Fawn on the Moon

Chapter 2-3

“I can’t,” Angie said, turning to Gerry with tears streaming down her face. “I can’t leave. Not yet. Not ever. It was so—”

“Perfect,” Gina whispered. “It was just so perfect.”

The stage had emptied, the lights had been brightened, but they were far from the only ones who had yet to move away, even though Maxx Starlight had been scheduled as the final performer. If the blankets and the backpacks littered over the grass were any indication, Gerry had no doubt that the party would continue long after the performers were gone.

Marcy dropped to the ground, both legs straight out in front of her, her arms propped behind her, and she laid her head back. “That is the trippiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life! I feel like I’ve been completely and perfectly f****d for the last two hours.”

Something in Gerry’s head rose to reprimand her, but he decided not to bother. Her comment sounded too damn close to his own truth.

Only Sally seemed anxious to get a move on. She shifted from foot to foot in her platform Mary Janes, clutching her denim purse like she was sure it was about to be stolen right out of her hand. “We should go. The traffic will be wild.”

Gerry blew out a breath, pushed his bangs back, and shook his head to dispel the spider webs that seemed to have gathered in there. “I guess so—”

“Hey. You there. Bloke in the front.”

A heavyset man with a thick British accent pushed himself away from the stage and stepped closer. His eyes had as much of a sheen as his suit. He eyed Gerry from head to toe and back up again. He took a long drag off his cigar, and then let the smoke curl out of both nostrils.

Gerry looked left. Right. He brought both hands up to his chest, pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” The man cast his glance around the group and huffed what Gerry could only assume was a chuckle when his assessment landed on Sally. “What’s up with the bird? She think somebody’s going to jack her lolly, does she?”

“Uh…” Gerry frowned, not understanding half the references in the man’s sentence. “She’s fine. Just nervous. We’re taking her home anyway—”

“Nah, already?” He dropped a hand on Gerry’s shoulder and grinned. “A jessie like you? Before the sun’s rose, even? Absolute c**k, I tell you. Why don’t you come back to the party? Get lashed with some of the crew?”

“Crew? Lashed?” The man’s words made no sense to Gerry, and even the ones that did didn’t seem to string up right.

Marcy rose, her eyes wide and her mouth open. “Do you mean the band? As in, we can go back and meet the band?” She clutched the front of her shirt. “Oh, God. Hell, yes!”

The man waved his finger at Gerry. “No kiddies allowed. And we got enough gash back there as it is. No…” He slid his palm down Gerry’s shoulder and squeezed Gerry’s bare bicep. “I’m looking for something a little different.” He caught and held Gerry’s gaze, smiling slowly. “You know what I mean, right? Something a little bendy about the edges.”

Me. He means me. He wants me to meet the band. Gerry’s heart skipped a beat. “Will Mark…?”

The man shrugged. “Not likely. But I say punt when the chance presents itself, you know? Bloke’s got a hundred-percent increase in possibilities back there than he’ll ever have out here.”

Angie clucked her tongue and grabbed Gerry’s arm. “You’re driving. Don’t think for one second that you’re ditching us to wait out here while you—”

The keys were out of Gerry’s pocket before he allowed himself to think about what he was doing. “You drive. Go. I’ll find my own way.”

“You can’t!” Stacy said, horrified. “You don’t even know these people. Don’t you read the news? Don’t you know what could happen to you?”

Oh, I know. I so know. Hell, yes, do I ever know. And maybe, if he was lucky, if he was smart, he’d get a taste of it.

Stacy’s voice angled on the side of shrill. “Angie, do something! Say something, for heaven’s sake! This is your brother!”

Angie merely snagged the keys. “He’s no baby. Besides…”

The keys jangled behind Gerry’s back, but he couldn’t break eye contact with the man in front of him. This was what he’d been waiting for. This was his chance. Stupid nobody Gerald Matthew Faun was going to meet the beautiful and talented Mark Devon, if it killed him in the process. At least, he’d do his damn best to find a way. And one step closer was one step closer.

“…we don’t have to be home for another two hours, and now we have wheels!”

Whichever of the three girls answered Angie back with a whoop, Gerry couldn’t say. “Stay out of trouble,” he warned without bothering to turn. “Dad’ll kill you if you ding his car.”

He wasn’t offered the same warning in return.

“Lovely.” The man stuck his hand out, palm down, ring up, and Gerry wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take it, shake it, or kiss it. “I’m Phil Phine. You might not know the face, but I bet you know the name, don’t you, lad?”

Phil Phine, Mark Devon’ s manager. The man who knows the man.

Gerry nodded, dumbstruck.

“I figured.” Phil smiled wide and grasped Gerry’s hand when Gerry finally got the nerve to offer it. “So, there we are now. All close and personal, right? Come on around here and let’s introduce you to the gang.”

It only took a wave of Phil’s hand to get them past the tarped area beside the stage, and a smile, a nod, and a “Looking right fine, friend,” to get them through the fencing beyond that. Gerry had expected to be ignored, just another wanderer among the greater gods, but surprisingly most of the people beyond the fence took the time to offer slow, feral smiles or twiddle fingers at him. Gerry wrote it off to the company he was in more than anything else.

There were several solitary buses and motor homes, and a few groups of people huddled together in front of them, strumming guitars or smoking. One didn’t need to know where they were headed to find one’s direction, however. The music streaming from the end of the open space was unquestionably Maxx’s. Seven full-size motor homes stood together, nudged nose to nose and end to end. Two sat at the back, two on each side, and one at the front, with each of their entry doors to the inside—an odd wagon fort of sorts. Another would have made it a perfect square, but the open space allowed for travel into the interior of the arrangement, and it was that area where most of the party seemed to be taking place.

“A friend for the party,” Phil said to the large, muscle-bound man that stepped out of the shadows when they approached. The man huffed an acknowledgement, moved aside, and Phil and Gerry stepped between the vehicles. Rugs—Persian, if Gerry had to take a guess—were laid out on the grass and over spots where the grass had been ground into slick stretches of muck. Hundreds of candles had been lit and set out on nearly every surface that appeared stable enough to keep them there, and a few dozen had been hung from vehicles that had overhangs. The air was sweet and thick, with enough lingering smoke that Gerry was sure he’d be fully buzzed without ever having to touch one of the many hookahs that were servicing the crowd.

The environment he’d been prepared for—the drugs, the careless disregard for the expensive carpets, and the excess. The activities, however, stunned and intrigued him. In more than one spot people were stretched out on the carpets, their limbs entwined, and their mouths locked together; men and women, both tasting and f*****g, both sampling and serving either gender, if not both.

Gerry swallowed. He turned his head and stared at Phil, who merely winked back.

“Welcome to the zoo,” Phil said. He nodded at nothing—perhaps at everything—and sucked back another drag from the cigar. “Grab a drink. Have a snort. Find yourself something sexy to play with.”

Phil’s gaze wandered to the far left corner of the space. “Who knows? Maybe something sexy will come out to play with you.” He tossed the cigar, crushed it under his heel, and walked away.