"Talking is overrated," Sharon coos, touching her bottom lip with her tongue as though she'd been given a juicy steak. Her elbow is on the back of her couch and she's leaning in, pulling at strands of his hairline. "There are so many more things I'd rather be doing with my mouth..."
Keanu rakes his hair, pushing her hand aside. "No really, Sharon. We need to talk. Look, you're great."
She continues to toy with his hair, clearly ignoring him.
"This...," he motions back and forth between them, "has been great."
"You haven't seen anything yet." She lays her hand on his chest, lowering it slowly to circle around his pectorals.
He covers her hand with his, pulling it off his chest and clasping it between his palms. Tilting his head, he hooks his eyes into hers. "You are a beautiful woman, Sharon. You must have so many guys clamoring to be near you."
"Yes." Her other hand is roving now, scratching up and down his thigh with her nails.
"So many I'm sure a woman like you will not...notice...if there's one less."
Her eyebrows squish together. "What do you mean?"
"I mean...my attention is elsewhere."
"Give me five minutes, Keanu, and I'll have all your attention."
"I don't think you're hearing me. My thoughts are elsewhere. Sharon, my heart, right now, is...elsewhere."
Her hand stops and her eyes narrow. "Who is she?" she demands, with lips pressed together in a thin line.
He offers a kind smile and gently squeezes her hand before removing it from his thigh. "Does it matter?"
A puff of hot air shoots out of her nose. "No. It doesn't," she sneers. "Because whomever it is, didn't seem to stop you from coming here tonight, did it?"
"I wanted to explain, face-to-face. Put a stop to any misunderstanding directly. You deserve that."
Her elbow returns to the back of the couch and her fist presses into her cheek. She stares out her floor-to-ceiling windows, refusing to acknowledge him.
He takes a deep breath. "I should go," he stands up, reaching for his jacket strewn across her accent chair. "I hope this won't affect our friendship?"
She slices the air with her hand. "Just. Go."
He drops his chin to his chest and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his worn timberlands.
"Now!"
He squeezes his eyes shut and nods. "Okay. Okay." Walking toward the door, he looks back one more time. "I'm sorry, Sharon. Really."
She lurches from the couch and stalks toward the door, whipping it open, nearly taking off his nose. "GO!!" she shouts, pointing out the door, then pulling her jacket closed and folding her arms across her chest.
Arrows shoot from her eyes as she watches him saunter down the front steps and swing his leg over his Norton. She continues to watch him fasten his helmet, push the kickstand up with his foot, then turn the key and roll the throttle, ramping up the motor.
She isn't heartbroken.
The sex is good, and the attention of a younger man always does a little something for the ego. Yet she isn't heartbroken. She isn't in love. She isn't going to be crying herself to sleep. But she is furious. She is embarrassed. And she is certain he doesn't know who the fuck she is or he wouldn't have dared to turn her down.
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.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
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.
"We love you Keanu!" a lot trio of sorority sisters standing in front of the stage scream in unison.
He smiles politely, then extends his arm back toward his bandmates. His voice is not audible but a lip reader can see him turning the attention toward Brett and Rob.
Another woman is bouncing up and down, obnoxiously waving a sharpie and a small picture of him.
He contemplates pretending he didn't see it, rocking back and forth, searching for a way out. With no believable pretense, he gives in, swiping it out of her hand and quickly turning to sign the photo as inconspicuously as possible before returning it. Overhead, the lights are now an electric blue and the guys all move into their spaces, minutes away from the first song.
The lead singer, Brett, puts one hand up to the mic, draping his other hand over his guitar. "We'd like to thank you all for coming out to see us tonight."
The audience cheers louder.
Keanu looks over his left shoulder, his right, then down at his feet, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone in the crowd. These minutes before the first strum of his guitar are his least favorite minutes, and he can feel beads of sweat form at his hairline.
Brett continues to hype up the crowd. "Let's get this mother fucker started, alright? One, two, one-two-three-four!"
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Rob taps the rhythm out on his drumsticks as Brett counts down, then kicks things off with the crack of his snare as Keanu strums his first riff, the muscles of his neck finally softening. Just like that, the movie star disappears and the rocker fills his scuffed-up sneakers.
The opening chords roll out and Brett opens his mouth. "They moved down into town, not to be forgotten, to stay around. The jasmine's sweet, the air is complete now."
Keanu's head bounces to the beat and his eyes never leave his guitar. Rob stares straight into the crowd while slamming his sticks down on the drum, scanning the adoring eyes of women. Brett, with his shirt unbuttoned halfway revealing a freshly shaved chest, continues.
"They set up a cornerstore, to try and make their lives a little more. Their girl was blind but she saw more than you or me will ever see."
An hour later...
The sound engineer is frantically working on a blown speaker and there's a rumble from the crowd as their conversations grow louder, more impatient. The band is backstage, guzzling ice cold water and beer and wiping thick sweat from their brows. Frank walks up to Keanu and lays a hand on his shoulder. He turns around, Budweiser in hand.
"Whassup, man?" he lifts his chin in acknowledgement.
"There's someone here for you, wants to know if he can come to the side of the stage for the show," Frank starts.
"Who?"
Frank gestures toward the bar in the back of the club where a dark-haired, husky man about six feet tall stood, his elbow on the bar and a bottle in his mouth. He takes a big gulp of beer and scans the room, looking in the direction of the stage with his familiar almond-shaped eyes.
"He says he's your uncle on your dad's side?"
Keanu lifts his own bottle, finishing the whole thing in one gulp, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He curls his lip and wrinkles his nose, quickly shaking his head like he has a chill. "Nah, man."
"You don't want to see him?"
He shakes his head again and turns his back to Frank, fidgeting with extra guitar picks and digging through a bag for nothing. Frank waits a minute more before leaving the stage. Keanu throws his guitar strap back over his shoulder and watches the emcee as he approaches his uncle, James, back at the bar. Frank and James lean into each other to talk. James turns his head to look at the stage, then back at Frank. They talk a few minutes more, then James sets his bottle onto the bar and reaches in his wallet for a five dollar bill, tossing it next to the bottle.
Keanu bounces on his toes for a few minutes, swinging his arms back and forth. The sound problem is fixed and it is time to resume their show. The band comes running back on stage and Keanu's low chord announces the next song.
*"Weee-ee-ee stand in the cold
Heee-ee-eere it's thirty below
III-II-II'm getting to know,
Nobody home"
The grunge-rock ballad is low and slow, people in the crowd sway together as a unit. It's a brisk fifty degrees outside in this early winter evening in Los Angeles, but you wouldn't know it by the audience: Women in spaghetti-strapped crop tops and denim mini-skirts abound, pressing themselves as close to the stage as they can. All around the band's feet are various pieces of lingerie, now. A few in the crowd have their lighters in the air. Brett's blonde hair swings and his dimples pop in and out as he continues the song.
"Sheee-ee-ee falls asleep on the phone
Two thousand miles away she sleeps all alone
Sheee-ee-ee's getting to know
Nobody home
IIII sent her away
To someone who she could see everyday
III-II-II'm getting to know
Nobody home"
Keanu told himself he wasn't going to look but found himself looking toward the back bar, anyway, hoping not to see James still standing there. Instead his eyes catch on a lone figure near the front left of the stage, standing nearly still amongst the moving crowd. His heart slams at the sight of her and the tall, familiar figure at the bar is forgotten.
Sandra is standing there with her hands clasped in front of her chest, twiddling her fingers as she watches him in his element. Her head bobs slowly and she moistens her lips as she unabashedly stares at the bass player. A slow smile forms on her face when her eyes meet his and she knows she is seen. Every few minutes someone steps on her feet or squeezes past her, pulling her attention briefly away, but just as quickly it returns.
Every time, his eyes remain fixated on her.
Another hand lands on her shoulder and she ignores it, biting her lower lip as she takes in the lyrics. She turns when she realizes the hand is still on her shoulder, finding a tall, gorgeous man with a crooked smile staring back at her. She pulls her chin back in surprise and then lights up, arms quickly around his neck.
"Dermot! Hey!" she exclaims as she embraces him, grinning wide.
Keanu is rocking back and forth on the stage when he notices Dermot Mulroney standing next to her, a double take punctuating his awareness. With pinched expression, he continues to pluck away at the strings, no longer moving to the music.
Oblivious, she continues to chat with Dermot as the song ends. Keanu reaches for another swig of his beer then turns back around, watching her.
Duhm-dum, duhm-dum-dum, duhm-dum-dum,
The bass guitar commences the final song and Brett has both hands cupping the mic with his guitar hanging behind his back.
*"Under full moon I see you there, and I beg forgiveness from your stare. Have I done wrong? Beyond repair? And you say that I should lie alone and breathe tonight."
The show ends and the lights come up. Rob's shirt has somehow left his body and he stands, his drumsticks up in the air. The awkward emcee returns. "Dogstar, everyone," he says with a tepid, underwhelmed tone.
As the crowd roars, Keanu drops his guitar and bounds straight off the stage, into the audience, his eyes trained on her.
She is sitting with Dermot, now, drinks in hand, at a table to the side. They are surrounded by women trying to get Dermot's attention. She sits back in her chair, turning away repeatedly to squeeze her mouth shut and cover her giggles as she watches the traditional, star-struck Hollywood mating ritual play out in front of her. Her hair is pulled back into a small ponytail and she's wearing a long-sleeved, black, scoop-neck top.
Every few feet Keanu travels, someone stops him, shaking his hand or gushing with batted lashes. He pauses, smiles, says hello, then resumes his path. As he nears, she looks up, her bangs wiggling whenever she blinks as they catch on her mascara.
She stands and turns toward him as he reaches her table.
"You're here!" he says with surprise.
"I'm here," she replies, holding her arms out to her sides.
"I'm glad." He leans in, wrapping his arm around her with a gentle squeeze as he grazes her cheek with a peck. "What're you doing here tonight?"
"Well, a couple weeks ago, this guy asked me what I was afraid of."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. He told me I needed to relax. Some nerve, right?"
He chuckles, hands on his hips, now. "So, uh, what'd you do next?"
"I told him to fuck off, of course," she grins.
"Ah-haha!" he crows, shoulders bouncing.
"But then I came up with a plan," she continues.
Shaking his head, he sighs. "A plan, what a surprise. What's the plan?"
"This."
**She lifts up on her toes to reach his lips, her arm encircling his neck. The cool, damp cotton of his shirt is underneath her palm as she presses her body against his.
He is stunned for a moment, both hands gripping softballs of air as he fights to maintain his balance, but he quickly recovers, pushing his fingertips into her back as his mouth opens to her kiss.
"Everyone's staring, you know," he mumbles into her ear a moment later, waiting for her panic to kick in.
She presses her mouth more firmly against his, allowing his kiss to strip her fear and doubt away before responding.
"Let them."
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
*Actual Dogstar lyrics. They're quite good. Check out the YouTube link.
**Inspired by a rumored kiss at one of their shows, all inferences are fiction.