Page 25 of Backstage

“So, what the hell are we gonna do?” Lilly’s voice is worried.

“Do you have anywhere else you can go?” asks Dave, the bodyguard who’s got a really thankless job right now.

I think about it. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of options since every place we know is being watched, so I’ve got no choice left but the most infamous bar in New York. “Could you take me to Joe’s?”

Dave is visibly shocked at my request, and Lilly doesn’t miss this, even though he nods and is already making arrangements to escort us out.

Evan seems to want to object, but he thinks about it and shakes his head slightly as if he doesn’t see an alternative. “I’ll go to the main entrance and try to create a diversion as you leave through the secondary one,” he says resolutely, making his way down the corridor.

“Who’s Joe?” Lilly worriedly asks me, shaking my hand.

“An old friend. One who gave me a place to stay and a job when I...when I moved here,” I vaguely explain. There’s no need for the whole story.

“You’re not from New York?” she asks me incredulously.

I shake my head no. My bandmates and I have decided to inform as few people as possible about our past, and I’m certainly not going to start talking about it now. I give her a look that nips every possible question in the bud, and, luckily, she’s smart enough to humor me.

I open my eyes and can hardly focus. The yellow walls of this place are unfamiliar, as is the big armchair at the foot of the double bed and the old and imposing wardrobe that occupies the entire wall in front of me. I move my gaze towards the window with the curtains drawn and realize I’m at Joe’s, the man who, both in height and belly, is huge and balding except for a few graying clumps on the lower part of his head, and who greeted us yesterday with a baseball bat as we snuck in through the back. As soon as he recognized the man accompanying me, a smile appeared on his face, showing yellowing smoker’s teeth and a heart as big as the state of New York. When he heard we were being followed by the paparazzi, he gave Damian the keys to his old room and made us go upstairs without going through the bar, which, at that hour, was full of drunks.

I look up and find Damian curled up in the chair, fast asleep in what looks like a very uncomfortable position. Last night I told him I wouldn’t object if we shared the bed, both dressed and at a suitable distance, but he decided to sleep in the armchair, covered only by his leather jacket and a miserable blanket across his knees. I doubt he had a restful night.

Last night I discovered a side to him I didn’t know. The Jailbirds were mysterious about their lives before they became famous, but I always believed that Damian was born and raised in New York; but I learned he had moved out on his own at an early age. His words on the subject have been few and, in getting to know him lately, I understand it’s one of those topics to avoid and to which I won’t receive any answer.

I need to take a shower and I need to pee, but I don’t want to wander around this place alone, opening doors to rooms hiding something I’m not sure I want to know about. I stand up and stretch noisily, trying to wake Damian up. I do it once, twice, three times, but he doesn’t seem to want to move an inch. How sleepy can a person be?

“Will you stop grunting like a pig?” he asks me again in the same position and with his eyes closed.

“You finally woke up. I have to pee.” I sit down.

He opens one eye and looks at me harshly, making me feel like a little girl who’s just been scolded.

“Couldn’t you look for a bathroom? Or should I walk with you and pull your pants down?” His tone is sour.

“Of course, you’re grumpy in the morning.”

Damian sits up and straightens his back with a grimace. “I spent the night on this infernal trap, and I wake up thinking I’m in the room with a pig, excuse me if I’m not a flower. You know what would wake me up in a good mood this morning? A great blow—”

I throw the pillow in his face before he can finish the sentence. Even the thought of wrapping my lips around his cock gives me a twinge in my lower abdomen. “Bathroom!” I point my finger at him, standing up.

I can see his eyes lightly widening as he notices the bra coming out of my messy tank top. I settle down as best as I can, feeling my cheeks flush when I lay my eyes on his rather noticeable erection.

“Second door on the right,” he says, nodding to the light layer of wood that separates us from the hallway.

I hurry out of the bedroom. After knocking and making sure there is no one there, I swoop into a small bathroom filled with sample bottles, some of them brands that went out of production before I was born.

“Does this man ever throw anything away?” I whisper as I sit on the toilet.

I look around and enjoy imagining Damian in this tiny space, struggling to take a shower, clearly too small for him. As a man, it’s expected that he’s the size he is, especially if he wanders around the gym every day, but I wonder what Damian was like as a kid, if he has always been so bulky. I guess that’s one of the questions that will remain unanswered.

I dwell on the tiny sink in front of me, the yellow walls like the bedroom, the mirror with dark spots glued to the wall, and the light bulb attached to wires coming out of the ceiling; under the sink are two baskets with more sample bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The sight of all these plastic containers is almost disturbing. For some reason, I imagine it’s a serial killer’s bathroom and I move quicker, pulling up my pants and heading back to my room down the hall. Damian’s tying his shoes.

“I see you didn’t die going there alone!” he says, mocking me as he gets up from his chair and moves towards me. “Come on, let’s go downstairs for breakfast. Joe makes the best cheese sandwich you’ve ever eaten.” He winks at me, and all I can do is put on my shirt and jacket and follow him downstairs, calculating how many calories I’ll have to swallow so as not to upset the man who took us in for the night.

When he said the best sandwiches, he wasn’t kidding. They really are mouth-watering and probably a cholesterol spike, with cheese oozing out between the slices of white bread sizzling in a pan with melted butter. But you only live once, and this is definitely an excellent way to die. Since I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, I gorge myself with little grace when Joe breaks the silence of our thoughts.

“How come you ended up sleeping around here? Not that I mind, but since you bought yourself that fancy apartment, you haven’t come to reclaim your old room,” he observes with curiosity.

“We were being chased by paparazzi,” Damian responds between bites.

---