at least one of the band was already
taking advantage of having a groupie following.
A whisper in the corner of her ear sent a
shiver down her spine. “Ever since we got signed, the rest of the band seems to
have become animals.”
She turned around to see Tom McLean
standing right behind her. He gave her a lopsided grin, and then pulled her
into his arms, his hands locking around her waist as he hugged her.
In the two months since they last met, Tom’s
life had taken a 180-degree turn for the better. Fatal Limits had been signed
by a small, independent label who were working hard to build up the band’s
reputation. Step one of that plan was sending them on a tour of British
universities, aiming to develop a strong student following for the band,
enabling them to release their album to a pre-existing fan base.
“Look at you, Tom.” Hanna pulled at his
hair, noticing how it had been expensively trimmed, his sandy locks still
falling slightly onto his forehead, but somehow looking more groomed. “You’ve
gone all Chris Martin on me.”
Tom hugged her tighter. His face was
touching hers, and he murmured into her ear. “If you compare us to Coldplay in
your article, I’ll stuff the magazine down your beautiful neck.”
“If you insist on playing Yellow , I’ll
have no other option.”
“If I insist on playing Yellow , you’ll
melt at my feet, just like you did last time.”
Hanna pulled back from Tom, turning to look
up at him with her brows raised.
“Seriously? You think I was impressed by a
Coldplay cover?”
“I don’t think it’s my singing that
impresses you. I suspect it’s my body.”
Hanna started laughing and hit him on the
arm.
“Mind the guitar arm!”
“Haven’t you got it insured yet?” Hanna put
out her hand and rubbed at his bicep, surprised by how hard it was. The boy had
clearly been working out.
“I’m working on it. Apparently, Keith
Richards insured his arm for $3 million.”
“Well, Keith Richards is an idiot. And
probably has a small cock, too.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that I don’t
have that problem. Maybe I can show you later?”
“Maybe you can keep it zipped in your
pants, or find a willing groupie.” Hanna pushed him away, taking her notepad
out. “We’re on the record now, so if you want to continue being a sleaze-ball,
feel free.” She winked at him to let him know she was only kidding. His
flirting was automatic, he couldn’t help but do it to every girl he spoke with.
It was part of his natural charm.
“Okay, Lester Bangs, we can do the sex
thing later. What’s your first question?” Tom gave her a slow, easy grin. He
looked like he was enjoying himself.
Hanna rolled her eyes, pulling her pen out
of her pocket as she turned over the page of her notebook.
“My first question, Tom Mclean, lead singer
of the up and coming rock band Fatal Limits, is ‘when did you become such a
dick?’”
Four
December 4 th 2000
A fter everything that had happened last year,
Hanna couldn’t believe she had agreed to visit with her father in New York.
He’d called her in November, suggesting a change to their usual routine.
Neither of them was keen to meet in Val D’Isere for Christmas. Within a couple
of hours he arranged for his secretary to book Hanna on a flight to JFK. This
whirlwind of activity had taken Hanna by surprise. She was too gobsmacked to
think of an excuse. She did allow herself a small smile when she thought about
her stepmother’s reaction to the news of her visit.
She was hoping to see some bands play while she was in New
York—that thought made the trip seem more bearable. The New York music scene
was scorching. She was looking forward to feeling a bit of the heat. Since
joining the university magazine in October, Hanna was the paper’s regular rock
reporter. In between her writing, she managed to fit in lectures, tutorials,
and assignments. It had been a busy few months.
Just like that, Hanna had
Stephen Graham Jones, Robert Marasco