Louder Than Love (34 page)

“The last time I remember you at a show,” Adrian recalled fondly, “you were upsetting the catering tables by playing hide-and-seek underneath!”

The tour manager, a big Scottish guy named Martin, came flying through. “Okay, band goes on in five minutes. I need everyone to clear this area; we need a couple of minutes. Only the band in the dressing room. Family can watch from the side of the stage.”

Adrian reached over to Abbey, now in Ilana’s arms. “Good night, you! I won’t see you before the show’s over.” He kissed her forehead; she was already looking sleepy.

“Break a leg, Adrian Graves,” she murmured.

“Go get ’em,” I whispered as he leaned down to kiss me. Grabbing the sides of his vest, I pulled him close once more. “I love you.”

He grinned, kissing me again. “Easy, tiger.”

***

The four of us followed some other guests to watch from side-stage. Kev hugged me as we rushed to find a place before the stage lights dimmed. Spotlights began to spin, the dry ice hazers creating a dramatic fog around the drum set as Jim began to thump. We couldn’t see but could hear the audience instantly begin to clap along, roaring. The drums beat faster and more frantically, and without warning, Rick and Adrian came galloping out from the side, with Sam strutting behind. Multiple spotlights struck each of them, and the crowd volume reached deafening proportions. Thank heavens for amplifiers. They jumped right into “Spoils of War,” with Riff growling the lyrics and Digger howling the chorus as the entire sea of people out front pumped their arms and chanted in unison, “Spoils! Of! War!” Kev was doing it from the side, but toned it down after he got a few looks. Most of the people backstage were acting cool and collected, nodding their heads and acting semi-unimpressed. Even Paul wasn’t paying all that much attention, talking to other people back there. Well. They may have seen countless shows from a few feet away, but it was our first. I tapped Kev on the shoulder and yelled in his ear, “They rock!” He nodded wisely and gave me the devil horns sign.

Abbey had in her earplugs and was bopping along in Ilana’s arms. After the first song, they prepared to leave. I gave Abbey a ton of good-night kisses. “I will see you in the morning, babydoll. Be a good girl.”

“THANK YOU, NEW YORK!” Riff yelled. “How the hell are ya?” The crowd shouted back as an unintelligible body, the house lights illuminating every raised fist. “It’s great to be back, feels like no time has gone by. Are you ready to ROCK AND ROLL? Are you ready to SCREAM AND SHOUT?” Digger took a moment during this call and response to flick his eyes side-stage to locate us. He nodded with a smile as Riff bellowed, “Are you ready to PLUNDER AND PILAGE, YEAAAAAHHHHH!”

Digger started hammering on his guitar and head-banging as the next song started up.

“Holy crap, they haven’t
ever
played this song live! This is
history
in the
making
!” Kev yelled in my ear, frantically grabbing his phone and texting someone, no doubt one of his Internet metal buddies.

“How ’bout we check them out from the front?” I hollered, and he agreed. We tramped down a small set of stairs and a ramp, heavily guarded by security. They ushered us into the long narrow space between the barrier and the stage. Photographers scuttled past us like crabs, trying to capture their big money shots.

The heat and the energy coming off the fans in the pit were insane. Kids were holding up banners and waving T-shirts with Corpse Guy on them, and fists and fingers triumphantly displaying devil horns were pumping in the air. Some people were pogoing and attempting to crowd surf.

I turned my attention up to my man onstage. I was right below him, and he had big smiles waiting for me. In fact, his looks in my direction were so frequent, they began to draw the attention of others.

“Hey, you’re fucking with his momentum,” Kev shouted in my ear.

“Jealous much?” I loved that we could have sibling rivalry in front of twenty thousand people.

“Seriously, is he making you wet with those looks?”

“KEV!”

“Well, I know
I’d
get a little wet if I were a girl and he was smiling at me like that.”

“Okay, maybe people are starting to look,” I confessed.

“Fuck ’em. Let them look.”

Kev slung his arm over my shoulder, and we did some quality head-banging before heading to our seats across the arena. Along the way, we ran into John Duff, the music critic from the
Observer
. He had worked with Pete, and I hadn’t seen him since the funeral. He and I smiled in mutual recognition and surprise, but the concert made it impossible to talk as we passed by each other.

To get to our seats, we actually had to go back along the side of the stage, down a corridor, and then back out into the halls of the arena. We hiked quickly up a stairwell, not wanting to miss a thing. As we got to the landing, I suddenly felt Kev’s hands grab my shoulders. “Wait a minute. Have you slept with him, Tree?” His voice echoed through the stairwell, still sounding muffled compared to the wattage reverberating throughout the Garden.

I found myself resorting back to preteen indignation. “Chuh—I can’t believe you! Tsk. God!” What a question to come from a brother.

“Seriously, Tree. Tell me you’ve communed with the blade.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“I mean, the knife tattooed on his chest—have you seen it up close?” he hollered.

“The misericorde, you mean?”

“Oh my God, you know what’s written there, don’t you?
Nobody
knows. Only Riff and Digger; no one else has ever gotten close enough. Well, maybe Simone. But seriously, no photographer has ever captured it; no journalist has ever been given an answer. And no fan has
ever
gotten close enough to decipher it.”

We flashed our tickets at the usher, who stepped aside to let us pass. As we walked up the dark ramp to the seats, I leaned close to my brother. “Get to know him, okay? He puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us.”

Now it was Kev’s turn to
chuh
and
tsk
me.

Rob and Liz were up out of their seats doing some serious head-banging. Marissa had a booty-shake going to each drum beat, keeping her fist in the air. They all hugged me as we squeezed across them to the open seats. “He is so awesome up there, I can’t believe it!” Marissa screamed, shaking her head.

“You freakin’ knew, Dooley! Didn’t you, ya dirtbag?” Kev accused, grabbing Liz around the shoulders and miming a noogie with his knuckles to the top of her head.

“She swore me to secrecy! I didn’t put two and two together until I was in your old room and took a good look at one of your old rock posters.”

“Hey, whoa, has
he
seen my room?” He turned to me. “Did he think I was totally dorky? Hey, could he
sign
all those posters?”

“Shut up and watch the show, Kev!”

Riff was prowling from stage left to stage right, beckoning the crowd to yell some more if they had any yell left in them. “Thank you . . . thank you all. Awright, awright, we’re going to slow down for a moment and play a new song for your listening pleasure. It’s called ‘Cat with the Emerald Eyes.’ Hit it, Dig.”

Adrian began picking out a familiar-sounding melody. My entire body sizzled with a delicious zap of nervousness as I realized it was the song he had played for me at his apartment that first time I was there. Now the song had words, words he breathed clear and crisp into the mike.

You said

Easy tiger . . .

Not so fast,

First I have to make peace with my past.

So I twined my fingers through your hair

And waved my smudge sticks to clear the air . . .

The guitar and bass began to gallop, drums keeping the beat, and the song took on that heavy groove I remembered loving so much in his room, watching him play, so alive.

The demons descended and swooped ’round my head

Tricksters who switched the live for the dead

The smoke cleared and I feared you were lost in their lies

Hadn’t known the truth shone in your emerald eyes.

I put my fingers to my lips in a point, smiling and listening. I could feel my friends’ eyes on me, but I couldn’t take my gaze off the man onstage.

Who’s to say

What exists

What is lost

What is this

I have found

In your eyes

In your kiss

In your kiss

Fragile stinging

A narrow miss

And you’re bringing

Me back to life with those

Emerald eyes.

He burst into a scathing guitar solo, borne out of what I could only imagine was the anguish he had felt while we were apart those months. It sounded as tightly wound as I myself had felt those lonely, endless days and nights. But slowly it began to unravel, to loosen, to soften and come to a quieter place. His eyes were closed as he performed the last verse a cappella to the spellbound crowd.

Easy Tiger . . .

Make it last

Arms wide, incantation, the spell’s been cast

No smoke and mirrors, no saints here,

only saviors, survivors, no fear

catch a glimpse of the future

Emerald eyes hold it clear . . .

I was a biased party, but I thought it sounded amazing. Judging from the looks of wonderment around me, however, strangers and my friends alike seemed to agree. Perhaps Adrian was in the running again for another shot at a Christmas number-one single. I knew, though, it probably didn’t even matter to him. I had a feeling he would have played that song to an audience of one and been just as happy and proud of it. And I would’ve been happy and proud to listen, too.

I heard a sharp whistle from below. Martin had come out from backstage and was trying to get my attention. I fought the flow of the exiting crowd to reach him. “Aftershow passes for your crew, courtesy of Digger Graves,” he announced.

Everyone peeled and planted their sticky passes on, excited and chattering. I laughed as I caught a glimpse of Marissa rearranging her boobs as we made our way backstage. A small party had gathered in back, hanging on to cups of beer and standing around. The anticipation and thrill pre-show had morphed into a relaxed and accomplished vibe post-show. Sweaty band members mingled with everyone. Martin attempted to talk up Liz, but my brother had glued himself to her side. I had planned on giving Kev my Smurf and house keys later, but had the feeling Liz wasn’t going to let him leave the borough tonight.

Rob went off to smoke a doob and bond with the sound guy, leaving Marissa and me on our own. We watched as the band got ushered away to take pictures for
Rolling Stone
.

“Girl, you are full of surprises.” She bumped my shoulder.

“I told you I wasn’t afraid of the unknown . . .”

“And get a load of that.” She nudged me and nodded toward Liz and Kev, who were locked in a pretty tight squeeze. “Between her chemical red and his bleach blond, what color hair do you think your niece or nephew will have?”

“Still a lot of cart before the horses, Mariss. But if you care to make a bet . . .”

We giggled against each other.

“Excuse me, Kat?” A tall gentleman, dressed crisply and casually, exuded a business air as he came at me with an extended hand. “Oliver Owens, High Ace Artists.”

“Oh, hey.” I recognized the name of Corroded Corpse’s US booking agent instantly.

“I hear I’ve got some competition.” He laughed at my surprised look. “Ending the King of Doom’s sixteen-year hiatus by booking him to play a children’s library program has become somewhat of an industry legend,” he explained, but then took a more professional tone. “Seriously, I think there is amazing cross-marketing potential with the demographics. I’ll call you when I get back to the LA office and we can brainstorm a way to bring his best to two generations of music fans.”

“Do you think Adrian will want to play for the kids after all this?” Marissa asked me as we watched Oliver move on through the crowd.

“I think the King of Doom likes being the jester sometimes.”

“So, you staying in town tonight?”

“Yeah . . . the first night that the three of us are under one roof. Kind of a big deal.” I smiled, watching as Adrian made his way toward us.

All In

The limo silently slipped uptown. Adrian was still in those leather pants and boots, stretching out his legs and pulling me close to kiss him. We were both thirsty, but all we found in the back of the limo was San Pellegrino. Laughing, Adrian got the limo driver to pull over at an all-night grocery to get us some plain old bottled water.

We found Ilana curled on the couch with a book from Adrian’s library. I had a feeling we’d be seeing more of her that week, as Rick’s son Paul appeared pretty sweet on her. “My brother wants to come and cook dinner for the band this week. You should come,” I told her.

“Tell him
no
shellfish, though!” Adrian laughed. “Now
there’s
a fact the fans don’t know yet.” He walked Ilana down to the waiting limo after we said our good-byes and thanks.

At last, Adrian pulled off his boots and we quietly wound up the spiral staircase, holding hands. Abbey was sleeping soundly in Natalie’s old room, with Chelsea the cat a furry comma-shape next to her.

I lit the familiar peppery candle as Adrian showered away any evidence of his grueling physical performance and joined me in bed. Legs mingled and skin was softly touched as we talked into the night.

***

It was three a.m., then five. We’d been dozing and kissing, and he kept singing in my ear, and I kept squeezing him to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I so wanted this to be real. And it was.

At around 6:20, I heard the shuffle and drop of two little feet to the floor and the machine-gun pitter-patter of Abbey rounding the corner and coming down the hall.

“Are you ready for this?”

The slightest smile played upon his lips, curling up higher on one side. He had a memory on his mind; I could see it shimmer in his eyes like a sharp cut sapphire.

“Count me in.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If this was a seminal NWOBHM* album, I could say it was recorded on “Ruddles, with a little help from Remy and Carlsberg.” But since it’s a novel, I can only say it was written on little sleep, adrenaline, dreams, and bottomless cups of coffee while sitting in various libraries, coffeehouses and at my kitchen table – and with a little help from the following wonderful folks:

I am eternally grateful to my parents, Sanford and Helen Rosokoff, who instilled my love for books by taking me (and most of the neighborhood kids) to the public library every week. You both have endlessly supported my creativity in every form, even if it meant letting me walk out the door wearing magic marker skin art, Band-Aids for no reason and clashing colors to preschool.

Heaps of love to Jon and Millie: I wear a lot of hats in this household. And some days, you guys are the meddling monkeys pulling them off my head like in the old children’s picture book
Caps for Sale
by Esphyr Slobodkina. Thank you for allowing me to write around the chaos and for reminding me to laugh. And thanks to my extended Rosokoff, Topper and Gallo family for their support. Oh, and to Maddy, who deserves her own PBS superhero cat cartoon!

A big horns-up to my forever friend, Stephany Sofia, for giving Digger so many of his songs – Steph, your poetry is beautiful and so are you. We’ve been critique partners and beta readers of each other’s works since the 8
th
grade . . . we just didn’t know there was a fancy name for it when we were thirteen! Thank you for Friday Note and for thirty years (and counting) of friendship.

I’m not superstitious, but I had telltale signs assuring me I was on the right path during my inaugural writing journey. My clearest sign was meeting fellow writer Amanda Usen, who quickly became a wonderful friend and mentor, and pushed me to finish the damn book! Amanda, you showed me what is possible in this wild world of creating words. Thanks for opening my heart and my eyes to it.

Heartfelt gratitude to my agent, Nalini Akolekar of Spencerhill Associates, for falling in love with Adrian and Kat, and to Leis Pederson, my amazing editor at Berkley for championing the book. Nalini and Leis, you are rock stars in my eyes! Thank you for believing in my voice. Managing editor Megha Jain, copy editor Kate Hurley and the entire Berkley/InterMix team at Penguin deserve a standing ovation for helping bring
Louder Than Love
to the world, and for making this girl’s pipe dream of publication come true.

A shout-out across the pond to Kevin Paish, John Oakley and Jason Wild for putting up with my endless questions about British idioms and Cockney rhyming slang. You helped Adrian find his voice. Up the Irons, boys! I’ll buy you a pint at the next show.

Eternal appreciation to Jay Blakesberg, Dan Getz, Jim Walsh, Mindy Reznik, and five of the nicest guys in rock and roll to work with: Rob, Al, Chuck, Vin and Jim of moe., plus their killer road crew. Thank you for your insight and inspiration! And thanks to Dr. Aries Liu-Helm for chatting with me about anaphylaxis, and
obrigada
to Mina Lobo for confirming my use of Portuguese.

Kat couldn’t have survived without her Lauder Lake Ladies of Leisure, and I couldn’t have done it without my own Ya Ya posse of Buff State Babes. Thank you Alysa Cohen, Michelle Cronin, Naomi Downey and Liz Rice for all of your energy and white light – love ya! And my NYPL sisterhood – Natalie Cannestra, Melissa Kuzma and Lori Falcone – who read early versions and gave me their honest opinions. And much love to my partners in concert crime: Dawn Hetzel, Leah Seki and Maria Patellaro. Where shall we tour next?

I doubt anyone who knows me is surprised I’ve dedicated the novel of my heart to Bruce Dickinson, a Renaissance man in the true sense of the term. He continues to inspire, surprise and entertain me after thirty years. I’m sure he wouldn’t remember, but on a street corner in the Yorkville neighborhood of Toronto, Canada, well past two minutes to midnight on a warm summer evening in August 2005, Bruce once asked me what I did. I wish now I had said something witty, like “You mean when I’m not following around your band like a total lunatic?” Instead, I sputtered something about books and bookkeeping, and then I told him my real dream was to write novels. And that maybe some day, I would dedicate one to him. Cheers, Bruce – this one’s for you!

*NWOBHM – New Wave of British Heavy Metal, the music movement in which I based Adrian’s fictitious band, Corroded Corpse.