Untouchable - Chapters 3 & 4

A rock 'n' roll romcom — Lucy lucks her way into the arena only to be stopped by a suspicious "merch guy"

Note to readers: This is a story set in the outrageous world of 80s rock ’n’ roll.

Chapters published to date are available here.

Today Lucy aims to wangle her way into the arena and meet the band, but instead finds herself confined to the hospitality room by a weird and confusing “merch guy.”

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Chapter 3

Lucy

I didn’t get much sleep in the whirlwind of my hasty and furtive departure from the ashram early this morning—Cindy helping me to sneak out—nor during the four-hour flight to New Mexico.

Bob and Al, the pilots on the Dolos jet, had insisted mid-flight that I join them in the cockpit. They wanted me to “see the amazing scenery,” and explained each and every button and toggle in great detail. Apparently having me in the cockpit was a no-no, so they swore me to silence and made me promise to “come see the sights in Teterboro” when I got back east. Thank goodness they had to fly right back, or I’d have been fending off more than just Bob’s hand on my knee.

The “cock-pit” visit was followed by a long heart-to-heart with Pam, the flight attendant. I advised her to stop sleeping with sleazy Bob and sign up for the “Healing Your Heart” program at the ashram. By the time we were “wheels down” in Albuquerque, as she called it, she and I had become fast friends and Pam was excited about coming to my kirtan ecstatic meditation session. I even sang her one of the songs I plan on recording for Dolos.

Who knew flying could be so much fun?

Maybe I should have taken a catnap after I checked into my hotel, but I was too excited about being in a city I’d always wanted to visit. I was also more than anxious about having something to report to Barry. Was he expecting a report my first day? Rhonda hadn’t said, but I can’t take any chances. God forbid I lose the recording contract for something as ridiculous as missing a daily check-in. I might be the “queen of chaos,” as Cindy has anointed me, but I should be able to remember a measly phone call.

I hope.

That’s why I’m now on my way to the arena in a taxi, wracking my tired brain for a believable cover story to use with the band.

Janelle at the hotel’s front desk told me the band was over at the arena for their sound check and rehearsal. God bless that Janelle, a rabid Pirate fan who showed me her autographed photos of the band members and told me the latest goss. Barry might consider me an “expert” in dealing with rock stars, but I do need to know at least a smidgen about the rock stars I’m going to be dealing with.

Like, say, what they look like?

Like, say, who’s who?

Like, say, who plays what?

Like, you know, who’s the joker, the quiet one, the peacock, the ladies’ man, the leader?

Janelle filled me in on the last three, and I studied the photos for what they look like. Even though they’re dressed in their pirate costumes and makeup in the photos, I should be able to recognize them out of drag, except for the lead singer, Jack St James. That guy is as ornately painted as the guys in KISS.

I wonder why.

Maybe he’s not lead singer, heartthrob material, so they keep him covered up. It wouldn’t be the first time the lead singer looks like a frog or a warthog, in my experience.

Too bad, because he’s usually the guy who knows the most about what’s going on in the band—besides the band manager or tour manager, of course. Janelle doesn’t have any photos of those guys, but says the band manager is a “big bear” named Dunk MacGregor and the tour manager is a “rooster” named Manny. It goes without saying, I won’t be around long if I don’t get, and stay, on their good sides. Managers control the whole shebang.

After a ten-minute ride, the taxi pulls up near the artists’ entrance of the arena. I get out and drop a ten in the driver’s palm and tell him to keep the change. He protests but I insist. After all, Dolos has lots of money and can afford it, while this guy only has a smelly old taxi.

It hits me as he pulls away that I meant to save as much of the $5,000 in expense money as I can. My brother, Tony, has a new business, a spiedi shop, and my parents are strapped for cash after the timing belt went on the Oldsmobile. I vow I will not spend any more money if I can help it. If I manage to get in good with someone in the band, I should be able to get everything for free.

As I look toward the artists’ entrance, I nudge some fly-away hair behind my ear and bite my lip. Two guys are standing outside talking and gesticulating at one another. I bet it’s a good story. Arena staff have a million of them.

But what can I tell them to get entrance to the backstage of the arena? Their job is to keep everyone out but the band, the crew, and people with all-access passes. And I’m none of those.

One of them doubles over in laughter and slaps his knee. He seems vaguely familiar. Did I come to this arena with Magnus? We went to hundreds of cities, so maybe I did. If I met this guy, might he remember me?

Fingers crossed.

I head in their direction, keeping my head high and swaying my hips. My ankles wobble on my platform shoes—how did I wear these darn things for so many years?—and I pray I look regal and saucy in my old groupie clothes, not like a “past her sell-by date” groupie wannabe, which is how I really feel.

The guy on the right glances my way and does a double take.

“Lucy?” he says as he turns to face me. “Is that you?”

“Jigsy?” I reply. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. Must be the handlebar mustache and sideburns.

I run into his arms and we hug one another until the other guy clears his throat and Jigsy pulls away.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Jigsy grins. “I’m running the arena.”

He shows me his assistant manager badge with a look of pride.

“Had a kid. Lenore put her foot down. Said we’re gonna do this right, settle down somewhere, and give this kid a good life. So guess what, here we are.”

I can’t believe Jigsy and Lenore are still together, and that they have a kid. A rock ’n’ roll success story like theirs is so rare. My eyes tear up. I can’t help it. I’m half Sicilian and half Greek.

“Oh, Jigsy, congratulations.” I say, swiping at the corners of my eyes. “I’m so happy for you.”

Jigsy turns to the other man. “Bruce, this here’s the famous Lucy L’amour.”

Bruce’s eyes go wide. “Lucy L’amour? The Lucy L’amour?”

“The one and only,” Jigsy replies.

I study my platform shoes and feel my face turn red.

The rock world is unbelievably silly. Magnus told me he couldn’t be with plain ol’ Lucy Sabatini. How detestably boring. So he called me Lucy L’amour, or Lucy Love when he was pissed at me or giving me orders. “Get me a Tom Collins, Lucy Love,” or “You’re not going out in that monstrosity, Lucy Love.”

“No,” I say, raising my eyes to Bruce. “What you should be saying is Jigsy, the Jigsy? Have you ever watched this guy handle power tools? Before you know it, out comes this work of art like you never could’ve imagined.”

I smile at Jigsy. “Remember that staircase you made for Magnus?”

“Oh, cut it out,” he says, making a dismissive wave. “I’m not that good.”

“Don’t believe it,” I say to Bruce. “He could design sets for Broadway, this guy.”

Jigsy abruptly changes topic. “So what the hell happened? You disappeared.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that.”

“Oh, you know, got tired of being on the road. Decided to take myself off to India and all. Hang out with a swami for a while.”

I’m not a good liar at the best of times, but I practiced that fib with Cindy until I could spout it without breaking down. Part of it is true. I usually say some Hail Marys for the part that isn’t. The India part. That is, if I remember.

“Lenore thought maybe it was, you know… what happened in Buffalo.”

Hold it together, Luce. Don’t think about it. Just say something. Anything. Anything at all. Just say something.

“Um—”

“No, no, forget it,” Jigsy blurts. “I shouldn’t have brought that up. You here to see Pirate?”

I release a shaky breath. “Yes, I’m here for Pirate.”

Jigsy pulls open the door and bows. “Entrez-vous, Mademoiselle L’amour. I’ll put your name on the list. You can come and go as you please.”

I blink back new tears as it hits me. The rock world is full of wonderful people like Jigsy. And I miss it more than I’ve been willing to acknowledge.

“Thanks, Jigs, and can you tell Lenore ‘hi’ for me?”

“Sure thing,” he says.

I turn to Bruce. “And so nice to meet you.”

The guy just stares back at me. Will my groupie reputation ever go away?

Jigsy points down the hallway. “So the band’s room is three doors down on the right, the hospitality room right before that. The band should be in there any time now.”

As I walk past him into the building, I touch his arm and smile.

He smiles back and pulls the door shut behind me.

Their voices start up again, but I can’t hear what they’re saying through the reinforced door.

Probably something about Buffalo. That seems to define me now. Both me and Magnus. But, of course, Buffalo changed everything for a lot of people. How could it not?

I stand inside the entrance and gather my wits. Hallelujah! I’m inside the arena and Jigsy has assured me backstage access. It’s a miracle.

Well, maybe not a miracle, because arena rock is a small world. Kind of like a small town spread around the world. You’re bound to run into people you know or people you’ve seen around.

Now to concentrate on the next challenge—embedding myself in the band. Not bedding them, as a real groupie would do. But winning their trust so they let me hang out with them until the end of the tour.

It didn’t seem such a big deal when Barry said it on the phone. “Babysit my band and you got yourself a recording contract, sweetheart.” Or something like that.

Of course, I’d focused entirely on his promise of a recording contract and my fear of being back in an arena, not on what I’d have to do to earn it. But, in my defense, that shyster hadn’t given me any time to think. “Act now or lose out on this amazing deal forever.” I fall for it every time.

OK, never mind. It’s time for action, Lucy Goose.

I peer down the hallway, ignoring the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. It’s just a rock band, for heaven’s sake. A bunch of your everyday pampered, arrogant, full-of-themselves rock stars.

What’s the worst that could happen? They have beautiful, young groupies hanging off them and sneer at me in disdain. “A groupie at your age, love? Are you putting us on?”

Or they want me to make myself useful for the privilege of hanging around with them backstage. “Give us a quick one, will ya, love? That’s it. Faster, faster. Gotta get back onstage.”

Or maybe they’re not even into “chicks” and show no interest in having me around whatsoever. Then what do I do?

Or, worst of all, they hear me sing and want me to do backup, like I did now and then for Magnus. Onstage. That would be the worst, hands down.

Maybe this whole thing is not such a good idea. Maybe I should turn around right now and go back to the ashram. I mean, what’s so bad about living in an ashram headed by a swami, even if he is smarmy and trying to steal my music? What’s so great about a recording contract anyway, even if I did spend three years composing and perfecting my music? So what?

I should leave. I’m going to leave. I shouldn’t be here. What was I thinking? Why did I listen to Cindy? She’s always talking me into stuff I later regret.

As I dither about what to do, a man comes out of the hospitality room and stands in the hallway. He looks down at a magazine in his hand and purses his lips.

The word “Pirate” is emblazoned across the top of his t-shirt in blood red letters. Below that is an image of a guitar neck with pirate heads instead of pegs, and the heads have long hair. That must be their logo. Cute and clever. I love it.

It means this guy is connected to the band in some way. Judging from the publicity photos Janelle showed me, I don’t think he’s a member of the band. And he doesn’t look like a bear or a rooster, so I don’t think he’s the band manager or tour manager either. Maybe he’s the guy who sells their t-shirts and other merchandise.

“Idiots,” he mutters, still looking at the magazine.

With his head down and his outrageous mop of rock star-ish hair, I can’t see his face. He’s got an ace body, that’s for sure. Long, lean legs and well-defined biceps, like that swoon-worthy tennis champion Jimmy Connors. I don’t like tennis, but I used to watch it with my dad and brother whenever he played and drool my heart out.

I’ve dithered too long. It’s too late to leave now, and I do want that recording contract. Get your act in gear, because it’s showtime, girl.

You can do this. Feel the fear in your tummy and do it anyway. Go for it.

Putting my chin up and shoulders back, I begin walking toward him.

It’s a bit of a challenge doing my sexy walk in these platform shoes, being out of practice from living at the ashram and afraid of losing my balance. But I must. This guy might have some influence in the band, for good or naught. I’ve got to play it safe and get on his good side. Make him want to talk me up to the band and persuade them to keep me around.

Just six concerts. That’s it. You can do this, Lucy Goose.

As I get close to him, my shoe scuffs the floor, I lose my balance, and pitch forward.

“Oof!”

His head whips toward me and his eyes meet mine.

Two furious blue eyes—in a face that makes my heart stop.

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Chapter 4

Jack

I drop the magazine and catch her in my arms.

Not hard for a champion fullback at the Brookings School for Boys for three years running. She’s as light and comfortable as a well-used rugby ball.

Her wide, startled eyes stare back at me as I cradle her in my arms. Brown with green flecks that sparkle under the fluorescent light, that’s the color of her eyes. Or are they green with brown flecks? Mesmerizing, whatever they are, even with mascara trails extending into the tops of her cheeks. Has she been crying?

My eyes travel down past her pert nose to her voluptuous red lips. The lipstick has travelled beyond the outline of her lips and into the creases at the corners of her mouth. I’ve never been a kisser. Too many germs. But I have an immediate and overwhelming desire to lick and suck those lips. To suck the juice right out of them.

I feel my traitor mouth heading in their direction and divert it to her ear.

“Allo, me love,” I say in a Cockney accent. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I lift her upright and settle her on her feet with a disconcerting sense of reluctance.

“Um, have we met before?” she says as she struggles to push her hair behind her ear.

I help her, being the gentleman that I am. Her hair is almost the same golden color as my Ovation Balladeer acoustic guitar—my favorite—and feels the way I suspect cornsilk feels.

Not that I’ve ever peeled corn. Or cooked. Or shopped in a supermarket, for that matter.

She has tiny little ears decorated by ornate silver earrings that dangle halfway to her shoulders. The earrings have some sort of mandala design, and I can’t help but touch her neck—unintentionally, of course—as I finger one of them.

“Perfect,” I say without thinking.

She jolts when I touch her and babbles, as women of her type often do. “Because I should remember. You being… like you are.” She waves her hand at me. “Like that. Like… I don’t know. You know what I mean. Like…”

I narrow my eyes. What is she trying to say? That I look funny? I might be a freak, but no one’s ever accused me of looking like one.

And how would she have met me? I was simply employing a well-loved colloquialism—’fancy meeting you here’—in a jocular manner to grease the wheels of conversation, but she seems to have taken it literally.

Is she in the business?

Oh no. Is she a groupie?

How in hell did she get in here, when we gave the arena an explicit directive to keep groupies out? Except Suze and Carly in the company of Howie, of course.

Someone’s head is going to roll if she is a groupie.

Is she a groupie?

I examine her below the neck for the first time, looking for the tell-tale signs. I know most guys look there first, but I’ve always been a face man, and her face is nothing but arresting.

Marilyn Monroe-sized knockers, small waist, slender hips. Your standard groupie. It’s official.

She’s wearing an outfit that looks like it would be right at home at an ABBA or BeeGees concert. Sky blue flare trousers that hug her hips and a red and white striped tube top that leaves her arms and shoulders bare, both of which have seen better days. Not to mention those over-the-top blue, fake suede platform shoes that only a teenager would deem appropriate footwear. Another tick in the groupie category.

“I’m Lucy,” she says, holding out her hand to shake mine.

I don’t do the hand-shaking ritual except with someone who could affect the future of the band. Politicians, journalists, radio DJs, the head of a record company. A groupie—not on your life. Even if I did just touch her when I caught her.

“Listen, princess. Who let you in? ‘Cause birds like you ain’t allowed in here, y’know what I mean?”

Her hand drops and her cheeks turn an amusing shade of raspberry. She crosses her arms across her chest like a disapproving schoolmistress who’s caught you out after curfew. “Birds like me? What does that mean?”

“Yeah, groupies. We don’t allow no groupies near the band, yeah? I got me orders, don’t I? Policy from on high, darling.” I shrug and look contrite. “Nothing I can do, is there?”

“A groupie?” she says, tossing her hair behind her left shoulder and puckering her glorious lips. “Who told you I’m a groupie? I’m not a groupie. I’m with the band. Didn’t you get the memo?”

My mouth drops open. Did she just make a joke at my expense? No one, but no one, makes a joke at my expense.

“Funny that, darling. I didn’t get no memo, and no one told me neither. Mind telling me who you’re with, pet? ‘Cause I’ll be needing to have a word with that wanker about keeping ol’ Vic in the dark about inviting a delicious little titbit like you backstage and all.”

Lucy gasps when I call her a titbit. It takes all my acting skills to suppress a grin. God, she’s even more irresistible when she’s pissed off. My pink oboe certainly thinks so. It’s straining against my jeans, demanding to be let loose. I stand a bit sideways, hoping she doesn’t take notice. But, then, what if she does? She’s just a groupie. A little titbit. Someone to scratch a man’s itch.

“I’m here with…” She pauses a little too long, and then shoots me a defiant look. “Keith. Didn’t he tell you? I’m not surprised because, well, you know… I just flew in, and he hasn’t seen me yet. It must have slipped his mind to tell you guys, me coming to spend the rest of the tour with him. But yeah, me and Keith. We’re together. Me and Keith.”

She juts out her chin, daring me to call her on it.

I can’t hide my grin any longer. “Keith, is it?”

Poor little Lucy love. I’ve got her now. Keith has a different woman every night—and often more than one. He doesn’t do relationships, that one. He can’t even remember a woman’s name the morning after. The guy gives the word “heathen” a new meaning. You could even say he gives Mötley Crüe and Van Halen a run for their money. Which is really saying something when Van Halen has sex tents onstage during their concerts. I had to tell Keith no, Pirate is not following suit. No way, no how. No sex tents onstage or anywhere else. We’ve got teenagers coming to our concerts, f’crissakes. Not just randy young men.

“Sorry, princess,” I grimace at her with regret, “but only wives and girlfriends allowed backstage. Rules is rules, and I can’t be breaking them for every—”

“I’m his girlfriend,” she blurts out.

It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing. As it is, I’m grinning like a fool. It’s going to be so delicious to see what lengths she’ll go to get Keith on side. Being a groupie, that could be quite a lot.

The thought of her doing anything with Keith makes my grin fade. For some reason, that thought doesn’t please me at all. The idea of him even touching her sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to punch his face in. And I like Keith.

I glare at her, the cause of all these unpleasant thoughts. I don’t have time for this nonsense. We’ve got a concert tonight, and I’ve got to get back to soundcheck and make sure those pillocks have ironed out the problems with the bassline. Those pillocks who include her so-called “boyfriend” Keith.

“Listen, Lucy, me darling. Can I ask you to stay in the hospitality room here ‘til your bloke gets back? You wouldn’t want to disturb the band when they’re smack dab in the middle of practice, now would ya, me love?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry, Vic.” She says Vic as if it’s the most disgusting word in the English language. “I won’t be going anywhere near the stage. You can one hundred percent count on it.”

“Brilliant,” I say in my normal voice.

“I mean, that’s me girl,” I rush to say, switching back to the Cockney accent. “You help yourself to whatever food and drink your little heart desires. On the house. Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she says, a confused expression on her beautiful little heart-shaped face.

I turn and stride away down the corridor.

When I take a glance behind me, she’s staring after me with her head tilted to the side and an anxious look on her face.

That’s right, you lying, conniving little groupie. You should be worried, because your massive whopper will shortly be exposed for everyone to see.

You don’t mess with Jack St James. And in particular, you never make fun of me. Even if I am a freak.

The game is on, my little pretty, and I’m an expert in passing, kicking, and blocking, as well as strategy. Get ready, Gawping Grasping Groupie, because you’re about to be toast.

Even if you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen and my oboe is trying to direct me back to you. I won’t have it.