Baby's on Fire Page 2

  Gerry grinned, shook his head and laughed. Angie scooted alongside him, tried to grab the car keys from his hand and shouted, "I'm driving!" while her friends tittered and piled into their dad's Cutlass.

  "Not while I'm alive," he shouted back and held the keys above her head. She'd just got her license, and was doing pretty good, but he'd be damned if he was risking his life by letting her behind the wheel. "Get in or get gone."

  "You suck," she hissed, then grinned at the statement.

  He offered her a smile back, leaned closer and whispered, "Not yet. But I've been practicing."

  The comment won him a round of giggles, and while Angie ran around the car to the passenger side, someone already inside the car began to smack the back of the driver's seat. "Radio, radio."

  As the chant was picked up by each of the girls, Gerry slid into the driver's seat, and then twisted the key into the ignition. He thumbed the knob on the radio, leaving behind gospel for anything but, and grinned when he was awarded with the sound of a guitar. "Here we go, ladies."

  He rested his arm across the seat, looked over his shoulder and pulled out of the driveway. He had no doubt the rubber he laid on the road as they took off down the street would earn him a lecture later. At that second, however, he couldn't care less.

  *~*~*

  The speakers shuddered with bass as pre-recorded music tried to keep the mass of people occupied between performances. It was an outside venue, but the open air did little to mask the scent of burning weed and cigarette smoke. The retreating sun left behind cooler temperatures, but nothing that inspired anyone around Gerry to cover bare arms, legs, or any other body part they chose to let free. Almost every style was represented: long skirts and sweaters, platform heels and bodysuits, bold suits and bolder ties, jeans and leather jackets. Glassy-eyed zombies lay slack-jawed on the grass, teenagers tittered in groups around pilfered bottles of booze, and the smokers passed joint after joint around their circles.

  Gerry ignored the crowd, seeking the stage before the area got busier than it already was. His gaggle of baby-dolls followed behind, for no other reason than they had no place of their own in the midst of the group. He told himself he should be worried about how close he let the girls get, but couldn't find enough strength in his conscience to force them to stay back. After all, God knew that neither hell nor high water would stop him from getting as close to Mark as physically possible.

  They were almost there when the stage lights came on. The crowd sucked in a collective breath and the area stilled to dead silence. Anticipation didn't just hang in the air; it buzzed through it like electricity. The sound that suddenly rocketed out of the speakers shook Gerry to his balls. The audience went wild, and Gerry was no exception. Sparks shot from either side of the stage; the lights dipped, spun, and gathered in a clover-leaf between numerous instruments, and as if from nowhere, there he was.

  As quickly as it had started, the music died. The spotlights dimmed but for a single beam, and Maxx lifted one arm above his head. From the corner of his eye, Gerry saw his sister mouth words to no one but herself. "My God. He's beautiful." Gerry couldn't have agreed more.

  Maxx wore a white one-piece bodysuit so tight it could have been painted on him. Thick gold lines traced his body vertically, making Maxx look that much slimmer, that much taller. Though the suit covered Maxx head to toe, the outfit had been cut into a V that exposed his chest. Even from the distance, Gerry could make out Maxx's pronounced collar bones and sternum. His hair was white, tufted straight up and slicked back at the sides. His lips were gold, his pale face shimmered with sparkles, and a glittering ball the size of a baby's fist hung from one ear. It wasn't just Maxx's beauty that held them in awestruck silence, though. His very aura shone. He radiated sexuality. Confidence and pride streamed from every pore of his body.

  Winged critters seemed to wake inside Gerry's guts. He parted his lips in an effort to accommodate a sudden and overwhelming lack of oxygen in his lungs. Every poster he'd gazed at, every album he'd memorized, and every article he'd laughed or wept over; every dream that had ended in cum-soaked sheets, and every fantasy he'd enticed with his own hand—none of them had been as perfect as the real-life version of Maxx Starlight.

  Maxx drew the microphone to his mouth and the second he began to sing, the stage came alive around him: guitars, keyboards, drums. Someone to Gerry's right screamed in blissful anguish, but whether it was Angie, one of the other girls, or some complete stranger, Gerry couldn't say. Nor did he wish to find out. His eyes were glued on a sight of supreme perfection. His mind was a million miles away, riding sparkling starships with a beautiful oddity, and drinking champagne from the cupped palms of angels. His heart had been stolen, and Gerry couldn't care less about ever getting it back.

  *~*~*

  "I can't," Angie said, turning to Gerry with tears streaming down her face. "I can't leave. Not yet. Not ever. It was so—"

  "Perfect," Gina whispered. "It was just so perfect."

  The stage had emptied, the lights had been brightened, but they were far from the only ones who had yet to move away, even though Maxx Starlight had been scheduled as the final performer. If the blankets and the backpacks littered over the grass were any indication, Gerry had no doubt that the party would continue long after the performers were gone.

  Marcy dropped to the ground, both legs straight out in front of her, her arms propped behind her, and she laid her head back. "That is the trippiest thing I've ever seen in my life! I feel like I've been completely and perfectly fucked for the last two hours."

  Something in Gerry's head rose to reprimand her, but he decided not to bother. Her comment sounded too damn close to his own truth.

  Only Sally seemed anxious to get a move on. She shifted from foot to foot in her platform Mary Janes, clutching her denim purse like she was sure it was about to be stolen right out of her hand. "We should go. The traffic will be wild."

  Gerry blew out a breath, pushed his bangs back and shook his head to dispel the spider webs that seemed to have gathered in there. "I guess so—"

  "Hey. You there. Bloke in the front."

  A heavyset man with a thick British accent pushed himself away from the stage and stepped closer. His eyes had as much of a sheen as his suit. He eyed Gerry from head to toe and back up again. He took a long drag off his cigar, and then let the smoke curl out of both nostrils.

  Gerry looked left. Right. He brought both hands up to his chest, pointing at himself. "Me?"

  "Yeah, you." The man cast his glance around the group and huffed what Gerry could only assume was a chuckle when his assessment landed on Sally. "What's up with the bird? She think somebody's going to jack her lolly, does she?"

  "Uh..." Gerry frowned, not understanding half the references in the man's sentence. "She's fine. Just nervous. We're taking her home anyway—"

  "Nah, already?" He dropped a hand on Gerry's shoulder and grinned. "A jessie like you? Before the sun's rose, even? Absolute cock, I tell you. Why don't you come back to the party? Get lashed with some of the crew?"

  "Crew? Lashed?" The man's words made no sense to Gerry, and even the ones that did didn't seem to string up right.

  Marcy rose, her eyes wide and her mouth open. "Do you mean the band? As in, we can go back and meet the band?" She clutched the front of her shirt. "Oh, God. Hell, yes!"

  The man waved his finger at Gerry. "No kiddies allowed. And we got enough gash back there as it is. No..." He slid his palm down Gerry's shoulder and squeezed Gerry's bare bicep. "I'm looking for something a little different." He caught and held Gerry's gaze, smiling slowly. "You know what I mean, right? Something a little bendy about the edges."

  Me. He means me. He wants me to meet the band. Gerry's heart skipped a beat. "Will Mark...?"

  The man shrugged. "Not likely. But I say punt when the chance presents itself, you know? Bloke's got a hundred-percent increase in possibilities back there than he'll ever have out here."

  Angie clucked her tongue and grabbed Gerry's arm. "You're driving. Don't think for one second that you're ditching us to wait out here while you—"

  The keys were out of Gerry's pocket before he allowed himself to think about what he was doing. "You drive. Go. I'll find my own way."

  "You can't!" Stacy said, horrified. "You don't even know these people. Don't you read the news? Don't you know what could happen to you?"

  Oh, I know. I so know. Hell, yes, do I ever know. And maybe, if he was lucky, if he was smart, he'd get a taste of it.

  Stacy's voice angled on the side of shrill. "Angie, do something! Say something, for heaven's sake! This is your brother!"

  Angie merely snagged the keys. "He's no baby. Besides..."

  The keys jangled behind Gerry's back, but he couldn't break eye contact with the man in front of him. This was what he'd been waiting for. This was his chance. Stupid nobody Gerald Matthew Faun was going to meet the beautiful and talented Mark Devon, if it killed him in the process. At least, he'd do his damn best to find a way. And one step closer was one step closer.

  "... we don't have to be home for another two hours, and now we have wheels!"

  Whichever of the three girls answered Angie back with a whoop, Gerry couldn't say. "Stay out of trouble," he warned without bothering to turn. "Dad'll kill you if you ding his car."

  He wasn't offered the same warning in return.

  "Lovely." The man stuck his hand out, palm down, ring up, and Gerry wasn't sure if he was supposed to take it, shake it, or kiss it. "I'm Phil Phine. You might not know the face but I bet you know the name, don't you, lad?"

  Phil Phine, Mark Devon's manager. The man who knows the man.

  Gerry nodded, dumbstruck.

  "I figured." Phil smiled wide and grasped Gerry's hand when Gerry finally got the nerve to offer it. "So there we are now. All close and personal, right? Come on around here and let's introduce you to the gang."

  It only took a wave of Phil's hand to get them past the tarped area beside the stage, and a smile, a nod, and a "Looking right fine, friend," to get them through the fencing beyond that. Gerry had expected to be ignored, just another wanderer among the greater gods, but surprisingly most of the people beyond the fence took the time to offer slow, feral smiles or twiddle fingers at him. Gerry wrote it off to the company he was in more than anything else.

  There were several solitary buses and motor homes, and a few groups of people huddled together in front of them, strumming guitars or smoking. One didn't need to know where they were headed to find one's direction, however. The music streaming from the end of the open space was unquestionably Maxx's. Seven full-size motor homes stood together, nudged nose to nose and end to end. Two sat at the back, two on each side, and one at the front, with each of their entry doors to the inside—an odd wagon fort of sorts. Another would have made it a perfect square, but the open space allowed for travel into the interior of the arrangement, and it was that area where most of the party seemed to be taking place.

  "A friend for the party," Phil said to the large, muscle-bound man that stepped out of the shadows when they approached. The man huffed an acknowledgement, moved aside, and Phil and Gerry stepped between the vehicles. Rugs—Persian, if Gerry had to take a guess—were laid out on the grass and over spots where the grass had been ground into slick stretches of muck. Hundreds of candles had been lit and set out on nearly every surface that appeared stable enough to keep them there, and a few dozen had been hung from vehicles that had overhangs. The air was sweet and thick, with enough lingering smoke that Gerry was sure he'd be fully buzzed without ever having to touch one of the many hookahs that were servicing the crowd.

  The environment he'd been prepared for—the drugs, the careless disregard for the expensive carpets, and the excess. The activities, however, stunned and intrigued him. In more than one spot people were stretched out on the carpets, their limbs entwined and their mouths locked together; men and women, both tasting and fucking, both sampling and serving either gender, if not both.

  Gerry swallowed. He turned his head and stared at Phil, who merely winked back.

  "Welcome to the zoo," Phil said. He nodded at nothing—perhaps at everything—and sucked back another drag from the cigar. "Grab a drink. Have a snort. Find yourself something sexy to play with."

  Phil's gaze wandered to the far left corner of the space. "Who knows? Maybe something sexy will come out to play with you." He tossed the cigar, crushed it under his heel, and walked away.

  *~*~*

  Gerry hummed along to the music, even though his heart was beating fast enough to make him feel dizzy. A walk of the perimeter, doing everything possible to avoid anyone and everything, had left him breathless and entranced, even though it had only taken a matter of minutes. When he'd reached the spot where he'd started, he'd walked it again. And then part way around yet again.

  On the last walk around, he'd had to stop to accept a glass of champagne, handed to him by a smiling redhead who'd reached out and snagged his sleeve as he'd gone by. When he'd thanked her, she'd laughed and called him adorable. He remained there, sipping and watching and humming, with his back against the side of a motor home, while trailing smoke softened his mind and the bubbles of his second glass of champagne tickled his nose.

  Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention and Gerry swiveled his head to his left. He felt strangely buoyant, as though shifting too quickly might cause whatever he was moving to bounce right off his body and keep going, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was surprisingly relaxing. He felt like a sloth—completely at ease and one hundred percent comfortable with his need to slow the fuck down. He focused on the sway that had drawn his eyes—a swatch of gauzy white sheers settling into place—and just as he was about to slide his gaze away, something from beyond the drapery caught light and sent it back to Gerry. It was fast, minute, just a simple flash of brilliance that made it seem as though the window had winked at him. It was enough to make Gerry lower his one propped leg back to the ground and push away from the vehicle, though. His mind offered him a picture of the glittering sphere that had hung from Maxx's ear on stage, and he imagined a face in the window with that very gem dangling beside it. Was it possible? Could Mark be in the motor home? Watching, perhaps, or involved in a private party that the rest of them were not quite special enough to be invited to?

  Reasoning told him he should not move toward the vehicle. There would be security, or friends, or important people who could do very nasty things to unimportant people. Still... Gerry stepped closer, his gaze glued to the window... If Mark was in there, Gerry would hate himself forever if he didn't at least try.

  "Here, doll."

  Gerry spun around, already feeling guilty, and stared wide-eyed at the red-headed girl that had been feeding him drinks. She handed him another full glass. "Take this." She winked, and answered his stunned expression with a grin. "Trust me."

  With trembling fingers, Gerry reached for the champagne. It took all his concentration to keep both his own glass and the new one steady. He walked carefully to the door, stopped, and frantically considered the right way to keep hold of both drinks and manage the handle.

  "I've got it for you, mate," said a voice to Gerry's right, and while Gerry blinked up at a tall, slim, dark-skinned man with shocking blond hair, the man reached for the handle and yanked the flimsy door open. "It's about time someone drags his arse out of there."

  Gerry prayed the thudding in his chest wouldn't give him away. He nodded his thanks, and stepped up and into the motor home before anyone caught on that inside was the last place Gerry was supposed to be. Directly to his left sat a table that was littered with bottles and empty glasses. A pile of buds that Gerry had to assume was weed sat on a tea saucer with an open bag of potato chips beside it. To the right of the table was a long couch and Gerry choked on a stuck breath when he saw Maxx's white and gold bodysuit flung on it. The air inside the vehicle was warm and damp, as though someone had just stepped out of a shower, and once Gerry got past the cloying scent of the weed, it actually smelled pretty damn nice. A pair of knee-high platform boots had been tossed or kicked into the corner, and for a long moment Gerry considered getting down on the floor just to run his fingers over the fabric.

  "That for me?"

  Gerry lifted his eyes. He froze. He'd know the voice anywhere. But the eyes. Oh, God... the eyes. Mark had scrubbed off the makeup and the glitter, and Mark looked so strangely normal that Gerry was sure he was going to die from appreciation of the view. Mark's chest was bare, but he'd forced his lower half into a pair of blue velour pants that flared out at the knee. He wore no jewelry, no makeup, and his blond hair was shorter than Gerry would have expected it to be. It was, however, a beautiful mess that had yet to see a brush or a comb.

  Mark put out his hand and wiggled his fingers. "Give it here, then."

  "I..." Gerry couldn't seem to make his arm work. "You..."

  A small grin tweaked the edges of Mark's lips. "Who are you?"

  "Mr. Phine invited me," Gerry blurted out. "I was watching. The show. And then it was over. And he said I could come back—"

  "Did he tell you to come in here?" Mark stepped forward and reached for one of the glasses.

  Gerry couldn't make himself lie. "No."

  Mark took a sip, nodded his appreciation to the beverage, then crossed one arm over his chest and used it to prop his other elbow. "Well, then," his voice dropped an octave and his expression intensified. "Why are you here?"

  "A fan..." Gerry meant it to sound strong, but it came out more flustered than anything else. "I'm a huge fan." He stuck out his free hand. "Gerry Faun."

  "A brave one, apparently," Mark said, ignoring Gerry's hand and draining his glass. "Mr. Fawn." He stepped closer and peered into Gerry's eyes. "And yet those eyes tell me you're far truer to your name than you appear to be. Timid. Nervous. A little, spotted, baby deer."