Cutting Edge (Pax #4)

61000 / 75000 words. 81% done!

The stage hand glanced at Jamie and laid his hand on the door handle. Ready?

Jamie looked around at his little band family, eyebrows raised in question. Becca gave a slight nod. Cal’s lips pressed together. Michael tried to look unaffected, but when Jamie’s eyes met his, a broad grin brightened his face. Unable to keep from smiling back, Jamie tore his eyes away and gave a nod of confirmation to the stage hand.

The whole process took less than three seconds. Then the door opened, and Pax went out into the roar of the post-show meet and greet.

By now, the flurry of fans descending on them felt familiar and safe. Years of touring, interviews, photos and autographs had accustomed them to being at the centre of attention at all times. In the beginning, back when Pax really took off in the late seventies, Jamie had struggled with it for a while. Burned by the betrayal of Adam the photographer and the crazy Swedish fan, he’d been expecting tragedy at every corner. But now, nine years down the road, the bustle of signing records and pictures and bootlegs and body parts had become humdrum. Sometimes it was even boring.

Not so today. They’d just finished a major UK tour, and fans were delirious with equal parts joy and despair. As Pax took their seats at the two tables, laden with sparkling water and a barrage of multi-coloured pens, Jamie smiled at the agitation that rippled through the queue. People were wild-eyed, clutching precious mementoes to be offered like sacrifices to the gods of prog rock. It was a miracle they all stayed in line – a virtue as British as they came, and one to be truly grateful for.

“Hello,” an out-of-breath teenager said, half dropping, half pushing her collection of stuff in front of Jamie.

“Hello,” Jamie replied, wearing the calm but amiable expression that Michael had taken to calling his ‘horse whisperer smile’. It was usually fake – of course it was, no one could be a Zen master 24/7 – but this time it was genuine: the flustered girl before him was adorable. Her shirt would have been figure-hugging if she hadn’t been so thin, and her red trousers were really tight. Her sharp, asymmetrical synth fringe made for a poignant contrast to her childishly rounded face, and her obvious nervousness awakened Jamie’s paternal instincts.

Paternal… Heh. He was thirty years old. His sister had married and given birth to a daughter six months ago, and here he was, spending all his time on the road or in the studio. But he didn’t want children, never had. So what was this twinge in his chest when he looked at the girl on the other side of the table?

“What’s your name, then?”

“Uh, Carla,” came the stumbling answer. She pushed ineffectually at her fringe and looked over her shoulder at the impatient queue behind her.

“Alright, Carla. You want me to–”

“You were amazing. I’m your biggest fan ever.”

Jamie couldn’t stop a chuckle, but he managed to make it affectionate rather than amused. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I’m here with my mum,” Carla went on. “She used to play your music all the time when I was little.”

Jamie smiled at the girl. She looked to be around fifteen. If her mother had been a fan since the start, Carla would have been raised on Pax’s music since she was four. Child abuse, or the greatest gift a parent could give? Only time and maybe a therapist would tell.

Jamie reached for the pile of albums – CD’s, he noted with a barely suppressed twitch of the nostril – and struggled to pull out the leaflet so he could sign it. “It’s for you?”

“No – well, yes – I mean…” Carla laughed nervously and pushed her fringe out of her face. It immediately fell back over her eyes – lined with black, Jamie noticed. He fought an urge to ask what a synth fan was doing at a prog concert. Maybe Carla’s taste in music was more eclectic than her wardrobe.

“Yes,” Carla finally conceded. “It’s for me. But not just for me… Could you write another name as well?”

“Of course.” Jamie waited, eyes on her, hand ready with the pen.

“Uh,” Carla stalled, looking over her shoulder again. Then she leaned forward over the table. “Could you write, ‘To Carla and Leslie’?”

“Absolutely,” Jamie smiled. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Carla faltered. Her eyes filled a little and she hunched her shoulders, as if she was afraid to be heard in the hubbub. “No,” she whispered, and her eyes locked with Jamie’s.

Heart wrenching in his chest, Jamie breathed in to say something. It happened, now and again. It could strike at any moment. Suddenly, out of the blue, one of them appeared in the crowd, and they were always, always desperate. Every time, they reached out like this, as if clutching at the last straw, and Jamie never knew what to say.

“I see,” he croaked, and still the pen in his hand hadn’t touched paper. Then he gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but Carla swallowed hard, still looking at him, waiting for something more. “I’m… glad,” he added stupidly. “I mean… good for you.”

Idiotic. Worthless. Why couldn’t he just think something up in the privacy of a hotel room so that he had something intelligent to say next time? Because there was always a next time, only it came just when Jamie had managed to forget the last one.

Breaking eye contact, he printed the letters one by one: To Carla and Leslie, love Jamie xxx. He hesitated, the nib a fraction of an inch from the CD leaflet. Hang in there, he added, but felt a blush consume him as he read the stupid words. They were in ink and couldn’t be erased, and he didn’t want to ruin the girl’s CD by scratching it out. It was there now, in navy blue on the golden beige and green cover of Endless Summer: Hang in there. As if he had the right. As if he didn’t know.

He handed the CD back and picked up the next one. Carla held Endless Summer in hands that seemed to be trembling, reading Jamie’s pointless little message – over and over again, as it seemed. Jamie concentrated on signing the rest of her things, but felt Carla’s eyes on him.

Judging?

Begging?

What?

He looked up again. Carla’s face was red, but she didn’t look angry or devastated or any of the things Jamie was dreading. “You’re coming to my school, aren’t you?”

“Oh… which school is that?” Evan had indeed fixed him and Michael up with a tour of quite a different sort, and at Jamie’s entreaty, too. He just wasn’t sure where exactly they were booked.

“Saint Mary’s. The principal announced it.”

“Well, then we’ll be seeing each other again,” Jamie smiled, but Carla shook her head.

“I’m in eighth grade. You’re speaking to the ninth-graders, aren’t you? But I was just wondering…” She stopped to swallow again, and looked down at the CD in her hands as if to draw strength from it. “Could you… I mean, Miss Wetherell said that you were going to talk about drugs and stuff, but… they’re already wondering about it. The others. Other kids. Making jokes, and… So, I mean, will you…?”

Jamie knew what Carla meant. It was obvious: an out and proud couple, giving a talk at a school? It would be the only thing on those kids’ minds.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said truthfully. He and Michael hadn’t really discussed it. In fact, Michael had given him the silent treatment for days after the decision, and when he’d started acting like himself again, Jamie hadn’t dared upset the fragile status quo by bringing it up.

Hesitating, he threw a look to his left. Michael was laughing and chatting with a tall man clad entirely in black, turning a cassette tape over and over in his hands. Jamie was temporarily distracted by it. Another young hopeful who wanted them to listen to his demo?

Shaking off the thought, he sought Michael’s eyes. As usual, Michael immediately sensed it, even though he was half turned away. Meeting Jamie’s gaze, he raised his eyebrows. His flushed cheeks made his irises glitter, and Jamie’s heart pulsed softly. He’d always known he was the monogamous type, but damn. He could still be completely thrown by Michael’s air of faery-like innocence. His stage persona wasn’t an act. He really was a changeling from the spirit world.

“What?” Michael laughed.

“Nothing.” Jamie shook his head. He didn’t even remember what he’d wanted to ask. Turning back to Carla, he handed her the last of the signed CD’s. “Thank you for your support,” he said mechanically, and not until Carla moved away with a vaguely disappointed look on her face did Jamie remember the question she hadn’t quite asked: Will you be talking about your relationship with the eighth-graders, or will it all be about the dangers of drugs? Breathing in to call her back, Jamie was interrupted by the next person in line.

“Please tell me you’re not packing it in!”

Startled, he looked up at the woman who was all but wringing her hands. “Uh… packing it in?”

“Rolling Stone is saying that this was your last tour.” Clear green eyes blinked away tears, and behind her, other fans pricked their ears lest they miss any news.

“No, no,” Jamie held up his hands. “We’re not breaking up, if that’s what you mean.”

The woman relaxed a little, but she still looked wary as she unfolded a giant poster for Jamie to sign. “You’re quite sure?” she asked.

“Quite sure,” Jamie chuckled. “We haven’t done half the damage we want to.” He glanced at Michael again. He was still talking to the dark rocker, who was gesticulating eagerly at the cassette and explaining something that had Michael spellbound. Grinning, Jamie helped the woman smooth out the poster and reached for a silver pen. “Michael over there is a Duracell Bunny,” he said. “He won’t ever stop, unless he hits an actual brick wall. He lives and breathes music.”

As Jamie started writing, the woman leaned closer. “Yes, but what about them?” Her head jerked subtly, and Jamie looked to his right. Becca and Cal were both smiling and signing things like always, but he could see lines of weariness around Cal’s mouth, and Becca’s eyes were too bright, like they were when she was trying to suppress yawns. Yes, their bassist and drummer needed some time off, that was evident. Maybe this hiatus would have to be a bit longer than two weeks. And Jamie had no trouble envisioning a couple of months on a beach somewhere, or even at home, in the sofa, watching TV.

But who would be the brave soul to tell Michael?

Before he had the chance to mull over it, there was a screech from the door, and a couple of people burst in, brandishing hand-written signs and fists. “You’re all doomed!”

She had a sharp chin and blue eyes that seemed too big for her face. Jamie caught himself wondering how there was room for a brain with eyes that big.

“How can you let children attend?”

Jamie frowned. “Children? You mean…?”

“The concert! You sing about filthy things – perverted sex and war and God knows what – and you let children come and listen.”

Jamie looked around. There were a few teenagers, but no really small ones tonight. There usually were a few under the age of ten, though. Fanatical parents, determined to pass their passions on to their offspring, went by the adage the sooner the better.

“Don’t think calling your guards will help you,” the woman sneered.

“I was looking f–”

“I’m not interested.” The woman moved closer and leaned over the table, jutting out her chin. “I’m only interested in getting you to understand.”

“What exactly do you want me to understand? That we’re not a children’s band? I know. We’re not targeting children.”

An expression of disgust passed over the woman’s face. “Funny you should use that phrase.”

“What? Why?” Jamie was beginning to feel uneasy. Maybe he should call the guard after all.

“You’re perverts, aren’t you?”

Jamie breathed in to reply, but even though he’d got the question often enough, he still didn’t know what to answer. I must be really wrung out, he thought. Can’t even string together a coherent sentence to shut up a pitchfork wielder.

Apparently, his failure to give a quick reply made the woman decide something. Straightening up, she threw a look over her shoulder, and Jamie had the time to notice a black leather jacket and a row of ring-glittering knuckles before his autopilot slammed the eject button and the word ”Guards!” shot out of his mouth.

Their reaction was instantaneous. As Jamie got to his feet and stumbled on the chair to get away, the guard named Lenny threw himself in front of the table, weapon drawn. A loud, dry crack echoed through the room and Jamie felt something graze his hand. He yanked it back and gripped Michael’s shoulder just as he was getting up from his chair. The other guard had knocked the weapon out of the attacker’s hand, and the woman was yelling something. Jamie dragged Michael with him to the floor and tried to drag him away as he crawled towards the door.

“You’re all going to burn,” the woman screamed. “All of you!”