Metal Urge (2 page)

“No way!” Maggi groaned, “Not those lunatics again!”

The stage lit up in a glare of blinding white as the sudden brutal musical assault rocked them in their seats when the twisted strains of a little ditty the singer called “Bone Crusher” washed over them in a palpable wall of sound.  The battering continued with an ear splitting piece titled “Leather Angels.”  Metal Urge launched attack after attack on the hapless audience, ending their set with an even fiercer rendition of “Creeper.”

The lead singer stood rigid, leather jacket gaping open.  Sweat dripped down his bare, heaving chest, the droplets pattering against his thighs, staining his leather pants.  He raised his arms and bowed his head, leather biker cap obscuring his eyes, accentuating flawlessly sculpted sensuous lips, a strong, sleek jaw line, and creamy, unblemished skin stippled by heavy beard stubble.

Deanna leaned forward, mesmerized.  Her eyes followed a droplet of sweat as it traveled slowly down his chest and over his tight abdomen, heading for his impressive groin.  Mouth dry, she tried to swallow as she gazed up at his shadowed face.  He lifted his head and looked at her, expression indecipherable.  She looked away quickly, unnerved by the notion that he might know what she was thinking, and even more disconcerting, what she was feeling.  Maggi was talking to her and gesturing, but Deanna didn’t see or hear her.  All her thoughts were focused on the lead singer of Metal Urge: the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Chapter 3

“Why do we even bother?” Nigel snarled, tossing his leather jacket over the back of a worn out chair before sitting down heavily, the weight of disappointment pulling him deeper into an angry temper.  He looked down at the sweat stains on his leather pants and grimaced.  “We spend all our hard earned dosh on expensive equipment and these bloody clothes...why?”  Irritated by his band mates’ silence, he continued heatedly.  “So a bunch of pissed tossers can ignore us while we play our arses off?”  He looked around at the others before flinging his arms out in frustration.  “The wankers don’t even bloody care what we look, or sound like!”  He stood up and stalked angrily to a tiny coal stove, tossing in a couple of coal briquettes.  “Did anyone even bother to applaud tonight?  It's bollocks!” He snarled.  “For fuck’s sake!” Nigel shouted when he burned his finger on the stove’s door.  He turned at the sound of soft snickering, and glared at the handsome blonde patiently replacing a guitar string.  Nigel crossed his arms, staring at his band mate with increasing rage.  The blonde man looked up at Nigel, neon blue eyes sparkling with mirth.  “So, you find it amusing that we’re flat broke and failing miserably as a band, eh, Thom?”  Nigel said sarcastically.

“Better answer him, Thom,” Alistair, the tall, dark-haired rhythm guitarist advised, barely concealing his own amusement at the singer’s tirade.  One they had endured so many times in the past few months.

Thom turned his attention back to his guitar and shrugged.  “Sorry mate, but we’ve heard it all before.  In fact, I think you made the same speech almost word for word just a couple of gigs ago.  It’s becoming tiresome.”

Nigel watched as the rest of the band members wandered off towards the kitchen, dismissing him.

“Have a cup of tea, Nigel.  It will help take the edge off,” Thom suggested, placing his guitar back in its battered case and making his way toward the kitchen to join the others.  A few titters sounded from the tiny room, and Nigel grabbed his jacket, his anger reaching the boiling point.

“At least I bloody well care what happens to this band,” he said loudly.  When he got no response he strode to the front door and shouted “Go fuck yourselves!” before slamming the door to the flat so hard the windows rattled.  A light rain began to fall so he pulled his jacket collar tighter.  He was hurt and dismayed by his mate’s lack of concern over the fate of Metal Urge.  They had put their hearts, souls, and a tidy sum of their parent’s and friend’s money into the band.  They were all so deeply in debt he wasn’t sure they could ever dig themselves out.  He wanted the band to succeed---he thought the other lads felt the same way.  Deciding against wasting his motorbikes’ last liter of petrol, he continued on foot daring anyone to approach him on the dark, silent streets.  Ducking into a pub bearing the pretentious name of “The Hidey Hole,” he ordered a large scotch, although he could scarcely afford it, and knocked it back quickly, hoping to quell his anger.  By the time he made his
way back to the cramped, dingy flat in the wee hours of the morning, he had decided to quit the band and return to Bilston, his family home.

****

The flat was dark when Nigel stepped inside.  He was glad none of his band mates were still awake.  He felt ashamed of his behavior yet he felt justified in venting his frustration.  Metal Urge was going nowhere even though the band had a look and a sound that no other group had: not even Sheffield’s premier heavy metal band, Beastrage.  Along with the leather clothing, amplifiers, instruments, rehearsal space, and the shoddy little flat they all shared, Metal Urge had scraped enough money together to pay for a poorly produced demo tape recorded at a second rate studio.  They had hand-delivered copies to record companies and radio stations all over the British Isles, but to no avail.  They were forced to recoup some of their losses by making questionable deals with greedy club owners for the privilege of playing their filthy dives for a mere pittance.  Night after night they listened to drunken punters scream for them to “piss off” or “turn it down.”  Sometimes when the band ignored the yobs and continued to play, the bastards retaliated by pelting them with beer bottles, lit cigarettes, and ashtrays.  It was a miracle none of them had been injured.

Nigel wiped his face and sighed deeply.  Frustrated that the pricey scotch hadn’t really helped to calm him, he ambled toward his bedroom hoping to get some much needed rest.  He was completely knackered and wanted to put last night’s abysmal failure behind him.  He stopped when he heard laughter outside.  Keys jangled against the door, someone cursed, and Nigel recognized Thom’s voice.  The door finally opened, and Thom backed in, pulling a disheveled girl in with him.  They paused in the doorway for a long, sloppy kiss before stumbling into the flat.

“It’s dark in here,” the girl whined.

“Right,” Thom said, staggering over to the wall.  “Where’s the bloody light switch?”  He ran his hand up and down the wall but couldn’t find the switch.

Nigel crossed the room and flipped the knob, bathing the flat in dull, yellow light.

Thom turned and looked at him with bleary eyes.  “Hey Nige!” he slurred.  He studied Nigel for a moment, swaying unsteadily and then asked, “What were you doing in the dark?”  The girl, equally unsteady on her feet, looked at Nigel and began to laugh.  “Oh, I see,” Thom drawled, attempting to wink at his companion.  “Let’s leave Nigel to his...um...personal business.”  He grabbed the girl’s arm and the couple began to laugh and then shush one another as they stumbled away.  Thom whispered to the girl and staggered back to Nigel.  “Mate,” he said, poking Nigel’s chest with his finger, “What you need is a good shag.”  Peering closely at his finger resting against Nigel’s T-shirt, Thom grinned lopsidedly, lifted the finger with great effort, and waggled it in Nigel’s face.  “That would put you right as rain,” he drunkenly advised, attempting to wink once more before staggering back to his giggling female companion.  He pulled her down the hall and into his bedroom where he took his own good advice until the excessive liquor sloshing through his system extinguished all conscious thought for the rest of the day.

The bed felt like a cement slab forcing Nigel to turn from side to side in an effort to find a comfortable position.  With a perturbed groan, he turned onto his back and lay in the cloying darkness unable to sleep.  He could still smell Thom’s beery breath on his face as he advised him to get laid.  That was Thom’s stock answer for every unpleasant situation.  If your house burned down, your dog died, or your granny got busted for drugs, “a good shag” was the cure-all.  He stared into the blackness mumbling “shit, shit, shit,” until it dawned on him that Thom was always happy, always positive, no matter what was going on around him.  Perhaps his mate was right.  Maybe a round or two of hot, sweaty sex was the cure, or at the very least a pleasant distraction.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture a foxy girl.  Not just any girl but someone he knew or had slept with.  He lay there feeling silly and awkward until an image unfolded in his mind.  Two girls were sitting at a table in front of the stage at the gig last night.  One of them was dark, but it was the other girl, a pretty blonde, who had caught his eye.  She stared up at him, full, pink lips slightly parted, huge green eyes burning with desire.  Yes, that was it; she wanted him, and it made his body ache with a hunger he hadn't felt in ages.  Seized by a heavy dose of guilt and shame, Nigel tried to work off his frustration with the help of the beautiful girl in the brown, leather jacket.  Falling back against his pillow, Nigel relaxed and let his breathing slow down.  He wasn’t satisfied.  He needed much more than a quick release fueled by fantasy.  It was embarrassing that he had used the girl to fulfill a need that sadly, he seemed incapable of fulfilling any other way these days.  It was just one more reason to abandon the sinking ship that only months ago had seemed destined to charter new and exciting musical territory.

Nigel turned over onto his stomach picturing the pretty blonde one last time, hoping he would never see her hungry green eyes again.  She was the last thing he needed to further complicate his fucked up life.

Chapter 4

Trevor’s nasal whine cut through Deanna’s sleep like a chainsaw.  Forcing one eye open, she stared at the clock which read six-thirty a.m.  Pulling the covers over her head, she cursed the man for being an inconsiderate idiot.  It was six-thirty on a Sunday morning; shouldn’t he be inside his coffin, digesting some poor bastard’s blood from last night’s slaughter?  Truly, the fiend had outdone himself at Billy’s Club the night before.  Upon learning that Beastrage was not invited to participate in Billy’s upcoming “Noisefest,” Trevor had thrown what could only be called an uber-tantrum.  He cursed the club owner and his family, threatening to sue while citing obscure British laws, finally heaving himself through the club owner’s office door screaming for God to burn the SOB’s club to the ground.

Deanna shuddered at the memory of her self-professed “strong, independent” friend, Maggi running after Trevor, fanning her hands around him as though she could extinguish his burning rage.  Now he was in their flat whining in a man-child voice that set Deanna’s teeth on edge.  What did Maggi see in that maniac?  Piper Howlen, the drummer of Beastrage, had tried numerous times to lure Maggi away from his manager, but she acted like Piper didn’t exist.  Deanna couldn’t believe Maggi wasn’t the least bit interested in the drummer---he was a total fox.  Blessed with long, lustrous black hair, flashing sapphire blue eyes, and a mouth-watering body, Maggi should have melted like butter.  Sadly, it seemed she only had eyes for Trevor.  She followed his tall, skinny frame and pale, anemic face with her adoring eyes.  The creep must have hypnotized Maggi just as Count Dracula hypnotized his victims before closing in for the kill.  Whatever the reason, Deanna would never understand or approve of Maggi’s relationship with the monster.

Reluctant to leave the safety of her bedroom, she picked up a newspaper from the day before and began to read.  Tossing aside the front page she felt saddened by the riots, layoffs, and unemployment that plagued the country.  She knew that many British citizens resented foreigners like her and Maggi working in Great Britain.  Even a menial, poorly paid job was a coveted prize to people living on the edge of desperation.  Truth be told, she worked at the hotel as an intern, living off of student loans and meager grants while she struggled to get her degree as part of an international work study program through Arizona State University.  She tried to shake off the feeling that they should go back to the States considering the condition of the British economy.  She blamed her dark mood on Trevor’s rampage and wished that he would just disappear---forever.

Settling back against the soft pillows, she ignored her negative thoughts and carefully perused the entertainment section.  She noticed some listings for various clubs but didn’t find what she was looking for so she skimmed the listings again, desperate to locate what she would vehemently deny searching for: Metal Urge.  She silently thanked God when she spotted a small advertisement for a club called The Metro.  The band was playing a gig there on the following Saturday night: six long, agonizing days away.  She shook her head and sighed heavily.  Although she was scheduled to work that night, she would bargain with the devil himself to get out of working her shift.

She
had
to see the singer again.

Laying the paper aside, she closed her eyes, picturing the sexy vocalist in painstakingly precise detail…

Naked to the waist, sweat dripped down his furred chest, making its way slowly over the line of soft tawny hair trailing downward to his taut belly. A single bead navigated its way around his navel, disappearing into the soft mat of hair below his waistband.  Her lips followed the little bead, pausing to tease the folds of his navel until she felt his body quiver against her mouth…

A loud bang shattered the images in her mind and spoiled the mood.  Trevor had left the building at last.  Deanna opened her eyes and shivered at the intensity of her fantasy.  Dear God, she wanted him.  More than she had ever wanted anyone or anything in her life.  It wouldn’t be easy.  She was so painfully shy with men that Maggi had cruelly christened her the poster child for wallflowers.