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Date Posted: 16:15:00 03/03/06 Fri
Author: Feathers (please forgive typos - this is un-edited)
Subject: "Where There's Smoke"
In reply to: Feathers 's message, ""Where There's Smoke"" on 16:08:47 03/03/06 Fri

Where There’s Smoke
2-2006
++++++++++++++++

The tunnel seemed a long way off as she made her way toward the far end of the grandstands. It was hellishly crowded and unnerving to jostle and fight for every step among the throng of biker toughs, rednecks and fluff chicks that pushed in every direction – except, it seemed, the direction she was headed. The whole scene was made worse by the noise. Of course the crowd around her was obnoxiously loud as people shouted to friends, hollered at loved ones and screamed into cell phones, all trying to be heard above the raucous music and shrieking fans inside the arena. The bass tones felt like the heartbeat of an angry volcano, accompanied by the shrill cheers of demons. She couldn’t wait to get away from it.

Of course, she herself had just a few moments ago been reveling in the midst of that shrieking mass of star-struck, music-addicted humanity, but at the time it had meant something to her. HE meant something to her. But now, he was elsewhere – tucked away behind locked gates – and those who had taken his place on the stage were not worthy of her time, much less her interest. Saying she was going back to the camper with a headache, she had left her friends among the riotous crowd and gone in search of him.

Maybe it was a wild goose chase, and she would return to the camper with no new memories, but maybe not. She had to try.

Breaking free of the crowd under the main grandstands, she walked quickly and easily behind the bleachers that were obscured by the stage. Fewer people were back here, and these mostly roadies and others with credentials swinging like talismans from around their necks. Still, it wasn’t a restricted area, so she was able to move easily among the techies and media people who were too focused to notice her.

It had been years – a decade – since she’d been here, and she hoped that there was still an old tunnel under the older bleachers around the original dirt track. She also hoped that the layered rings of chain-link fencing would provide the illusion of one seamless, fan-proof fence.

She turned toward the concrete-block restroom building on her left, the stands rising high above her and still vibrating with the constant thump of the music. Next to the building was a rusted old shipping container used for storage. Behind that, she knew, was an opening large enough to squeeze through. It had never been repaired because it was assumed that the container blocked it from use, and because few now knew about the tunnel that waited on the other side.

Quietly, she slunk between the restroom building and the container, shadows hiding her passage. When she approached the fence, she scanned for people and judged the distance to the slit in the fence that was blessedly still there. Then she pushed the fence out as she crept toward the opening, making one narrow foot of space into almost two feet where she passed.

Finally reaching the opening, she slithered out and exhaled deeply. She untied her denim jacket from her waist and slipped it on. She hadn’t needed it in the arena because it was way too warm then. Now, the night began to wrap its chilly fingers around her arms, and she also needed the darker clothing to camouflage her progress.

Keeping along the fence, she aimed for the old bleachers, rising like a rickety erector set above the banking in turn four of the old track. That was where the tunnel was. Beyond the tunnel, protected from sight by the banking and the bleachers, was the tour bus and VIP RV parking area on the infield of the track. The main entrance to this parking area had been excavated between turns one and two, and no one seemed to pay too much attention to turns three and four anymore.

She dashed across an open gravel area and scurried behind some cypress trees that had been planted in front of the tunnel entrance. Standing face to face with the old plywood gate gave her chills. It was nothing more than a wooden door in a chain-link arch wedged into the tunnel opening, but it was still there, still the same, and not even a glimmer of a shiny new lock.

She slipped her arm through the bent-open space in a link of the fence and reached around to flip the latch. Her arm caught in the opening leaving mere centimeters between her fingers and the latch. She wiggled her arm out of her jacket and tried again. It was still tight – she must have been much skinnier all those years ago when she would sneak back here with friends – but she finally felt the little metal bar in her fingers. She closed her eyes and remembered the night she’d brought Alan Dewberry here, hoping for a romantic evening, but he’d been spooked and they had left. She remembered teasing him that it was only a little tunnel, but there was no changing his mind. That night the latch had released under her touch almost by itself. She was hoping for a bit of that good luck tonight. The latch was a bit corroded, but the working parts had been rubbed so smooth from use that only a small but fierce flick was needed to release it.

Excitement surged inside her – half the battle was over. She withdrew her arm and slowly pulled the wooden gate open. It creaked a little, but she was the only one to hear. She stepped inside, double-checking the latch to be sure it worked, then turned toward the dark expanse of the tunnel. A similar latch awaited her on the other side, but she still had to walk downhill, then uphill, in the darkness. She walked a few feet, keeping a hand on the mossy concrete wall, then she remembered her light stick. She pulled it out of her jacket pocket and its green glow illuminated her path. Covering most of it with her hand to avoid detection, she walked quickly through the surprisingly clutter-free tunnel. There were a few bats of course, an old tire or two and various leaves and food wrappers that had blown in, but otherwise no one had discovered this great little storage area. It mush have been closed after the last race and promptly forgotten.

The ground began to rise under her feet and she could see the glow from the mini-festival that had sprung up in the bus lot. Another few steps and she could hear it, too, a subdued mix of music and laughter, children playing and a dog barking.

Stepping up to the gated exit of the tunnel, she paused to take in the sight. There were huge gleaming buses and RVs, trailers and big equipment trucks, pick-up trucks, SUV’s, golf carts and motorcycles, and not one of this plethora of motorized vehicles was in her price range. Then the smell of grilled-out food wafted toward her on a breeze and her mouth watered.

Without looking down, she felt for the latch, forced it open, and stepped out onto the old dirt track which, after years of neglect, had eroded down to the hard-pack dirt and gravel base. She walked calmly toward the buses, trying to act like she belonged there. If she was questioned, her story was that she was a style consultant for an obscure girl group that had played an opening act that afternoon, and she’d been told their bus was right next to “his”. Hopefully, she’d get away with a shrug and a set of directions that would lead her to “him”.

On this night, however, no one stopped her. She strolled comfortably between the homes-away-from-home for a dozen country music icons, a dozen acts on their way to icon status, and a handful of up-and-comers. Anyone would have been thrilled to have this much easy access. People waved and said “hello” as she passed, wives, girlfriends, band members, and a few of the stars themselves. Everyone thought she was with someone else. Without the ubiquitous credentials around her neck like a noose, she was barely given a second thought.

In her mind, she ticked off the names of the stars she saw, enjoying their private, unguarded moments of laughter, storytelling, and family loving. They were all just people like herself and she felt as if she were one of them, and, in the purest sense, she was.

Upon that very thought, she rounded the corner of and RV and there they were: the two big buses used the by the 2005 Entertainer of the Year and his band. They were set a bit away from the rest, and there was no outdoor grilling, lawn chair sitting, or gee-tar picking going on on this block. A disco beat thudded from the inside of one of the buses, and she thought she heard the strains of Donna Summer. What looked like a million streaking flashbulbs raced constantly across the inside of the dark-tinted windows and it took her a moment to realize it was a mirrored ball. She laughed out loud. Of course he’d play thirty-year-old disco music at a country music festival. Why not? It was a weeklong party, might as well have some good party music.

She stood for a while, watching the little mirrored reflections chase across the windows, not wanting to leave, but not having the guts to knock on that door and ask to join the party. Who did she think she was anyway, she thought as a sudden wave of disbelief washed over her. What gave her the right to invade this restricted space? She shouldn’t be running away from her friends to sneak around the back doors of an old race track where she could get hurt in the dark. Nor should she be intruding on these private moments among a close-knit, protective family. But then “he” wasn’t really a part of that family, was he? He was more like an “in-law” – not even deemed worthy to be an official “outlaw”, awards and accolades notwithstanding. So for tonight, that was one thing she had in common with him – being on the outside looking in. Maybe it should stay that way, she thought. Maybe I better just leave him alone.

At that moment, the bus door opened with a hydraulic hiss and there he stood, silhouetted by the interior lights made hazy by a billow of manufactured smoke. She couldn’t make out his exact features, shrouded as they were by the smoke, but she could make out his standard uniform of t-shirt, jeans, biker boots and shaggy hair. Somewhere in those cloudy billows she knew there were taught muscles, blue eyes, a quick wit and a playful grin. He descended the steps and hopped to the ground, holding his acoustic by the neck. He waved at the smoke with his other hand as he turned to shut the door behind him.

She stood mutely, as if planted many years ago, seeming for all the world like a tree in denim. When he turned around again, he caught sight of her and started.

“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” he commented in a thicker version of his familiar accent.

“Uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I’ll be going.” She was embarrassed and nervous now that she was face-to-face with him.

“No worries. Just out for a stroll. It was getting a bit rowdy in there,” he said, gesturing toward the thumping bus.

“Yeah, I could tell,” she laughed lightly.

“Are you looking for someone? Jerry said he might have a friend coming by,” he said as he started to reach for the bus door again.

“I’m not looking for Jerry.”

“Someone else, then?”

She hesitated a beat. “You.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said it, but somehow her heart had overridden her brain, rendering her neurons useless for the tasks of nervous fidgeting and verbal stumbling. She stood calmly looking at him, her intruder’s guilt forgotten, and watched him process the information. Here was a woman he didn’t know, with no credentials – or press pass – standing in the dark looking for him. And finding him.

“Well, c’mon, then,” he said with a flash of those beautiful teeth. “Let’s walk.” Apparently he had decided she was not a threat.

He slung his guitar over his shoulder as easily as she would have her purse, and turned to walk toward the empty half of the infield. The only structure still standing was the remnants of an old gas station that had had it’s tank dug up years ago as part of an environmental clean up. It seamed an adequate place to hang out, away from it all, but not too far.

“Do I know you?” he asked as they walked. “Should I know you?”

“No, I’m a total stranger,” she confessed.

“Are you with one of the other bands?”

“Nope. Section H, row 26, seat 10. One-fifty-five, ninety-five, plus tax.”

He was quiet for a moment and she wondered if he would bid her good night and call security, but he kept walking. She kept pace.

“Twenty-six-ten – that’s my birthday, you know.”

“It took her a second to realize he was using the day-month order favored by his homeland, but the import of those numbers was not lost on her.

“I know. It’s mine, too.”

“Really?” He seemed honestly surprised for a moment, but his humor recovered quickly. “Too bad it’s July, or we could give each other a birthday kiss.”

“The night’s still young,” she bantered back. “Maybe we’ll find another reason.” She gulped at her own words – where had they come from? Where had the chutzpah to say them come from?

Her disbelief was silenced by his hearty laughter. “I have a feeling we will,” he said as he looked over at her, the receding glow from the bus lot catching his face so she could see the suggestion in his eye – as if hearing it in his voice wasn’t enough. All she could do by way of response was to return his smile.

They were about twenty yards from the old building now, and the overhand cast a large dark shadow over the area that used to have pumps.

“I wonder if there’ll be anything to sit on besides the ground,” he mused. “It’s so dark I can’t see what’s here.”

“Oh,” she said brightly, “this’ll help.” She pulled her light stick back out of her pocket and handed it to him. The green glow revealed all sorts of paraphernalia piled against the old station.

“Handy little buggars,” he commented. He walked up to the pile, holding the light high, and started poking at things with his foot. Between the two of them, they found an old wooden crate and a ten gallon bucket, both sturdy enough for sitting.

As soon s he was perched on the upturned bucket, his fingers began to tickle the strings of what she could now see was an old and well-loved guitar. She held the lights tick in front of him, thinking it would help him play.

“I don’t need that,” he said simply. “And it might draw attention,” he added with a nod toward the buses.

“True – on both counts.” She put the light stick back in her pocket and realized she didn’t need it either. His bright smile could still be seen even in these shadows. She knew there was a metaphor there, but she didn’t want to think to deeply right then. She just wanted to enjoy her private concert, her own unguarded moment with him and his music.

And what music it was. His gentle plucking resembled a melody of his she thought she knew but wasn’t sure. The complex arrangement of notes was offset by his expert touch, giving the instrument an ethereal quality she’d never heard except from him. It climbed and tumbled, dipped and soared, running like a mountain stream, polishing every rough rock it passed on its journey into her soul.

She watched him with adoring contentment, allowing his tender musical touch to massage away all the tense and knotty moments of her week that clung to her heart. Of course they were no match for his talented hands and soul-filled expression, and soon she was completely relaxed. She sighed deeply, audibly, and happily as he wound down the song. He looked up at her and she felt that he understood the gratitude in her sigh as he hugged her with his eyes.

“Anything special you’d like to hear?” he asked quietly.

“Whatever you’re in the mood for. I’m just a stow-away.”

“No you’re not. I asked you to join me. Music is best when there someone to share it with.”

“Thanks,” she smiled.

“So, any requests?” He fiddled with a riff that sounded like an old INXS song. She laughed, then thought for a moment.

“I Can’t Help Falling In Love with You,” she decided.

“An Elvis, girl, eh?” He asked as he tested a few key signatures to adapt the song to his golden tenor.

“My mom’s favorite, and I like it, too.”

“It’s been quite a while. Let’s see how I do.” He picked at the intro. “Sing with me?” She nodded.

“Wise men say
Only fools rush in…”

He sounded amazing, and she struggled to focus on the harmony since her alto could stay in the same key with his tenor. She finally gave up and sang high when he sang low, and low when he sang high.

“…But I can’t help
Falling in love wiiiiith youuuuu….”

She found the harmony for the last lines and she actually thought her voice matched his pretty well, considering she was an amateur.

“You have a nice voice,” he said.

“Thanks, but it’s tough to be an alto sometimes.”

“I can fix that,” he said, changing the key yet still plucking the song. She sang the last line in just the right key and he harmonized with her and she felt the resonance of their blended voices.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That was cool.”

“Great request, by the way. I’ll have to play that one more often.”

“My mom would be thrilled to hear you sing it live. And then she’d faint.”

“That settles it then,” he said chuckling. “It’s a keeper.”

“Your turn to pick.” She really wanted to know what was on his mind tonight.

“Well,” he began with a sly curl of his lips. “There’s this.” She recognized the INXS riff again. “Or this.” Now she discerned a U2 intro. “Or how about this?” he asked, as his nimble fingers found the old Dan Folgerberg hit, “Longer”. She closed her eyes as his honeyed voice caressed not only the lyrics but the meaning. She didn’t feel as if he was singing to her, specifically, but he did choose to sing it at this moment in time, so she took private delight in it and secret jealousy of whomever he might be thinking.

“That was gorgeous,” she sighed when he finished.

“Thank you.”

“You’d have to be thinking of someone special in order to put so much heart and soul into it like that.”

“The fans,” he said without missing a beat.

She nodded her understanding while he continued.

“That’s my biggest love affair, and one that I don’t ever have to give up and never have to regret.”

“No reservations; no retreat; no regret.” She didn’t really say it to him in particular, but his last remark reminded her of it.

“That’s fantastic. Did you just think of that?”

“No, I heard it a long time ago. I think it was actually from Billy Graham, talking about living life to the fullest. I’ve always tried to keep it near the surface as a reminder to live deliberately.”

“Live deliberately – isn’t that Whitman?”

“You know, you’re right. I suppose Walt and Billy probably had quite a lot in common.”

“A couple of true highwaymen. Neither one taking the easy way. Do you admire them both?”

“Well, Walt would probably get a kick out of hearing how I deliberately eluded security to sneak over here, and while Billy would not condone my methods, he’d at least be happy that I have not regrets about it.”

He laughed. “Just how did you get in here, anyway?”

“Sorry, can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Deniability.”

He grinned and looked slyly at her. “Aw, c’mon. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Okay, let’s just say I know my way around this old place.”

“Fair enough,” he shrugged. “Your turn to pick.”

“Oh, hmm….” She thought a moment, but it must have been a moment too long.

“What’s your all-time favorite song?” he prompted.

“Any one of yours, of course,” she smiled.

“That’s fine with me.”

“Yeah, but I can listen to my CD’s anytime. I’d like to hear you sing something different.”

He looked at her as if he was a bit indignant, but then looked away. “Such as…?” he asked.

“I’m sorry I’m so indecisive. Give me another minute.”

He didn’t answer, but the way he started playing gave her the feeling he was a bit impatient with her. She wanted to choose a great song, since it was since it was so singular a moment – just the two of them.

“Oh, I know,” she brightened.

He looked up at her with bemused expectancy.

“Do you know “Just the Two of Us”?”

“Bill Withers?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Wow. That’s a blast from the past, isn’t it? Let me see…” He fiddled with the notes and the key, adjusting to the minor chord and jazzy feel, finally settling in on a mellow rendition. His voice delivered just the right balance of smooth pop and sexy R&B. Toward the end, she picked up the background vocals and he ad-libbed his way through a few laid back repeats of the chorus before winding down with a simmering little riff at the end.

They were quiet for a moment, letting the music resonate in the air between them. Then he looked up at her and put a gentle finger to her lips before she could say how wonderful it had been.

Her lips tingled from his touch, and her insides began to melt as he held her eyes. He stood up and balanced his guitar on the bucket, then reached his hand out to her. She took it and he pulled her up to stand in front of him.

His eyes danced over her face and his hands slid slowly up her arms. A thrill buzzed through her like a honeybee on a mission, and she waited for him to speak, or move.

“My turn to make a request,” he said in a low voice that was almost a whisper.

“What’s that?”

“How about that birthday kiss?”

“Why not?” she whispered, wanting to smile, but all she could do was gulp.

He took a step and placed his foot right between hers, causing their bodies to connect and their noses almost to touch. She closed her eyes as she felt him lean into her, their lips brushing together for an innocent instant. Then the volcano began to rumble inside her and she realized she was gripping his arms very tightly. She started to loosen her grip, but he didn’t give her a chance. His fingers at her lower back were clenched around handfuls of her jacket, and he pressed them against her to pull her closer. She could feel his chest rise and fall against hers with each shallow breath.

Then it happened.

She sensed it was coming, but was still surprised by the smoldering intensity. His mouth closed over hers in one searingly beautiful motion, burning her from without while the erupting volcano burned her from within.

He held her closely to him, his muscular arms enveloping her and his nimble fingers spreading across her back and into her hair at the base of her neck. She ran her hands down his back, skipping lightly over the tooled leather belt holding his jeans on his hips, then tucked her hands into his back pockets.

His kisses trailed down her jaw line to her neck, his week-old scruff giving her soft skin a rough tickle. With her hands still in his pockets, she squeezed, pressing their hips harder against each other. She felt the soft rumble of his moan against her neck as well as his growing enthusiasm against her jeans.

Her eyes were closed, but she felt as if the entire Milky Way was spinning inside her head. His mouth fused to hers again, and this time she kissed him back like there was no tomorrow.

And in fact, there would be no tomorrow. Right at the moment when his hand slid under her shirt at the small of her back, right at the moment that she decided she would follow his passion wherever it led, and enormous explosion came from the main arena. The sky lit up like daytime with the firing of several dozen pyrotechnic marvels as part of the grand finale of the evening’s last performance.

It startled him, scared the hell out of her, and was enough to bring them back from the brink of total surrender. They looked into each others’ eyes, saw the fire and the shock of realization as it washed over them both at the same time.

He looked away, but not before she saw a flash of guilt play behind those baby blues. She didn’t want him to feel bad about the wonderful gift he had given her just by sharing his time and attention.

“Hey,” she said, louder than she wanted to because of the amplified din coming from the arena. “Best birthday kiss I ever had.”

He flashed her a grin. “Oh yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great because, uh, it, um,” he fumbled for the right words. “Whew, I, uh,” he shook his head and rubbed his face. “Mmmm. Yeah. Right, I, uh…” He looked in her eyes, then turned and stepped away with an unhappy groan. The fireworks had diminished, and they were standing in shadow again, but even from a few feet away and with his back turned, she saw him fussing with his waistband and adjusting his belt, pulling his t-shirt a little lower and shaking himself as if trying to get rid of something crawling all over his skin.

She felt sorry for him, and for herself, too. His kiss and his touch had awakened something within her that would not easily go back into its cage. She would never forget his smell, his taste, how his fingers felt as they stroked her skin and his body pressed against hers. She was one-hundred percent certain that she would have let him take her right there on the ground for lack of a better place, but she was not nearly as certain that he would have followed through all the way, regardless of location. He had so much more to lose, and they both knew it.

The silence between them was like a musty blanket, and she didn’t want it to end this way, but she didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I’ll just get going.”

“No, don’t,” he turned quickly, running his frustrated fingers through his bangs to push them back, to no avail. “It’s my fault,” he said looking directly into her eyes. “I’m sorry. There’s no excuse. I should know better.”

She gave him an understanding smile. “It’s okay. Sometimes you just want to forget who – or what – you are and just be a guy who needs a girl. Or vice-versa.”

“Well, you’ve got one thing right,” he said stepping a bit closer.

“What’s that?” she asked reaching up with one hand and tucking his fingers into her hair behind her ear. She tilted her head to rest it in his palm.

“You, darlin’, could very easily become my biggest vice, and I mean that as the highest compliment.”

“And I would take it not only as a complement,” she said, feeling her smile spread across her whole face, “but as an honor and a solemn duty.”

He laughed at her grandiose pronouncement, and the sound rang off the corrugated steel shelter above them.

“But seriously,” he continued, “if it hadn’t been for the fireworks, or if by chance we had been locked in my bus…” He shook his head as if amazed by his own susceptibility.

“It would have been incredible,” she finished the thought for him. “And I would not regret it or force any kind of commitment from you.” She felt compelled to assure him that she would have been okay with it. “And I wouldn’t tell anyone, either. Some things are just too sacred to share.”

He looked surprised at her choice of words, but then he chuckled and waved it off.

“I’ve had my share of compliments over the years, but ‘sacred’ is a new one. And that from someone with no direct experience.”

“Well, don’t forget, I’m on the listening end of ‘Rainin’ On Sunday’, and believe me, I feel it. Your guitar does not lie.”

“I could play that for you now,” he teased.

“Don’t you dare!” she laughed. “I may drag you back to your bus myself.”

“Is that a promise or a threat,” he said, eyebrows waggling with temptation.

She saw the desire in his eyes, daring her to tip him over the edge from which he so obviously was ready to fall. Fear of discovery rose within her and she just couldn’t do it to him, no matter who he was.

“I guess we’re not going to find that out tonight,” she said, shutting him down, but leaving options open.

“Yeah,” he said, and she thought she heard a twinge of disappointment as he looked away. She wondered if he was mulling over the same “could’a beens” as she was. She whispered his name and he looked her in the eye. She tried to apologize again, but the words caught in her throat. He abruptly turned and picked up his guitar, reverting to the one thing that helped him get through difficult circumstances.

“Still in the mood for some music?” he asked, but it felt forced and she had the feeling he was only asking out of obligation or defensive habit. Easier to hide behind the guitar than face what he must have seen in her eyes.

“Not unless you are,” she hedged, not wanting to make an awkward situation worse.

“No, not anymore,” he sighed with resignation. He slung his guitar back over his shoulder and turned to her again. “Wanna beer?” he asked, brightening.

“Sure,” she smiled seeing his easy-going persona returning. “Sounds great.”

They walked back toward the buses in silence, wrapped up in their own thoughts. They stopped by the door of the party bus which was now sitting still and silent on its axles, the party over for the night. He turned the crank handle and the door swung open with a hiss.

“Halt! Who goes there?” came a deep voice from the driver’s seat.

“Shut up, hoser,” he said with a playful grin.

“Thank you for the password,” came the ominous voice, and as they climbed aboard the bus, she recognized the bass player in the driver’s seat with his legs sprawled across the steering wheel and dash. “Well, lookie here,” the bassist exclaimed when he saw her. “The Lone Ranger had brought back a friend.”

Heads popped into the aisle as the other band members tried to get a look at her. She thought she should be embarrassed, but the quizzical looks on their faces made her laugh.

“Hi, guys,” she called down the bus. “Nice to meet you.” They all waved and said hello, and one by one they came up and shook her hand. The ‘lone ranger’ was putting his guitar away, and she couldn’t be sure if his silence meant that he was embarrassed or just tired. Then again, he wouldn’t have brought her here if it would have been uncomfortable. She tried not to think about how often this situation might have occurred during his career.

A longneck appeared in front of her and she turned to see his baby blues peeking from under his bangs.

“Thanks,” she said.

“To Elvis,” he said with a wink, his bottle raised in a toast.

“And to fireworks,” she added clinking her bottle gently against his and giving him a knowing look.

He eyed her as he took his first swig. “Yeah, that, too,” he agreed after a healthy swallow.

They sat at the dinette and the band gathered around, and they talked and laughed for a long time. She felt very comfortable around this group of guys, and it was wonderful to see the unguarded sparkle in his eyes as he relaxed in a safe environment.

Finally, one of the guys said something about going to bed, and she looked at her watch – past midnight. She glanced at him and he at her, then he stood and offered to walk her out. The band members looked furtively at one another, elbowing each other knowingly, but he ignored them.

They stepped out into the cool night air and he draped his arm over her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around his waist and fell into step with him.

“Will you go back the way you came?” he asked, and she knew he was still curious about how she got in.

“No, I’ll just go through the main entrance. Easier to get out than in, y’know?”

“I’ll walk you there.”

They strolled arm in arm between the buses and RVs, much quieter now than they had been when she’d arrived, then past a tent village for agents and makeup and food services, then a fleet of golf carts. Ten yards from the gate he turned her to him.

“So did you find what you were looking for when you snuck in her tonight?”

“All of it and more.”

“I have a feeling I’m not going to forget you.”

“I’d like to think that were possible.”

“It is.”

“Well, here, just in case,” she said, fishing deep into her jacket and pulling out a rumpled business card. He looked a bit wary but still pleased when she handed it to him. “Just happened to have one,” she shrugged.

“Perfect,” he said, pocketing the card.

“Thank you so much,” she said trying not to gush. “For everything.”

“You, too.” He looked into her eyes then leaned in for one last delicious kiss before seeing her out the gate.

The night watchman at the gate didn’t give them any trouble, and she strolled back to her camper and her friends, wondering all the way if her feet would ever touch the ground again.
+++

Two months later, while doing his usual sign-reading at a show, he saw a sign a few rows back that made him smile. “Here’s to Elvis,” it said, framed with drawings of fireworks. He laughed and caught her eye and saw him give her a thumbs-up. He nodded, winked and moved on, appreciating her friendship as much as her “fan”-ship.

During the encore, he played a beautiful acoustic version of “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You,” as he’d been doing for the last few weeks now, and the crowd went wild. But it wasn’t the crowd he was thinking about.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Must be the rotten hotel pillows, she thought. Something was nagging at the back of her brain, telling her to call her voice mail at work, and she hoped it wasn’t bad news or a crisis. That would surely ruin this trip. She called anyway, and there was only one message. She recognized his accent right away.

“Don’t know if you’ll get this tonight. It’s late and I can’t sleep ‘cuz I’m thinking about you. If you do get this, call me any time before five pm tomorrow.” He gave the name of the hotel, the room number, and a special access code. He was only a few floors above her. She looked at the clock – it had only been fifteen minutes since he’d called. She called him back without hesitation.

He answered on the first ring and seemed genuinely happy to talk to her, and thoroughly surprised that she was in the same hotel. They chatted for an hour, about anything and everything, and made plans for her to meet him in his room for breakfast at 6:30.

When she finally left his room at noon the net day, her hair a little less neat and her clothes a little more wrinkled than they had been when she’d arrived, she wondered if there were any other stories like this. She didn’t think it was often that tales would surface of a fan illegally sneaking around looking for the object of her desire, finding him, and two months later receiving a midnight call leading to an early breakfast and a bedful of promises.

Carefully planned dates had kept her identity hidden – for a while. Later, the headlines would read, “Country Star Linked to Banker,” with the publicist-polished story following. “We met after a concert a while back and I liked her so I called her and now we’re dating.” Deceptively simple, but with no real meat to it. Putting it out before the gossip started diffused most of the rumors before they even began.

Maybe someday they’d tell the story of how they’d met – how she’d eluded security armed with only a little knowledge and a light stick, and how she had captured his heart with a little Elvis and an appreciation for fireworks.

~Fini~

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Replies:

[> [> Thankyou Feather's - Just what what I needed! Love the reference to Donna Summer! I'd rather listen to Donna Summer than Bob Dylan anyday! -- Aussie Chick, 18:02:50 03/03/06 Fri [1]

I've said it before and i'll say it again, we have a rival to sweetness on our hands!


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[> [> [> Great -- Rodeo, 00:28:28 03/04/06 Sat [1]

We sure do Aussie Chick.


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[> [> Nice!!! -- kennedypratt, 18:18:22 03/03/06 Fri [1]


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[> [> Feathers, this is terrific! -- Mo, 02:48:47 03/04/06 Sat [1]

I love the story and the mood and the subject, of course. LOL! And you've captured him so well. Does anybody else hear him saying just that as you read this? You done good, girl.


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[> [> [> Hey, Mo.... -- Feathers, 10:43:02 03/04/06 Sat [1]

Which particular thing to you hear him saying? Or just everything? It's always nice to know when I "get it right", y'know?

Glad you enjoyed it! (and boy do I have some typos to fix! LOL)


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[> [> Typos? What typos? -- 1birdinflight, 20:37:20 03/04/06 Sat [1]

Girl, feathers, you are too much and just the right amount all at one time! When I am reading your stories, I find myself barely breathing but simultaneously I can feel my heart pounding nearly out of my chest. I can see the disco ball, hear Keith's voice, feel the chill in the air, see the look in his eyes...But I haven't a clue what "she" looks like except for the jean jacket maybe. And that intentional obscurity is very pleasing to me... Thanks, feathers!


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[> [> [> So glad you like it, Bird! -- Feathers, 08:35:51 03/06/06 Mon [1]

I also like your term "intentional obscurity" - I don't know how intentional it is tho - it just sorta happens that way. Once I start writing it would feel very clunky to me to do self-description in the first person (unless it's pertinent to the story). Part of the reason is to focus on character and personality - and on Keith ;-) - and also to allow the reader to "be there" herself.


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