The Lightning Field – Chapter 1

Here’s a sneak preview of the next book in the Angel Interceptors series. The Lightning Field is due out in late summer 2014 and will conclude Jonathan and Jasmine’s story arc.

The Lightning Field
Chapter 1

“The following topics are off limits:

Current and former romantic partners
Trivial matters such as favorite colors
Drug and alcohol use

Any mention of an off-limits topic, even “off the record”, will result in immediate termination of the interview. In addition, both you and your employing publication(s) will be permanently banned from holding interviews and attending other promotional events with Strange Angels or individual band members in the future. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation.”

-Excerpt from the Interview Guidelines document, distributed by the Strange Angels Publicity office

~∞~

 Dallas, TX

Late January 2004

Jonathan Fox spotted her the instant he stepped off the elevator. The beautiful brunette was leaning with her back against one wall of the thronged hotel lobby, idly watching the reporters and photographers file into the grand ballroom across from her. All calm detachment, it was clear that she had no role to play in the impending press conference, and yet she didn’t seem out of place, either. She was just hanging out, watching the action with an expression that could have been ennui or amusement; it was hard to tell which.

The closer he got to her, the more he liked what he saw. She looked a bit on the young side, but she was clearly an adult, so he let his gaze rake her frame with impunity. Almond-shaped amber-brown eyes shot through with sparks of gold and intelligence. A heart-shaped face with a hint of the exotic in her button nose, her sweetly curved mouth, her angled cheekbones. Her deep brown hair fell halfway down her back in long, artfully spiraled curls. He wanted to tug on one–gently, mind–just to toy with its springiness. The knee-length A-line skirt of her chocolate brown dress revealed legs that were on the short side, but shapely and toned. She clearly took good care of herself.

Given the opportunity, he could take good care of her, too. In many ways. You won’t look bored when I’m done with you, darlin’. The thought of her athletic limbs tangled in his along with the hotel bed sheets, all drenched in a sheen of well-earned sweat…easy, Fox.

He had to stop staring before his bandmates noticed and started their usual world-class shit talking. Anyway, he had somewhat more pressing issues at hand. The girl could wait. And she would wait. He’d make sure of it.

Still, he just had to check her out one last time as he used his Vuitton aviator shades as a makeshift hairband, pushing his long, two-shades-from-black hair back from his face and revealing his platinum-grey eyes at the same time. He knew full well the effect that particular move had on women…or at least the straight ones whose tastes ran to tall, impeccably dressed British Rock stars. Sure enough, she met his glance, but her expression stayed just this side of slightly curious, no more.

Ah, a challenge. Right then, let’s take it up a notch. He gave her a discreet wink and his trademark gentleman rogue grin; the one that made girls’ knickers vaporize in nanoseconds.

As always, it worked. Her face lit up with a smile of her own along with a fetching little blush that almost made the jaded musician come undone. His interest meter shot right past Let’s Have a Drink and pegged itself at its highest level: You. Me. Now.

There was nothing to stop him from grabbing her by the hand and taking her straight upstairs to his suite–nothing, that was, except for his bandmates, his business manager, his head of Publicity, his agent, his touring personal assistant, and roughly twenty-five members of the press plus half that number of photographers. Oh, and a great deal of random onlookers to boot.

But otherwise, yeah. She would have been all his and no mistake.

Right, enough ogling the eye candy. It was time to get down to business. “Okay, lads, here we go,” he barked as he turned to face his bandmates. “Remember to keep a united front and don’t comment on the out-of-bounds questions. And for God’s sake, no references to the Dallas Cowgirls. I’m looking at you, Silver.”

Silver Blackwell’s dark-lashed blue eyes went huge and deceptively innocent. “I’m a Redskins fan. What else am I supposed to call them?” the guitarist drawled in his Virginia accent, which was starting to take on a harder Appalachian overtone from living in the mountains of western North Carolina for the past four years.

The band’s P.R. assistant Rachelle approached with a huge smile, clearly in her element. A new hire with the band’s publicity group, she brought years of experience with Rap and Hip-Hop artists with her to the Strange Angels camp. “Everyone’s taking their seats now,” she told the four musicians. “You got two minutes to psych yourselves up.”

“Oh, aye, we’re good to go,” Tony assured her with a laconic smile. The color in the bassist’s angular face was up, making his wide cheekbones almost as red as his wild, tumbling mane.

Nick tossed his dark brown, shoulder-length hair. “Bugger,” the darkly handsome drummer muttered. “Not quite enough time for one more smoke. Ah well, I’ll live.”

Silver turned to him with a laugh. “Remember our first press conference in ’92? Everybody was smoking all the way through it. Us, the press, our PR guy…”

“Times have changed since we all got our start in this biz,” Rachelle added as she pulled out a bottle of eye drops. “Your eyes are a little red,” she told Jonathan as she handed it to him.

“I always sleep like shite on the first week of a tour,” he shot back with an offhanded smile. “But hey, sleep’s overrated.” Just then, the amber-eyed brunette sauntered past on her way to the ballroom. As their gazes clashed again, she mouthed the word ‘hi’ and he damn near sighed like a lovestruck schoolboy.

Apparently, Silver caught the little clandestine moment, because he cleared his throat and jabbed an elbow into Jonathan’s side. With a short growl of warning, Jonathan turned his back on him and squeezed two drops in each eye, blinking away the excess moisture.

After the frontman gave the tiny bottle back to Rachelle, she jerked her head toward the ballroom door. “Okay, let’s do this.”

A dozen cameras began snapping as the four musicians strode into the room. Rachelle trailed close behind while they made their way to a long table set up on a low platform. The backdrop was a huge banner that bore the band’s famous logo, a pair of angel wings framing their name, topped with a halo twisted into an infinity symbol.

Each man took a seat behind the placard that advertised his name and instrument: JONATHAN (Vocs/Guitar/Keys), SILVER (Lead Guitar), NICK (Drums), and TONY (Bass). After giving the photographers a minute to capture shots of them in front of the banner, Rachelle gestured for attention as she turned on her headset microphone.

“Hi, everyone, welcome to the first Strange Angels press conference in over four years.” Scattered applause met her announcement. “Please raise your hand and stand up to ask your question when I recognize you. And please be respectful of the off-list topics that we sent you before today.”

While she was speaking, the dark-haired girl from the hallway slipped inside the room and took a seat in an empty chair at the end of the second row. Jonathan tried not to stare at her, but it was hard to look anywhere else. She was entrancing. Even in the way she sat down and crossed her legs at the knees. She had debutante poise, but he could tell it masked a hell of a lot of raw female power.

But now the press conference had officially begun. Jonathan forced himself to listen to the first question, which came from a young woman in the first row. “Hi guys, Julie Lancaster from All Rock Radio Network. I think the big question on everyone’s mind is why did you decide to reunite?”

“Because we were broke,” Silver called out before anyone else could respond. “Nah, just kiddin’. It’s actually kinda complicated…uh, Jonathan? Why don’t you take over from here?”

“Thanks, Silver. Stick me with the tough ones,” the singer shot back, making everyone chuckle. He gave a rundown of the past year, how he had tried to put out an album with an Alt-Country singer, but the project got shelved. “But I still had shows booked in England and Europe, so I decided to give the solo route a shot. At the last second, I chickened out and rang the other three guys. Fortunately, they were up for it-”

Nick interrupted. “Because some of us were broke, actually.”

After flicking his drummer a cautionary glance, Jonathan continued. “Anyway, we got together in our home town of Nottingham and rehearsed for a few weeks, dragged the equipment out of storage, and there you have it.”

“How’s the tour so far?” the next interviewer asked.

“Great!” all four men chorused as one. When everyone’s laughter faded, Jonathan took over. “As you might know already, we had to move most of the dates up to larger venues due to high ticket sales. Except for the first night in San Antonio – we treated that more like a rehearsal in front of 2,000 people. We still have some things to get dialed in, but so far, so good.”

The next person to stand up was a writer from Revolver magazine. “Can you give us an idea of your touring schedule over the next few months? And will there be a new album, or are you just going to do reissues?”

“Over the next six weeks, we’re hitting the South, the Mid-Atlantic, and a few venues in New England,” Jonathan explained. He gave Silver’s leg a discreet kick under the cloth-covered table, signaling for the guitarist to take over.

“Uh, after this tour ends in early March, we’re going into the studio,” Silver announced. “New album should be out by June.”

Then it was Nick’s turn. “Over the summer we’ll play some festivals and some South American dates, and then the second leg of our U.S. tour will start in August. We’re hoping to be in some bigger venues by then if demand is great enough.”

Tony got to close out the question. “And we’ll get back to Europe for a proper tour in the fall.” Three years in Southern California had smoothed out the bass player’s Geordie accent, making him a lot more understandable. Jonathan smiled to himself, vowing to throw more interviews his way over the next few months. And why should I have to do the lion’s share? We’re equals in this band.

A well-known correspondent with the Showbiz network got to go next. “This question is for Jonathan,” she began with a friendly wave for the singer. He returned it with a laugh, already knowing what she was going to ask. “Last year, you had a small role in the TV show Firebird Records. Are you rejoining the cast next season?”

The frontman cleared his throat. “No, I won’t be going back. That was just a foray into the acting world to see if I liked it. And it was fine, but music is my first love, so I have to devote myself fully to her.” As his bandmates rolled their eyes at his purple prose, he added, “And the director told me that I’d have to cut my hair if I reprised my role, so it would have been a no-go even without the band reunion. I like my look just fine, ta very much.”

At this declaration, several female voices in the crowded room cheered while a few others groaned in disappointment. “Ahh, you can’t please everyone,” Jonathan quipped, tossing his near-black, just-past-shoulder-length mane in mock arrogance. “So you just have to please yourself.”

Silver nudged his arm with an elbow. “Psst,” the guitarist stage-whispered, his blue Irish eyes radiating cartoonish innocence. “Inappropriate topics, remember?”

A twenty-something guy who wrote for an indie Rock magazine got to ask the next question. “Are you going to change up your sound like you did back in ’95 after, uh, all that stuff went down?”

Jonathan gave him a pointed glare. ‘All that stuff’ that you’re not supposed to ask about directly, like my wife’s death and my stint in rehab? Nice try, mate.

Silver jumped in before Jonathan could voice his annoyance. “We’re not planning to change our sound, just update it. Jonathan and I have learned a lot about production over the last few years and we have a lot of new techniques we want to roll out.”

After she shot down a couple of attempts to pry into the guys’ love lives, Rachelle announced that there was enough time left for one last question. The webmaster for an online magazine dedicated to music and body modification got to do the honors: “Do you guys have any new tatts?”

“Aye,” Tony said, getting to his feet and lifting up his shirt to show off a stylized willow tree design that took up most of his left side.

“Nothing for me. I’m allergic to the ink,” Nick confessed.

“I got my son’s name and birthdate put on me right after he was born,” Silver chimed in as he rolled up his shirt sleeve and displayed the words “Shelton Sterling – 6/26/01” inked in a neat script on the inside of his forearm.

All eyes turned to the band’s frontman, who shifted in his seat. “Err, I have one recent tattoo. And no, you can’t see it.” As he spoke, the pretty brunette shot him a cryptic look as she got to her feet.  Jonathan slid his shades back down to hide his eyes so he discreetly could track her movements. Nobody else seemed to notice as she slipped out the side door.

“All right, that’s the end of the press conference,” Rachelle told everyone. “Thank you all for coming. Let’s hear it for Strange Angels!”

The sound of applause filled the room as the band rose as one, waved goodbye, and then left single-file through the door they came in. Once they were all out, the four men walked side-by-side down the wide hallway toward the exit while flanked by numerous guards–both the band’s and the hotel’s. Most of the photographers from the event ran along with the fast-moving entourage, snapping pictures left and right. Jonathan looked straight ahead, not wanting to be blinded by flashbulbs. Only amateurs took squinty pictures.

Twenty feet from the exit, he glanced over his shoulder at his long-time head of security, who was shadowing his steps. “Which car did you put her in?” he asked Clive out of the side of his mouth.

“The burgundy one. Second in the queue.”

“All right, lads, the burgundy car’s mine,” Jonathan called out to his bandmates. “There. Now she won’t be stuck with my rhythm section by accident,” he added in a low voice.

“I bloody heard that,” Nick snapped, although he sounded more amused than pissed.

By then they had reached the hotel’s side entrance. As the exit doors were flung open before them, the band and their entourage poured outside into the rapidly cooling Texas evening. About fifteen of their more clever fans had figured out they were ducking out this way instead of going through the front lobby. They held out things to sign, crying out their favorite members’ names as the band passed them on his way to his chosen vehicle. Flanked by Clive and another personal security guard, Jonathan headed for the burgundy-colored Town Car, making sure he dashed off a quick autograph for everyone who was allowed to get close enough to hand him something.

The whole thing was over in seconds and then he was in the back seat of the car, sandwiched between Clive…and the doe-eyed girl from the hallway.

“Hey, Kit,” she said, saying the nickname that only two people in the world were allowed to utter in his hearing.  The sound of those two little syllables made him close his eyes as a wickedly sharp dart of longing pierced his gut. Ah, darlin’, the spell you’ve cast over me is dark and deep…

Clive slammed the Town Car door shut, snapping Jonathan from his reverie. “Hiya, Jasmine,” he whispered, slipping his arms around the brunette’s slim, petite form and snuggling her close to his side. He loved the neat way that her body fit with his, like two parts of an ancient vase that had once been broken in half but was now restored.

His Wild One was at his side again. And for the first time since the tour began three days ago, Jonathan felt like he could breathe again.

*****

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Corva. All rights reserved.