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STUCK BY A DRUMMER
This short work in progress orginally appeared on the RIGHT STUFF message board. Here it is in free-flowing, easy to read format!!
PART FOUR
He was pretty good, I have to admit. But I could tell that the only ones who enjoyed the encounter were Steve and I. After the post-orgasmic tremors in my body subsided, Pete backed away with an expression of fatigue and boredom on his face. He glanced up at Steve, who nodded and indicated that he could stand up again.
"Now that you've had your jollies taken care of," the singer pouted, eyes wandering from one to the other of us, "you mind if I go looking for my kind of action?"
Steve's expression went from dreamy to serious. "You take Dean or Jason with you," he ordered. "The show went over well tonight and a lot of fans have stayed around the club. Some of them might be psycho."
"Dean or Jason?" Pete echoed. "What about you? What will you be doing that will be so damn important?"
Steve rested one large arm around my shoulders and smiled. It lit up his face: normally he was such a sombre figure.
"Oh forget it: I don't want to know." Without saying goodbye, Pete flounced out of the bathroom, so anxious to leave our company that he didn't even check his makeup in one of the cracked mirrors.
"I really should get home to start writing my story," I said once the door slammed rudely shut. Being alone with Steve again was both appealing and oppressive. I admired him, but he scared me. From what I'd heard, he'd grown up in a rough area of Liverpool. Any current courtsey and social grace was just a covering- that could shatter under the right (wrong?) circumstances and turn the street fighter loose.
Steve seemed to guess what I was thinking. He just nodded and said quietly, "All right then. I'll walk you to your car- it's dangerous round here this time of night."
"I'd appreciate that."
We walked to the door together. There we stopped and faced each other again, obviously both of us feeling that something had to be said before we rejoined the outside world. I hugged my papers and bag to my breasts and said quietly, "It was a good time. Thank you."
"Likewise." His dark eyes took me in yet again. A few seconds passed before he opened the door, sending muted music and rude laughter spilling into our previously quiet space.
His arm encircled my shoulders protectively as we went downstairs, into the main area of the bar. Several fans and followers broke away from their social circles to approach, their desire for an autograph evident on their faces. Steve gave them all a polite smile and announced, "Just walking this journalist to her car. I'll be back, so hold the thought."
The May night was cool, drying the sweat on our faces. It was eerily quiet: as we headed for the parking lot, the only sound to pierce the silence was the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes. I was glad now that he was escorting me. As we entered the maze of parked cars, I fished in my purse for my keys.
"My car's over here," I said, gesturing, but he was no longer with me. Well, not mentally. He had stopped, and was staring in the direction of a long white bus.
"Hey!!" he roared, so suddenly and violently that I jumped, "what're you doing, you fucking idiots!!"
Stunned, I followed his stare and saw three football hooligan types clustered in the bus's shadow. All three swayed drunkenly, and one was zipping up his trousers. Steve left me standing there and strode over to them, fists clenched.
"What's the idea of pissing on our bus," he snarled.
The guilty reveller staggered over to him and laid a hand the size of a toaster on his shoulder. "Sorry, mate," he slurred. "I didn't know it was yours."
"Bloody clean it up."
"Look, we'll just move on, all right?"
"No fucking way." Steve's voice raised. "Use your goddamn jumper to wipe it up if you have to."
For God's sake, let it go, I thought as my heartbeat intensified. At six foot one and around 180 pounds, Steve was big, but these three topped him by a good three inches and 30 pounds each. My eyes darted all over the parking lot for possible assistance, but saw no one.
Another footballer spoke; this one was not so diplomatic. "Fuck off, poofter. Use your knickers to clean it up if you're that worried."
Steve moved fast. He grabbed the mouthy one by the back of the head and slammed his face into the side of the bus. The impact against the aluminum panels echoed through the night.
"My nose!!" he screamed as he crumpled to the pavement at Steve's feet. "The bastard's broken my nose."
The other two swarmed on Steve, seizing his arms and yanking him back several steps. The injured one got shakily to his feet, still holding his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers.
"Asshole!!" he choked as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a pocket knife. Its blade glinted in the glare of a nearby streetlight. "Get ready...you're gonna fuckin die!!"
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