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devastation 1986
The fans themselves were a rainbow. Spiked hair, razor cuts, flowing
manes. The style now was no style at all. Dress ranged from torn jeans
to three-piece suits. A good number of the people jostling for s.p.a.ce
were her father's age and older. Doctors, dentists, executives who had
grown up on rock and roll and shared the legacy with their children.
There were schoolchildren, toddlers carried on shoulders, women wearing
pearls with their daughters clutching newly purchased screen-printed
T-s.h.i.+rts. And, like an echo of the sixties, there was the faint but
unmistakable aroma of pot to mix with the fragrance of Chanel or Brut.
She wandered away, moving slowly through the crowd. The pa.s.s clamped to
the second b.u.t.ton of her jumpsuit had security giving her the nod to go
backstage.
If it was a madhouse out front, it was only madder back here. A faulty
amp, another coil of cable, a frantic roadie rus.h.i.+ng in and out,
desperate to fix the last of the inevitable glitches. She took her
shots, then leaving the technicians and grips to do their job, she
headed toward the dressing rooms to do hers.
She wanted pictures, like the ones she remembered so well in her mind.
Dad and the others sprawled around a dressing room, chainsmoking,
joking, popping gumdrops or sugared almonds. She was just beginning to
smile at the thought when she all but ran into Drew. It was almost as
if he'd been waiting for her.
"h.e.l.lo again."
"Hi." She smiled, nervously adjusting the strap of her camera. "I
wanted to thank you for the present."
"I thought of roses, but it was too late." He stood back. "You look
incredible."
"Thanks." Struggling to steady her breath, she took her own survey. He
was dressed for the stage in snug white leather studded with silver.
Boots of the same style and color came halfway to his knees. With his
hair tousled and the half-smile on his face, he made Emma think of a
smartly dressed cowboy.
"So do you," she managed when she realized hbw long she'd been staring.
"Look incredible."
"We want to make a splash." He rubbed his palms on the thigh of
his pants. "All of us are half sick with nerves. Don-the ba.s.s
playerhe's all the way sick. Got his head in the john next door."
"Dad always says you perform better when you're nervous."
"Then we ought to be a h.e.l.l of a smash." Tentatively, he took her hand.
"Listen, have you thought about maybe going out after, having a drink?"
She had thought of nothing else. "Actually, I-"
"I'm pus.h.i.+ng." Drew let out a long breath. "I can't help it. As soon
as I saw you-it was like, wow, there she is." He dragged a hand through
his carefully mussed and moussed hair. "I'm not doing this very well."
"Aren't you?" She wondered that he couldn't hear her heart thudding
against her ribs.
"No." He took her hand. "Let me put it this way. Emma, save my life.
Spend an hour with me."
Her lip curved slowly until the dimple winked at the corner of her
