waving pieces of paper and taking photos. Just as
well none of them were epileptic, because the strobe effect beat anything the
lighting guys had put on the tracks. The lighting rig was so complicated, it
was bar-coded, preprogrammed for each number, then, when they inevitably
changed their minds, they could respond. It made sense. People came to see a
show, and from the money they were divvying up, they deserved to get one.
Now everything started to feel like the usual routine. He
signed wrists, shirts, even autograph books, made noncommittal answers to
requests for songs. Some of them went back to the days when Maxx Syccorraxx was
the main singer and Murder City Ravens was a straight-down-the-line rock band. Zazz
had loved working with Maxx, now Matt, in the studio. The nearest thing The
Beatles had to a fifth member was their producer George Martin. Murder City
Ravens could be said to have a seventh.
Shit, the bunch of people around him was getting bigger and
bigger. How did that happen?
“Hey, are you free after the show?” someone asked. In the
past, he’d have considered her. Full-breasted, wearing a corset-thing that
looked like it might collapse at any moment, miniskirted. Not subtle, but
available and pretty.
“Nope,” he said without hesitation.
“You can do better than that skank you arrived with.”
He should have known better, but he turned on the girl, eyes
flashing, fists clenched. Cameras went off and Riku and Hunter shouldered him
out of the way, pushing him in Donovan’s direction. Donovan would have passed
him on, but Zazz shrugged and spread his hands. “I know.”
They didn’t have to say anything. He signed a few more
autographs and headed inside.
Donovan clapped his hand around Zazz’s shoulders. “I like
Manchester. I might bring Allie here for our honeymoon.”
Zazz paused and stared at him. “You’re really doing it?”
“Sure, why not? I’m not likely to want anyone else.”
“How can you be sure?”
Donovan gave a happy crow of laughter. “You just do, pal. I
knew after our first night together, but I gave it time to be sure. It didn’t
make any difference. Go for it, Zazz,” he added, lowering his voice. “If it’s
right, do it.”
But what worked for Donovan might not work for him. Matt and
V thrived on having different careers and spending time apart. He’d flown over
for the Paris shows but had to go back to Chicago. She wouldn’t see him again
until London, and then only for a few days. But after that, they’d be in New
York. Shit, and he’d have to stare at the ocean separating him from Laura.
They had the internet. Skype sex.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Back in his dressing room, he reached for her and she came
to him. He turned it into a joke, with, “Missing you already.” He didn’t have
time to get them both naked. He had ten, twelve thousand people out there
waiting for him to come out and give them his best. He owed them that much. He
owed it to himself.
She must have seen something in his face. “I should leave
you to it. You’ve got to put your mind on what you’re doing.” She pressed a
gentle kiss to his lips, and when he wanted to follow it up, touched his mouth
with two fingers. “No, don’t. You don’t even have your makeup on yet.”
That made him hoot with laughter. “Okay, you win. I’ll get
someone to show you out front. After, wait where you are and he’ll come and get
you.”
“Exactly like last night.”
“Fuck no. Now I know exactly who’s waiting for me out
there.” And that made one fuck of a difference.
Eyeliner—he refused to call it guyliner—dark metallic purple
eye shadow, blusher, mascara and a streak of pink in his hair later, he changed
into his stage clothes. Six-fuck trousers, leather with a laced fly instead of
a buttoned one. A black poet’s shirt, buttoned for now, but he’d unfasten it
later. Cuffed, black high-heeled leather boots that came to mid shin. That
would do. Only one piece of
well none of them were epileptic, because the strobe effect beat anything the
lighting guys had put on the tracks. The lighting rig was so complicated, it
was bar-coded, preprogrammed for each number, then, when they inevitably
changed their minds, they could respond. It made sense. People came to see a
show, and from the money they were divvying up, they deserved to get one.
Now everything started to feel like the usual routine. He
signed wrists, shirts, even autograph books, made noncommittal answers to
requests for songs. Some of them went back to the days when Maxx Syccorraxx was
the main singer and Murder City Ravens was a straight-down-the-line rock band. Zazz
had loved working with Maxx, now Matt, in the studio. The nearest thing The
Beatles had to a fifth member was their producer George Martin. Murder City
Ravens could be said to have a seventh.
Shit, the bunch of people around him was getting bigger and
bigger. How did that happen?
“Hey, are you free after the show?” someone asked. In the
past, he’d have considered her. Full-breasted, wearing a corset-thing that
looked like it might collapse at any moment, miniskirted. Not subtle, but
available and pretty.
“Nope,” he said without hesitation.
“You can do better than that skank you arrived with.”
He should have known better, but he turned on the girl, eyes
flashing, fists clenched. Cameras went off and Riku and Hunter shouldered him
out of the way, pushing him in Donovan’s direction. Donovan would have passed
him on, but Zazz shrugged and spread his hands. “I know.”
They didn’t have to say anything. He signed a few more
autographs and headed inside.
Donovan clapped his hand around Zazz’s shoulders. “I like
Manchester. I might bring Allie here for our honeymoon.”
Zazz paused and stared at him. “You’re really doing it?”
“Sure, why not? I’m not likely to want anyone else.”
“How can you be sure?”
Donovan gave a happy crow of laughter. “You just do, pal. I
knew after our first night together, but I gave it time to be sure. It didn’t
make any difference. Go for it, Zazz,” he added, lowering his voice. “If it’s
right, do it.”
But what worked for Donovan might not work for him. Matt and
V thrived on having different careers and spending time apart. He’d flown over
for the Paris shows but had to go back to Chicago. She wouldn’t see him again
until London, and then only for a few days. But after that, they’d be in New
York. Shit, and he’d have to stare at the ocean separating him from Laura.
They had the internet. Skype sex.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Back in his dressing room, he reached for her and she came
to him. He turned it into a joke, with, “Missing you already.” He didn’t have
time to get them both naked. He had ten, twelve thousand people out there
waiting for him to come out and give them his best. He owed them that much. He
owed it to himself.
She must have seen something in his face. “I should leave
you to it. You’ve got to put your mind on what you’re doing.” She pressed a
gentle kiss to his lips, and when he wanted to follow it up, touched his mouth
with two fingers. “No, don’t. You don’t even have your makeup on yet.”
That made him hoot with laughter. “Okay, you win. I’ll get
someone to show you out front. After, wait where you are and he’ll come and get
you.”
“Exactly like last night.”
“Fuck no. Now I know exactly who’s waiting for me out
there.” And that made one fuck of a difference.
Eyeliner—he refused to call it guyliner—dark metallic purple
eye shadow, blusher, mascara and a streak of pink in his hair later, he changed
into his stage clothes. Six-fuck trousers, leather with a laced fly instead of
a buttoned one. A black poet’s shirt, buttoned for now, but he’d unfasten it
later. Cuffed, black high-heeled leather boots that came to mid shin. That
would do. Only one piece of
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