Metal Urge (44 page)

             
“No, sprite, I want you to go and have fun with Glenna and her family. This trip is part of your birthday present from me, yeah?”

             
“I don’t want to leave you on your own with one of your migraines, Dad.”

             
“Don’t worry about me, love. Ronson and Jab will be back soon.” He grinned and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “You know I’ll be in good hands. No one frets over the sick and infirm like Ronson does. He’ll probably stuff me full of home-made chicken soup and some sort of potion concocted by Jab.”

             
She laughed and hugged him tightly. “You’re feeling better already. I can tell.”

             
He nodded and winced, hoping she hadn’t noticed the pained look that crossed his face.

             
“Alright then,” she said, kissing him soundly on the cheek and then on his temple. “I’ve got to finish packing my gear.” She fairly danced away, turning gracefully on her toes to flash him a devastatingly beautiful smile. “I know you like lounging in your chair when you’ve got a migraine but give me a shout if you decide to go upstairs for a lie-down.”

****

              A far-away voice tickled his ear as he drifted in a Barbiturate haze. He ignored it and floated peacefully towards a soothing cloak of darkness.

             
“Mr. McCordy!” Ronson’s clipped Kensington upper-class accent ripped through Thom’s pleasant drug-addled sleep like a blast of ear shredding feedback.

             
Forcing his eyelids open, he gazed into the pale, grave countenance of Ronson Hill, his personal assistant. “Bloody hell, man, d’you have to shout?” He swiped clumsily at his dry lips.

             
Ronson grabbed the bottle of water lying in Thom’s lap and unscrewed the cap. “Drink this,” he commanded, shoving the bottle into Thom’s shaky hands before striding out of the room, his long, black coat flapping like a raven’s wings around his ankles.

             
The water was cool against his parched lips and it helped to revive him. He tested his legs by clutching the heavily padded arms of the chair and slowly inching his way up from the seat. A sharp burst of pain exploded like fireworks behind his eyes and he knew the worst wasn’t over. Sitting back down he nursed the bottle of water until a tall, dark-skinned man encased in a heavily embroidered denim jacket glided into the room carrying a tray bearing a huge bowl of steaming soup.

             
“How are you feeling, Thom?” Jab’s voice was musical with a heavy inflection of French which lent it a smooth, silky cadence.

             
“A bit better,” Thom said, breathing in the mouth-watering smell of Ronson’s chicken soup.

             
Jab sat down and watched Thom take careful bites of the thick, creamy broth. He hoped his boss was telling the truth but didn’t really think he was. The headaches were coming more and more frequently. Jab knew Thom was worried about a critically important deal involving a new band from the States who could bring heavy metal back from the dark abyss it had disappeared into at the end of the 1980’s. Re-introducing metal music to the world had been Thom’s dream since his group, Metal Urge disbanded in 1990. Thom believed that he and Jab were saviors destined to breathe new life into a genre of music that had died an undignified death. Jab wanted to help his friend realize his dream. He wanted that more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.

              Jabowen Modah was lauded as one of the best recording engineers in the business. He apprenticed with Wild Bill Dennison and was known and admired world-wide for his skill in mixing gold and platinum albums for some of the hottest bands on the planet. After a devastating heart attack forced Wild Bill into early retirement, Jab free-lanced as a recording engineer later serving as sound engineer for several super-groups on their massive world tours. After Thom bought Glaston Hall and made his mark as a highly successful and sought after music producer with his wildly prosperous business “Metal Heart Productions,” Jab signed on as lead recording engineer. Thom McCordy had the Midas touch when it came to producing mega-hits and Jab had an ear for music and mixing like no other. It was a match made in heaven.

             
“Did the Chapman’s pick up Chelsea?” Thom asked Jab who seemed deep in thought.

             
“Oh, yes. Yes they did...just a few moments after Ronson and I arrived. Chelsea told us you were ill so the three of us had a look at you. Ronson and I assured her that you were going to be perfectly fine so she left, reluctantly, I might add.”

             
“At least she’s on her way. I didn’t want her to miss a moment of her holiday in London.” Thom smiled and shook his head. “She doesn’t get to spend as much time there as she’d like. I know it’s a bit isolated here for a teenage girl so London seemed the perfect place for her to celebrate her sixteenth birthday.”

             
“Sixteen?” Jab whistled under his breath. “She has certainly grown up fast. It seems that I turned around one day and saw a beautiful young women instead of a child.”

             
“Yeah, I feel the same way.” Thom smiled but his eyes were filled with sadness. “I’ve missed so much of her life.” He glanced at Jab and frowned. “I really hate that she spends months in bloody Spain with that muscle bound boy toy Shell foolishly married.” Setting the bowl of soup aside, Thom huffed and mumbled “Rafael” with disgust evident in his voice. “He’d better not lay a hand on Chelsea...,” he began before clutching his stomach as his face drained of all color. “I’m gonna be sick,” he moaned. Jab jumped up, grabbed a rubbish bin, and placed it beside Thom just in the nick of time.

             
Ronson strode in and stared at Thom heaving over the bin. “I’ve called Dr. Feelgood, sir.” He tutted and marched out of the room mumbling, “Bloody drug pushing quack.”

****

              Three days passed before Thom felt well enough to join Chelsea in London for her sweet sixteen party. He thanked God that he was able to drag himself out of bed and into the suit that she picked out for him to wear the day before she left for London. It was a sleek, outrageously expensive Armani original that Chelsea convinced him to buy during a business trip to Italy the summer she turned fourteen. She had been thrilled that he took her along, a decision he almost regretted as he fought to keep the bold, randy Italian boys away from his beautiful daughter. Shouts of “Mi amore” and “Il mio bellissimo angelo” accompanied them everywhere they went.

             
As he checked out his reflection in the mirror, he couldn’t help but muse at how pretentious he looked with his long, blonde rocker haircut and neatly trimmed goatee. Had he really reached the dreaded middle years while clinging desperately to the “hip rocker” image staring back at him from the cruel mirror? “Bloody hell,” he laughed out loud; in Armani no less.

             
A wicked little voice whispered in his ear,
“Nigel never got the chance to mourn the passing of his youth. You saw to that, eh Thom?”

             
He wrenched away from the mirror, breath coming in shallow gasps. Not now; not before Chelsea’s party. He reached into his pocket and took out an ornate, solid gold pillbox. His hands were shaking so badly he could hardly open the tiny clasp. Reaching in, he plucked a yellow pill from the velvet lining and popped it in his mouth. Just one little pill would help get him through the night so that nothing ruined his precious daughter’s birthday; especially the ghosts from his sordid past.