Soaring to New Lows: Confessions of a Rock Star Wife's Hilarious Road to Ruin and Redemption

By Margaux Dunbar Hession

"After a lifetime of being called a nobody, a never-was, a social DOA, I wasn't just popular; I was with the band. Klarissa could suck it."

Charlemagne Devlin is addicted to drama. Plus, booze, coke, and anything else to escape the memories of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luminare Press
• Release date: May 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886795585

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Disclaimer

This novel is a work of fiction inspired by true events. Some events were inspired by the author’s own experiences, some by the experiences of individuals the author knows, and others were created with the author’s imagination—events, names, storylines, characters, dialogue, locales, and timelines entirely made up. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Each character’s opinions may be, but are not necessarily, the opinions of the author. No animals or rock stars were harmed in the writing of this novel.

To all those who have a legitimate reason to change

their name to Helen Back. You know who you are.

This book is for you.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my brilliant and lunatic scribe tribes at the Santa Barbara and Southern California Writers conferences, from workshop leaders, authors, screenwriters, and editors to fellow writers, proofers, and friends who inspired me with their tales and took the time to give me feedback, and to all at my publishing house, Luminare Press.

Thank you to all my fellow volunteers, students, and horses at the Santa Ynez Therapeutic Riding Program for being the soul portal to healing, magic, and miracles.

My deepest gratitude to my entire loving Hawaiian ohana, who helped me change my lifestyle from night owl to early bird, enabling me to turn my goals into reality, help others, and live a grateful, fun, connected, adventurous, and fulfilling life beyond my imagination.

And to all the rock stars I’ve been lucky enough to hang and tour with, especially my former husband, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame drummer Aynsley Dunbar, of Journey, David Bowie, Frank Zappa, Starship, Eric Burdon & The New Animals, Whitesnake and the classic rock supergroup WCR, among so many others, thank you for taking me along on this wicked-fun ride. It was a fabulous honor, and just in case, to all of you—sorry, my bad.

Man will do many things to get himself loved, he will do all things to get himself envied.

—Mark Twain

Instant gratification takes too long.

—Carrie Fisher

CHAPTER ONE

The twenty-year comeback concert of British band NVS (yeah, I know, Envious) was the most hyped in rock history, until a rogue tiara from a fan’s booze-and-blow-infused blunder ruined it.

Oops.

Thinking back on that night, I realized it was really all her fault.

The police motorcade’s flashing blue lights and shrill sirens engulfed our limousine, ushering me—holy shit, me—to the Hollywood Bowl with my husband’s legendary band, NVS. Our tinted windows ablaze with the last rays of a 2003 October sky, my dream debut as Mrs. Jubal Devlin fell on Halloween Eve, making this my best birthday ever. Sure, my year of scheming and killer high-deas got me here, but I was born on the Night of Mischief, so it wasn’t my fault.

I pinched myself as my jacked-up brain spun at warp ten. Me? Charlemagne LaZur, now Mrs. Jubal Devlin, as the envy of the entire planet? Even better, after thirty years—the envy of Klarissa Kilmeiner? My high school tormenter, Yuletowne’s number one fake Christian, and still the wormy apple of my own mother’s eye?

Fabulous! Lit, leathered, and limo-ed up, at forty-two, I found freedom and home at last, at this juicy, dead center of a rock star sandwich. My new rocker life was finally in place—all systems were go and rocketing along—well, that is, until the drugs kicked in and my wheels came off.

My fangirl stomach churned with butterflies as I stole secret glances at my new family: the four famed bandmates, kicking back on the limo’s buttery leather seats. Twenty years had passed since their last gig in 1983, and time had not been kind to the musicians. Their Aqua Net hair? Gone. Chins? Doubled. Six-packs? Kegs. Didn’t matter. To me, they would always be rock and roll legends of the sixties, seventies, and eighties. After a lifetime of being called a nobody, a never-was, a social DOA, I wasn’t just popular—I was with the band.

Klarissa could suck it.

The driver slowed as menopausal moms swarmed our rock star cocoon like post-apocalyptic ants feasting on the earth’s last sugar cube. They climbed up and over each other, flabby arms flailing and muffin tops jiggling with each excited leap. Cranked up on pinot-Prozac cocktails, the hammered granny groupies clamored the barricades, hailing the reunion of their four British rock gods.

And Oh My Fucking God…me!

Nine months from now marked my twenty-fifth reunion at Yuletowne High. With the money from this tour, Jubal and I would move out of the garage apartment and renovate his label’s mansion. I’d arrive at my reunion not as the town’s maternal tragedy, not the once back-braced teenage dweeb in a German dirndl dress, but as Mrs. Jubal Devlin. My life? Outrageously good.

As my idols quibbled over the set list, decades of star-struck adrenaline, mixed with secret whiffs of nose candy, ignited my inner spaz. My heart jackhammered against my leopard corset. Sweat pooled behind the knees of my red pleather pants.

The limo’s low ceiling snagged my tiara, and its sealed windows coffined the stifled air. A sign above the bar read No Alcohol.

Please. I needed a drink. Or five. Except here, drinks were off limits. Damn rock star rehab. Like my best friend Robin told me earlier, "Why’d they have to be such alkies and addicts in their day, to ruin your party now? Getting Jubal here cost you your 401k. Plus, it’s your birthday, which makes it your time to celebrate!"

Robin was right. She was always right.

I fished through the ice, pulled out a Red Bull, and swigged it down. Whoa, bad idea. My heart whirred, clenching my throat. Crap, maybe I shouldn’t have snorted Robin’s blow. Sure, she was a lanky, Danish coat hanger shoved in a messy mental closet. As a hot eleven, if her issues didn’t have issues, I’d have to positively hate her, yet when her snort-em-up schemes helped me get Jubal back with NVS, she became my life guru.

The limo eased past the smoky kitchens of backstage vendor tents. The loud clatter of the crowd, the smell of churros, tri tip, and beer wafted into the back seat. My stomach fluttered, and my skin turned clammy. Needing air, I cracked the window.

The rehabbed rockers stopped squawking and glared at me.

My hand froze on the button.

Jubal lunged over me; his tatted hand clamped over mine, his bejeweled dragon rings clinking my gold-plated wedding band. Charlemagne! You bloody high?

I stopped dead, hovering over the button while flipping my magenta hair over my dripping nose. Shit, could he tell? I wanted to tell him yeah, I’m flyin’. I tried to talk slower, but powdered lies machine-gunned out of my twitching mouth. High? M-m-me? No! Crazy, so crazy… Shut up, Charlemagne! I tried, but my guilty words kept looping. God, how could I shut off my cocaine Tourette’s?

Jubal rolled his eyes and slid on his sunglasses. Yeah, we heard you the first seven times. I meant the window, love. He pinched my belly roll. You cannot open it, chunky chicken, he hissed with a sinister laugh.

Not my weight again.

His bandmates exchanged awkward glances and shifted uncomfortably.

Jubal grinned, clearly embarrassed of me, as he pointed to the closed window. Can’t open it. The fans. He reclined his wig on the headrest and cooed, Now relax, heiress.

Wait. One. Minute. I stared at my reflection in his Foster Grants. Let’s just say his royalty income had slipped a notch, maybe ten. Heiress?

He cocked his head, and his face flushed.

Before he could answer, it came to me. Oh, heiress, because I’m now rock royalty. I hugged myself as those words spooned me.

I took a breath and withdrew my hand from the window button as the band shot me the stink eye. Seriously? Who were they to look down on me? After a decade of peanut butter and crack, the drummer was now more a whippet than a man. The bass player’s Mohawk and booze-bloated neck mirrored a stegosaurus in a whiplash brace. The cirrhosis-livered keyboard player had so many pink drops of Pepto in his white beard that he could pass for Santa after eating out a flamingo. Ah, but to my left sat my Jubal. Hello, Perfection. Sure, at sixty, his hair shone synthetic now, as did his capped veneers and glossy, derma-filled lips, but none of that mattered. He would always be my teenage idol.

We’d had a few newlywed setbacks, and I’d gained a few pounds, maybe sizes, in our first three years of marriage, yet I never saw my real self in the mirror. The one staring back was always that skinny teenager in a back brace. Damn scoliosis had me bolted and screwed into that plastic shell twenty-three hours a day for all four years of high school. The main thing it screwed was any chance for a social life. I was ninety-seven pounds going into ninth grade and ninety-seven pounds at graduation. Back then, my skeletal frame mirrored the stick figure from the game Hangman. Not anymore, as Jubal often reminded me. I guess not seeing my current pudginess made me a dyslexic anorexic. Oh, how Jubal would scowl when I stole fries off his plate. Good God, woman, he’d said, you’re always hungry. It’s like I couldn’t get you to suck my dick unless I put mustard on it. Funny, how he wanted me thinner but not doing blow. Jeez, his nose had been avalanched in snow for so many decades, he surely had tiny ice climbers lost up there.

A hot granny mess jumped the barricade, screaming, Jubal, I want to have your baby!

Jubal’s baby.

I winced as that familiar pain shot through my heart. I twisted in my seat, still unable to block the words that forever haunted the edges of my everything. My doctor’s sullen face. Never, Charlemagne. Never. I closed my eyes as rage rushed over me. I took a deep breath and held it to lock it all inside.

Jubal kept telling me this rock life was better than the one I’d wanted—a family. Was it? I wasn’t sure; seemed I’d run out of choices, so it had to be. He took it all away from me, so he owed me big time.

Now, I really needed that drink.

He peered over his sunglasses at the crazed woman. His face soured. Sorry, love, I think your baby making machine has bloody well retired.

The drummer piped in. The dingo ate her baby!

Followed by the keyboard player. Her baby ate the dingo!

She whipped off her blouse and pressed her saggy tits to the window.

The crowd gasped. The band’s eyes fell on her chest and then down, down, down, their faces scrunched in confusion.

She squealed through the glass. Jubal, do you remember? You signed my tit in 1970, and I tattooed over it! A foot-long serpent of ink slinked from her shoulder down her blue-veined pancake boob to where her nipple met her belly button, but this dragon was no dragon. Its head was a J, and its tail spelled Devlin.

Jubal gagged and cringed at her hairy nipples, seeming to realize he could never unsee them. They never said they grow little beards.

With all eyes locked on her, I chugged one of my secret airline vodka bottles from my purse, then dropped the empty back in my bag. Its glorious burn coated my throat, smoothing out the edge. I felt the rush kick in, but was that from the booze or getting away with it? Who knew?

Niko, the drummer yelled, Bring us your daughters!

Or their daughters! Jubal called.

Comfortably numb in my safe place of chemical enhancement, I laughed, knowing that my husband was different from other rockers who wolfed after young tang. Jubal loved me for me even with my love handles, underarm boobs, and salt ‘n pepper vajayjay.

The police motorcycles came to a halt. The blue lights flashed, stopping the limo, as sunset cloaked the red carpet. Golden, glowing streetlamps and blue fairy lights clicked on in a surreal dream. A wall of paparazzi moved in; their camera floodlights poised on the limo. Four beefy security guards in reflector shades exchanged stone-faced nods, checked their earpieces, pointed to each other, and moved forward in unison to flank the rear door. Muffled screams roared outside, and the pounding of feet rocked our car.

I squinted, imagining we were NVS back in their day. Young. Our whole lives ahead of us as one of the biggest bands in the world. I opened my eyes. A lit marquis glowed above the backstage door: NVS, October 30, 2003. So it was twenty years later. So what. NVS could have it all again, and this time, with me.

My heart fluttered.

Ready.

Blinding flashes pummeled our windows.

Aim.

Our driver leaned in and clicked open our door handle.

Fire.

The door opened. The thundering roar of the crowd slammed us back, then sucked us up, nearly pulling us from our seats. My world felt right. The life I was supposed to have had finally begun. My skin flushed with goose bumps. I’m home. I belong somewhere.

Not just anywhere. To the coolest clique ever.

Rock stars.

CHAPTER TWO

Jubal whipped his black, shaggy wig over his shoulders. He stepped coolly out of the limo into a wall of deafening screams and beamed back at all of us. Here we go.

Poking my head out from the back seat, I shielded my eyes from the paparazzi’s lights. The fan’s eyes—old and young, men and, oh yeah, women, all on me. As if NVS was branded on my forehead. Why couldn’t they Jumbotron this moment at my high school reunion?

I held my hand out for Jubal to escort my virgin steps on the red carpet, but my fingers clawed air. Instead, he stood alone, haloed by spotlights and flashes, gobbling up his fans’ adoration. He thrust his hands into the air in his famous J signs. The crowd followed.

I shuffled down the carpet, awkward and alone, trailing his shadow. After sneering at every hot fan girl, I stepped up beside Jubal and squeezed his hand. He stiffened. My wedding ring caught on a matchbook dangling out of his leather jacket pocket. It couldn’t be his. In the past three months since his buzzkill rehab, Jubal was anti-drinks, anti-drugs, and anti-smoking. Boring. But the matchbook wasn’t mine. I used a lighter to secret-smoke. I turned aside and opened it. My heart swelled.

It was one of his secret scrawled messages. My Jubal. It had been a while for a lot of things for us—sex (surely, his aging), the loss of his adoring gaze (cataracts?), and eons since one of his hand-written messages (arthritis?), but now I saw he was still an adorable note-leaver. For the first two years of our marriage, he’d write with anything, on anything. Candle wax on paper plates, his finger on our fogged bathroom mirror, lipstick on my panties from my lingerie drawer. He’d stash the notes in hidden spots for me to find them just when I needed them most. Today’s note was in a Pep Boys matchbook with three cartoon men on the front: Manny, Moe, and Jack, sporting matchsticks pulled through their legs like big dicks. Inside, Jubal wrote, Big Night for You & Big J! Big J was his cock.

I remembered how I’d leave answered notes hidden in his world, as we played an endless, treasure hunt game of thinking-of-you. It made me ridiculously happy.

Jubal looked surprised at the matchbook, then at me, before the press ushered me away to take photos of him solo.

A reporter reached out and rammed his microphone under Jubal’s nose. Jubal puffed out his chest and beamed his famous pirate smile.

The reporter prodded. Your band name is NVS. The world wants to know, he motioned to his cameraman for a Jubal close-up, "you’re envious of who? Why are you so envious?"

Jubal broke his pose, stomped his snakeskin boot, and scowled an old-man-ugly face. "Bloody hell, not again! We are not envious of anyone! His arms flailed. The name NVS means the world is envious of us. He jabbed his deflated chest. We are envied!"

Well then, the reporter jeered into the camera, shouldn’t you call the band envied and spell it NVD?

Jubal rolled his eyes. As in N-V-D? So you wankers can nickname us STD? Oh, for Chrissakes, stupid. I can’t be bothered.

The reporter turned to his camera. After twenty years, it seems the band still has a temper. Will they make it through this show, or will they fight and split up again? Are they on or off the wagon? We’ll let you know after the show.

The band’s lifetime manager, Marty, whipped out from the Bowl’s backstage door onto the red carpet and swept in behind Jubal. Now in his golden years, touting gold-rimmed glasses, a graying comb-over, and a straggly mustache, Marty looked like the poster boy for pedophilia, which wasn’t far from his three-decade career of plucking teen groupies from the orchestra pit and feeding them to the lascivious band. Seasoned at NVS damage control, he slithered his forked tongue before the camera lens. This is the new NVS. No temper, all on the wagon, playing far better than answering ludicrous questions.

The reporter leaned into Marty. No more destroying venues? The band’s finally clean?

As a whistle, Marty said.

He prodded Marty with the microphone. What about Jubal’s hair?

Gasp.

Niko cackled and shook his full head of hair at Jubal. Jubal scowled, his neck veins straining, the anger in his cheeks flushing red.

Marty put his hand in front of the camera lens and signaled security. We’re done here.

The security team moved in and rushed the band backstage.

Like the unwanted dingleberry on the rear of the entourage, I clung to keep up with them with each wobbly step in my stiletto boots. The bouncer nodded at my All Access Band pass just as I caught the closing door.

Backstage at the Hollywood Bowl, a deliciously dreamy, magical chaos ensued. Only a narrow hallway separated the giant shell from the parking lot, leading us into the mothership of concert venues. Stagehands wearing black Crew tees pushed Anvil cases to the stage. Bloated music managers in leather jackets, sporting earpieces, gin-blossomed noses, and spiky, dyed hair, corralled the musicians, sponsors, and VIP guests downstairs to a cavernous space of office, storage, and dressing rooms, separated by black curtains. Yet a psychedelic, center-of-the-universe vibe pulsed off the white walls of the dressing room corridors, spilling out onto the gray slate floors. Framed black-and-white photos of legendary acts lined the ivory-and-lime-green walls, and with each step, I imagined filling the echoed footprints of Beatle boots, Elton’s fishbowl platforms, and the soft shoes of Ol’ Blue Eyes as they, not Jubal, escorted me down my path to fame and fortune. Or at least to our dressing room bathroom, where I could down a few vodkas. Posted down the walls of the dressing rooms corridor were signs reading No Alcohol.

Please, this was rock and roll. That was downright unholy. Imagine all the pre-tuners, encore enhancers, and after-parties that had raged on in these famed dressing rooms—rock’s elite laughing, gloating, floating above it all on champagne, pills, and coke. I had to honor that tradition.

Hey, where the hell was Jubal? I followed the female screams and found him being chatted up by a bevy of college groupies in the NVS dressing room. Probably signing autographs for their moms. I scanned the room. Hey! This was no groovy lair. What was with the low ceilings? Only two black-and-chrome couches and matching chairs pulled before vanity mirrors? One long, fold-up table with a sad-sack buffet of cold cuts and soft drinks? Where were my golden pagoda doors and Swarovski chandeliers over a plush velvet voodoo lounge? Sheesh, I wanted my MTV.

Jubal hit the cold cuts, digging into his notorious sandwich making, layering meat, cheese, and measured condiments to perfection. He’d hide these backstage to eat after the show. Too many times, while the band played, backstage stoner guests would polish off the band’s booze and then devour Jubal’s hell-on-wheels hoagie. Rolling Stone printed that when the band landed at the Honolulu airport for a concert in 1986, Jubal’s bag was searched, and instead of clothes or toiletries inside, there were just row after row of individually ziplocked cold cuts, bread, and cheese, stacked into one sanitary sandwich at a time.

Niko jokingly punched Jubal’s shoulder. You still packing your suitcases with your precious paninis, Jubal?

Very funny. Didn’t see Tony here. Did you get him a backstage pass this time?

Touché—point for Jubal. On that same Hawaii trip, Niko’s bag was also searched, and inside were row after row of Personal Power tapes by Tony Robbins. I couldn’t understand why rock stars would need to boost their self-esteem. How could they have insecurity when they were fawned over and worshipped to the point of needing actual security?

Someone grabbed my arm from behind and spun me around. Charlemagne!

Thank God. Robin. A skinny, six-foot, platinum blonde dressed in all black, she looked like a Gwen Stefani microphone. She gave me an air kiss, sniffed, then discreetly wiped her nose. With a mischievous smirk, she whispered, We did it, Charlemagne. We have…arrived. She took one look inside the dressing room and scoffed aside to me, What the fuckity fuck, this looks like an AA meeting at a senior center.

I nodded. I know—where’s our damn dragon lair?

Marty waltzed in and ushered the Meet & Greet fans from the dressing room, shouting, Everybody out except the band please!

Robin fist-bumped me as the groupies scurried past us out the door. At least we’re officially with the band. Effin sweet.

The band members fished through their upright wardrobe trunks of metallic leather jackets with zippered sleeves, snakeskin boots, sparkly scarves, Edwardian embroidered military jackets, lacy cuffed blouses, and shredded Gucci tees. Next came the bandanas for masking receding hairlines, Spanx, back supports, wigs, clip-on extensions, shoe lifts, butt lifts, and a well-sculptured tube sock for Niko to show the ladies he packed to the right.

Jubal tossed his leather outfit on the couch, sat down in a slump. His face tense, he said, I don’t know if I can do this.

My heart hit a bump. What?

CHAPTER THREE

Jubal stammered and said aside to the band, Never played sober before. What I wouldn’t give for one drink, a line, just to get me feelin’ it again.

The bandmates grunted and nodded.

Oh man, they were all jonesing.

Niko kicked in, sneering. Oh, go on, Jubal, you suffering from MPH?

Jubal cocked one eyebrow, suspicious. MPH?

Niko grabbed his sides, laughing. My pussy hurts!

The band laughed as Jubal sat up, pissed off, and leaned into Niko. You know, the only pussy a drummer ever sees is his old mum bending over to clean his fuckin’ skivvies.

God, would they always fight like they had for decades? I cut in, excited to fix it all, my words flying out my jittery lips. Didn’t Marty say that after the album and next summer’s tour, you could party until 2099? It’s only a few months. You can do it. It’s so easy.

The band let out a communal sigh.

Jubal groaned at me. I don’t remember it being so easy for you, love.

Not at first, but I got through it, and now I can party like a normy.

Robin glared at him, then pulled me aside. Yeah, you can do what you want now. He so owes you.

My doctor’s words never, Charlemagne burned in my brain again. Now I was jonesing to erase those gut-wrenching thoughts.

Flamingo Santa grabbed his enema bag, escorting his backdoor beer bong to the bathroom. Nothing like a good colon blow before a show!

Robin soured. "This blows, she said softly, before her eyes lit up as she elbowed me. Hey, maybe this calls for more blow?"

No, Robin, I whispered back, trying to shake the tempting idea out of my head, I can’t. I’ll get busted. Already came close. Jubal’s clean.

Robin rolled her eyes and called out to the band. We’re heading up to the stage. Then she looked at me, You’re Mrs. Jubal Fucking Devlin now. You need to be on.

There it was again. Who I needed to be. How was it that everybody else knew, except me? I never fit in or felt right anyplace. I’d change to please one and be mocked by the other.

Robin took my arm as we strutted out of the dressing room. Your new motto? Do anything. Deny everything.

It did seem the only way to erase my tormenting thoughts. A few minutes later, we exited a stage crew bathroom into the dark stage wings after powdering our noses to become Wonder-Woman cocky.

Another stage door opened offstage, and celebrities poured out of a hidden room marked VIP LOUNGE.

I deflated. Robin, there was a VIP lounge. We spent our preshow tuner, doing lines off the toilet seat in that grimy roadie head.

Puffing down cigarettes, my coked-up FOMO—Fear of Missing Out—kicked in and morphed me into the Queen of Babble-On. Jon Bon Jovi! I shouted, my bursting corset nearly suffocating me. I’m slippery when wet!

Jon laughed at me and walked faster to the other side of the wings.

I leapt out in the path of another singer. Darius Rucker, love your rearview crack!

Darius dodged me as Robin pulled me back. You did not just say that.

It’s their big album. Oh! I didn’t mean…

You need to brush up on your music trivia. The coke removes your filter, Chatty Cathy, you know that, but they’re laughing, so they must love you. Soon all our friends will be rock stars! she said, tripping over the taped-down electrical cords that passed for speed bumps.

Careful, Robin. Sheesh, can’t take her anywhere.

She recovered, but not before nearly knocking out the plugs to the two-story, inflatable blower props whose long limbs spelled out U R NVS.

Look, I said, U R NVS. Marty fixed it. That’ll show that reporter.

We strutted to our rocker wife’s holy grail: our personally earned thrones of upright black-and-chrome Anvil trunk cases. Each bore the band’s name and mine. NVS—DEVLIN. Dizzying. We hopped up, straddled the chrome edges, and set our purses down on the stage. After putting out our secret smokes, we stared out at the thousands of NVS fans from under the famed shell arches.

Celebrities littered the front rows and box seats, but they didn’t have what we had: NVS All Access Passes. Not VIP Lounge, preshow, meet and greet, or after-show passes where you were herded into small clusters to hover near the band, whisked in for a one-second photo before a logo screen, and promptly booted back into a nobody lobby. Our band passes let us go anywhere. These were way cooler than any Harry Winston diamond or a custom-built Maserati. Any joker with money could buy one of those, but these passes couldn’t be bought. After the world tour, I would have hundreds of them from the finest venues—London, Dubai, Tokyo. Would my mother finally see that I elevated her life station more than Klarissa and stamp me Mother Approved?

The audience, a surly, glittering sea of twenty thousand rabid fans, swayed while chanting, NVS! Devlin! NVS! Devlin! Hoots and hollers echoed offstage as rock history bubbled over. The reunited band emerged like a dream, standing arm over arm in a preshow huddle. Rapid-fire flashes from photographers ricocheted off their designer leather duds, going for the iconic shot that would grace cover stories throughout the world.

The stage manager yelled into his Bluetooth headset, On in three! Lights!

The lights went off in one whoosh. Darkness. A beat of silence exploded into a rumble of applause, howls, and screams. Forty thousand stomping feet thundered through the blacked-out canyon. Thousands ran to their seats as scrambling red coats corralled the stampeding minions with flickering flashlights. The mob rose, chanting, igniting the darkness with lighters and those new cellphone cameras, like celluloid fireflies beckoning their monarchs of mayhem to the stage. A whiff of cannabis drifted to me in the darkness, cocooning the moment. With no time to go the bathroom for another bump, Robin offered me her paper bindle of coke in the darkness. I opened the palm-sized origami package, scooped the edge of my All Access Band pass into the pile, and lifted the powder to my nose, sniffing it up, up, up. As I folded up the package, I felt a hand on my ass.

Jubal.

Shit. I dropped the package in my purse.

Robin’s eyes grew wide as she attempted an interception. She approached Jubal, who was swathed head to toe in leather. The Hindus are right, she purred, stroking his arm, the cow does go on to a better life.

Jubal grinned, puffed out his chest and quipped in his British speed-slang, Well love, thankyouverymuch. As he turned to me, his grin turned into a scowl. What is that white ring on your nose? You told me you were off that shit.

I covered my nose with my hand. What? It’s just toothpaste, I swear!

He looked at me, disgusted. Please. Like I don’t know. You want it that way? Then you have your fun, and I’ll have mine. His eyes turned icy as he stormed off.

Jubal, wait! I cried out, but he joined the band in the wings and never turned around. My heart sank.

The Bowl’s speakers cranked higher, blasting the band’s lead-in music. Dry ice floated across the stage as colored spotlights rained through its mist.

The other three NVS band members waltzed out on stage, spotlights following.

The crowd roared.

They grabbed their instruments and tore into their hit love song, You’re the Dog’s Bollocks.

The crowd chanted louder, Devlin! Devlin!

Jubal walked up and stood next to me offstage as his cold eyes razored through my pleading ones. He forced a smile toward the audience, stuck out his chest, faced the stage, and stepped his snakeskin boots out from the curtain wings. Women screamed.

He emerged onto the stage a dark phantom, rocking his lead-singer-strut to the microphone. Spinning rays of spotlights circled him as if being delivered by the Bowl’s alien mothership. The crowd erupted in twenty thousand orgasms. He threw his head back and thrust his arms high, hands locked in his famous J sign. His long, black, feathered hair flew from his shoulders like ravens. Thousands of hands, locked in Js, thrust to the sky, all for him. I never had the heart to tell him that it now meant loser. He scanned the crowd, devouring their adoration. He was back. A god. And he was mine.

As he reached the mic, the inflatable letters U R NVS lit up, towering over the stage.

Jubal’s eyes locked on someone in the audience, and his face broke into a broad grin. He walked to the edge of the stage and leaned down into the first row.

Good God. It’s Klarissa Kilmeiner, Robin said.

What is she doing here? Well, Jubal knows I hate her.