Page 2 of Paint the Town, Dove
Sweat dampened the back of my neck as I performed:
“Fill me with the light of your days,
sing me a song, tell me to stay!
You are a catalyst, my catalyst–”
The crowd erupted,exploded, chantingmywords,myvoice…mytalent.
“Make me your dream, make love in the nightfall –
Make me yours, I’m there through it all –”
Song after song I roused up the sea of bodies, welcoming their devotion, spiking my adrenaline until it pushed me to the encore. Beams of light flashed in tricolour lasers, illuminating the spray of wild faces and eagerears.
Fans.
Screaming. Crying.
All forme.
I flashed a pearly smile, one the masses couldn’t possibly miss. My face was plastered on the jumbotron for fucksakes.Could you believe this life?
“Thank you, South Carolina!” I waved, squinting at the throng of followers before me. “This is all for YOU!”
Another roar followed. My fucking mantra.
“Spectre, Spectre, Spectre!”
I sauntered off stage, head hung low, wiping at the beads of sweat dripping down the dark locks of my hair.
Management settled on a black costume policy, fitting for our crowned aesthetic of Jaw & Lion.The best damn band on this entire damn planet.
Every rock star’s got an image, I wasn’t blind to that. An oath we all swear to protect. Being number one in alternative rock, collecting weekly headlines on The Rolling Stones, two Grammies under our belt… those weren’t just achievements. They were monuments, credits to be carved into our gravestone, buried along with our impact.
We were legendary. We didn’t take that lightly.
At least I fucking didn’t.
Dozens of frantic faces I’d never seen before approached me, holding out cups of water, cell phones and microfibre towels.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Spectre?” A brunette asked, short and peppy.
“Have a water, hon, you’re tired.” My PR director, Mallory, pushed.
You’re tired.
You’re drunk.
You’re awake (after cocaine).
You’re this and that and this and that –
Fuck!I seethed, internally of course. People told me what to do, whoIwas. They knew me better than I knew myself, clearly.Obviously!Most of them inhabited my body when I checked out (often… that was often.)
No,no– I couldn’t break, not now. There were cameras, people, paparazzi. Composure was of the essence, always.
A golden boy. That’s what Mallory willed me to embody.Golden Boy. Like an apt pupil...or a retriever. For months I’ve had to chain down my reputation, ever since thatHot-Tub-Hottiescandal last year. Make no mistake to ever sing Queen with three groupies, two pills of molly welled into your system and no fucks to give.
