The Complete Groupie Trilogy (2 page)

The next afternoon Iris sent a car to the hotel to pick me up for our girly extravaganza. After ditching Tennessee for the Big Apple, Iris sure had gone from simple country girl to big city socialite with relative ease in the scant five years she had been gone. She had begged me to go with her at the time, but the biggest town I wanted to conquer was Nashville. It was still home, still familiar. And I knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb in Manhattan wearing about thirty-five pounds extra body weight around my average frame. In New York terms that meant I was at least seventy pounds overweight. Most of that could be found in my 42-DD bra and the swell of my well-rounded backside, making me more Mae West than Twiggy. This meant I was always way more popular with men than I’d ever be with women, especially those that valued their size zero dress size as a personal achievement.

So moving to the fashion capital of the United States? I don’t think so.

Despite this reticence to take over the big city, I was fairly comfortable with my curves. In fact I found them rather useful. Superficial guys usually didn’t give me a second glance and thus spared me their games and bullshit. The men who did ask me out appreciated my rounded hourglass figure and often treated me like a queen because of it. The kicker? These guys were often better looking and way more charming or successful than the ones that needed something pretty on their arm as their own measure of manhood.

I had begun to suspect this wasn’t a coincidence.

So it was all a matter of playing the odds, really. Simply put guys in Tennessee were more appreciative of girls like me. I was never the kind who would order a salad only to proclaim “I’m full,” halfway through. I had no problems eating and drinking alongside the big boys, often throwing it down with good-humored contests that I generally always won… including wrestling matches and tickle fights.

I was in no way a dainty girly girl, and I liked it that way.

Despite being told by the media that I’d never get a date if I didn’t lose those pesky extra pounds, weight was never really a factor for me. I ditched trying to find happiness by the scale the very first time a man whistled at the way I wore my jeans. I never had any trouble getting any guy I wanted regardless of the size dress I wore.

The trick was actually finding one I wanted. I had been infatuated once or twice (I think) but lightning never really struck. So aside from some casual petting, kissing and one fairly extensive love affair my first year of college, my viewpoint on dating sort of mimicked my viewpoint on makeup. Too much hassle and not enough payoff.

So this afternoon with Iris was more for her than for me, or for any guy I was supposed to impress with the results.

The way I figured it, the right guy would like me for me, as is, anyway. Otherwise, what was the point?

The driver took me to a restaurant where I knew immediately I’d be deprived the Philly cheesesteak that I really wanted. Instead I was likely to be forced to sit in front of a skimpy meal I’d have to eat half of and proclaim, “I’m full,” to fit in with Iris and her ilk from The City.

Hopefully there would be time to stop off and get that cheesest
eak before the concert tonight.

Iris hopped out of her chair with an exuberant squeal the moment she saw me
stride across the room. “Andy!”

I walked into her full-bodied hug. No matter how big city she got there was just something wholesome and country about how Iris greeted people. Made me feel like home wherev
er it was we were in the world.

“God, I missed you,” she said in full twang, something she’d never really ditched from her days in Tennessee. She swore that the men in New York found it charming and endearing, but I’m sure that she meant on her. On Iris Kimble just about any trait was charming and endearing. “When are you moving to New York so I can hug you whenever I want to?”

I laughed. It had been a familiar refrain the last few years, one that no longer even really needed a response. I knew Iris was not hurting for friends, as evidenced by the beautiful blond woman sitting at the table, bestowing upon me a sunny smile. Iris broke apart to make the necessary introductions. “Andy, this is Alana Pendleton. She works with me at Schuster and Beckweth.”

Another publicist promised to make the day more interesting; I’d get to hear all the gossip that is not fit to print with no real outlet to
make money off of the endeavor.

At least not yet.

I reached out a hand, “Andy Foster,” I said as I sat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you finally,” Alana said with the same dazzling smile. “I’ve heard so many things about you from Iris.”

“Not everything,” Iris interjected. “I left out the stuff that was illegal, immoral and just plain fun.”

We all shared a laugh as a young, fit and beautiful boy brought us our menus. I cast a suspicious eye over the top of the page to my friend. “Vegan?” I asked my meat-loving friend. Iris Kimble happened to be the reigning champ at our local barbecue joint for four years running after scarfing the most ribs in a two-hour sitting.

She just laughed it off. “It’s not a lifestyle change,” she assured. “Alana’s a vegetarian and most guys in the band are either vegan or vegetarian, so…”

“When in Rome,” I concluded for her. I glanced over the menu and ordered what looked reasonably familiar. I never really met a vegetable I didn’t like so
it was calculated risk at best.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t join us last night,” Iris said as she handed over her menu to the waiter, along with her order. “The band was in rare form. This show is going to be a game-changer.”

I tried to feign indifference but that was impossible to do with Iris. Her bubbly enthusiasm was infectious, and quite simply I was curious. “How so?”

“I only got the biggest name in music to come down and check them out.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Jasper Carrington.”

Even I knew who that was, and I wasn’t in the biz like Iris or Alana. Jasper owned one of the biggest record labels in America, and his superstar wife had charted four top-ten singles in the last year alone. This was, indeed, a big deal. I was more grateful than ever that Iris thought to include me. If this band took off, my career as a freelance journalist could as well.

In entertainment it was all about hitching
your wagon to the right person.

I spent the entire lunch grilling Iris and Alana on things you couldn’t find out from a press release. Within an hour I knew how the band had met, where they had performed and how they even hit Iris’s radar at all.

Alana was the one who turned Iris onto Dreaming in Blue. She had fallen for the bassist, Iain Wallis, when he arrived in the States from England. Practically a Londoner herself, Alana knew Iain from his starving artist days in Camden. He moved to New York City in part to chase his dream but mostly to be near her, and their relationship hit overdrive since then.

Two months after he answered the ad for Dreaming in Blue, Alana took this fledgling band’s demo to Iris in part to help her boyfriend’s band get some exposure. Mostly she just believed in the music and the group of guys brought together to create it.

Iris was sold from the very first performance. The entire band was phenomenal, she guaranteed me, but it was Giovanni who would sell the music on a national level. Alana agreed, though not dismissing her boyfriend’s contribution at all. She could understand why someone like Vanni, as they both called him, would give them international exposure and acclaim.

“He’s a star,” Iris concluded. “Women fall in love with him and men want to be him. It’s the perfect combination… with the talent to back it up, of course,” she sent a smi
le to Alana, who simply nodded.

She believed in Iain’s talent, but again – it’s whose wagon you’re hitched to. She was savvy enough to know what his
best chances for success were.

“Okay, I’m sold,” I said as I tossed my napkin onto my empty plate. Surprisingly, even with the absence of animal fat, the meal was quite good. “Let the torture commence.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent driving around Philadelphia, in and out of several boutiques where Iris insisted upon trying to makeover my wardrobe. I held her off as best I could; I knew at this rate she’d have me purchasing luggage that I would have to check at the airport for the trip back home. I finally caved on some sexy black leather boots and a lace top which showed a lot of cleavage I typically did not break out until such an occasion called for it.

I had two lethal weapons in my physical attraction arsenal, one of which was cl
eavage that could stop a clock.

I used it with the kind of caution that kind of weapon demanded.

It was during the makeover that Iris made sure the other weapon, my half-green, half-brown hazel eyes, were shown to perfection under a glimmering gold dusting of powder with golden brown liner.

I looked, and
felt, sexier than I ever had.

Iris truly was magical.

By the time we got to the club I felt as though I fit in with all the rocker babes who had turned out for the concert. They were in equally boob-enhancing outfits, or tight rocker T-shirts, with tight jeans and heels and hair teased to the ceiling. For a moment I wondered if I had stepped back in time, but then I remembered that Dreaming in Blue was mostly a cover band for 80s metal and 70s glam rock.

They had a table set aside for Alana and Iris up in the balcony, but the girls insisted that I see the band the way the fans do – down in front. We wedged ourselves in between the squirmy, wiggling bodies to get down by the stage. The music was already so loud in the joint that it made my ribcage rattle, but in a way it was exciting to hear that primal be
at thunder from the inside out.

Iris glanced overhead at the balcony and prodded both of us to see that Jasper was taking his spot unnoticed by the fray. I couldn’t hear a word she was saying but I knew my best friend was squealing in her excitement. This was
it
.

I hoped for everyone’s sake she was right.

The lights dropped in the club and I could hear the bass thunder out a beat accompanied by the drums. That was Iain, of course, and Felix Soto – a name I remembered because it was so rock sounding and cool. They hammered out an extended intro of the song I immediately recognized as a classic metal tune from the 1980s.

The music hit all senses like a frontal attack, with swirling lights overhead to match the frantic beat which built up the anticipation. By the time Giovanni launched into his vocal, I was screaming to see him too though I really didn’t even know why, other than they had hidden him from view for most of the intro. Shrewd, I thought briefly, as my eyes scanned the darkened stage to see him for the first time.

He didn’t jump out of the shadows until the chorus, which he nailed vocally with a pitch-perfect wail that would have made Bruce Dickinson proud. He stood almost right in front of me, screeching into his microphone with his eyes closed, allowing me carte blanche to inspect him head to toe – which you really couldn’t avoid doing because he was only half-clothed.

He wore skin-tight leather pants that nearly showed me what religion he was, but no shirt to cover his six-pack abs he no doubt did a thousand crunches – upside down – to maintain. His skin was tanned and golden, and his long brown hair fell like molten chocolate halfway down his back. He shook that mane full of crazy waves around his head and across his bare shoulders while he clomped around in heavy biker boots. Chains dangled from his belt loops, and he wore leather cuff bracelets on either wrist, with silver rings on each finger and nails painted black.

Never one to fit in the pack I was totally digging his alternative look, which made him seem like a taller, more muscular, Italian version of Criss Angel.

His eyes were rimmed with dark eyeliner, which made their dark intensity even more striking when he stared out into the crowed. I was both begging to look into them and afraid to be caught in their snare as I saw lesser females ar
ound me wilt under their power.

But it was his voice coupled with his Robert Plant/rock god persona that really sealed the deal for me. Music was his foreplay, and I was powerless to stop the seduction the minute he opened his mouth and pure velvet poured forth. When he sang a 70s hit about making love, I understood why women used to throw their underwear onst
age during a Tom Jones concert.

Giovanni was pure sex.

Ever masterful in this art he sang that verse to every girl in the front row, standing over each of them with his thumb hooked to his belt loop, drawing attention to the promise of the bulge in his pants. When it came my turn and my eyes finally met his for the first time, my knees nearly buckled. Those brown eyes engulfed me with an intimacy so strong it was as if we were the only two people in the room even after he went on to sing to the next girl.

Iris nudged me with a knowing smile. Now I understood. This was the seductive power that was going to make Giovanni Carnevale and Dreaming in Blue stars.

They finished their set with an ode to girls with substantial backsides, which I found both ironic and promising.  He sang the song with particular gusto, though he did not make eye contact with the girl with the fattest bottom on the front row. I know because I was waiting for it.