By: Lauren N. Martin

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Christina wishes herself back to the ‘70s and meets famous rock star Jones Aimes. She struggles with reality and her dream. Jones struggles with his past and his need to meet Astra Lai again, the mysterious woman who literally changed his life.

* * * * *

The night had fast crawled to morning, and the floor was littered with bottles of Blackberry wine and vodka, the two signature drinks of girl’s night out. Lounging on the couch was Jennifer Cordial; the arm chair was occupied by Rachel Olive; and the floor had three scattered, drunk women known as Trina Aaron, Denny Crait, and Christina Boone.

“If you could have one wish granted,” Jennifer slurred as she took a sip of her drink, “what would it be?”

“That men could feel the pain of childbirth,” Trina groaned, earning laughter from her former Troika Sorority sisters. (At least, the only sisters she was still friends with.)

“Or menstrual cramps,” Christina threw in. The wine had made her feel pleasantly warm and easy going. Joking around with her friends in the lazy evening was comforting and peaceful, she reflected as she laid her head on the edge of the couch and fluttered her eyes, working to keep them open.

Trina lifted her head and raised her eyebrows at Christina. “When you have your first kid, you’ll agree that cramps won’t even begin to make men pay for us bearing their children.”

“I wish I could lose thirty pounds,” Denny said as she speculatively looked down at her somewhat chubby stomach. “But maybe not. Then men would be encouraged to try and impregnate me.”

“Thirty, Denny?” Christina shook her head. “If you get me to admit that you should lose any weight at all - which I don’t think you should - then I’d give you about ten. Thirty is way too much.”

“Yeah,” Jennifer agreed, sloshing her drink and dropping the glass on the floor. When it shattered, she curled up in a ball of laughter.

“I wish . . .” Christina looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully when the laughter from Jennifer’s clumsiness died out.

“Don’t even,” Rachel said, speaking for the first time with a low drawl that indicated she hadn’t had quite as much to drink as her friends. “We all know that you’ll wish you could meet Jones Aimes.”

“Have hot monkey sex with Aimes,” Denny chipped in.

“Little babies and lovey dovey poems,” Jennifer said.

“Oh, please.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t want poems - she’d want him to write a song about her. Isn’t that right, Chris?”

Christina rested against the arm of the couch and smiled. “Sorry, what? I got lost after the hot monkey sex line.” When her friends had finished their giggling at a joke decidedly unfunny, Christina admitted, “Nah. I wish . . . that I could go back to the ‘70s and just . . . meet him, y’know? Meet him when he was at his prime, on top of the world.”

“You mean when he wore jumpsuits and dyed his hair a different color every show?” Jennifer asked dryly.

“That would be the era I’m looking for.”

“Oh, yeah. When groupies flocked? Conveniently right after he divorced his first wife?”

Christina laughed. “Wouldn’t hurt. Now quit teasing and answer your wishes.”

“Well, if Chris gets Aimes, I call Robert Redford,” Jennifer said quickly.

Denny pretended to gag. “You can have him. He’s a little old for my tastes.”

“Hey! Aimes is twice Christina’s age.”

“Mmm . . . yeah, but he’s still kicking.”

“So is Robert Redford.”

“I wish you guys would shut up,” Rachel murmured, closing her eyes again and letting her head fall back on the chair.

“I wish I could just go to sleep,” Trina said.

“You already got a wish,” Christina pointed out, joining the banter she and her friends were famous for.

“Then I take that one back. Sleeping is more important than men having babies.”

Christina used the arm of the couch to push herself up and stood unsteadily. “I call the bed.”

Denny was already stretching out on the floor, carefully avoiding the glass Jennifer had broken. “I can’t even move.”

Trina held out an arm, and Christina helped her up. “I’m taking my bed. You can have Carol’s bed,” she informed Christina, referring to her eight-year-old daughter.

“If I pushed you right now, would you be able to get back up?” Christina teased, pretending to look at Trina speculatively.

“Don’t even try it.”

“Night, gals!” Christina shouted out, waving a hand around and almost losing her balance. “Pleasant dreams.”

“Shut up!” Rachel snapped. “I hope you have the worst hangover tomorrow.”

Christina grinned sloppily at Trina, and they headed to separate rooms in the house. “Hey, Trina?”

“Yeah?”

“Jones Aimes really is hot for an old guy.”

Trina laughed and shook her head, opening her bedroom door and disappearing.

Christina grinned back at her and went into Carol’s too-pink room. There were ruffles and unicorns and all of the girly things Christina had never wanted as a child and disliked even more as an adult. But because she was half-drunk, Christina barely noticed. She managed to stumble to the bed and collapse on top of it, but pulling the covers up was entirely too much to ask.

Another few minutes of shifting, and Christina’s snores joined the rest of her friends’ in the house.

* * * * *

Christina opened her eyes, seemingly a split second later, and found herself sitting on a sofa in a strange room she’d never seen before in her life. There was the sound of yelling and hustling behind the door, and she was just about to get up and see what was going on and demand where she was when the door opened and a short woman smoking a cigarette entered. “Who’re you?”

“Me?”

“Who else? The couch?” The woman snapped her fingers. “That’s righ‘. You must be here to interview Jones. Come on.”

Christina crinkled her brow in confusion and followed the woman. “Jones?”

“Oh, sorry. Jones Aimes. I call ‘im Jones; the public calls ‘im Aimes. If I were you, I’d call ‘im Jones, too. He don’t like being referred to by ‘is surname.” The woman turned again. “Eh, but you’re with the press. He prob’ly won’t mind what ya call ‘im long’s you give ‘im a good review!”

Christina’s jaw had continued to lower, but when the woman led her to a door with “Jones Aimes” in large print across the front, her brain stopped functioning altogether. The woman opened the door and shoved her inside. “Got a journalist for ya, Jones.”

Christina’s eyes bulged out when the purple-haired man turned around to reveal a thirty-year-less Jones Aimes, face smooth from wrinkles, eyes bright with youth . . . and a slightly miffed expression. “Don’t just barge in my room like that, Mib.”

“Sorry, darling. Thought you’d get ‘er in before the show and take ‘er out for drinks,” Mib said, winking though Christina wasn’t sure why.

Jones looked at Christina strangely. “What’s your name?”

Christina felt her mouth moving wordlessly, and it was a good thing her mind was too numb to tell her how she stupid she was.

Mib laughed. “Look what we’ve got! Another infatuated young girl. ‘Haps I picked up a groupie instead of a reporter?”

“N-no,” Christina said quickly. “I-I’m Astra . . . Astra Lai.” At least her brain was starting to work again. If she’d said her name was Christina Boone, she would have died of humiliation. One thing she hated her parents for was giving her such a mundane name.

“Don’t sound like a real name to me,” Mib said, shrugging. “Just get on with the interview, then.”

“I’m putting on my makeup,” Jones said, annoyed. “Get out, Mib, before I fire you.”

“Likely story, Jones.” Mib went and rubbed his head affectionately, knocking off the wig. “Whoops! See you two later, kids.”

Christina snorted at his wig falling to the floor, and he picked it up quickly. “Sorry about that. She’s a bit too affectionate at times.”

“Why don’t you have someone in here to do your makeup for you? Surely you have the money.”

“I don’t like other people doing my makeup. Makes me feel girly.” Jones grinned at her, and Christina felt her heart jump. Okay, thirty years, without the lines on his face . . . he certainly was a lot hotter.

“I-I suppose that sounds, er, correct.” Christina winced at the stupidity of her own voice. Why couldn’t she be one of those people who was in total control of every situation - like Jones himself, standing there with a cool smile.

“Sit down, and I’ll get you a drink,” Jones said, obviously sensing her discomfort. “Is this your first time doing an interview?”

“Um . . . yes. I-I’m a bit light-headed.”

“That’s something the Scotch will enhance.” Jones poured two drinks at a mini bar set up in a corner of the room and went to sit next to her. “I think we have about twenty minutes to talk. That all right?”

Christina nodded and raked her mind for a question that sounded professional. “What’s your favorite song of yours?”

Jones cocked his head. “I’ve got quite a few, but I think ‘Rocky Sky’ is my favorite.” He looked at her for a moment as if trying to decide something. “Do you know what it’s about?”

Christina smiled broadly at him. ‘Rocky Sky’ was her favorite glam-era song. “Of course! It’s about . . . loneliness. About knowing too much and everyone around you trying to convince you life is sugar coated when really it’s just a load of lies and crap.”

Jones’ face broke out in a smile. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. I like you, Astra. Most people think ‘Rocky Sky’ is a bunch of nonsense words thrown together with a catchy tune.”

“I thought that at first, but then one day I was listening to the words and . . . it just hit me,” Christina said. “It’s definitely in my top five favorite of yours, but I think the best is ‘Trinkets.’ “

“Really, now?” Jones creased his eyebrows together. “Are you sure you have the right person? I don’t recall writing a song called ‘Trinkets.’ “

Oh, shit. “What year is it?” Christina asked.

“Seventy-six. What were you smoking before you came in here?” Jones teased.

“I’m sorry that I’m a bit disoriented. I had a few drinks before I got here to, you know, ease my nerves,” Christina said, hoping that had covered up her blunder. If she remembered correctly, ‘Trinkets’ had been written in the early ‘80s. In other words, it hadn’t happened yet according to this Jones.

“You’re attracted to me, aren’t you?”

Christina was so thrown by the abrupt change of subject that she couldn’t think of a proper reply.

“That’s what I thought.” Jones looked at the door, and his voice grew softer. “Mib likes to tease about groupies, but I’m not into that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Well, not anymore. Not since me and Katie broke up. Should have been that way during our marriage, but there’s no looking back now, I s’pose.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because most women who come in here with their blushes and heated looks expect me to sleep with them, and I like to set the story straight beforehand.”

“I-I never expected that!” Christina stuttered, embarrassed that he was talking so bluntly. “Well, I can’t say I would have minded, but there are no ulterior motives in this interview. And . . . no bad reviews just because you don’t give me a little roll in the hay.”

“I’m starting to like you more and more, Astra. More Scotch?”

“Any more and I won’t be able to walk,” Christina admitted. Being this close to Jones Aimes was more than just affecting.

“All right. I probably shouldn’t have anymore either. Don’t reporters normally have a notepad or something?”

“Um . . . I have a good memory,” Christina lied quickly. Well, she’d better get a good memory, because there was no way she could ever forget this dream. “What music do you have in store for us within the next few years?”

“I have a few songs that are similar to my last record, but the rest are something a little different. I’m venturing into drama rather than the usual fun songs I write.”

“Your heartfelt songs are always the best, but I don’t mind dancing around the living room to your early ‘70s stuff.”

“Dancing around the living room? That I’d like to see.”

Christina laughed, embarrassed. “You’re very nice for a rock star, you know.”

“Well you are certainly very nice for a female reporter with no ulterior motives.”

“Funny, too. I’m assuming there’s charm in there also?”

“I do try to bring it out every once in awhile; keeps the dust from collecting.”

“Well, you’re certainly a package, Jones.”

“I’m assuming this means I get a good review?”

“Certainly.” Christina smiled. “Next question, then. Why did you and Katie really break up?”

“Ah-ah. I don’t like to get into that with the press.” Jones shook his head. “I’ll stick with my completely unoriginal answer that we just parted ways.”

“What if I said this was off the record?”

“Off the record?” Jones contemplated. “Well, then it would have to be because of the many women I took advantage of while on tour.”

“Took advantage of?”

“Young souls just looking for a piece of their favorite rock star. They wanted a place in my life, even if just for a few minutes, and it wasn’t right of me to grant them that access.”

Christina found herself impressed by his regret. Along with the rest of America, she’d assumed they’d divorced because of his taste in groupies, but she didn’t know he felt this way. She smiled slightly. Though she didn’t know Jones personally, she knew him through his songs, and it shouldn’t have surprised her so much.

“Where do you see yourself in thirty years?”

“Thirty years?” Jones let out a deep breath. “That’s a long time away. Er . . . I think I’ll still be singing. Can’t imagine myself not singing. And if I’m confined to singing in my shower, then I’ll still be writing songs for new musicians. Or just for myself. Hope I don’t lose all my money by then. I’m getting accustomed to my castle in Europe.”

“Castle?” Christina teased.

“Okay, not a castle,” Jones admitted sheepishly. “But when you see the home I grew up in, you’ll know why I call it a castle.”

Christina laughed again. The Scotch and Jones’ hypnotic voice had both warmed her, and she felt much more comfortable in the still room. “Why do you wear a different colored wig every show?”

“So that I can stay original. Know of anyone else who dyes their hair for every show?” He winked when she shook her head. “Exactly, luv. In the age of glitter and dance, you’ve got to keep your toe in the door of originality.”

“Everyone says you’re at a creative prime right now and once it’s over you won’t be able to top it again. Do you believe this?”

“Is that a trick question? If I answer yes, I appear arrogant. If I answer no, I appear looking for sympathy.”

“Fair enough. Why do you think you’re so creative right now?”

Jones laughed. “That’s easy. Half the time when I write I’m just coming off a high. That’s the best time to write sad songs. And when I’m on a high, that’s the best time to write fun little ditties.”

Christina raised her eyes to meet his again. “Cocaine?” She, along with everyone else who ever researched Aimes, knew about the drug abuse throughout his career.

“I‘m sure you already knew that,” Jones said, waving off her question. “You know that every rock artist today snorts a little. I doubt the police will get on my back about it. I’d just offer them an autograph.”

“Think that would work?”

“Certainly. Or maybe I could just offer them a straw.”

“You speak so frankly of it,” Christina commented, amazed at how easy-going and open he was.

“You’ve lived a sheltered life, haven’t you, Astra? Not quite living up to your misleading name.”

“And what does my name lead one to believe?”

“When I hear Astra Lai, I think . . . experienced women. It’s got as much glamour as my shows, as much glitter as this disgusting suit I’m wearing.”

“So you don’t like the suits? I think they’re quite charming.”

Jones quirked his mouth. “Do you? My first problem is that they’re cat suits for men. My second is all the brightness and glitter. But . . . it’s what I have to do. Like I said, originality is what I seek. Right now it isn’t as much about the music as it is about the appearance, about the entertainment. First and foremost I’m a singer and songwriter, but until the world respects me for just being that, I’m also an entertainer.”

Christina felt like she was going to faint right then and there. “I see you’ve got intelligence, too.”

“For a boy who flunked out of grade school, I can tell you it’s not so much intelligence as awareness. I’m more aware-”

“You’re the little boy in ‘Rocky Sky,’ aren’t you?” Christina interrupted suddenly, putting it together. A glimmer of hope lighted in her heart. She had always felt kinship to the song, to the boy portrayed in it.

“Is it really so shocking that I would write a song about my own experiences?” Jones sighed. “That’s why I always ask people what the song means. I decide with their answer whether or not they’re worth getting to know.”

“Have I been worth getting to know?” Christina asked timidly, biting her lip in anticipation of his answer.

“You’ve been a great enjoyment, Astra.” Jones stood up and went to the mirror. He pulled out an eyeliner pencil and stroked underneath his eyes. “Would you like to stand by the curtain and watch me perform up close and personal?”

“I’d love to!” Christina gasped, not phased in the least by his sudden change in voice and stance.

Jones laughed again, the rich timbre filling her ears as his shoulders relaxed. “Go find Mib and ask her for some ear plugs while I put on the stickers.”

Christina smiled as she remembered her favorite picture of Jones, two bright blue, twinkling stars on each temple. Now she was in the room while he took the stickers off their backs.

Outside his dressing room, she looked with sparkling eyes as people were running around, trying to get everything just right. She stopped a man and asked about Mib; he pointed to her left, and she followed the hallway until she heard Mib’s distinct accent.

“‘Ello, dear!” Mib reached for Christina’s hand and squeezed it. “Good interview? Send ya out already?”

“He told me to ask you for ear plugs.”

“Really?” Mib looked surprised. “Must ‘ave really impressed ‘im in there. Come and follow me. I’ll find ya some ear plugs.”

Christina followed her around the back of the stage, and as they got closer to the audience, she could hear thousands of people chanting Jones’ name. A warm feeling of importance welled up inside of her. She was a part of it all, just as she’d always wanted.

* * * * *

The performance was stunning. She, as an avid obsessie of Jones Aimes, had all of his live performances available on video. The quality was usually grainy, especially from back in the ‘70s. But seeing him up close, she remembered why he had been considered the best performer of his time. The best performer ever in some peoples’ books. After watching him, Christina considered herself an even bigger fan.

“Come on, Astra,” Mib said, taking her arm as Jones bowed to the audience. “I’ll take ya to the back room where we all go till it’s safe to go out to a bar. Can’t leave right away, y’see, or some funny people might follow the limo.”

Christina followed her to a room with a table piled high with cold cuts, meatballs, and cheese. “Isn’t Aimes’ favorite food fried wontons?” she asked unthinkingly. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt like an idiot fan a little bit too obsessed. Which was exactly what she was.

“You’ve done your research, girlie, haven’t ya?” Mib gave her a knowing wink. “He’s got sex appeal. You wouldn’t think . . . but maybe it’s the glitter.”

“He’s got a young, sculpted face,” Christina said, concentrating. “And he has this natural grace . . . he’s a magician, putting his audience under a spell.”

“I ‘ope you put that in your story,” Mib said, looking flattered. “I think it’s just the glitter though. If Jones walked down the street without the wig or the makeup or the god awful cat suit, nobody’d give him a second glance. Unless they recognized him, that is.” Mib looked around to make sure they were still alone on the large room. “That’s why he cared so much ‘bout his wife. She liked ‘im before he became famous.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I like ya. And I think he likes ya, too.”

Christina felt flabbergasted again. She crossed her arms self-consciously. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“Ah, but who knows him best? The reporter or his manager?” Mib patted her cheek. “You’re such a doll, Astra. I ‘ope you stay with us while we’re here.”

“I’ll try my best. I promise to stay as long as I can.” Christina closed her eyes briefly and reflected on what a wonderful dream this was. “I hope it never ends.”

“So do I,” Mib said, smiling. “This tour is shaping up to be quite a success. Not nearly as successful as Outburst was, but we’re ‘aving a good time.”

“That’s right, Mib!” shouted a man as he swaggered into the room. He planted a big kiss on Mib’s cheek and looked Christina over. “Who’s this?”

“Astra Lai,” Christina said, offering her hand. “I’m a reporter.”

“Reporter for what?”

Christina was thankfully saved from answering when the door opened and the rest of Jones’ backup band crowded into the room, raving about having a good performance and how hungry they were.

Mib took two glasses from one man that Christina recognized as Jones’ drummer. “Hey!” he protested. “Those were for me!”

“Not anymore,” Mib said as she handed one to Christina, eyes sparkling. “I tells ya, Astra. These men don’t know ‘ow to treat a woman right.”

“Oh, I think they know plenty,” Christina said softly, winking at the drummer.

He looked surprised at his good fortune. “I’m Eric.”

“I know.”

“Big fan, are ya? Not many reporters are anymore. They don’t listen to music, I don’t think. Just sit in their room and think up new ways to embarrass people more famous than they are.”

“Eric!”

“It’s okay. I’m not the type of reporter to repeat that.” Christina smiled. “Mainly because I wholeheartedly agree.”

“I like her, too, Mib. You sticking around to party?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Christina countered, feeling more powerful than she had ever felt before in her life. Her pulse was slamming, disbelieving that she could really be here in the back room, offered drinks by Jones Aimes’ band.

Even if it was all a dream.

“Did I keep you all waiting?” Jones’ voice asked suddenly, coming into the room wearing jeans and a collared shirt.

“Jones!” Eric clapped his friend on the back. “Have you-”

“Met Astra? Why, of course. We interviewed before the show.” Jones smiled at her. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

“You . . . interviewed before the show?” Eric asked incredulously.

“Why is that such a big deal?” Jones demanded, eyes flashing.

“No reason. I’ll go get some goods.” Eric quickly, and smartly, scampered off.

“I loved the show!” Christina gushed. “I think I’m an even bigger fan now than I used to be. If that’s possible.”

“I’m glad.”

“Jones!” a man called out, coming up. “Tina’s got a good place downtown that’s supposed to be the spot for night life. Not too crowded, but not boring, either.”

“We’ll go there,” Jones agreed. “Wait a little while more though. I want to talk with Astra. Our interview was cut short earlier, was it not?”

“What more could I possibly know about you?” Christina asked.

“There’s much more about me, darling,” Jones said, smirking at her.

Christina’s eyes bugged out. Literally. And what stronger reason could she have than Jones Aimes was flirting with her?

“Jones, babe, you ‘aven’t said a word to me,” Mib lectured.

“Hello, Mib. Enjoy the show?”

“It was all right,” Mib teased. “Would ‘ave been better ‘ad you played ‘You’ll Regret.’ My favorite song, y’know.”

“Yes, I know. But I don’t like it. It’s so angry.”

“You’re the one who wrote it, Jones.”

Jones grinned. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. In fact, it gives me even more reason to hate it.”

“We’re ready!” Eric called suddenly from the other side of the room.

“Ready for what?” Christina asked as Jones led her to a coffee table that Eric was kneeling in front of. She saw the lines of white powdered and stumbled slightly. “I-I’ve never done this before.”

Jones looked at her in surprise. “Never?” When she shook her head, he paused for a moment. “You don’t have to. It’s just something we do. It’s part of the lifestyle.”

“I know. I want to do it.” Christina kneeled on one side of the coffee table, and Jones handed her a straw.

“Do you know what to do?”

Christina scoffed. “I’m not completely naïve, Jones.”

“I hope not.”

Christina blushed; she quickly leaned down to cover it, putting the shortened straw at one end of the line, closing one nostril and her eyes. Then she took the plunge and snorted, slowly moving the straw along the line and sweeping up every last bit of it. She sat back and sniffled a few times, rubbing her nose.

Jones smiled at her. “Did it like a pro. Sure you’ve never taken any before?”

Christina smiled under his praise. She realized how absurd it was to be pleased someone was complimenting the way she snorted drugs, but it didn’t stop the glow that she felt. “Thanks.”

Jones leaned down and snorted two lines. When he sat up sniffling, too, she felt less embarrassed about her reaction.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Christina worried, brow creasing as she realized he’d taken more than she had.

Jones waved her off. “Don’t worry about it, Astra.”

The rest of the band snorted lines, but Mib stayed back with a drink. “One of has to ‘ave a relatively clear head,” she explained to Christina.

“When is it going to start affecting me?” Christina asked, a mixture of eagerness and nervousness invading her system. She had never done many drugs in her life because she thought they did more damage than half an hour of bliss. But when Jones Aimes offers you a line, you don’t say no.

“Soon enough.” Jones led her to a couch, indicated for her to sit down, and sat cross-legged next to her. “Are you leaving tonight?”

“Tonight? I-I honestly don’t know.”

“I’d like it very much if you stayed.”

“I’d like it, too.” Christina felt a sudden wave of dizziness, and she grabbed a hold of Jones’ arm. “Oh, shit.”

Jones laughed. “It’s cool, huh?”

“Oh . . . yes.” Christina laughed along with him. “Definitely yes. Now I understand the addiction to it.”

“You’ve only had about a hundred milligrams,” Jones said, grinning. “Just wait till you have more.”

“How long does this last?”

Jones shrugged. “About half an hour. Sometimes less, sometimes more. I can’t remember how long it lasts when you only get a hundred, but you’re new, too. It might affect you differently.”

Mib picked up an acoustic guitar and handed it to Jones. “Play us a song, Jones.”

“What do you want?”

“Something new,” Eric clarified. Another man held out a tape recorder, and Eric turned it on. “Anytime now.”

“It doesn’t just happen like that,” Jones protested, hiding his smile. “It’s a long creative process.” Somebody threw a cheese cube at him, and Christina wasn’t halfway done laughing at that when Jones began to strum on the guitar.

“Something faster,” Christina urged. “Funky beat.”

Jones raised his eyebrows and forced the tempo on. “This to your liking?”

“I’m a big fan of songs with words in them,” Christina added.

“Oh, Astra. Don’t ya write a bad review about me,” Jones sang teasingly.

“Something with more depth.” Christina patted her hands softly against her leg to the tempo.

“You want a fast beat but a deep song, huh?” Jones put the guitar down. “You’re going to have to wait until the room stops spinning for that one.”

“Are we going to go to that bar now?” Christina demanded, jumping off the couch. Her heart was racing, and she had the urge to do something.

Jones stood slowly. “If you want.”

* * * * *

The lights flashed in a way entirely different from anything Christina had ever seen in her life. There were people on the dance floor, people at the bar, people everywhere. She laughed hard, clutching her stomach, and Jones put an arm around her waist. “Dance with me, Astra Lai.”

Christina sobered quickly and looked up at him with doe eyes. He must have taken her lack of answer as a yes because he dragged her out to the dance floor. “Shame that it isn’t a slow song,” he whispered.

Christina started dancing to the rhythm. Her confused mind suddenly remembered earlier when he‘d said he wasn‘t interested in women anymore. “I thought . . .”

“What kind of dance is that?” He looked at her strangely.

Christina looked down and laughed, remembering the absurdity of the situation. “It’s from where I’m from. Nothing special.”

“Follow my moves. I love this song,” Jones said, closing his eyes and swinging his arms about in an old fashioned way.

With an embarrassed sigh, she followed his instructions. It felt weird to be doing something so outdated, but a quick glance around the room showed that everyone else was dancing in the same way. She turned back to Jones, noticing that his eyes were still closed. “You really get into the music, don’t you?”

Jones looked at her in surprise. “Yes, I suppose I do. I’ve met a lot of rock stars who are in it for the fame, but like I told you before, it’s all about the music for me. Music has a strange way of touching people. I like it.”

“So do I.”

“But you’re a reporter?” Jones took a step closer to her, smoothly keeping his dance. “You have the soul of a singer. A real singer.”

“Do I?” Christina bit her lip. “I can’t write music. Lyrics . . . sometimes. But I’m not musically talented.”

“You certainly know you’re music,” Jones commented. “And the lyrics are usually the most important part of the song.”

“Usually. I recognize the importance of the instruments. If I ever played an instrument, it would be the bongos. I like a primitive sound . . . I think that it closely ties people to the song and makes them feel more content. Psychologically I think we’re drawn to songs with a primitive beat.”

“I’ve dabbled a little bit in bongos,” Jones admitted. “A few years ago I used it in my songs, but now it’s never very popular. I think I might try to add some into the song I’m going to write about you.”

“You’re going to write a song about me?” Christina stopped dancing, stricken.

Jones laughed and stopped, too. “Of course. I write a song about most interesting people I meet.”

“I’m going to be a song!” Christina let out a squeal to put all cheerleaders to shame and jumped at Jones, tightening her arms around him. “God, this is the best dream ever.”

“Dream? I think you’ve snorted a bit too much coke, Astra.”

“Maybe.” Christina smiled in a way that meant she had a secret. So the people in her dream didn’t know it was a dream. Perfect.

When Christina started to pull away, Jones’ hands clasped her waist.

“But it’s not a slow song,” Christina whispered, her heart speeding up again. She wished that she hadn’t taken the coke; she wished she could have a clear head while Jones Aimes was holding her against him.

“We can make it a slow song,” he whispered back as he swayed. His hands urged her to sway with him, and she responded by resting her head on his shoulder.

“This is too unbelievable,” Christina murmured.

“Meeting a rock star? Dancing with him? Infatuating him?”

Infatuating . . .? Christina slowly lifted her head to look at him. “What?”

“I think I’m fast becoming infatuated, Astra. I’ve never met anyone so compelling.”

“Is that why everyone made such a-such a big deal about me coming with you?”

“Yes. I haven’t had any kind of relationship for almost eight months now, not since my wife left me. I haven’t felt attracted to anyone, but . . . I feel a connection with you.”

Christina choked. “Oh, god.” This was becoming one of her sick childhood fantasies, and for some reason the conversation was robbing her dream of its believability. “I think . . . I think I’m crashing.” She felt her knees buckle. “Can you take me to the bathroom?”

Jones’ strong arm around her waist was comforting. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m used to being forthright, and . . . man, you’re really feeling it, aren’t you?”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Christina agreed.

Jones left her at the doorway of the women‘s bathroom. “Go on in. I’m going to get Mib and send her after you.”

Christina nodded. “Jones . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For everything. I’ve never felt . . . like I belonged . . . as close as I’ve felt tonight to you and everyone.”

Jones smirked. “You’re turning cliché on me, Astra. Save it for when you’re sober.”

“Okay.” Christina turned away from him and stepped into the bathroom.

* * * * *

Christina opened her eyes, expecting the cold tile of the bathroom underneath her, but instead she found through her blurry gaze a pink room with frilly curtains. In surprise, she jerked forward; the movement had her clutching her head in pain. “Oh, god,” she groaned.

Rachel came to the doorway. “You up? I’m making eggs.”

Christina contemplated picking up a pillow and throwing it at Rachel; she decided it would be too much movement. “I had the most wonderful dream.”

“Really? Give me the details.”

“After water. Need water.”

Rachel laughed slightly. “When are you guys going to learn that alcohol is what gives you these god awful headaches. I only had two glasses last night, and all I feel is a slight nausea when I move too quickly.”

“Sounds peachy, you asshole.” Normally the phrase would have come off snappish, but in her state, it was half moaned.

Christina went to the bathroom and washed herself as well as she could. After drinking four paper cups of water, she felt well enough to go into the living room. The smell of bacon and eggs made her stomach turn over, but she ignored it at the prospect of telling her friends about the dream.

“Morning, sunshines,” Christina greeted and stumbled into a chair at the kitchen table.

“What’s got you so chipper?” Jennifer asked from her huddled position at the table.

“Give me some Advil, and I’ll tell you.” Christina said, taking the bottle and a glass of water from Denny. She swallowed three pills and kept the water to herself. “I had a dream that I just woke up in the backroom of a ‘70s concert by Jones Aimes.”

“What’s new?”

“No, this dream was very real. I told him my name was Astra Lai, and I snorted coke with him. Then we went dancing, and we slow danced.”

“Astra Lai, huh? Very original,” Rachel said, putting a plate of eggs in front of Christina.

Christina passed the eggs to Trina. “What do you mean?”

Rachel stopped walking and furrowed her brow together. “Doesn’t he have a song called Astra Lai?”

Christina shook her head. “As a proud owner of every single CD and/or record he owns, I can honestly say he doesn’t have a song called Astra Lai.”

“Yes, he does,” Trina said. “It goes . . . um . . . Astra, where’d ya go? Left me hung up in a club. Astra where’d ya go? I’m missing you but I don’t know you.”

Christina laughed. “Very funny, guys.” Her smile faltered when she saw all her friends looked deadly serious. “Give me the phone.”

Rachel tossed it to her, and Christina dialed up the first radio station she could think of. When they answered, she ignored greetings. “Is there a song called Astra Lai by Jones Aimes?”

“Yes, ma’am. An old one. We try and play only recent songs, so would you like to request something else?”

Christina hung up the phone and let it drop to the floor. “Oh, my god. This is too . . . too . . . something. It’s too something.”

“Not necessarily. You just had a very convincing dream, and you’ve temporarily forgotten about the song ‘Astra Lai.’ You had a lot to drink last night.”

Christina held up her shaking hand. It seemed like a reasonable explanation, but it just didn’t feel right. “I have to go. I’ll see you guys next weekend.”

“Christina, wait!”

Christina grabbed her purse, ignored their calls, and left Trina’s apartment. She stumbled down the stairs and went down to the parking lot to get in her car. The ride home seemed to take forever, but all she could do was go over the details of her dream. For a while she wondered if she was having another dream. Things like this don’t just happen in real life.

At home she yanked her keys out of the ignition and ran up to her front door. She dropped her keys twice before she finally go the door open, and without bothering to shut the door or take the keys out, she ran to her Aimes CD collection and dumped it on the floor. Sitting in a pile of CD’s, she picked each one up and scanned the back cover, looking for the song ‘Astra Lai.’

“Oh, my God.” Christina’s hands began to shake again, and her heart sped up to a rate that astounded even her. On the back of his 1978 CD, ‘Lost and Unfound,’ was ‘Astra Lai.’ Her fumbling hands opened the case and pulled out the CD. She put it in her CD player and listened, spellbound.

The song described her night with Jones Aimes. Her dream night with Jones Aimes.

When it ended, she skipped back to the song and put it on repeat. Her hangover disappeared with her shock, and she practically crawled over to the computer. She turned it on, connected to the internet, and went to Yahoo. She typed in ‘Astral Lai’ and found a website devoted to the song, not uncommon in the fan base of Aimes.

“Jones claims that Astra Lai was a woman reporter he met one night while on tour,” she read aloud to herself. “He says Astra helped him get over his ex-wife and back out in the dating scene, but he wonders if she was a dream. She had claimed to be a reporter, which is why she was allowed backstage, but he never found the article she wrote about him or which newspaper or magazine she was with.”

After she read it, she began to laugh hysterically. It took her nearly ten minutes to calm herself down. She knew it hadn’t been her projecting. She would have remembered this song, would have remembered this web page. It wasn’t possible that she just forgot about a song of Aimes. But then . . . it wasn’t entirely possible for her to dream herself back in time.

She picked up the phone and called Trina’s. “Hello?”

“Christina, is that you?” Denny asked. “Why did you run off like that?”

“Look, my dream . . . it was real. There’s a song and-”

“We already know that, Chris,” Denny said, sounding irritated. “You just had a dream that you were whoever it is he was singing about. It’s not uncommon for that to happen.”

“Think about it, Den. You know how much I love Aimes. You know that I wouldn’t just forget about a song. I couldn’t. And this dream . . . it was so real.”

“I’ve had dreams like that before, too.” Denny seemed more sympathetic. “It may be weird for you, Chris, but you can’t obsess over it. Even if it is true, and this is a big maybe . . . who would believe you? You weren’t even born back then.”

“He would have slept with me,” Christina whispered to herself. “If I hadn’t gotten so damned freaked out. If I hadn’t had him take me to the bathroom. Maybe I could have stayed there.”

“Look, get some sleep, Chris. You’re scaring me.”

“Okay, fine. Bye, Denny.” Christina numbly hung up the phone and sat down on her couch, staring straight ahead. She had made that wish the night before. But had that wish led to a very realistic dream . . . or had it been granted?

“This is crazy. I don’t believe in magic or anything like that.” Christina felt comforted by the words, but they rang flat in the still air of the room. “But . . . I didn’t even get to kiss him. If it was a dream, why didn’t I get to kiss him?” She pouted slightly. How could she prove to her friends - to herself - that she wasn’t crazy? It seemed very unlikely to try and meet Jones Aimes and get him to recognize her on national TV. She sniffled, trying to keep the oncoming tears from spilling.

That was it! She stood up suddenly in euphoria. If last night had indeed happened, wouldn’t the traces of the drug still be in her system?

Christina ran out the door, hastily grabbing her keys and shutting the door behind her. She started her car a few seconds later and drove to the nearest twenty four hour doctor.

In the parking lot she sat in the car for a few minutes, gathering her courage. She decided that the results of the test would determine for herself, her own conscious, whether last night was a dream or . . . or something entirely unexplainable.

Christina got out of her car and walked into the doctor’s office.

“May I help you?” the woman behind the desk asked kindly.

“Do you do drug tests?” Christina asked bluntly.

The woman frowned in surprise. “Well . . . yes. Is this for a child?” She looked speculatively at Christina’s young age.

“No; it’s for me.”

“For you? This is . . . rather unusual. Have you been here before?”

Christina shook her head, and the woman gave her a clip board with paperwork for her to fill out. She finished the questions in record time and handed it back to the nurse.

“The doctor will call you in just a moment, ma’am.”

Christina sat in the waiting room, staring blankly at an old ‘80s sitcom. Her heart clenched and unclenched in time with her fists, waiting for the anticipation to dissipate. Did she want it to come back positive or negative? She pushed the thought away, not wanting to confuse her feelings any further than they were already.

“Christina Boone?”

Christina stood up and dusted her jeans awkwardly. Suddenly she realized just how comical she must look. Not having bothered to brush her hair, it was probably in a haphazard pony tail, mussed from last night. She thanked God that she’d at least washed her face, but there must be dark circles under her eyes. The doctor wouldn’t even have to give her the drug test if she judged by appearances.

Once in the stark white room, Christina sat on the table and placed her sweaty hands between her thighs. “I need a drug test.”

The female doctor arched one of her eyebrows and scribbled a note on the clip board with her chubby hand. “A drug test? For yourself? Do you think you’ve been . . . raped?”

“No, nothing like that. I was out with some friends last night, and I can’t remember a thing. I’m afraid that I may have used some kind of illegal substance, and I want to be sure.”

The doctor’s eyebrows rose even further. “My, this is a strange request. I have to ask a few questions. Do you smoke?”

“Not usually. But occasionally.”

“Okay . . . and could you possibly be pregnant?”

Christina bit her lip. “Er, no,” she admitted, blushing. The truth was, Christina had been obstinate since her last boyfriend, and that was three years ago.

“And you’re twenty four, right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever used drugs before?”

“Once or twice when I was in college I smoked a little weed.”

The doctor frowned as she scribbled that down. She set the clipboard down and reached into the cabinets on top of the desk. “Have you ever taken a drug test before?”

“No, not really. I don’t . . . um, no. No.”

“Just take this cup with you in the bathroom and pee. It’s that simple.” The doctor handed her the cup and a lid. “If you don’t think you can go to the bathroom just yet, there’s a water fountain down the hall.”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Christina said, thinking of all the water she’d drunk that morning. With another blush she took the plastic cup and left the room. She hid it up her sleeve when going to the bathroom, not wanting anyone to know what she was doing. Never before had she been forced to pee in a cup for a doctor, and the prospect of doing it was extremely embarrassing.

Christina hurried up in the bathroom, making it out in record time with the cup in hand. She rushed back into her room and set it down on the desk. A few minutes later the doctor returned, labeled the cup, and turned to address her. “We’ll do a quick test first, which should be ready in fifteen minutes. Then we’ll run through a longer test that usually takes twenty four hours. You can wait for the results of the first test, and we’ll call you sometime tomorrow about the second.”

“Is there any reason there are two tests?” Christina asked nervously.

“We just like to be sure of our results. Drug abuse is a serious thing, and we don’t want to give someone false results.”

“Ah, okay,” Christina mumbled, trying to ignore the pointed look the doctor was giving her. “Should I sit in the waiting room?”

The doctor gestured for her to follow her to a desk, and she handed the paperwork to a nurse. “Get her checked out.”

Christina spent a few minutes sorting through insurance and writing a check for the co-pay. Then she went to the waiting room to sit down, but she’d barely settled when the doctor was at the doorway asking to see her for the results.

Christina nervously jumped up and jerked her way to the doctor. “Yes?” she whispered even though the waiting room was empty.

“I’m afraid the test is positive so far,” the doctor said gravely.

“For what kind of drug? Can you tell me?”

The doctor shook her head. “When we call you tomorrow, we can give you more of an idea about what drug it was. Do you know what you might have taken last night?”

“Cocaine.”

“I’ll make a note of it. Good day, Miss Boone. I’m sorry about . . . well . . .” she shrugged and turned to go back behind the counter.

Christina was tingling with nervous energy when she went back to the car. She hadn’t taken any drugs with her friends the night before, but the drug test was positive. That meant that the unthinkable was . . . thinkable.

* * * * *

Waiting for the other drug test to come back proved to be the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life. She put the ‘Astra Lai’ song on repeat until she knew it like the back of her hands. A small smile came to her lips when she recognized the sound of bongos in the background. He’d been serious when he said he was going to write a song about her. He’d been real - her dream had been real. The thought still managed to make her a little lightheaded.

Sleep was elusive that night, and she didn’t even bother tossing and turning in bed. The TV kept her company in the dead hours of the night, but it was only the distant sound and picture that registered in her mind; she didn’t really watch any of the TV, but managed to stretch thinking about her dream into a twenty four hour period.

Jennifer tried to call her in the morning, but Christina let it go to the answering machine. If she couldn’t focus on anything in her home but Jones’ song about her, how could she be expected to talk to her friends?

The phone rang around noon, and Christina let it go the answering machine. When she realized the message was her test results, she clutched the cushions of the couch so hard she tore a small hole with one of her nails.

“This is Dr. Wormick’s office with the results of a drug test for Christina Boone. It appears that the test has come back positive, and traces of cocaine have been detected in her urine. If you would like to stop by the office for a copy of the test results, stop by within the next two days. Otherwise we’ll have it mailed to the address on your contact information.”

The answering machine beeped to show the end, but Christina didn’t let go of the couch.

Christina Boone had tested positive for cocaine, and the only possible explanation was that she’d traveled back in time thirty years for a Jones Aimes show. Christina didn’t let go of that couch for a very long time afterwards.