Sin Delicious

Chapter Three-3

His wife was with him that first night as always, stuck fast to his side, very pretty and with gorgeous hair, but perhaps a bit falsely top-heavy for her frame. Despite having her in tow he was still fine to approach a group containing a fox like me because Skellz was also there and the two of them went way back, the latter being part of the Thunderhed road crew when they first toured. Everyone knows everyone. That’s how this thing works. It’s all one big family, with each member loved like a sibling, regardless of rank. They might annoy the living s**t out of you for the vast proportion of any day but they will still get your unconditional support even if you can’t work out why you are giving it.

I, for instance, was introduced by Skellz – a man to whom I had denied s****l favours to the point of kicking him in the head – as a “top photographer/journo-babe” sent by the record company, with Access All Areas. Perhaps he just assumed this to be true, or perhaps he didn’t want to describe me as the freeloader I essentially was, and risk getting me ejected from the tour. I had once assaulted this man in the face but he still had my back.

“Dude, this is The Fridge,” said Skellz to Cas, jerking his thumb in my direction. “She’s, like, a ninja lesbo.”

“Wow,” the singer replied, without demanding further details. “I’ve always wanted to meet one of them.”

He actually offered his hand to shake, which threw me a little. Not a high-five or one of them raised hand, thumb clutches that rappers give each other, but an old-fashioned palm extended shake, and not too firm either. It seemed surprisingly gentlemanly for a fellow not wearing a shirt. His missus offered me the same too – presumably happy to communicate with me now she had ascertained that my lesbo ways were no threat to her territory. Her grip was firmer than his, just a gentle warning since her smile seemed so genuinely warm, and as she let go she bent one finger in, allowing the nail to gently tickle my palm, sending a little pleasant shiver through me. It was intentional – like a secret Masonic handshake but for players, to let one know that if any s****l favours were required, then please make free to give her a call. It was rather thrilling, as it goes.

“Actually, my name is Willow,” I informed them all. I didn’t refute anything else that Skellz had said, about why I was here and who had sent me. It was good to feel like an important member of the team. I didn’t even put them straight on the lesbian thing, even though I’m pretty sure I’m not one. Not entirely, anyway.

“So who are you riding with, Willow?” came the slow drawl again. It was a loose phrase, a roundabout way of finding out if I had any particular affiliations or bed mates.

“Mainly with Sindee,” I replied and – pow! – I saw it. I say ‘pow’ but actually his reaction was little more than a blink and a slight twitch of the lips. It was like the name had given him the tiniest slap across the face. I had it down as the flickering reaction of a man who had fantasised about the girl in question and had a flash of guilt, before realising that his wife was no mind-reader and couldn’t tell. It was only retrospectively that the full significance dawned on me.

Fast forward to tonight and find us at another post-gig stimulant-fuelled gathering, trying to channel the surge of adrenaline that these shows bring, trying to fit a party into the precious time before the roadies packed up and saw us all back on the bus again. The flirty looks between them had been noted but there was still was no suggestion that closer contact was anything other than fleeting. For the most part Thunderhed were on their bus or in their hotel, and we were in ours. The paths crossed but it was groups that formed. Seldom was he allowed to fly solo in places where females could strike. Mrs Casanove was always by his side. There she was tonight, a huge white smile on, chatting to someone else but leaning back into him, keeping in close contact almost as if to prevent any sneaky b***h from whipping him away whilst her back was turned.

I had been playing with my camera, pretending to be at the ready in case anything rude occurred. Sindee was a few feet from my side, trying to encourage an anonymous record company lackey to drink two martinis at once through his nostrils. Lord knows what she had planned for the olives. I idly took the shot of the wife because she was there in front of me, looking flirty and sexy, and I wanted to record the ‘hands off my man’ body language. Studying the shot afterwards I saw it. I zoomed in and it became plainer. It was just a fraction of a second in time caught: Mr Casanove the married rock star captured with his eyes fixed ahead on Miss Sindee Liscious.

It is not a look of greedy wanting. You have to look close to spot anything at all. It is an instant of panicked, almost painful yearning, when his body realised that no contact, no closeness with this girl would ever be enough. There was more captured in that single frame than just him seeing her and an appreciation of aesthetics. There were other invisible forces at work between them as well, still effective at a distance of twenty paces, changing the chemicals in his body, aligning him to her, triggering nature’s urge to drive him her way. That impulse would only grow, never patient and metered but always pressing, hitting you all at once like a missile. It is biology’s way of ensuring that you don’t stop at fondness and cuddling but are driven hungrily onwards, wanting to possess them, devour them. Nature doesn’t just want you near to them; it wants you inside them, or to have them inside you. In short, this photo I can’t stop studying has captured the moment Cas Casanove truly fell in love with Sindee.

The pressure of his wife at his side should have been enough to force these feelings away but nature has other tricks up her sleeve too, meaning that once bitten you can’t easily escape. From that moment on your perceptions are bent so that everything the new apple of your eye does becomes mesmerising, every flaw heart-achingly perfect. I know this because by the end of the first day shared with Elowen I was already sure that no moment without her would mean anything but agony. I see in that frame the same fleeting expression I know was on my face that day. It is all the bliss and closeness you wanted to share with that person from now until forever going off inside you in a single burst. It is the panic from knowing you will never be able to fuse into that person the way the chemicals in your body demand.

It seems odd that a boozing, brawling, hard-bitten son of a gun like Cas Casanove could go all swoony over a lady. However, strip away all the excess and nonsense and it seems he is no different to anybody else: sent all soppy and flustered and over a barrel by those urges to procreate and nest that we call love. The biggest irony is that half his songs seem to concern heartbreaks caused by devil bitches, and if ever there was a rollicking minx who could splice your blood-pumper in two with a single blow it was Sindee. I feel his pain on that score. I feel his pain in general. These urges can strike at any moment, without caring to discuss with Fate first whether or not it is fair upon you. That’s what made me study the photo so long and hard and keeps me coming back to it: leaning against him is his gorgeous, sexy Playboy model wife, but that expression of helpless love on his face is aimed at someone else.

The tour bus trundles on in the darkness, the low tyre rumble accompanied by the tinny sound of music played through headphones. Sindee next to me nestles further into my shoulder. She is wearing Loverdose. Elowen used to wear it when it first came out and I thought she always smelled divine. I could’ve happily breathed her in all day. I could have bought her the Tattoo version if we were still together today, and how apt that would have been. Sindee, I remember, also commented on how nice it was that first day the three of us met up. When she called on me to design some costumes for her she had taken to wearing it. It was different on her but still close enough to spark sense memories that fortunately gave only comfort, rather than aching nostalgia. I doubt this is why Sindee wore it – I imagine she just liked the fragrance – but if this was her intention then she is an even sweeter girl than I already believe her to be.

She smiles and whispers something in her sleep, and finds my hand and clasps it. She likes to hold my hand. She likes to kiss me too. Sometimes we end up alone together and we kiss. It is all we do, despite what everyone thinks. I know she wants do to more than kiss but she never does. She knows I want to do more but she also knows I’m still too fragile for that, so all she does is kiss me and hold me and bring me back some tenderness and sanity. I’m falling for her. I keep trying to stop myself because she has Elowen Mk II stamped all over her and I know I couldn’t handle that heartbreak again. The trouble is she is just too infectious.

I think it is because I get to see her in the quiet times. When she is partying and fooling around she is hilarious. When she is being naughty she is the most irresistible thing on two legs. I love her strength. I love the sexiness that has everyone swooning to the point where she can say or do whatever she wants. I love the fact that she can look at life without fear, and that anything she does, however daring or rude, can only bring her more strength. I used to think I was every bit as fearless but one single instance saw right through me and left me without a shield. Her sensual extroversion both delights and frightens me. I want her to cavort shamelessly because it reminds me of what I might have been, but at the same time I worry it must surely go too far. With all her mystery gone, the desire for her will disappear too. I would hate anyone to think of her as anything other than wonderful.

Sometimes, when she is in full flight, I want to gather her up and spirit her away. You see, when she is all alone with you, just tranquil and relaxed, that is when she is really beautiful. I try to always see this side of her, whatever antics she is up to. That time I took photos of her on her knees, sucking the stiff c***s of the All Star’s bassist and lead singer, alternating between them, it wasn’t her mouth that had my heart going and my thighs squeezing together. It wasn’t those fingers with their painted nails, lightly resting on bare hairy thighs and still gripping a just-lit cigarette. It was her eyes, closed but not tightly, just like they are when she is asleep. She looked angelic – until, obviously, you got down to the mouth. She looked serene and I think that is all I have wanted for her: some peace and gentle happiness away from the crescendo. I am beginning to fear that she can’t possibly outlast all of this to find some.