Chapter Five

She’d recognized him! He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t that his disguise was so ingenious that he thought no one would ever see through it. But he did think that no one was likely to believe that he would be the guy he understood they called Death Man. He thought that their characters were so incongruous that no one would ever put the two of them together. Of course, he guessed that lately they’d both been saying the same thing. Stop the concerts. Go home.

Shane Adams had gotten the idea from a special he’d seen several years ago on VH-1. The special had starred John Mayer. Shane wasn’t a John Mayer fan by any stretch of the imagination, so he wasn’t even sure why he had watched the darned thing. Maybe it was because when he flipped through, he saw John Mayer being extremely un-John Mayer-like. John Mayer was a soft rock artist who played acoustic guitar. Thirteen-year-old girls thought he was sweet. His songs were sentimental drivel about love. They were catchy. In short, John Mayer’s music was nothing like The Wrenching’s. So, Shane had imagined the guy to be sort of like his songs. A sentimental, sweet putz. Oddly enough, the guy had a sense of humor. He was really silly. And he pulled a lot of stunts, one of which was to dress up in a bear suit and go out into the parking lot before his concerts. There, he would rag on himself. He would say things to his own fans like, “John Myers sucks!”

His fans would get huffy. “It’s not Myers, it’s Mayer,” they would tell him. They would throw beer cans at the bear.

John Mayer thought it was a riot. Shane could tell the guy was having fun doing it. He could tell that this was a guy who didn’t give a flying fuck what people thought. He was just enjoying his life. Shane had tried to meet John once at the MTV Movie Awards, but it hadn’t worked out. John Mayer’s publicist had sent Shane flowers in apology. Shane told his publicist, who said that in instances like this, the appropriate thing to do was to send flowers back, so Shane’s publicist sent return flowers. As far as Shane knew, the flower-sending madness had stopped there. He hoped. Otherwise, they could have gone on forever, sending flowers back and forth.

But shortly after seeing the special, he’d gotten the idea for Death Man. He’d spent some time perfecting Death Man, who he called Ivan, not Death Man. He thought Ivan was a good name for the dude, who was a bible thumping, screaming right-wing activist, whose message to the Entourage was to go home. Shane didn’t know if Ivan had convinced anyone yet, but having the alter ego had helped him feel as if he was at least getting it out. As if he was actually doing something. Ivan wore a black suit. All black, even the shirt and tie. He had long black hair—halfway down his back, courtesy of a wig Shane had purchased. He also used a long, fake beard and mustache to cover his face. On his head, he wore a top hat. Shane felt that when Ivan strode down the street, he looked like Death coming to call. Or like a harbinger of the Apocalypse. He liked it.

He didn’t think anyone would ever recognize him, but this girl had recognized him. He remembered her. She sold black dresses. Lacy dresses. Ripped ones. Held together with safety pins, spikes, and chains. He thought that she made the dresses, but he wasn’t sure. He thought she was pretty with her curly black hair and big blue eyes. Either she did a really job at touching up her dye job (and she dyed her eyebrows) or her hair was naturally black. He thought it was the latter. She was a “natural goth.”

“Well,” she was saying, “aren’t you?”

He nodded. “I am. I’m Shane Adams. And you are?”

“Um...Lark. Lark Thomas.”

He offered her his hand. “Hi.”

She stared at his hand, open-mouthed. “Wow. It really is you. I, uh...gosh. I’m a huge fan.”

He grinned. “You gonna stare at it or shake it?”

“I’m afraid to touch you.”

He started to retract his hand, but hers shot out and took his. The moment her skin touched his, he felt a little shiver travel up his arm. He closed his fingers around hers. Their palms slid against each other. She looked up at him from beneath blacked fringed eyelids, and their eyes locked. Whoa. Was there something about this girl, or had he taken something and forgotten about it?

He didn’t want to let go of her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said. “How did you know it was me?”

“It’s your eyes,” she said. “I’d know your eyes anywhere. No one else has eyes like yours. You always look so haunted. So worried. So concerned. What are you worried about?”

Shane snatched his hand back. “I’m worried they’ll find my drugs,” he said. “Listen, stay away from the trees.” He turned to walk away.

“Wait a sec,” said Lark. “I know your secret, don’t I? I could—I mean, that gives me power.”

He turned back around, shaking his head. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you want me to tell everyone that you’re Death Man?”

Now, why would she do that? “No,” he said. Ivan was his escape. When he was Ivan, he could say what he really wanted to, tell people what was really important. If Lark told everyone that Shane was Ivan, he’d have to stop being Ivan. His cover would be blown.

“Well, I need someplace to stay,” said Lark. “You let me stay with you, and I won’t tell anyone.”

“Absolutely not. No. You can’t stay with me.” No one could stand staying with him. That was why he had his own tour bus. He didn’t play well with others.

“Then I guess I’ll start letting people know that Shane Adams dresses up as a crazy, right-wing protester.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Why do you do that, anyway?”

She couldn’t. “You can’t tell people about Ivan,” he said.

“Who’s Ivan?”

“Death Man. I call him Ivan. You can’t tell people.”

“Then give me someplace to stay.”

Oh. He saw what she was doing to him. She wasn’t leaving him a choice. That wasn’t very nice of her. “I have pet rats,” he said.

“I know that,” she said. “I’m a member of the Entourage, remember? I’m a fan.”

“I do a lot of drugs.”

“So, who doesn’t?”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll show you where my bus is.”

“Let me get my stuff.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell anyone that you’re staying with me. They’ll ask questions.”

She nodded.

* * *

The tabloids were right. Shane Adams was certifiably insane. Lark wasn’t sure she’d made a good decision to stay with him as she carried her few personal belongings and followed him through the parking lot. He was still wearing his Death Man getup, so she had to walk several paces behind him. He was extremely paranoid about anyone figuring out who he was, and since it wouldn’t be likely for Lark to be going to stay with Death Man, he’d insisted they not be seen together. Lark guessed it made sense. But she thought it was strange that he dressed up as Death Man at all. After the initial excitement of actually meeting Shane Adams had worn off, she’d started to evaluate what she knew about the guy. And he didn’t seem too...together. He was crazy. This dressing up stuff only put the final nail in the coffin.

It had been difficult explaining to Rainey where she was going. Rainey hadn’t taken the vague explanation she’d given (“Someone offered me a ride”) very well. Rainey had wanted to know who had offered her a ride. Lark had backpedaled. Lark didn’t know the guy. He was shy. He was new. But Lark was going to be fine. Really fine. Rainey shouldn’t worry. Lark would find her at the show tonight. They would talk. Everything would be okay.

Rainey didn’t like it. Lark could tell. And Lark felt bad for lying to her best friend. Usually, she told Rainey everything. But there was only so much that Lark could do about it. She needed a place to stay. Shane could give it to her. And he’d told her to keep her mouth shut. She had to honor that.

It occurred to her that there might be nothing different about Shane Adams. He might be just like Matt. Or even like Jimmy. But there was no one like Jimmy. Not really. Jimmy was unique. And for all the fact that he’d been a real jackass, she thought that some part of her still loved him. Jimmy had been special. Too special, she guessed. Crazy, maybe. Maybe it was just that he’d known too much. His brain hadn’t been able to take the pressure. Too much knowledge. Too much...

She tried not to think of him sitting behind his canvases in their tiny apartment, curled up with a paintbrush in his teeth, folded in half. He was so tall. Lean. She tried not to think of him that way—warm light from the desk lamp illuminating his curls like a halo. Standing behind him, losing her fingers in those curls. Letting them twine about her fingers. Whispering to him. Jimmy kissing her fingers, telling her, “A few minutes, baby. Just a few more minutes. Then I’ll come to bed.”

She tried not to think of him that way. The way he’d been at the beginning. She tried to remember the other way. At the end. When the desk had been chopped up, and Jimmy had used the pieces to make strange symbols and letters which he’d hung on the wall and would stare at, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He had wood chips in his hair. His eyes were wild. And when she came to the door, he’d say, “Give me your hand.” And then he’d—

On the other hand, she didn’t particularly like remembering him that way either. It was better, probably, if she just didn’t think of him at all. Jimmy was blood. Jimmy was pain. Jimmy was screaming in the middle of the night. Jimmy was scars that she’d wear for the rest of her life.

There was nobody like Jimmy. That was for sure.

Shane’s tour bus was enormous. Lark hadn’t thought it was possible for there to be so much room inside a moving vehicle. It was also a wreck. There was a word to describe the inside of the tour bus. She remembered it from one of her tenth grade English vocabulary lists. It was squalor. Filth and disrepair. Shane Adams lived in squalor. The bus had a relatively large living area, with several couches and an enormous flat-screen TV. The room was littered with empty take-out boxes and overflowing ashtrays. It contained a kitchenette, which was buried under a mass of dirty dishes. In the back was Shane’s bedroom. The huge mattress was bare except for a tangle of stained sheets with cigarette holes in them. The rats crawled all over the bus. They were everywhere. Shane didn’t bother to clean up their shit, so Lark had to watch where she stepped or sat. There was dried vomit on the bathroom floor. The sink was full of cigarette butts. The shower curtain was mildewed.

Lark spent the first hour or so in the new place she was crashing sitting gingerly on one of Shane’s couches. She had to move aside a pile of empty pizza boxes and half-full bottles of whiskey to even find a place to sit. She and Shane watched television. While he stared at the screen blankly, Shane petted his rats and did a few lines of coke. Lark was beginning to wonder if staying here was really better than having nowhere to sleep on the tour. She inspected her fingernails nervously and smoked cigarettes. She wondered if her presence was upsetting Shane.

Eventually, Shane left because he had a show that night. Lark had a ticket, because that was the entire point of following The Wrenching around, so she left the bus soon after Shane did. She found Rainey inside the venue after about twenty minutes of searching. Rainey was drunk already and offered Lark a few nips out of her flask.

“Listen,” Rainey slurred, “you have to tell me who you’re staying with.”

“I told you,” said Lark, “you don’t know the guy. He’s got room. He seems okay. I’m fine.” Was she fine? Was all that rat poop going to make her sick?

“I talked to Matt,” said Rainey.

“Why?” said Lark. She wasn’t going back onto Matt’s van. There was no way in hell she’d do something like that.

“I want you back in the van,” said Rainey. “I’m worried about you. I mean, who is this strange guy you’re with? How do you know he isn’t going to do worse things to you than Matt did?”

Lark didn’t know. But she didn’t guess Shane was going to want to have sex with her. He was Shane Adams for Christ’s sake. But she hadn’t really thought this through, had she? Shane probably had groupies. Like all the time. And where was she supposed to go while Shane was fucking his groupies? God. This whole thing seemed like a worse and worse idea with every passing moment. “Well,” she said. “What did Matt say?” Maybe she could go back to the van.

“He’s pissed at you,” said Rainey. “But I feel as if I kept talking to him, he’d get over it.”

Of course Matt wasn’t going to let her back on the van. And besides, she didn’t want to be around Matt ever again. The thought of Matt made her want to vomit. “Don’t bother,” said Lark. “I wouldn’t go back on that van even if he begged me to.”

The show was actually one of the better shows for this tour. Shane didn’t seem nearly as out of it as he’d seemed lately. He didn’t forget any lyrics, and the show went up only fifteen minutes late. Afterwards, Lark hugged Rainey goodbye, promised to look out for herself, and set out back towards Shane’s tour bus.

Shane didn’t keep the bus with the rest of the bands’ vehicles, preferring solitude, Lark guessed. The bus sat alone in a parking lot that took forever to walk to. It was late and dark, and Lark was walking by herself. She could hear the muffled sounds of partying from the Entourage. Whooping. Laughter. But she was walking in the opposite direction of the place where all of them were parked. The sounds faded into the distance with each step she took, so that the loudest noise she could hear was the sound her feet made as they hit the pavement. Then, suddenly, when she was just a few hundred yards from Shane’s bus, she heard an echo of footsteps behind her. Lark’s heartbeat sped up. She stopped and turned.

Fuck. Matt had followed her.

“What do you want?” she demanded, hoping she didn’t sound as frightened as she felt.

“I can’t believe you said that shit about me in front of everyone, you whore,” said Matt.

“You should have thought about that before you did that ‘shit,’” Lark returned. “Anyway, I’m out of your hair now, so don’t worry about it.”

“Who are you staying with?” Matt said. “Because I want to let that guy know just what a fucking bitch you are. When I finish talking to him, he’ll throw your ass out.”

God. Matt really was pissed at her. It was funny. She’d never realized what a complete asshole Matt was before. And now he was standing in front of her fuming. His nostrils flared because he was so angry. He was clenching and unclenching his left fist. Was he going to hit her? Should she run?

“Hey, Lark,” said another voice. Lark turned, looking for its source.

Shane stepped out of the darkness. He was still sweaty from the stage lights. His shirt clung to his chest. He strode to her side and looked Matt up and down. “Is this guy bothering you?”

Matt’s jaw had dropped. “Is that...? I... You know him?!”

“What were you saying to Lark?” asked Shane.

“I just can’t believe it’s you,” said Matt. “I...I worship you. I know all the words to your—”

“Leave Lark alone,” Shane said, cutting Matt off.

“What do you care about this cunt?” Matt demanded.

Shane raised his eyebrows. “Wow,” he said. “You know, I don’t need fans like you. Get lost.”

Matt started to reply, but Shane’s words seemed to have deflated him. He turned and skulked away, back towards the waiting caravans of the Entourage, the darkness swallowing him up.

“Thank you,” said Lark to Shane. It was kind of cool that Shane Adams had sort of just defended her honor.

“We’ll have to move the bus now,” Shane said. “He’ll tell everyone where I am. Don’t let people follow you back here anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lark.

Shane didn’t reply. He just started for the bus. Lark looked into the empty space where Matt had been, then looked at Shane’s back as he moved away from her. Then she followed him.

Once Shane had moved the bus to a different location, on the other side of the parking lot, still far away from anyone else, he stripped off his shirt and pants and strode through the bus in his boxers. He didn’t acknowledge Lark’s presence, as if he had forgotten she was there. Shane found some leftover pizza in his refrigerator, which he fed to his rats. They crowded around him, large brown furry bodies swarming his bare feet. Shane fed them by hand, ripping off pieces of the pizza and placing it in each of their mouths. Lark watched, sitting on a couch, clutching her knees to her chest, chewing anxiously on her bottom lip. When Shane was finished feeding the rats, he went into the bathroom and shut the door. He was inside for a long time.

Lark looked around the bus. She guessed she was going to have to sleep on one of the couches, even though both of them were covered with trash and rat droppings. It wasn’t a problem, really. Lark was used to sleeping in a van, sitting up. She could manage this. It would be fine.

Shane emerged from the bathroom, a bottle of sleeping pills in one hand, a fifth of whiskey in the other. “Uh...” he said to her.

“Yes?” asked Lark. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since they’d gotten back on the bus.

“Are you like...expecting to sleep with me?” Shane asked.

“No,” said Lark. Inwardly, she panicked. “Unless that’s a problem.” Shane Adams was a man, after all. Lark was used to the idea that staying with a guy was a package deal, with her putting out being part of the package. “Were you expecting me to...because it’s okay if—”

“It’s just that if I ever bring girls back here, they always want to fuck,” said Shane. “And...I don’t mind. I guess.”

What the hell? What was that? This was Shane freaking Adams, here. Did he want her to have sex with him or not? Did she want to have sex with him? Lark considered. He was a rock star and all, but... Lark didn’t particularly care much about sex anymore. It was a necessary part of her life. Sometimes it even felt good. But she didn’t really... “Do you want me to?” she asked.

“I just wasn’t going to take the sleeping pills yet if that’s what we were doing,” said Shane. “Is that what we’re doing?”

Lark desperately did not want to say the wrong thing. “I’ll do whatever you want,” she said finally.

A funny look crossed Shane’s face. He took a long draught of whiskey out of the bottle he was holding. “No,” he said. “Not like that. I wasn’t...” He looked at the pill bottle he was also holding thoughtfully and then looked back at Lark. “You don’t want to sleep with me?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

“I...” Lark apparently had said the wrong thing. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was a very attractive man. He was Shane Adams. “I want to have a place to sleep,” she said. That was true, at least.

Shane laughed. “Wow,” he said. He opened the pill bottle and shook at least six pills into his mouth. He swallowed them with another long draught of whiskey. “I can’t kick you out, remember? You know I’m Ivan. You’re safe. You can sleep here.”

Right. She had ammunition. But he was Shane Adams. Did the ammunition really matter?

Shane held out the whiskey bottle to Lark. “Are you a lesbian or something?”

Lark took the bottle. She took a sip from it. She made a face. Shane was kind of arrogant, wasn’t he? Of course, he was a rock star. “I’m not a lesbian,” she said. She handed the whiskey bottle back.

“You don’t think I’m attractive?” asked Shane. He ducked back into the bathroom. When he returned, he was just holding the whiskey. He took another drink.

God. She’d hurt his feelings or something. “Do you want me to sleep with you?” she asked. “Because it’s not a big deal if you want me to.”

Shane went back into the bathroom. He was apparently looking at himself in the mirror. “I guess I do kind of look like hell,” he mused.

“No,” said Lark. “You know you’re gorgeous.”

Shane came back out. “But it’s no big deal to sleep with me?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Shane shrugged. “I don’t care. Fuck. You want the bed? Once these pills kick in, I can sleep anywhere.”

Lark was horrified. “I’m not taking your bed.”

“Well, you can’t sleep on the couches. They’re gross.”

“No, they’re fine,” said Lark. “I can definitely sleep out here.”

“Can we both sleep in the bed?” asked Shane. “I took the pills already, so sex is out, anyway.”

“Uh...” said Lark. “Okay.”

* * *

Whitney dropped several more ice cubes into her now-empty rocks glass while cradling her phone between her shoulder and her ear. She was on hold. She was drinking. Well. Okay. She was drunk. She hadn’t meant to get drunk. Not exactly. It was just that she kept finishing the drinks she was mixing for herself. And once she finished one, she wanted another one. Now, she poured the glass full of rum. She opened the refrigerator door to get out the half-empty two liter of coke inside. She stared at the coke bottle. She shut the refrigerator door.

The hold music was annoying. It was repetitive. She wondered if they’d forgotten that she was on hold. How long had she been on hold anyway? She checked her watch. Five minutes? Seven? God. Any sane person would just hang up now. But Whitney wasn’t feeling exactly sane right now. She was feeling drunk. Drunk and determined.

She picked up her glass and took a sip. Rum and ice. Yum.

Whitney headed back into her office. Sat down at her desk. Returned to the solitaire game she was playing on her computer screen. She’d been getting good at solitaire lately, what with all the time she’d been spending on hold. She guessed she could be doing other things. More productive things. Like lining up interviews with bands. Or writing interview questions. Or doing her damned job. But. Solitaire could very well become a marketable skill for her. It was possible.

“Whitney?” said a voice in her ear.

Whitney jumped, spilling her drink. “Yes?” she said. She sat up straight.

“Listen, I never got the story you sent.”

Whitney was on the phone with the editor at Crunch Magazine, Tim O’Doole. She wasn’t surprised that he was saying what he was saying. She’d heard the same thing from more editors than she could count. “You mean it got lost?” she said.

“Must have,” said Tim. “I don’t know how that happened.”

“This story seems to have a tendency to get lost,” said Whitney.

“It’s an exclusive with Shane Adams?” Tim asked.

“Among other things,” said Whitney. “Did you know that members of the Entourage have been disappearing? And that Shane Adams is telling all his fans to go home so that they’ll be safe?”

“No,” said Tim. “I haven’t heard anything like that.”

“It’s in the story,” said Whitney. “Do you want to look at it?”

“Well...”

Fuck. What was this? Whitney had been sending the newly worked Shane Adams story out to every major market she could think of. And she hadn’t been getting any responses at all. Finally frustrated, Whitney had started calling editors. Sure, it wasn’t conventional, but she was Whitney Eros, for God’s sake. This was a good story. She wanted it out there.

“There really isn’t room in this issue,” said Tim.

And on top of everything else, the editors weren’t biting. Whitney didn’t get it. Wasn’t this a hot story? Didn’t she have an awesome angle? Why wasn’t anyone willing to publish it? “So you don’t even want to read it?” Whitney asked.

“I...” Tim hesitated. “Look, I just got the word from the top that stories on The Wrenching are out.”

“You’re kidding. Their sales are just as good as they ever have been. They’re in the middle of a major U.S. tour. You’re telling me that a story like this wouldn’t sell magazines?” She simply could not believe this. She felt as if something were conspiring against her, keeping her from publishing this story. What was wrong with the world?

Tim sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Well. That was farther than she’d gotten with any of the other editors. Their responses had generally been sympathetic, but firm. Then they’d tried to interest her in writing another piece for them on someone else. Anyone else. Tim O’Doole was the only guy so far who admitted anything a little strange was going on. Of course, this was the first time she’d been drunk enough to challenge any of the editors in quite this way.

“Send me a proposal, okay?”

“I already sent you one,” said Whitney.

“Did we reject it?”

“You didn’t respond.”

“Well, can you send it again?”

Whitney sighed. “If you’re never going to publish it, just tell me. I won’t waste anymore of your time or mine.”

“Do you have the proposal?” asked Tim. “On your hard drive?”

“Yes.”

“Well, send it to me right now then. While we’re on the phone.”

Huh. While they were on the phone? That was a little more promising than simply telling her they weren’t interested. “Okay,” said Whitney. She pulled up her email and attached the proposal. She sent the message. She waited. “Did you get it?”

“Not yet,” said Tim. “Oh. Wait. Yeah. I’ve got it.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, while Tim read the proposal. Finally, Tim said quietly, “This sounds awesome.”

“Really?” Whitney couldn’t keep the hope out of her voice.

“Don’t get excited. I’m not promising anything. But send me the article, okay? I promise to look at it. If it’s good, I’ll fight for it. You know me. You can trust me to do that.”

“Okay,” said Whitney.

“I just...I don’t get it. Why aren’t you shopping this to Rolling Stone?”

“I did.”

“They passed on it?”

“Yeah.”

“Weird,” said Tim.

Whitney’s thoughts exactly.