I had gone backstage, armed with the pass John had given to Rich to give to me, and looked around for the guys. John dropped a terrycloth towel on a chair when I found him. Nick, in an attempt to look inconspicious I guess, had grabbed a fedora that looked 2 sizes too big (John's, I guessed).

"Charley, Rog, and Andy went ahead to the club with Paul and Michael," John explained, putting on a dark-colored blazer. "So it's just me, you, and Nick."

My stomach turned. I wasn't a big people person usually. Music yes, but a club? "We're going to a club...?"

Nick patted me on the shoulder, as we headed out into the night. "Believe me, I'm not big on clubs either."

Slightly relieved, we got into the limousine. I settled into the cushions, leaning on one of John's shoulders. Both of them looked tired. I couldn't imagine why they wanted to go to the club, when they probably should have gone back to the hotel and slept. I myself rubbed my eyes, and John wrapped his arms around me protectively.

"You don't like clubs?" John said, bemused. "It's funny, when I'm away from home, I'm clubbing all the time with the other guys. But when I'm at home, I'm the biggest homebody."

"I don't know the people, so I get uncomfortable," I explained, "but I guess if I hang with you guys it shouldn't be a problem."

Nick rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, whatever you do, don't lose sight of me or John. I'm afraid you're going to get eaten up by the crowd! Besides, I'm sure we know more people than you do, and in that sort of crowd, you can't go wrong with having celebrity."

I laughed, sort of. "Okay, good point."

"And if you run into any problems, head back to the hotel."

"Okay."

The flashing bright lights mixed with semi-darkness beckoned. Some people in front of the club started freaking - they recognized these guys with no problem. Inwardly I groaned. Oh brother.

Luckily, one of the bouncers was expecting them, and so a big burly guy whisked us inside. Nick was eager to meet up with Andy Warhol and Stephen Sprouse. John said all he wanted was a drink and a good vantage point to people-watch. Roger and Andy waved from the bar, each with drink in hand, and Simon (the lady-killer, always) was out on the floor trying to pick up girls. Typical!

I ordered a Zombie, and after Nick had disappeared to find Andy Warhol, John had ordered a drink as well, and pulled out a pack of Kent cigarettes.

"You should quit," I chided him, as he pulled out a cigarette, and slipped his lighter out of his jacket pocket. "You really should. It's not good for your throat."

He smiled, lighting it. "What are you, Grace, my mother? I know. I *should* but I just can't go cold turkey." Picking up his drink with his free hand, he gestured for us to sit at the bar. Actually, I really didn't want to sit there - there was a steady line of people coming off the dance floor, and people just entering the club that were coming in this direction to get drinks. Obviously.

John looked to be in his own world, drowning himself in drinks, and smoking those stupid cigarettes. He said he wanted to look for someone, so he left me at the bar for a while. I tapped my feet uncomfortably, waiting for him.

A slightly drunk man, probably around my age, possibly younger, approached me. "Hey baby, wanta spin on the dance floor?" he said, slightly dizzily. I shook my head resolutely.

"No thanks."

"Aw, come on. Just one dance."

"Again, *no thank you*."

He grabbed my arm and tried to drag me off to dance, but being of sane mind and body with only one drink, I shook him off.

Where the hell did John go? He told me he'd take care of me. Now he'd disappeared. If I can't find him, I'll just find Nick. He said he'd be easy to find if he and Andy were off talking somewhere. Scanning the crowd, there was no sign of John on the dance floor. I almost lost hope, when I found him on the other end of the bar.

Something was up with him. I couldn't put my finger on it but it concerned me greatly. A second ago, he was an exhausted mess in the car, and now he looked like the life of the party. I suppose he knew it too - a sizeable crowd of prettily dressed gals surrounded him, and there was a pile of empty glasses in front of him.

He was obviously drunk. Not being used to the sight of John Taylor being stinking drunk, I called out, "John?"

"Huh?" John said, looking around. "John? John who?" He started laughing like it was the biggest joke in the world, and the girls around him joined him.

I tried to get through this mass of females, to no avail, getting mean looks from the lot of them. This is so infuriating! Here I was, trying to spend some time with the guy I loved, and he was making a fool out of himself with the female population of New York City! I was not a happy camper. Finally, after elbowing two blondes and a brunette, I sat down next to John. "John, look at me," I said to him.

It was almost completely useless. "What?" he said, almost too loudly. I knew his senses were shot, he needed to get out of here before he started carrying on.

"John, I'm leaving. And I'm taking you with me," I said, putting my foot down, trying to pull his arm off the bar. "You've had enough to drink and that's final."

He picked up a half-full glass of alcohol. "You're not taking me anywhere," he slurred, "I'm staying right here with my new...friends." Some of the girls nodded with approval. This is hopeless!

I got up, thoroughly disgusted. "I'm going to find Nick. Maybe he can take me back to the hotel."

"Fine," John said, turning his back on me. I wanted to cry then and there. John - he who I was enamored with - when he was drunk...

he was a monster.

Despairingly I searched the club from top to bottom for Nick. I asked someone where Andy Warhol was - and the clubgoer pointed me to a separate alcove. Nick and Andy looked like they were in deep conversation and I hated to interrupt them, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

By this time, the cigarette smoke (and lord knows what else was wafting in the air) had gotten to me, and being distraught about John talking trash to me, the tears were now flowing freely down my cheeks. I was tired, hurt, and all I wanted was to go back to the hotel and forget the scene at the bar.

Nick picked up on this. "Gracie, what's wrong? What happened?" he said, interrupting their conversation, getting up from the sofa and comforting me with a hug. "Where's John?"

I hiccuped between the tears. "He's getting drunk down there, with a bevy of girls," I said, crying into his shoulder. "I've never seen him so hostile, and so distant at the same time. He's drinking himself to death, Nick. I'm worried."

Rubbing my shoulders, he asked, "oh God, what did he do to you?"

"Basically he was a raving drunk lunatic. I don't know what's gotten into him."

He apologized to Andy for leaving so soon - I felt bad for interrupting, but Nick waved it off, taking my hand.

"Gracie, we are going back to the hotel *now* - I don't care what John says or does."

We went down the stairs to the main floor of the club, with Nick trying to get to John.

"John Taylor, I won't stand for this. You have some apologizing to do to Grace. She came all this way for *you* and you don't even care about anything but getting drunk," Nick said, noticeably upset. Probably the first time I saw Nick ever get angry at John. Nick was quiet but when he was upset - he got *really* upset.

John swung his hand around, as if he wanted to start a fight. I gasped. The last thing I wanted to do was have John going at it with Nick in the middle of the club. Nick raised his hands to protect himself, and I hoped to God that John wouldn't do anything he'd regret. John is a lot taller than Nick, and he has a lot more upper body strength than Nick does, I think he's at least 4 or 5 inches taller than him.

"Taylor, you're not even worth it. If you ever pull this stunt again..." Nick said warningly, John going back to smoking and his drink. Nick gruffly took my hand, and we went out to one of the waiting limousines. In the car, I was shaking violently, because it was cold, and I was so disturbed by the way John was acting under the influence of alcohol.

I was still crying a little, but Nick held me in his arms. "Nick, why does he do this to himself?" I sobbed, unceremoniously staining Nick's shoulder with my tears.

He shook his head. "I don't know. But this isn't the worse of it. The worst I've seen him, when someone offers him coke. He won't sleep for days."

"Coke?"

"Coke...cocaine. It's one of those new fashionable drugs."

"Oh God..."

"I usually keep tabs on him, or get one of the other guys to...but sometimes it's just too hard when too many people are around," Nick said apologetically. "I was hoping that if you came to see us, he'd clean up his act. Apparently I was mistaken. Sorely mistaken."