A Veil of Glass and Rain (15 page)

spectators. I will not be able to hide

completely behind the safety of experience

and technique, for the twins' compositions

request more.

Ivan's songs are classic rock pieces, imbued

with passion and energy. Alessio's songs are

sentimental rock ballads.

Their compositions tell stories of love and

longing. Ivan's songs are more ironic, whereas

Alessio's are tinged with melancholy. In all of

them the voice and the instruments argue and

yell. The conflict is heated, but it is functional

to the development of the story each song is

telling. The musician must pour his soul into

the narration, otherwise the audience will not

believe.

I'm not sure I can let go with such abandon.

Even though Eagan is in my life again, my soul

has been locked away for a very long time; it is

a rigid and achy limb in need of movement and

practice. Hopefully Eagan's presence,

combined with the adrenaline, will help

tonight.

I believe it is what Eagan and the twins also

expect, because they haven't planned for any

rehearsal.

I'll let adrenaline be my puppeteer then; I'll

let it guide my fingers and pull at my vocal

cords.

Now I need to keep myself busy.

I pack some clothes for the next few days. I

will move the rest of my possessions later.

Then I rummage through my bathroom cabinets

to check on my make-up situation.

I've inherited from my mother a flawless

milky-white skin, that turns golden brown

when touched by the summer sun.

Unfortunately, it is also very delicate,

therefore I'm forced to use special products,

including particular brands of make-up, that

happen to be quiet expensive. It is the reason

why I normally put on only lip-stick.

The bright stage lights, however, require a

heavy made-up face.

I still have foundation, some gray eye-

shadow and black eyeliner. It is sufficient for

tonight.

Afterward, I take a meticulous shower and I

groom my entire body.

Then it is time to face my demons. One side

of my wardrobe contains my neglected blue

guitar and the peach-pink dress I wore for

Eagan's presentation. I haven't washed it yet,

so the skirt is still dotted with Eagan's blood.

The image is creepy.

Today I'll clean the dress. Tonight my blue

guitar will sing again.

Finally, I head for the bookstore. Today I

work the lunch shift. Normally I loathe it,

because the smell of sandwiches and pastries,

that loiters throughout the early hours of the

afternoon, makes me feel queasy. But perhaps

today will be different.

Eagan is dissolving the icy fingers

underneath my skin; maybe he will also

untwist the constant knots in my stomach.

The club owned by Eagan's mysterious friend is

called “
Notti Rosse
”: Red nights. It is located

on the outskirts of Rome, close to the

Mediterranean coast, where the thinning shore

battles for its place in the world against the

rising sea-level and the stubborn evergreen

shrubs; the so-called
macchia mediterranea
.

As soon as I step out of Ivan and Alessio's

robust and spacious car, the sea air, a heavy

cocktail of salt and pine trees, invades my

lungs and chafes my skin.

A few staff guys from the club join us to

help unloading the instruments; Alessio's

drums, Ivan's bass and my electric guitar. I

jealously grip the handle of the case

protecting my blue classical guitar.

Finally, we all make our way inside the

club.

Dark walls, blue and red lights, a checkered

black and red dance floor, a capacious and

well stocked bar, my gaze sweeps over

everything, but takes in nothing. My limbs are

suddenly cold and afraid. Electronic music

pounds blunt and blaring, causing the floor

beneath my feet to vibrate.

Clém leaves our little group to mingle with

the writhing crowd on the dance floor; hips

swaying, arms waving in the air.

Clémentine is wearing faded jeans, a pink T-

shirt and battered sneakers. Her blond hair is

tousled, her green eyes are red and somber,

but at least she's not hiding in her room any

longer. I truly admire her inner strength.

Someone grabs the handle of my guitar

case, startling me. I glance up and meet

Alessio's kind smile.

“Let us take care everything. You just have

fun, relax and make sure to be on the stage

when it's time to begin.” He winks and then he

moves away from me, to join Ivan and the

staff people on the wide stage.

The stage I didn't even notice.

It says a lot about my state of mind.

I'm in desperate need of a distraction, so I

scan the crowd and I notice Eagan near the

bar. I've missed him, even if it's been only a

few hours since we last touched and kissed. His

closeness is unleashing a desperate part of

myself that worries me.

He's with Enrico, Sara and the redhead I met

at the museum. He's wearing a button-down

black shirt, dark jeans and boots. He looks

dangerous, delicious and completely at ease.

I envy him and long for him all at once. I'm

tempted to go to him, but a sudden fear grips

my chest and my limbs. I'm unable to move.

The smells in the club are a dense mixture of

sweat and perfumes. My throat burns.

I turn and trudge toward the entrance;

perhaps the sea air will soothe my clogged

lungs and my irrational fears.

A warm and strong hand seizes mine. I find

myself dragged away from the dancing people,

the insistent music and the oppressive odors.

We reach the quiet backstage.

In one swift move, Eagan lifts me and drops

me onto a small and dusty table, placed close

to the wall. Acting on instinct, I link my arms

around his shoulders and my legs around his

waist. Eagan grinds his erection against my

groin and we both cry out.

Then his mouth fuses with mine. It's a

frantic and hard kiss. My fears, my doubts

break into him; his firmness, his heat, his

scent.

He wrenches his lips away from my mouth,

so that he can nibble and lick at my neck. He

slides his hand between our bodies and steals

it under my black mini-skirt. Then his fingers

slip inside my lacy underwear, stroking,

probing.

“You're wet,” he moans.

“What are you going to do about it?” I

breathe into his ear.

Eagan's growl resounds throughout his hard

body.

He pushes one finger deep inside me, then

another.

“You're so tight. I can't wait to be inside

you,” he rasps out.

His warmth, his words, his forcefulness;

they seep through my skin and warm the blood

in my veins. I ride his thrusting fingers eagerly,

until my inner muscles clench. I bury my sobs

of bliss into the hollow of his neck.

Eagan nuzzles my hair until I look up at him.

When our gazes lock, he whispers kisses across

my cheeks and my lips.

“I love it when you come apart in my arms. I

want to feel you again.” His voice is hoarse

and filled with emotion.

His fingers, still wedged inside me, begin to

push in and out again.

“Please,” I whimper against his mouth.

“What do you need?”

He strokes my swollen nub of flesh with the

pad of his thumb.

“You,” I wail.

My head falls back against the wall behind

me. My release washes over me in a wave of

hot energy. This time I don't hide my cry of

pleasure; I let it fade into the music that

pounds all around us.

I close my eyes as Eagan kisses my arched

neck.

“I can't feel my legs and arms anymore,” I

tell him after a while.

Eagan laughs and, very gently and carefully,

disentangles our limbs and helps me slide off

the table. As my uncertain feet touch the

ground, he seizes my forearms and steadies my

trembling body.

I smile up at him. “I'm fine.”

He grins and takes a few steps back. As we

straighten our clothes, he stares at me. I'm

wearing a white blouse, a silky black tie, a

miniskirt, black stockings and combat-boots.

“What?”

“You look hot,” he comments.

“And you're wearing purple lipstick.”

I need water. A lot of water. Otherwise I will

not be able to sing and play.

Lips curled into a silly smile, I run to the bar

and ask for a bottle of water.

Then I hear them.

They're all huddled together, drinking and

talking aloud. They don't notice me.

“Lei non va bene per lui. E' troppo fragile.”

She's not good for him. She's too fragile.

This is Sara. I recognize her sultry voice.

“E' davvero troppo magra.”

She's way too thin.
This must be the

redhead.

“Non è solo questo. Non sa badare a sé

stessa. Eagan ha lasciato di fretta l'ufficio per

andarla a soccorrere un sacco di volte

ultimamente.”

It's not just that. She can't take care of

herself. Eagan's been running out of the office

to go help her a lot lately.
Sara, again.

“Ragazze! Davvero? Eagan fa solo la pausa

pranzo. Voi fate pausa caffé ogni cinque

minuti!”

Girls! Really? Eagan takes only his lunch

break. You take a coffee break every five

minutes!
That's Enrico. I do like him.

“Non è questo il punto. Il problema è lei...”

That's not the point. The problem is her...

I don't want to listen to them any longer, so

I turn and leave, clutching the bottle of water

against my chest.

Their words and opinions should not upset

me, but they do.

During the first set I feel detached. I let my

strong technique guide the brushing of my

fingers over the electric guitar chords.

The audience doesn't notice, for we're

playing Ivan's spirited rock compositions, and

everyone seems enraptured by the force

produced by our instruments.

However, the twins perceive my inattention

and, during the short break we take, they

pretend an explanation.

I give it to them.

“They're jealous because you've caught the

stud, and they haven't. I'm jealous too,” Ivan

remarks.

Alessio squeezes my shoulder. “Don't let

them get to you. I need you here, mind, body

and soul. You can do this.”

“I can?” It's a mechanical question, for I still

feel unemotional.

“Yes,” Alessio answers.

“Maybe,” Ivan says.

Alessio glares at him.

Ivan shrugs. “Just jesting.”

Then he grasps my forearms and shakes me

a little. “Get out there. Sing my brother's

beautiful song. Make me proud.”

Alessio's song is called, “Written Souls”. It's

about a young man confessing his love to his

best friend, before life separates them. During

their last night together, they make love. The

young man demands his lover not to rush their

encounter, for he wants to commit to memory

every gesture, every stroke, every sigh. And

perhaps, one day, he'll show someone else how

to love, how to kiss, how to touch.

I sing the part of the lover posing the

questions, while my blue classical guitar plays

the answering lover. Behind me, Alessio's

drums create a soft background for the story.

I can't afford to be distant, because the two

lovers demand a pulsing heart, otherwise their

tale will not be believable. So I search the

crowd and I find Eagan standing right in front

of the stage. I gaze at him. I give him myself. I

let him be the guardian of my soul.

15.

I utter soft sounds of contentment as the

water falls all over my skin; a wet and warm

caress that washes away the voices and the

odors of the club.

Eagan's arms circle my waist from behind.

He presses his slick and taut body along mine,

and he rubs his erection against my back.

I let my head fall back against his chest, and

I glance up at him through a veil of water and