Storms by Carol Ann Harris

blue, red. Stevie took center stage, a sheer scarf draped over her head. A star. Her voice rang out, husky, sensuous, taunting. Pure Stevie Nicks, “Gold Dust Woman”, the ancient queen who uses men to satisfy her lust. Her sexual presence was mesmerizing. I was so caught up in it that I almost forgot J.C.’s command to get down to the dressing room by the end of the first encore.
    I slipped through the curtain and back to our sanctuary. In minutes Lindsey would be offstage. I had to look my best, but exhaustion was catching up with me. I locked myself in the bathroom, made up my pale face, then inhaled J.C.’s gift and smiled thankfully. It was having a positive effect already. I felt stronger, more confident, happier. Wasn’t that positive?
    I heard one final bone-shaking roar from the crowd as I unlocked the bathroom door. Their show was over. Mine was starting. I counted to ten and walked into the dressing room, assuming the entire band would be there.
    But there was only Stevie, pacing, clasping and unclasping her hands. She stopped dead when she saw me and stood silently, staring at me. I smiled, tentatively, but she glared and whirled round, throwing herself onto a couch, sobbing hysterically.
    I didn’t know what to do. Should I comfort her? Would she accept that from me? She’d avoided me whenever she could, and part of me understood that. She and Lindsey were a musical partnership, had been lovers, now were being forced to perform and smile with their deep sense of betrayal pushed into some dark region where past loves are buried and new hatreds breed. I took one step toward the sobbing heap of black chiffon and layered sequined shawls.
    Mercifully, Robin Snyder, Stevie’s voice coach and best girlfriend, raced into the room at this very moment and swooped down on her, cradling her, rocking her, murmuring to her.
    â€œIt was horrible! I hated the show! I missed a cue in ‘Rhiannon’ and Lindsey had to cover for me! I hated it! I can’t do it!” Stevie’s sobbed. “I won’t do it any more! I can’t!”
    I slipped by them. I had to get to Lindsey. If this was Stevie’s reaction to the stress of performance, what might be happening to the man I loved, whose agony tonight during “So Afraid” had both shocked and devastated me? Would he be hurting this way? I rushed down the hall, flanked by security guards, and headed for the tuning room. And there he was—face to the wall.
    The hush was like a rain-drenched night in Oklahoma after a storm. Heat engulfed me, burning from the lights around the mirror and Lindsey’s sweat-soaked body. I spoke his name softly, and without turning around he stretched out his hand to me. Blood dripped from his slashed fingers.
    I felt a wave of protectiveness, pure compassion. How could he do this to himself? This was his guitar style, this finger-picking, this refusal to use a pick, but it was self-harm, too. I grabbed a towel and gently took his damaged fingers in my two hands, wrapped them in the towel as he turned, exhausted, to face me.
    â€œBaby, was it OK?” he breathed, almost too tired to speak.
    â€œYou were amazing!” I told him, taking him in my arms. I helped him into the chair, eased off his wet shirt, now grimy and transparent, and slipped into the bathroom to soak paper towels in cold water for his face and body.
    He sat with his eyes closed as I pushed his long brown curls out of the way and gently washed his face and bound the towel, torn into strips, around his fingers. No rock star now, he was a small, helpless child needing tenderness.
    â€œYou’re my angel, Carol”, he whispered, tipping my chin up with one bandaged hand. “I love you.”
    There was no running away from this. I was going to heap his shadows in one corner and let in light. However damaged he was, bloodied, pursued by the monsters of his past or his childhood, or whatever it was that gave