Naked, I step over to him. “No, I didn’t. I let the guys think I was pissed. I hate it that they know all our shit all the time, and I didn’t want them to know we came up here to fuck.”
~~~
I’m pulled from sleep by the feel of Neil’s arms at my sides and the touch of his lips. My eyes flutter open and I find him standing beside the bed, above me, a smile in his eyes.
“I’ve got to go, Chrissie.”
I sit up and notice that he is dressed in knee-length army green shorts, flip-flops and an unspectacular t-shirt. The surfer boy from Santa Barbara, with his deep tan, the flecks of sun in his chestnut hair, and those lush emotion-bright green eyes. California Neil in Vancouver.
“Where do you think you’re going? The beach?” I tease and he laughs.
“Very funny.”
“Do you want me to get dressed and come with you?”
His expression changes and he looks uncomfortable. “Not today, Chrissie. First day on tour. I don’t even have a set put together yet. I need to focus. I have no idea what I’m doing and I can’t quite figure out how I got here. One day we’re playing small venues, theaters, and the next we’re opening on an arena tour. Twenty thousand people and they are not even our fans. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Chrissie.”
My eyes widen in surprise. I didn’t expect that. I’ve never heard Neil sound unsure of himself. It makes me feel more connected to him, a sense that he needs me a little bit, when it usually only feels like I need him. It’s a nice feeling. Good. Really good.
I slip my arms around him and press my lips against his neck. “You got here, Neil, because you are incredible. The only problem you have, as far as I can tell, is that you still think you’re on a Southern California beach.”
Neil laughs. “Fuck, was that supposed to be motivational? That one is right up there with Jack’s don’t be a fuck-up speech.”
I start to giggle even as I kiss lightly down his neck. I stop and smile at him. “Just be Neil and the crowd will love you.”
He presses his lips against the flesh beneath my ear and the feel of him moves through me sweetly. A hand caresses my breast. I give him a gentle push away from me.
“Stop it and get out of here. You don’t have time.”
His eyes glow wickedly. “Wear something sexy tonight. You have no idea what it does to me when you let Rene dress you up in something sexy.”
I throw a pillow at him. “I thought you thought the sundresses were sexy.”
“Only because they’re easy to get off you.”
I throw another pillow and hit him in the face. He pulls something from his pocket and drops it on the nightstand.
“Your pass backstage. Don’t forget it, Chrissie.”
I pick it up, rolling my eyes. “I won’t forget it.” I turn it in my fingers. Christian Parker. Band. I frown. “Why did you tell them to put my full name on this? No one ever calls me Christian. Not even my dad.”
Neil shrugs. “I don’t know. I just did.”
I turn it in my fingers.
Neil crosses the room.
“See ya, Neil.”
“See ya, Chrissie.”
The door closes, and I lie back on the bed and smile. Christian Parker. I kind of like that. Sort of a symbol of a new Chrissie. A new me. A new everything.
CHAPTER TEN
I climb out of the shower and grab a towel. I rub it briskly over my hair and then wrap it around my head. I take another towel, hastily drying myself as I cross to the vanity. Fuck, how could I have fallen back to sleep? I use my forearm to swipe at the steam on the mirror. Good one, Chrissie. Good one. You are already late, you steamed up the bathroom, and you don’t have time for this.
I use the blow dryer, only to remove the dampness from my hair and not to style it. I rummage through my makeup bag. Mascara? Yep, a must. Foundation? No, not tonight. Maybe a little blush. Lip gloss. Necessity.
I stare at myself in the mirror to make sure in my hurry I didn’t make any glaring mistakes with the eyeliner. OK, now time to dress.
In the bedroom, I sink to the floor beside my duffel. Crap, I’m way north of Southern California. What’s the weather like up here? I pull out of my bag jeans, my Chucks, a tight black t-shirt, and Neil’s old, ratty cardigan which I appropriated from him nine months ago.
I dress in record time and race back into the bathroom. I jerk the brush through my hair, flip it over to get the underside, toss my head back and spray. Thank God I have fluffy hair I can turn into a metal chick hairdo without effort. Makes me look sort of less nerdy.
I stand in front of the mirror and do a fast once-over. I look totally tacky, totally a mess, and totally Seattle. I’d look like a bum if not for the one-carat diamond earrings I always wear.
From my purse I grab the room key, some cash and a credit card. I take the backstage pass from the nightstand and hurry out the door, letting it slam behind me.
I take a taxi to the stadium. As I reach into my pocket for cash to pay, I realize how lame it was to take a cab. It would have been faster to walk. The traffic into the stadium parking lot was a nightmare. It couldn’t have been more than a half mile walk and it took forty minutes by car, but shit I don’t know Vancouver and I’m not about to wander around alone up here.
I shove the money at the driver and exit the backseat. I look at the crowd, and my face falls. Jeez, this is a madhouse. Scream is one of the hottest hard rock bands on tour, and they have a large and rowdy following, and they are everywhere.
I pause at the top of the garage entrance. I’m not even sure I can make it down the driveway to the underground security entrance. There are altogether too many people jostling against each other at the door.
Pushing through the crowd takes effort. Getting close to the security guard takes more effort, even though I’m standing there waving my pass in his face.
Finally, he looks at me. “You’re in the wrong place,” is all he says.
I have to fight not to make an are you kidding face at him. “I’ve got a pass. This is a security entrance. Let me in.”
He nods to indicate deeper into the underground garage. “Band and crew entrance is down there.”
“What difference does it make?”
He ignores me. I’m about to walk off when he grabs my wrist, jerks me behind him, and pushes me through the door.
Inside the stadium the concrete walls and floors vibrate from the activity. I feel like I’m suffocating in the packed, overly lit corridor, but I start making my way through overdressed women, underdressed men, and the diligently working road crew. More than a few guys check me out as I cut through the crowd, and I keep my eyes locked forward, watching nothing but the fast shifting path through the bodies.
I see an open door and look into a room. There’s a guy sitting at a drum kit. I can tell by how the rest of the gathering huddles around him, nodding in time, that they are drummers, too. Two of them I recognize as famous—my favorite metal band drummer of all time, Lars, but the other one’s name escapes me—and I don’t know the guy with the sticks. It’s not Arctic Hole’s drummer, Nate Kassel, so it must be the drummer for Scream. But then maybe not. What do I know? I’ve never been a fan of the British metal band.
I work my way past more small rooms clustered with people. Intimate, private parties inside this one giant party that fills the stadium.
I spot a door with a sign, Dressing Room A: Performer, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a long walk down the tunnels and, if I’m near the dressing rooms, I’m near where Neil is most likely held up with the guys in the room where food and drink is set up.
I maneuver on, close to the wall, and find a second door marked Dressing Room B. I put my hand on the knob and then pause, wondering if I should knock. The room isn’t labeled.