Page 22 of Backstage

“I’ve arranged an interview for you and Lilly tonight. They only want you two after the concert, but there’s a problem.” His jaw’s twitchy, and I realize that Evan is having trouble finding a solution to a problem this time.

“If you came to talk to me about it instead of going straight to her, you’re worried she’ll eat you alive. She’s a pain in the ass, that woman,” I admit with a half-smile.

Evan puts his hand over his face and chuckles almost exasperatedly. I honestly respect him for the work he does: cleaning up other people’s messes for a living is something I would never do, even if my own life depended on it.

“The interview is with Jenna fromRock Now. The one who called Lilly a ‘wet rat covered in rags’ in one of her online articles. Lilly had a hysterical breakdown, and it took Luke and me a whole day to convince her not to quit the tour.”

I remember that day. We had a concert the next night, and we were all alerted to a possible press conference apologizing and explaining to stem the damage.

“Why the hell do we have to give the interview to that idiot? All she does is hide behind fake sarcasm, which is nothing but gratuitous malice.” It pisses me off, women like that. She’s worked her way up to the top by being evil, and she spares no one.

“They have the largest reader base and the largest distribution of any other trade magazine in the United States, and their site visits are three times as many as the runner-up. Pissing them off and having them against us is not a move we can afford. If Jenna goes to the head of the record company you work for and tells them to make you jump, you jump and thank her with a smile.”

I can tell by his tone that he had a heated discussion about this with the boss in question. I’m almost sorry I asked him the question.

“Okay, I’ll try to talk to Lilly, but I can’t guarantee she won’t leave this building before the concert.”

Evan nods and manages to bring out a half tense smile. “I know, I talked to Luke about it, and he seemed so freaked out about it that he asked me to ask you because you’re the only one who can handle her anxiety attacks these days.”

Is it always up to me to confront her about the things she doesn’t want to do? I feel like I’ve become her nurse when I’d really like to get into her pants instead.

At the bar of the club, I meet Luke, who shows me where to find Lilly and wishes me “good luck” with a smile that expresses all the pain he feels on my behalf.

I knock on the door of the room reserved for the Red Velvet Curtains and wait for her to tell me to come in, rather than sneaking in and finding her undressed. I’m sure that kind of view wouldn’t help my semi-hard on that I have every time I have to go on stage. The irony is that when I’m nervous before a show, my blood flows to areas of my body that I’d prefer were asleep. I can often think of things bad enough to get over it, but sometimes I have to make up for it by releasing some tension. Should I screw up the serenity of the tour and hit shamelessly on her or do the right thing? Jesus Christ, sometimes it’s tough to listen to Evan telling me to keep it in my pants.

“Go ahead,” her voice almost chokes.

I open the door, and the spectacle in front of me is far more exciting than finding her lying naked with her legs spread open in front of me. She’s kneeling on the sofa, butt in the air, jeans wrapped around her perfect curves, leaning forward to pick up something. Basically, a heavenly sight for what’s in my pants—which now snaps to attention.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, struggling to contain my lower parts inside the jeans that have become too tight.

“Will you stop standing there and give me a hand?” she asks, looking over my shoulder, covering her backside with one hand. Busted.

“To do what, exactly?” I raise a puzzled eyebrow.

“Look for my glasses that fell down here,” she says, extending an arm between the back of the couch and the wall it’s resting on.

Those glasses. Sid made her take them off for concerts, perhaps because he also realized that I’d get an overbearing erection every time I have to look at them when I’m on stage. I’ve never seen any woman look so sexy with those big glasses on her face. They’re giant and dark, but they perfectly frame her intelligent and cunning eyes.

I get closer, grab the couch on one side, and, without too much thought, I move it off the wall with her on it. I snatch the glasses on the floor, hand them to her, and return the couch to its place with the same ease. Lilly looks at me like I’m an idiot.

“Do you have to show off your muscles at every opportunity? I’m not one of your fans you fuck with. I’m not looking for two arms and pecs to spread my legs,” she says, crossing her arms to her chest, pushing them under her breasts and making them stand out even more. It bothers me that she thinks I’d fuck anyone, but the reality is that everyone thinks of me like that.

However, if she continues to be provocative without even realizing it, I will slip between those legs after tearing off her pants in an instant.

“So, you noticed my muscles?” I joke. “Not bad for someone who doesn’t care.” I tilt my head to the side and enjoy watching her blush. “And for your information, I don’t sleep with my fans.” Not all of them, at least.

She shrugs her shoulders and sits cross-legged on the couch. She’s more relaxed than usual, and I almost hate to break the news that’s gonna ruin her day. “What are you doing here?”

“Tonight after the show, we have an interview with Jenna fromRock Now, the one who called you a rat in rags.” I just throw it out there because there’s no pleasant way to say this, and she doesn’t like people sugar coating the truth.

She first turns pale as a ghost and then an unhealthy greenish color, with her big eyes and her jaw twitching, making her lower lip slightly protrude. She’s having one of her attacks, I know them all too well, and I don’t want her to panic. If she does we’ll never end up on that stage. I grab her underneath the knees and behind her shoulders, pick her up and, in long strides, take her out of the dressing room and up the stairs to the top of the building where no one will witness her breakdown.

I gently place her on one of the sofas stacked on one side, covered with a thick nylon cloth. The grey sky makes this place look even sadder than it is. The slight stench of dust mixes with the air’s humidity, giving the city its characteristic smell: lived, worn, alive. The honking of horns coming from the street, the traffic’s incessant noise, is almost reassuring on this roof.

“Is it better in the fresh air?” I ask her after a few minutes when she’s managed to take several deep breaths.

She nods but doesn’t speak. She regains color despite the cold air and the grey sky and chance of snow today in New York City. I study her for a few minutes until her breathing becomes regular again.

---