Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell
Chapter 35
Angela Morales
“Oh my God, I’m so excited I’m about to pee.” It was true. I had a strong urge even though I’d just used the bathroom.
Terri and I stood in line with the rest of the VIP fans. The Macabre Maniacs sat fifteen feet down the line, signing autographs, taking selfies, and chatting.
“Girl, look at Rodney. That man is built.” She let out a low whistle and adjusted her cleavage.
I laughed, unable to stop grinning, happy to be just another starstruck fan waiting in line with everyone else.
For the first—and probably only—time in her life, Terri’s clothing actually matched. She wore a short black leather miniskirt, fishnet hose, and silver high heels that looked closer to a weapon than footwear. Her shirt was an exposed-shoulder charcoal blouse with a slash of stylish red lines bleeding across and ending at her waist. Big silver hoops dangled from her ears, and her curly black hair was twisted into a frizzy, high ponytail.
“I just can’t wait to get them to sign this.” I pulled an old CD from my purse and wiggled it in front of her face. “I bought this thing when I was fourteen and listened to it nonstop. Never thought I’d get the chance to meet them thirteen years later.”
She gave me a high-five. “Make sure you get a selfie, too.”
“I will.” The line moved forward, and I glanced down at my new, ripped jeans and faux leather boots with thick heels. Terri might’ve been willing to take her life into her hands with those sword-looking stilts, but I wasn’t.
Nervously, I smoothed my shirt. Gold threads weaved through the thin black knitting, creating tiny sparkles when the overhead lights hit. The material fit tightly, maybe a bit too snug, but I loved the simple—yet elegant—cut, exposing a deep dip down my back, yet covering my chest completely. A little daring, but not enough to offer an eyeful.
Finally, we made it to the signing area, and I stalled. All four guys smiled, and the drummer, Kyle, waved me over. “Hey, is that our Never Enough CD?”
I became an animal caught in headlights, frozen and dumb. I swallowed, hardly daring to believe my childhood idols were sitting in front of me…talking to me.
Terri gave me a small shove, causing me to stumble into the table. With a glare her way, I straightened and took a deep breath.
She snickered and gave an impish grin.
“Y-yes.” Snap out of it. Good Lord, you talk to musicians all the time. Yet, these guys were different. They helped me get through my rough teenage years and, later, my divorce.
“Cool. Want us to sign it?” Kyle smiled politely.
I nodded and handed the disc to him, my vocal cords refusing to obey.
“What’s your name?” His Sharpie hovered over the CD’s jacket.
“Angela.” There. My tone sounded steadier, more like my radio voice. I could relate somewhat to the women who threw themselves at Viktor because, at this moment, stars shone in my eyes, too.
He leaned back into his chair and focused on me again, the stare moving from my face, down my body, then back to my eyes. His gaze sparkled with mirth. “You must be the Angela.” He moved the pen across the paper and wrote. “Angela Morales.”
How does he know my last name?
“I am…” Some of my stupor dissipated. “How’d you know?”
He slid the CD to the lead singer then snorted. “Oh, I’ve heard about you.” He shook his head and chewed on the end of the marker. “You’re that DJ chick who got Farrow all hot and bothered.”
My face combusted. This is not how I imagined a conversation with my favorite band in the world. Actually, staring at the self-satisfied smirk twisting his lips and the knowing glint in his stare, they really weren’t that good.
Mumbling thanks, I plucked the CD from the table before the last guy signed it and stomped toward the pit, foregoing the coveted selfie. Security held out a hand, and I waved my VIP identification hanging from the lanyard around my neck until he let me through.
Being one of the first to arrive, I scouted a place in the middle, right in front of the mic stand, and waited for Terri.
Down the hall, she giggled with the band and fluttered her eyelashes. I would’ve been amused if the Viktor reminder hadn’t soured my mood.
I rested my forearms against the cold metal railing and thought back to the day he’d stormed into my life like a rampaging tornado.
Most people would’ve probably thrown a fit and thundered out of the interview with my goading, especially after spouting the washed-up comment, but not Viktor. Instead, he’d seemed to thrive on the banter. And afterwards, he sought me out.
This morning, I went online and scoured recent Viktor Farrow sightings. On one local British news site, the edit was longer and verified what he’d said was true. The cameraman caught what happened from a side view, and a very tipsy woman threw herself into his arms and sloshed her beer.
He’d been telling the truth, yet I still hesitated, and I didn’t understand why. Was it because of his history? The endless women and downward spiral of his addictions? It had happened in the past, and he was right—people could and did change. Sometimes.
“Woman.” Terri nudged my arm, pushing me over a couple of inches. “Did you see Kyle’s tongue ring? I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like if he went—”
“Oh my God.” I held up a hand. “Stop it.” After chuckling, I pulled out my phone. “Don’t we have a live stream planned in a few minutes with Johnny?”
“I’m just sayin’…” She swiped a loose curl from her forehead and pouted her lips. “How do I look?”
“Absolutely beautiful.” I turned on the phone and connected to the station’s app. “You ready to do this?”
“I was born for this.” A wide smile transformed her face into perfection. She cleared her throat.
“Okay, in three, two, one.” I hit Record.