Fan Girl (15 page)

Over the years I would send Redy pictures of some of the tattoos I was most proud of. Portraits that are so hard to get right in the first place and come out exactly like a picture, things like that. He's always exclaimed over my talent, and it's a heady thing now knowing it was from one artist to another.

I step back and drop the robe, “Thanks Dek that means a lot.”

“Can I see the back piece?” he asks as I make my way back toward the bathroom.

I stop and look over my shoulder, shake my head no and remark, “I think we should save a few things. You know, anticipation.”

He chuckles darkly, “Right, anticipation. You know two can play that game, Miss Alaina.”

I turn to face him fully. “What does that mean?”

Deklan says, “You’ll see.” He flashes his megawatt, blinding smile, and I have to look away, so I reach for my iPhone and turn on the playlist. I see him wrinkle his nose and let out a giggle before I turn it up so I can hear it over my blow dryer.

Walking into the bathroom, I shut the doors to put on the grey wide-neck skull t-shirt and a pair of distressed jeans. Over that I slip on a thigh high silk kimono so that I don’t get any makeup or hair product on my clothes then open the doors again.

I do my hair in a faux hawk, looping my hair in bubbles with bobby pins and elastic ties. Then I move on to makeup, singing and shaking my hips to the songs. Deklan is directly behind me, so I can’t see what he's doing unless I turn to look or move to the side. I decide to do my spins in the 'OH’s of the poppy club song to see what he's doing. Mid-spin I stop when I see him holding his phone up more than he had been.

"What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously.

He looks over the top of his phone, which is still directed at me. “Nothing, what do you mean?” he counters with fake innocence.

My eyes narrow on him. “You better not be recording me.”

“Would I do that?” He still tries to act innocent, but the sparkle in his eyes are giving him away.

“Give me that,” I say, lunging for the phone just as he presses a button and holds the phone out of my reach.

He's looking up at me. “I’m just gonna post this real quick, hang on a sec.”

“You will not, absolutely not. Do you want me to get murdered? The majority of your fans are women, and they’ll hate me.” I try to reason with him as I crawl closer on the bed then stand to be able to reach the phone. I lunge again and miss.

“Fine, for now, but I was emailing my publicist earlier, and we agreed on some stuff about that. We can talk about it later. Are you ready to go, it's almost time to get back.”

I look down at myself. “Um, yeah lip gloss and shoes and I’m set to go.” I turn and jump off the bed, I lace up my low rise chucks as Deklan disappears into the bathroom. I take out my ID and AmEx, and slip them into my pocket.

Deklan comes out of the bathroom and hands me my phone. “Don’t forget this.”

I slip it into my back pocket and ask, “Is there somewhere I can keep my jacket when we get there?”

“Yeah in the dressing room. There's a guard at the door and nobody can get in but the band.”

“Perfect,” I say, zipping up my silver metallic jacket.

Deklan leads me downstairs and says in the lobby that he called for a car to pick us up instead of catching a taxi, since it's an hour until the doors open and the venue is going to be packed. A private car can drive through security while a taxi has to stay at the gate.

When we get close to the venue there is noticeably more traffic. The amount of people walking around our car while we wait for an opening makes me grateful for tinted windows. After five nerve wracking minutes for me —Deklan looks totally chill and unbothered while I feel like there's a neon sign pointing to our car— we get in the gate.

As soon as we're out of the car, Dek takes my hand again and maneuver the backstage crowd.

As we near a door marked Deklan Thomas on a lime green sheet of paper I inform him, “When the doors open, I need to get some shirts from the vendors. They were sold out last night. I just don’t know my way out of here to get to them.”

He looks over at me. "I can get you anything you want, but if you want to go look at what’s available, I just have to check in and let them know I’m in the building. It's five thirty do you want something to eat or a smoothie?”

It's been three hours since I last ate, and although I’m not hungry yet, it’s a safe bet I’ll get there pretty soon. I nod and we walk back to the green room. Only Tag and Peter are in the room this time. They all do chin lifts and Tag comments, “Badass hawk, Ali!”

I smile. “Thanks, Tag.”

Deklan moves over to the buffet, while I walk to the blender. I make the same smoothie Tommy had made for me before, but the ginger and juicer stump me.
Do I put it in before I turn it on like a blender, or turn it on first?
I can’t remember what he did.

Peter walks over to me. “First time with the juicer?”

“Yeah, I can’t remember if he turned it on first,” I answer.

He gives a grin and tells me you do turn it on first.

“Thanks Pete.”

He walks back to his seat, and I juice the ginger before adding it to the blender. Glancing over my shoulder, I look around to make sure nobody's on the phone before I turn it on and close the box around it that muffles the sound. Deklan wanders over with a piece of pizza, taking a huge bite as I turn the blender off.

He tells the guys we're going to the vendors, and they all ask for beer that's on tap out there. I laugh.

Deklan shrugs. “Best beer there is, on tap at a concert. Usually we have someone go get it for us. With you here, I’ll have extra hands so we can grab it.” He bumps my shoulder and gives a little side grin. The flash of his dimple sends a wave of warmth through me, so I causally unzip my jacket. We exit to the side of the arena where all of the vendors are. The doors aren’t open yet, so it's quiet and there's no line. Its twenty minutes until the doors open and the salespeople are still organizing their merchandise.

There are black shirts, hoodies, and pink baby doll tees with white writing and the Rolling Bridges logo on the front. It's an R and B that look like twisted ladders almost but cooler. I get pink for myself and each of my Shell girls. Deklan eyes the pile of shirts as I hand over my AmEx. He opens his mouth, seems to think better of it and shuts it again.

“What?” I ask as I’m signing my name on the credit card slip.

He shakes his head and says, “Nothing, I just never realized how much you buy at the concerts. I thought it was a t-shirt you wear to bed or something. You have to have a thousand by now.” That is a slight exaggeration but not a crazy one. Rolling Bridges have done tours every year since being signed over a decade ago.

In the beginning, when they were selling t-shirts out of their trunks in the parking lots of the bars they were playing, I would drive two hours south to L.A. with a fake ID, and a sleepover alibi courtesy of Stacie. They would switch designs all the time depending on the deals they could get from suppliers. Between the band’s t-shirts, and those of the bars when they had a cool design, they’ve added up.

We grab the bagged shirts and make our way across the hall. “You're early t-shirts got retired, boxed and labeled vintage. I haven’t worn one in a while,” I offer him.

He throws his head back and laughs. “Vintage?” he asks incredulously. “Christ, I didn’t think we were that old.”

Deklan rubs his head, messing up the James Dean do for the first time. Holding out his hand, he scowls at the hair product left there. “Fuck now I have hair shit all over me.”

I laugh and reach for some napkins by the beer vendors. He wipes his hand and shoots the napkin in a trash can before walking up and ordering six beers. They load them up in holders for us. Clear flimsy plastic solo-type cups filled to the brim.

As we walk back slowly to the backstage doors I inform him, “You used to play a lot of clubs in the beginning, so I would sometimes get a different t-shirt every weekend. Now there are set designs for each tour, so I only get one. This time I’m only going to one concert on the European tour and since the location is printed on them, I grabbed one for everybody. They always love the overseas ones. I have Bangkok, Amsterdam, Tokyo, Sidney, and Rio. There's a ton. They give them to their husbands and kids, keep one for themselves. Plus it's not like this is the only concert I ever go to. I see someone play at least once a month, don’t feel too special,” I tease.

He's nodding thoughtfully and we're almost back to the green room. “Since you don’t have to pay for ours, I figure you have a sweet deal going.” He smiles, showing full dimples and glittering eyes. I smile back and hold the door open for him with my hip because both of our hands are full. The guys see us at the door and jump up to free our hands, then Deklan walks me back out to his dressing room across the hall.

I sit down on the couch, then take off my jacket and lay it next to me. There are bright round light bulbs around a huge mirror with a producers chair in front of it to my left. In front of me is the door to the hall and portable closets with hanging clothes. To the right is a flat screen television on the wall. There’s a table below it with a coffee maker, a hot water carafe and a jar that says raw honey. Deklan tosses clothes out of the 'closet', seemingly at random, then looks at me with his hands on the bottom of his grey sweater.

“I’m gonna change, you're welcome to stay,” he says in a mischievous voice.

Hmm, to do the right thing or be naughty?
A compromise, I think. “I’ll shut my eyes.”

He laughs a smoky laugh that sounds like Gerard Butler. I feel my cheeks heat and know I’m blushing. Closing my eyes, I hear the sound of shoes being slipped off and hitting the bottom of the closet, a belt jingle as it's undone and a zipper as it goes down. I bite my bottom lip as I hear cloth slide, another buckle, and zipper going up. My breath is shallow, and I gulp the saliva pooling in my mouth then jump when Deklan tells me I can open them.

My eyes open and I’m glad I’m sitting down, my knees surely would have given out. His tattoos are visible through the wife beater he’s wearing. Broad shoulders ripped with muscles, biceps bulging. He's wearing blue jeans and a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Taking a seat, Deklan laces up biker boots then stands back up and heads for the hot water carafe.

He looks outstanding. Like he could be going to the MTV movie awards or walking down Rodeo Drive. I watch him put a huge helping of honey in the water and walk over to the mirror where he takes a big round brush, puts it in the middle of his head and rolls it backwards creating the perfect James Dean flip. That is unbelievably unfair. It took me an hour to do my hair and makeup. He just does one flip.

He takes a seat with his honey water on the side of the couch and relaxes. He scans my face for a second and then asks, “Do you want to go to dinner tonight?” He obviously isn’t getting tired of me if he keeps asking me to be around. We don’t talk a whole lot, and I get the feeling he likes that. He's around people wanting his attention most days, and we know the ins and outs of our lives from our friendship before. At least I know generalities about him being busy, always traveling. Knowing who he is for real now, it makes a lot of sense.

“I can go with you. I just have to get my bags for the flight.”

“Cool, we can meet up at the buses. I have to pack all my shit since this is the last stop. We’ll go to dinner with the guys before the flight if you want,” he says, sipping the steaming water.

“Okay.” I finally ask what I’ve been wondering. “Is your throat hurting, is that why you're drinking that?”

He looks down at the cup and back up at me. “My voice gets too gravelly sounding when I go to smoky bars. I can feel it getting rough. I'm trying to smooth things out before I start warm ups.”

I nod. His voice has been growly today. But I thought that was because of our chemistry, not the bar. Then I remember him singing
Dream On
, and think he’s smart to take precautions with such a demanding song coming up.

He asks, “Where do you want to sit tonight?”

I look at him surprised. “You mean if I could sit anywhere?”

He nods his head and takes another sip.

I think for a second and say, “Second row.”

He tilts his head in question.

I explain my logic. “Because first row will go to the rail, second row is set back enough that I will be able to see over their heads without anyone obstructing my view.”

He smiles with dimple, and I feel like I just aced a test. “I’ll let them know. It's time to go next door and get wired up.” He drains his cup and holds his hand out to me.

I take it, of course. We walk catty corner to the green room door where the guys are taking their earpieces out of the cases and threading them through the back of their clothes.

Peter turns to me and says, “I don't know if you like Dark Knight but they're about to go on.”

I do like Dark Knight. They have a harder sound than Rolling Bridges, but they can get a crowd going and hyped up for the main event. “Yeah I should get out there. I don't know how it works from this side of the stage though. Do I still go to Will Call?” I ask.