Metal Urge (3 page)

“Not this time, Maggi,” Deanna whispered.  “This guy is different. 
Special
.  I'll do anything to be with him…anything at all.”

Chapter 5

Metal Urge was shown to a tiny room lined with mirrors, a few wobbly bar stools, and one bent, rusted clothing rack.

“This is posh,” Alistair quipped while the other band members tried to find room to hang their clothes.

“At least it’s a paid gig,” Thom shot back, already sick and tired of the negative vibes.

“It might pay for petrol if we’re lucky,” Jayson, the drummer said dryly.

The other band members stared at the normally silent drummer in surprise.

Jayson slipped off his shirt and ran his hands over his sides.  “We need more than petrol, we need food.”  He peered closely at his pale reflection in the hazy mirror.  “Bloody hell, I can see my ribs.  I’m wasting away!”

Despite the disturbing reality of his statement, the men began to laugh, dispelling some of the tension in the small dressing room.

Nigel snapped a studded leather band on each wrist, and slipped on a pair of mirrored aviator glasses to complete his tough biker look.  “Jayson’s right,” he said, his broad, flat Midlands accent barely masking his displeasure at yet another night of working hard for next to nothing.  “We can’t go on like this much longer.  I’m tired of living off stale beans on toast and cheap lager.”

The disgruntled singer left the room and Thom’s heart sank.  They were going to lose him and that would be the death of Metal Urge.  He looked at Alistair and Brad but they turned away, unwilling to show their own fear at losing their charismatic, albeit, temperamental front man.

Nigel noticed, as usual, the cruel stares his studded leather gear always seemed to attract in the London clubs.  It amused him actually, considering that spiked leather dog collars and safety pinned body parts were the rage among the punks and wannabe hipsters those very clubs catered to.  Metal Urge’s look was different.  It represented a freewheeling attitude fueled by hot women, motorbikes, and burning rubber on the highway---total freedom---not chaos and rebellion perpetuated by poverty and boredom.  Metal music could be dark, indeed, some would call it evil, but in truth it was harmless.  Metal didn’t encourage its few followers to kill and destroy, just bang their heads and have a bit of fun as they listened to tales of monsters and devilish antics.

Navigating his way through the teeming mass of bodies, Nigel nodded at some of the sneering faces, chuckling as they flipped him the two-fingered salute.  He watched a skinny punk with a bright green Mohawk slide drunkenly off of a wobbly stool near the end of the bar before quickly claiming it.  Leaning his elbows on the scarred wooden bar, he held out a crumpled five pound note, trying to get the bartender’s attention.  Why not try and make the most of his final night with Metal Urge?  When the bartender asked, “What's yer pleasure?” Nigel ordered something bitter to match his mood.  He turned around and sipped the pungent liquid, his eyes scanning the meager crowd.  The dream was over and it was time to go back to Bilston, get a real job, and pay back those who had been kind enough to believe in his unrealistic dream.  “Fuck!” he muttered and downed a second drink, and then a third.  He felt the alcohol roiling around in his gut.  He was a bit light-headed as the cheap liquor made its way into his bloodstream.  His paltry meal earlier that day did little to ease the effects, and he began to feel slightly ill.  A hand clamped down on his shoulder and he heard Brad, the bass guitarist, say it was time to go on.  Nigel grabbed Brad’s upper arm and pulled himself off of the barstool, not caring if he fell flat on his bloody face during their set.  What did these punk bastards and disco queens care anyway?

“Steady mate,” Brad cautioned.  He held Nigel’s elbow to help him through the crowd.  “Well, well, will you look at that?”  Brad inclined his head towards a table directly in front of the stage.  “Trevor Hampton is on the prowl.”

Nigel turned to look at the infamous manager of Beastrage, the only heavy metal band in England with a coveted record deal.

“We’ve got to play it hard and heavy tonight,” Brad whispered in Nigel’s ear.  “Otherwise we’ll all wind up washing dishes at a truck stop on the M6 motorway.”

Deanna watched the lead singer stagger away from the bar with the help of one of his band members.  She had noticed him sitting there after Trevor demanded she get their drinks because “the service was appalling and he was thirsty.”

“Asshole,” she said under her breath, trying to make her way to the bar without being knocked over by one of the countless, drunken patrons.  She was pushing her way through the malodorous crowd imagining a broken beer bottle protruding from Trevor’s scrawny neck when she spotted the gorgeous front man downing a small drink.  She started toward him but backed away when she saw the look on his face.  Distressed that her first attempt to introduce herself had been thwarted by the singer’s foul mood, she was irritated that she still longed to reach out to him.  Deanna shook her head, frustrated by her irrational feelings and shouted her order at the harried barman.  What was it about the vocalist that attracted her besides his good looks?  He obviously had anger issues and a drinking problem as well.  A week ago she would have stopped at nothing to win over the sultry singer but as she carried the heavy tray of drinks back to the table, she decided she didn’t need a guy like that to muck up her neat and orderly life.  Troubled, often dangerous men were exciting to fantasize about but in reality they would only become frightening and unpredictable.  Those were not qualities Deanna wanted in a man which was part of the reason she harbored such resentment against Maggi’s relationship with Trevor, the prince of darkness.  She lived in fear of the day she discovers Maggi bruised and bleeding after one of Trevor’s tantrums turns physical.

“Where's my tip?” Deanna snapped as she placed the tray of drinks in front of Trevor.  He waved her away like she was an annoying insect and turned back to Maggi who resumed massaging his temples.  She felt her stomach lurch at the sight of her friend’s obsessive attention to the creep.  Although it hurt to let go of her own seemingly unhealthy obsession for Metal Urge’s singer, she knew it was for the best.

Wasn’t it?

****

As with every other show, the lights cut out abruptly only this time a spotlight shone down on the solitary figure clad in leather as he brought the microphone to his lips and began to sing:
 

I’m your nightmare

Your nightmare comin’ true

I’m your nightmare

And I’m comin’ just for you

You can’t wake up

'Cause I’m holdin’ on to you
 

The singer reached out his hand towards Deanna and continued in a low, wicked voice:
 

On misty tendrils of heat I glide

Touching secret places you can’t hide

Circling ‘round your body

Gliding up your silken thighs

I hear your breath quicken

And release in pleasured sighs

Now you're mine, baby

There's no turnin’ back
 

His mirrored glasses obscured his eyes, but she felt the heat of his stare as he continued to sing:
 

I’m your nightmare

Your nightmare comin’ true

I’m your nightmare

And I’m comin’ just for you

You can’t wake up

Cause I’m deep inside of you.
 

Deanna squirmed in her seat, willing the hot, pulsing ache deep inside of her to subside.  She couldn’t take her eyes off of the singer as he removed his sunglasses, never breaking eye contact with her.

“My name is Nigel Guilford.”  He turned and pointed to the good looking dark-haired guitarist to his right.  “I'm proud to introduce on rhythm guitar the mega-talented Alistair Staley.”  Nigel waited for the scattered applause to stop before introducing the gorgeous blonde on his left as “Thom McCordy, lead guitarist extraordinaire,” finally turning to the last two members of the band.  “Bradley Bradmon, resident wild man on bass, and last but certainly not least, heavy hitter Jayson Rawley on drums.  And we are Metal Urge,” he finished with a slight bow.

Immediately the band launched into metal mayhem, pounding the audience mercilessly until even the die-hard punks were slamming each other in a make-shift mosh pit in front of the stage.  Through it all, Trevor Hampton was building up to a nuclear meltdown.  He couldn’t deny that this band had the bollocks to give Beastrage a run for their money if given the chance.  These lads had something special, something completely different than he had ever seen or heard before, and Trevor had to sign them---tonight.  He could smell the greasy scent of money pouring in after he introduced a double bill featuring the two British titans of the hottest new genre of music to take the world by storm, and he would start with the good, old U. S. of A.  Trevor believed it would be the Yanks who would propel metal bands right into the stratosphere.  They would devour British heavy metal just like they gobbled down “Arthur Treacher’s” disgusting imitation English fish and chips---they'd never get enough---at least until he had lined every pocket he possessed with their money.  As soon as Metal Urge finished their set, Trevor launched himself like a Scud missile, homing in on his targets as they sat in their dressing room relaxing.  In little more than an hour, Trevor had charmed, cajoled, and slithered his way into the position of Metal Urge’s band manager.  Promising to get all of the necessary legal paperwork to them within the next few days, he disappeared in a cloud of smoke, or so it seemed, when he opened the door to return to the main part of the club.

The band members looked at one another not quite sure what had just happened except they now had a manager who had promised them impossible, unbelievable success, and they didn’t have to spend one single quid.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Nigel said, and the rest of the band members groaned in derision.

They pelted him with sweaty towels until he gave in and laughed, encouraged by his mates’ enthusiasm at the prospect of fame and hard-earned success.

Thom opened a lukewarm bottle of lager and raised it high.  “It’s a poor substitute for champagne but it’s still a fitting toast to Metal Urge’s chance for infamy and fortune,” he grinned.

The others followed suit and they shouted “Cheers” and clapped each other on the back, relishing the camaraderie they had all but lost.

While they celebrated their good fortune, Trevor hurried Maggi and Deanna out of the club and into a waiting cab, impatient to get home and make some calls.  He intended to invite some friends in the music business to an “introduction” party in a few weeks and then arrange for a few flashy tarts who fancied themselves “groupies” to serve as entertainment for his new cash cow, Metal Urge.  He would wine and dine the naïve lads with cheap liquor, cheap food, and even cheaper women.  He considered plying them with drugs for a moment but decided against it.  That would be the final step in assuring the band’s loyalty to him; but only if necessary.

Trevor dropped Deanna off at her flat, but held onto Maggi’s hand kissing it tenderly, coaxing her to stay with him.  She grinned at him and waved goodnight to Deanna as she relaxed into her boyfriend's embrace.  Trevor gave Maggi a kiss  while thinking about all of the interesting toys he had at home and what each of them could do to willing, or better yet, unwilling flesh.  He hoped his lady wouldn’t mind playing rough tonight because he didn’t want to hurt her…not much anyway.

****

Maggi had been uncharacteristically quiet the past few days.  Dark circles ringed her eyes, making them appear bruised as she stood in the kitchen staring out of the window.  Turning abruptly, Maggi left the kitchen and wandered aimlessly through the small flat like a bewildered specter searching for something familiar, touching knick knacks and picking up books, fanning their pages without looking at them.

Deanna watched her friend pick up yet another book so she went to her, pulled the book out of Maggi’s hand, and gently squeezed her fingers.  “Are you okay?”

A single tear rolled down Maggi’s cheek and she looked at Deanna, lips trembling.  “He hurt me, D,” Maggi began to weep, sagging against her friend.

She led Maggi to the couch and sat down pulling the weeping girl into her arms and rocking her tenderly.

“Inside,” Maggi sobbed against Deanna’s shoulder. “He hurt me inside.”

After putting Maggi to bed, Deanna paced the living room fighting the urge to call the police.  She wasn’t sure Maggi would cooperate even though Trevor had crossed the line from rough sex to sadism and deserved to be in jail.  Maggi didn’t have to go into detail to fuel Deanna’s imagination regarding the pain and humiliation she had suffered at the hands of Trevor Hampton.  The bastard was sicker than she had even imagined and she was furious, wanting nothing more than to see him suffer for what he had done to the woman who loved him.  Maggi swore she would break it off with him, but Deanna didn’t believe her.  She
feared Trevor would lure Maggi back with simpering regrets, declarations of undying love, and the false promise that he would never, ever hurt “his lady” again.