Vanni: A Prequel (Groupie Book 4) (23 page)

“So Vanni tells me that you all have an RV or bus or something to make shows out of town?”

Yael nods. “We just haven’t really been able to book anywhere but the city.”

She leans back in her chair. “That’s a shame. If you want to build up a fan base, you have to be willing to expand.”

“We’re willing,” Yael insists. “But where the flesh is willing, the wallet is weak.”

She chuckles again. “Fortunately for you, I have no such limitations.” She reaches for the folder sitting right in front of her. She pulls out a piece of paper and slides it over to Yael, who looks it over with a furrowed brow.

“What is this?”

“Gigs if you want them. Philadelphia. Atlantic City. Almost every major city from Boston all the way to Miami. I’ve got a lot of friends, Yael. If I recommend a band, they usually get booked. And, if you’ll note those numbers next to the names, you’ll see they’re willing to pay you pretty well for it.”

“That’s great,” he says. “What’s the catch?”

She leans forward with a smile. “See, that’s what I like about you, Yael. You don’t mince words. I shall be equally forthcoming. The name of your band is a problem. It’s too long. It won’t sell. I can’t put it on a marquee and make it pop.”

“So?”

“So, if you want to start using that dusty ol’ RV and travel the country, bringing your sound to the people, you’re going to have to change it. The minute you do, I’ll book at least six shows for you within the first six months of 2006.”

Yael smirks. “Six shows, six months, 2006. I think that’s the sign of the devil.”

“I wear better shoes,” she assures him. “And I’m not asking for your soul. I’m asking for one tiny change that will get you more work and more respect. When I see a band with a long name, I assume they don’t know who they are. Honestly, it’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to book you guys. The sound is good. We can work on the stage presentation. But the name of your band is the face of your band.”

“I thought that was Vanni,” Bobby quips.

Her answer, however, is quite serious. “It is. You’re lucky to have him as your frontman. He has a very specific image that people are going to remember. It’s sexy.
The Yael Satterlee Experiment
:
Featuring Giovanni Carnevale
is not.”

Yael glares at me. I know he thinks I’ve put her up to this. “So I suppose you’ve come up with a name.”

I shake my head. “I dropped it last week, man.”

He leans back in his chair, staring at the paper in front of him. That’s a lot of money, with more opportunities to expose our music to a wider audience. It’s everything he’s always wanted. I know exactly the kind of emotional conundrum he’s in, because I’ve been in similar ever since I met Tina. And I know she’s won when he says, “So what kind of name were you thinking?”

“It’s your band,” she assures, but I know that’s just a bone she’s throwing. “But I’ve always found that picking a name you can easily brand is always a good start.”

“How so?” Felix asks.

“If I say Guns N’ Roses, you immediately see the logo. It’s got an instant visual that hints to the duality of the music, the edge of hard rock with the sensitive musicians who can create such beautiful ballads. You know what you can expect right away. It needs to capture your vibe. The question you need to ask yourself is what kind of vibe that is.”

“I picked the
Yael Satterlee Experiment
as homage to bands in the 1970s, where music was so experimental and they could break new ground. I wanted something retro.”

“Something with instant recognition,” she fills in. “Okay, so you have a 1970s retro rock sound, something experimental. Maybe something drug-influenced,” she says as she refers to Felix. “Maybe go with something referring to the elements or to color, something that catches the eye immediately.”

It goes on like this for what seems like forever. Now that Yael is willing to consider a name change, we all have suggestions what we could do to properly brand ourselves. We volley suggestions back and forth for about an hour until we finally circle around the idea that we’re all dreamers, operating in a world beyond our own.

We decide to make a color specific to our brand, and after a minute or so we all land on and agree to the new band name: Dreaming in Blue. Tina has Frankie on the phone within minutes, to work out some ideas for logos and styling, while Bobby and Yael talk about how they can use lighting during the show, kind of like Pink Floyd, to further strengthen our brand.

As I sit there and stare out at Central Park spread out below us, all I can think about is the new name of my band, which features my favorite color.

Dreaming in Blue
. I can practically see the marquee now. They are just three little words, but I know that they were about to change my world.

The first time that we perform as Dreaming in Blue is at Fritz’s the very next day. We don’t have a whole lot of time to work on a logo or merchandise, but Tina wouldn’t care about any of that. She has her sights fully set on New Year’s Eve.

I don’t even expect to see her much throughout the weekend. When I suggest that I’ll stay in Brooklyn over the weekend, as sort of a getaway before the crazy weeks leading to the holidays, she consents without a fuss.

The driver drops me off at the brownstone the morning of the 17
th
. I carry only the clothes I’ll need for the show.

This weekend is all about the Old Vanni. I figure I have one more chance to get to see him before he’s gone forever, laid to rest with everything else from my ordinary past.

We arrive at Fritz’s before the bar opens, where we must finagle a performance on the fly with limited resources. We already know what music we’re going to do, we just have to figure out how to scale it back from the stage and effects we normally enjoy at Sedução.

In a way, we’re reconnecting as a band again too, taking it back to basics and reminding ourselves who we really are. Even though we all like the new name, it almost feels like we’re trying on a new suit to see if it fits.

Fortunately the thing that brought us together–the music–unites us in this endeavor, a true brotherhood. We all have our eyes on the very same prize.

The one good thing about the limitations at Fritz’s is that we can use colored lighting. It’s already set up for red, blue and green spotlights, so we arrange it to where it’s only blue.

The effect is strangely more intimate, especially with the music we have planned to perform. Most of them are one-word titles for some reason, like “
Creep”
and “
Closer
.” I also selected “
Drive
,” by the Cars.

They’re all pretty depressing for a holiday set, but there’s not a lot of room to run around Fritz’s stage.

We break out some original tunes, including instrumentals by the band. And, for the first time ever, we’ll perform an original tune called “
Dancer Girl
,” with lyrics I wrote specifically for Pam.

She won’t hear her song until we play it live, however. Instead I rehearse the other songs, keeping her in my peripheral vision to see how she reacts to my set.

It’s my one and only love letter to her, my greatest unrequited love. It’s all hers, all the joy and pain and the wishful thinking… all the angst.

And she’s where I direct all those things as I start to sing. Since the venue is small, I can see the faces before me. Some are quite familiar, like Alicia, from Cynzia’s, or some of the younger members of Susan’s church. Even Chelsea makes an appearance, which surprises me, since I haven’t seen her in months. But to me, there’s only one person in that audience. When I launch into her song, she discretely makes an exit.

I think it’s that rejection that hurts the most.

After we take our bow, the entire bar wants to buy us a drink in celebration of our performance and, of course, my birthday. Chelsea immediately finds her way to my side, and it’s all I can do to politely extricate myself.

I finally get Cheryl alone. “Where’s Pam?”

“Said she needed a break,” Cheryl shouts over the din. “This place is a madhouse thanks to you!”

I smile with her. It has been a successful event, if a sold-out crowd of clamoring fans was what I was looking for.

Instead, I find what I’m looking for out in the parking lot, sitting alone in her car. The windows are fogged over, so all I see is her silhouette. It reminds me instantly of Lori, but unlike Lori, there’s only one person in Pam’s car. I tap on the window. She rolls it down, and I can hear that she’s listening to the CD I gave her with me singing her song and “
Make It Happen
” after I first wrote them.

The tears in her eyes break my heart. “You okay?” I ask, even though it’s a stupid question. She’s not okay. I squat down to bring us face to face.

She bursts into fresh tears and then shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I know this was your special day.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I say as I take her hand in mine. Her skin is so soft… so warm. I want to take her into my arms until her last tear is shed. “What’s wrong, Pam?”

She takes a deep breath. The New Vanni kind of hopes she’ll tell me that Doug has run off with another woman, though I know that’s a terrible thing to wish on her. It would just be so much easier if he weren’t in the picture. I could climb into that car, take her into my arms, kiss her soft, pouty lips and tell her everything is going to be okay. Then we could forget about the noisy crowd in the bar and head back to my brownstone, where I’d make love to her at last.

But I can’t do anything like that. I can just squat here, helplessly, waiting for her to tell me what the hell is wrong.

“It’s stupid,” she says.

“Try me,” I say back.

A loud bang echoes through the parking lot as the steel door to the bar slams open and a group of happy drunks emerge. Without waiting for permission, I walk around to the passenger side and get inside. She rolls up the window to keep the heat in. All the lights and sounds mingle in the distance, beyond the foggy glass.

She refuses to look at me. “This is going to sound so mean and so selfish, but I guess it just kind of hit me today that you’re gone.”

I reach for her hand. She lets me hold it. “I’m right here. Why do you think I did this show? I never want you to forget me.”

Her bloodshot, teary eyes meet mine. “I’ll never forget you, Vanni. Ever.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“A long time ago, you asked me why I married Doug so suddenly.” I nod. I remember. “The truth is…the truth is that I married him because that’s the normal life I wanted, and I know you can’t give it to me. I knew that the minute I went to see you perform.”

My jaw falls open. “You saw me perform?”

She nods, and tells me the venue where she had seen me. It’s the bar where I met Tina for the first time… and the day before she flew off to Vegas to elope.

My heart drops as the realization sinks in. She had done that
because of me
.

“I went there because I wanted to see you make your dream come true. And you were so fierce and fearless. It was like you were someone else. And then there were all these girls and they were screaming for you.” She trails off and shakes her head. “Before that moment, I thought…,” she trails off again, nearly bursting into fresh tears. “I guess I thought that you could still be you and I could still be me and we could see where it was all going. But I knew then that your new life didn’t have room for me. I’m too… normal.”

The way she says it is like an insult. I shake my head as I hold her hand. “Pam.”

She doesn’t let me finish. “I just wanted a steady guy, who will be solid and dependable, even if he’s not the most exciting person in the world. I want to know that I can count on him. The kind of guy who knows when all the bills are due, or starts a retirement account. Doug is building a stable, dependable, reliable life, and he wanted me to be a part of it. That’s what I always wanted. That’s what my friends always wanted. That’s what my parents always strived for. And I know it’s not the most exciting life in the world, but Doug is a good man,” she insists. “My family loves him. His family loves me. Everything is perfect. And if I had met him six months before I met you, there wouldn’t even be a problem.”

My heart stops. What is she saying?

“It’s no secret that I’m attracted to you. Who wouldn’t be? You’re exciting. You’re sexy. You’re complex. Every inch the bad boy. I knew from the first time I heard you sing that you were destined to be a star. That’s why it was so exciting when you would flirt with me or sing songs to me or write songs for me,” she says with another tearful wail as she refers to the song playing. “But I knew then I couldn’t walk that path with you. You would never just belong to me. You’d belong to the whole world. And I don’t want to compete with anyone.”

“There’s no competition,” I tell her. “I could be anywhere in the city and I wanted to spend this time with you.”

“For now,” she says. “Until Tina Nunes comes calling.”

I swallow hard. I didn’t expect her to know about Tina. But it makes sense. Clearly I’ve just been in denial. “Pam,” I start, but again she cuts me off.

“And it’s not fair of me to expect you to do anything but run right to her. I’m not Lori,” she states vehemently. “I want you to succeed. I want your dreams to come true. And I know they can. You should play at Sedução. You should play bigger venues, from New York City all the way to Los Angeles. All over the world. I want that for you. You deserve to be a huge success. You’re a star, Vanni.”

The way she says it rips my gut out. It sounds like such a prison sentence coming from her lips, which is essentially what she’s saying. Where I’m going, she doesn’t want to go. “How is that a bad thing?” I ask.

She sniffs into a wadded up tissue. “Well, that’s the thing about stars. You can watch in wonder as they trek across the sky, but you can never get close to one. You can never hold one. You can never do anything but watch it until it fades away.”

I open my mouth, but she’s not done.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you, Vanni. I thought if I got married, if I threw myself into a more stable relationship, I’d forget about you. But I can’t. I think about you all the time, wondering what you’re doing or if you’re happy. When I went to your house on Thanksgiving, I knew it was the worst thing I could do. I harbored fantasies, I’ll admit it. It’s not right, but it’s the God’s honest truth. If you weren’t there, I’d be reminded, again, that you completely out of my reach. If you were there, then I’d have been tempted to stay there with you. It’s not fair to Doug. It’s not fair to me. And it’s not fair to you. I can never be what you want me to be, Vanni. We need to stop pretending otherwise.”

She pulls her hand from mine. “Pam,” I start again.

“I need you to go, Vanni. I need you to go and never come back. If you care about me at all, you have to let me go. I have the life I want. I’m not emotionally equipped to sign on as a lifelong groupie, trailing you around wherever you lead. That’s never what I wanted for myself.”

“Then we can be friends,” I offer. I’m desperate now. She’s about to sever some of the last fragile strings to my old life–the old me.

She shakes her head. “No, we can’t. We’ll always wonder what if, and you know it.”

“What if we don’t have to wonder?” I say. If she came looking for me on Thanksgiving, going to my house, feeling the way she does, then wasn’t that a real possibility? That we could be together at last? “If this thing is too big to fight, why don’t we just give in to it?”

“Because that’s not the person I want to be, Vanni. And if that’s the person you want me to be, then you were never really my friend at all.”

I stare at her, speechless. She’s admitted that she wants me. She’s admitted that she can’t stay away from me. Yet she’s kicking me to the curb?

“Now, if you’ll please go. I have to get back inside.”

“No,” I say at once. “I’m not going anywhere.” I lean forward, grab her face in my hand. I hold her close for a moment, memorizing every lovely detail of her face. She trembles against me. I know it’s what she wants and what she fears most. I can’t stop myself. My lips crash upon hers and I kiss her hard. She fights me by clenching her mouth closed, pushing at my chest with her hands. She’s fighting for her integrity, but I gave mine up a long time ago. I indulge that kiss, even though it’s stolen. Not just from another man… but from her.

When she finally pulls away, she slaps me hard across the face. “Get the fuck out of my car!” she screeches. “Get the fuck out of my life!”

I’m rooted to the spot as she hits me again. She bursts into more tears as she pummels my chest, calling me every name in the book.

I say nothing else as I grab her hands and hold her still. My gaze never wavers from hers. I pull her close one more time. Her eyes widen as I stare at her mouth, red and puffy from my stolen kiss. “One day you’re going to change your mind.”

I slam out of the car and head back into the bar for two things. I want a stiff drink, and I want to find Chelsea.

Pam is right. I am a star. And I’ll be damned if I go home alone.

Pam doesn’t come in right away. When she does, her eyes are puffy and her makeup is gone. Our eyes meet as I finish off the first of six shots, all bought for me by my new friends. I keep the adoring Chelsea under one arm, cuddling her close. I even kiss her where Pam can see. If she was ready to throw me to the curb, then let her take the consequences that follow.

I was ready to love her… honestly and legitimately… and she pushed me away. Once again I’m abandoned by one of the very few people left in this world to give a damn about me. Fuck her. Let her go home to her boring husband and her boring life. I’m alone but I’m not lonely. Plenty of women want to be with me, including the cute young thing at my side.

I wave to all my fans as I corral Chelsea from the club. I hold her close as we walk back to the brownstone.