, biting his cheek, her crudeness having diluted his interest. She’d sat in pink chewing gum, the poor thing. A big glob, right in the middle, puckered her skirt like an external arsehole.
Christine whipped her glossy mane and flashed Brian a smoldering look, sitting down and crossing her legs high on the thigh.
He mustered a polite smile. Had she walked around all day like that?
Jonnie leaned close and laid a palm over his microphone. “Really mate? When was the last time you did a stranger?”
Brian covered his own mic. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had some meaningless encounter with a woman he hadn’t cared about. No wait, he remembered. Right after Janet died and left him a single dad. “I need to forget Helen. Get her out of my system. I feel like I’m going barking mad.”
“Perhaps what you need is the opposite of getting her out of your system—”
“Okay, we’re rolling in five, four, three.” The upbeat reporter who’d staged the bookcase spoke.
Never more than a few moments of privacy, stolen snatches of time to have meaningful conversations. Brian slapped on his winning smile for the cameras.
“Two, one.” Electronic clicks followed.
“We’re honored to be here with the Brian Shepherd and Jonnie Tollens of the classic, veteran rock band Chariotz of Fyre.”
Classic and veteran? Ouch.
“The honor is ours.” Brian’s fake grin hardened to stoniness fit for a statue.
The interview kicked off with some inane chit chat. Brian went through the motions, staying in character.
“How do you see yourselves staying relevant in a changing music industry defined by youth culture?” Surfer Lad leaned forward, hands on his knees.
The question’s subtext stung. You old boys washed up yet? Perhaps wiped vigorously, with a damp cloth?
Jonnie tipped his chin at Brian.
Brian returned the gesture, thanking his bandmate, a shared understanding passing between them. Brian could field these loaded questions with acumen. He pushed aside his insecurity and handled the issue.
“Our approach has always been fairly intuitive. We make the music we want to make, we create what inspires us. I do think, though, the key to staying fresh in these times is innovation. We have a changing sound that remains true to our roots yet reflects the energy of the current moment. Wouldn’t you say, Jon?”
“I think that’s true, but also willingness to honor the fan base matters a lot. Recognize and respect what they want. If they want the hits, play the hits. Strike a balance between the expected and the unexpected. Keep listeners guessing, but not too much.”
Brian hummed an agreement. “We’ve always had a blues influence. And the New Wave of British heavy metal, of course, shaped our music significantly. Zeppelin and Sabbath, followed by Def Leppard and Iron Maiden and The Cult, all the rest of the bands associated with the movement. You get that, even in songs like “What’s Your Sign?” The wordplay, the free association. London rhyming slang. In my opinion, lyric fluidity absolutely captures the English hard rock tradition. We’ll always embody that and always have.”
Christine licked her lips. “What are you working on now?”
Brian looked at his lap, tactile memory of Helen’s silky hand tingling from wrist to fingertips. He stroked the crystal through his jeans. Wouldn’t be the worst thing, to drift a bit and discuss what she’d inspired. “I’ve got an idea for a new song, about wholeness. The theme is synecdoche—part to whole, whole to part. There are rare times when you see a luminous element in a person, and her shine resonates with you on a cosmic level. A woman’s body can symbolize her soul, and her soul touches universality. Even in something as tiny as a freckle.”
An epiphany broke, clear as the crystal he’d lost. He couldn’t give up on Helen. After this interview, he’d ring her with an apology for his skittish, reactive behavior on the bus.
Brian’s face warmed. He rubbed the chronic soreness out of his hands. Decades of guitar playing caused the pain, but he’d grown accustomed to the ache. His pain was part of him now.
He flicked his gaze up to the reporters. Opening up freed awareness and peace in him.
Jonnie slapped Brian’s back, two strong and supportive pats. Brian squeezed his bandmate—his brother’s—shoulder.
“That’s gorgeous, Brian.” Christine laid a hand over her cleavage, big dark eyes going to liquid. “You express your thoughts with such poetic depth. No wonder you’re a songwriter.”
His stare fell to the floor, the blush seeping to the roots of his hair. He was a songwriter at heart, now wasn’t he? Perhaps he could scrap this executive goal and ditch Joe along with it. Even the idea felt liberating, thrilling. Dumping his cumbersome
