The Beginning

Ch. 53 - The vixen

She continues to glare while he lifts both feet, watching as his headlights light up the path on her long, private drive. Just as he turns off of her driveway and onto the main residential road, she notices a couple of flashes from behind her large hedges. She squints and juts her chin forward, trying to focus on the light.

Ka-chick. Ka-chick. Ka-chick. Ka-chick. Ka-chick.

The mechanical sound is attached to a new set of flashes coming from between the leaves of her landscaping. Crouched behind the hedges is a portly man in a beige, buttoned-up shirt and dirty khakis. He has a large black strap around his neck, connected to a large black camera with a long, telephoto lens.

Mother-fucker! She takies one step forward onto the doorstep ready to throw hands. Something causes her to stop in her tracks, though, as a pensive look comes over her which translates into a sly grin. She opens her silky, gold jacket and puts her hands on her hips, exposing the deep vee of her red silk chemise underneath, and she bathes in the sunlight.

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A few days later...

"Alright everybody. The time you've been waiting for has come." The emcee, Frank, is a short, pudgy man with a ruddy complexion and the nose of an alcoholic. He's wearing an unbuttoned, ill-fitting, black suit jacket, slouchy black pants, and a white button up shirt with no tie. His discomfort is apparent, but he's resigned to following through with his choppy speech. "It is my pleasure to introduce, Dogstar."

The lights dim and the crowd of mostly women shriek as Brett, Rob and Keanu amble across the stage. Frank trips over the cord of the mic before handing it over to Brett, who makes his way to the front of the stage to place it in the microphone stand. For several minutes, camera flashes offer the only hints as to what is happening onstage. Deafening screams masquerade any sound the band makes while setting up. Keanu grabs a damp towel someone else left behind and strides to toss it offstage. The crowd settles to a moderate din. He self-consciously wipes his mouth and nose with one hand, glancing out at the full house. The screams return and he quickly looks away, wishing he hadn't aroused the beast.

He has been playing with his band for five or six years now, his love of music being a close second to his love of acting. At first it was easy to blend in with his bandmates, but after Point Break and especially Speed, things started to change. The dynamic of their crowds went from grungy college-aged men to scantily-clad, buxom women, pressing against gates and trying to gain the attention of the tall, dark bass player. The entire band is attractive, and the singer's voice is milky smooth, but the focus continues to beam in on Keanu and he hates it. Initially, he tolerated it because it meant more gigs, tours, and a deal to record an album. It even garnered television spots on major late night shows, but there was no hiding the patronizing tone of the hosts nor the fact that only Keanu would be invited to the couch before or after the performance. He worries the rest of the band will start to blame him, direct ire toward him, and he still hasn't grown accustomed to or comfortable with this "movie star" label that was attached to him seemingly overnight.

A large, white identification card swings from his lanyard as he steps back to where his bass guitar lay, pulling his ragged, baggy jeans up at the waist as he goes. His black t-shirt is too big, hanging off of his frame and covering the bulk of his SWAT team form, by design. He lifts his white and black electric guitar up, throwing the strap over his head. Facing the drum set, Brett joins him as they check that their instruments are tuned. A low hum of guitars rises, intermixed with the screech of feedback from standing too close to the speaker, feeding into the loop of sound that makes you want to plug your ears with a gun. Behind the audience, a sound engineer pushes some buttons up and down until the painful screech dissipates, leaving hushed musical sounds in its wake as the band continues to check instruments. Behind them, the first bra of the evening flies onto the stage. Keanu reaches for a bottle of Budweiser on top of a speaker, taking several gulps. He doesn't like to perform while drunk, but some warmth helps to sooth his nerves. A red stage light pours over them, giving their flesh a pink tone. He is invigorated: spinning in large circles, hopping, pacing, energizing himself.