Angel Dares

Flicking through the jewellery case, my fingers picked a silver Celtic knot to go on my left index. With four different rings on each hand, a jingling ankle chain, and my crystal droplet necklace, I was fully armed for the performance.

‘
With rings on her fingers
,’ I sang, checking my reflection in the bulb-lit mirror backstage. ‘
And bells on her toes.
’

Laughing at myself, I twisted to ensure the short silver-grey skirt did not ride up too high.

‘Looking good, Angel: looking good.’ I blew my double a kiss, Marilyn Monroe style. At least, I looked as good as I could. Frustrated by a genetic inheritance from parents who were more like hobbits than full-sized people, I have learned to boost my confidence by telling myself such truth-bending compliments just before going out on stage to sing in front of a packed house.

Eeek: don’t think about that!

My phone clucked.
We’re standing front left. Break a leg. S, M and A.

I hugged the phone. My badgering had worked. I had warned Summer, Misty, and Alex that if they didn’t come to the gig early and get right down the front to support me in my hour of need, I would do something awful to them—too awful to say (and I hadn’t yet thought up my revenge when I made the threat). They were my closest friends, sharing the secret of having a savant gift. Summer’s power gave her the ability to shadow minds—the mental version of what a spy did when trailing a suspect. Familiar with my thought patterns, she probably knew my likely retaliation before I did. I typed a quick reply.
Great. See you after. xxx

Once I had slipped the phone back in my sequined handbag, I realized I had nothing left to do but worry. Not good. I usually ignored nerves by keeping on the move and chatting but no one else was sharing the cupboard-like women’s changing room as the rest of the band was in the men’s. The Hammersmith nightclub didn’t run to many luxuries backstage—my guess that this dingy room served as storage space was confirmed by the mop and bucket of dirty water leaning against the clothes rail—but the club did still segregate the sexes, more’s the pity. Checking the time, I saw I still had ten whole minutes to go: ten minutes to wind myself up into a state where I could no longer sing the backing vocals. I was tempted to go and join the boys but then I’d have to breathe the same air as Jay, which was equally bad for my pre-show preparation.

I picked up my black violin and tested the tuning. It wasn’t my favourite instrument—that was my battered old folk fiddle—but this one worked best for rock as it could be plugged into an amplifier. I ran quickly through a scale, warming up my fingers, then moved into the opening refrain. Jay, the lead singer of Seventh Edition, had big aspirations for his band and wrote music that really needed a whole orchestra to support the drums and guitar lineup. He was right that the music we made together had huge potential but the group was still touring the semi-professional circuit, yet to get that big break. Jay had had to make do with a female violinist and a male saxophonist rather than the National Symphony Orchestra. To be honest, he was a difficult guy to like as he had fallen into the bad habit of vastly over-estimating his own talent. He was good but much of the best came from other members of the band, contributions he rarely acknowledged. As I was never slow to tell it how it was, I knew I would have been given the push months ago if he hadn’t needed me so badly. Singer/violinists were hard to find.

A quick knock sounded on the door. Speak of the devil: Jay Fielding himself had come to call on his lowly backing singer.

‘Everything OK, Angel?’ He rubbed his long fingers together, a sign of unusual nervousness. Normally he liked to pretend he was king of the world and our lord and master.

I put the violin back in its case. ‘Yes, fine.’ I didn’t like him coming alone to see me. Not only did he give me the creeps, I had a little routine I kept to before going on stage; any disruption to that made me feel superstitious about the performance.

Jay prowled the room, his eyes scrutinizing my appearance in an uncomfortably intimate fashion. Possessing an ordinary face with mean grey eyes, topped by extravagantly swept-back blond hair, Jay did not set my heart going pitter-pat as he hoped. I thought I had made that plain the last time he had cornered me.

‘It’s a big night tonight.’ He stopped beside me and bared his teeth in the mirror to check all was pearly white. Too perfect to be natural, that set must have made some cosmetic dentist a lot richer lately. Fortunately for him, Jay had wealthy parents to sponsor his attempt to make it in the music industry. They were as brash as he was about his ambition.

‘Um, yes, very big.’ I twisted the Celtic knot wishing I could teleport away from him.
Beam me up, Scottie.

He smoothed an eyebrow, loving himself in the glass. ‘I didn’t tell you before but the promoters for the Rockport festival are out front looking for acts for the summer lineup. If we impress, we might end up on the bill.’

Now that news was worth the invasion of my space! ‘Really? Awesome!’ I bobbed on my toes, clutching my hands to my chest—the room didn’t allow for a more expressive dance of happiness. ‘I can’t believe we might get our break at last!’

He stopped my movement with a hand on my waist, clammy fingers caressing the narrow band of bare skin. ‘So, Angel sweetheart, you’ll be a good girl for me tonight?’

His patronizing tone made me want to sink my teeth into the straying hand. Although only twenty, three years older than me, Jay acted like I was his to command. But I couldn’t spoil the concert by drawing blood now. ‘I’ll do my best, Jay.’ Pushing gently against his chest with my palms, I tried to take a step back but he prevented that by putting his other hand on my waist so we stood face-to-face.

‘How about a kiss for good luck, babe?’

Various replies ran quickly through my mind, ranging from ‘not in this lifetime’ to ‘yuck’.

He tipped his head to the side, eyes looking at me through his fringe. Did he think he looked more persuasive in that pose? ‘Come on, Angel: I know you’re sweet on me.’

‘You do?’ How on earth had he drawn that conclusion? ‘But—’

He nodded, his quiff bobbing ‘yes’ double-time like it had a mind of its own. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen the way you look at me across the rehearsal room.’

What? He’d mistaken mild amusement for adoration, had he?

‘Babe.’ He leaned in for a kiss.

I jerked back. ‘Jay, take your hands off me,’ I said sharply. What was it with guys? This was not the first man to try groping me in a dressing room. I had a good repertoire of self-defence moves, but I always tried reasoning first.

‘You don’t want me to.’ Jay nibbled his way to my neck, teeth threatening to leave a love bite.

‘Yes, I absolutely do.’ Every time I pushed him away from one part, he opened up a new attack elsewhere like some kind of writhing sea monster with too many tentacles to fight.

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Just get your hands off!’

‘Hey, don’t be like that, babe. It’s just us—no need to pretend you don’t want this.’

OK, enough already. He had been warned. Not having the muscle to move him, it was time to bring out the heavy guns of my power. Eyes fixed on the mop bucket, I called the water to me, an amazing feeling of connectedness where the H
2
O molecules in my body reached out and pulled the water to them. The dirty water rose up like a dull brown snake from a charmer’s basket and wound its way across to Jay. Concentrating hard, I directed the coil of water to the back of Jay’s neck.

Down
.

Obediently, the water slid down his spine, soaking through his shirt and jeans, gushing out to the floor.

‘What the … !’ Jay leapt back from me, ardour cooled. ‘I’m wet.’

Yes, you so are
. ‘Oh, Jay, you’ve got water running out of your trousers!’ I shrieked with false sympathy. I put a finger to my chin. ‘At least, I hope it’s water.’

‘Fecking hell.’ Shaking the excess from his shoes, he glared at me. ‘What else would it be?’