Vanni: A Prequel (Groupie Book 4) Read online

  She doesn’t even bother to cover herself as she sits up. “Vanni, you’re twenty-six. Don’t you think it’s time to have a serious discussion about what you want to do with your life?”

  “I already told you what I wanted to do with my future. I want to sing.” It is her turn to roll her eyes. which only angers me further. “Thanks a lot,” I grit out between clenched teeth as I hop off the bed to dress.

  “Vanni,” she says as she jumps up after me. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  I whip around to glare at her. “Then what did you mean?”

  She tries to wrap herself into my arms, but I keep them rigidly locked at my side. This routine is getting old. And I can’t believe she’d bring it up on my birthday. It’s like she doesn’t have faith in me at all. She reads me like a book. “You can have a career in music,” she assures at once. “But you have to be smart about it. Becoming some rock star is a pipe dream. Look at that brochure I brought you, for that music school in the city. You could learn to run a sound board, you could produce. Hell, you could even learn to play an instrument. Those are the dreams to reach for, baby. Everything else is just wishful thinking.”

  “What if it’s not?” I challenge, since that is the question that keeps me ramming my head against every closed door. Sure it doesn’t happen for everyone. But it happens for some. What if I’m that guy and I never know it? What if my story is different? Isn’t that a question that deserves to be answered? “I know my chances are one in a million, babe. But it’s still a chance, isn’t it? I’d rather try to make it and fail than have one more regret to ponder on my death bed.”

  “And I get that,” she tells me as she finally releases my arms to wrap around her. “No one wants to see you make it more than I do. I just… I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all. I love you, Vanni,” she says at last. My eyes widen as he stared down at her. Aside from Mama and Aunt Susan, no one had ever said those words to me before. Not even my oversexed Myra, who had taught me all the finer points of lovemaking. “This isn’t just your future anymore, Vanni. It’s ours. At least, I want it to be. If you do,” she adds in a scared, small voice.

  Suddenly I understand why she feels she needs to drive me. It’s not just me she’s pushing towards something better… it’s us.

  What a great word to hear on my birthday.

  I lift her into my arms. “It wouldn’t be my dream if you weren’t in it,” he say at last, before walking her back to the bed, where we fall together.

  That night I dream of performing in front of a large crowd, with my biggest, most faithful fan, Lori, standing backstage. I wake knowing there is only one way to assuage her fears about a future together. I have to show her how great it could be. And I won’t stop until I do.

  CHAPTER TWO:

  The antsy crowd waiting to enter Madison Square Garden has more to do with the music than the blustery Christmas Eve-Eve. Flakes drift from the sky, with one landing right on Lori’s upturned nose. I grin as I kiss it away. It dissolves under my touch, as does Lori.

  I love how wholesome she looks on my arm, such blonde, blue-eyed innocence. She wears a long white sweater over a leather miniskirt, with tights to keep her legs warm. I know she’s indulging me. The music I love, the raunchy rock and roll I grew up with, doesn’t do much for her. She prefers the classics, and by classics I mean classical.

  In the relatively short time she’s been studying under Aunt Susan, she has already perfected some of the most complicated sheet music Susan could throw at her. It impresses my formidable aunt more than she’ll let on.

  I wonder momentarily if our children will be musically inclined.

  My mother never was. There are times I wonder if my father had been, but there is no one to ask anymore.

  I’m not entirely sure I want to know. Anything I may have in common with this man would soften me towards him, and he doesn’t deserve that, not after what he did.

  Sometimes I fantasize that one day I’ll be so rich and so famous that he won’t be able to run from me anymore. What would I say if he showed up right in front of my face?

  I have so many questions, which all circle back to the big one: “Why did you leave us?”

  I grew up in the streets of Philadelphia. Most kids I knew had a father missing in action. Whether the guy split or ended up in jail, it was all the same.

  We grew up without a man to guide us.

  What would my father say to me now, I wonder? Would he encourage me to chase my dreams, like Aunt Susan? Or would he caution that I needed to keep my head out of the clouds, like Tony or Lori?

  Looking around at the ecstatic bunch of revelers waiting to file into the entrance of the Garden, I know it doesn’t really matter what he would say. He got his chance to live his life his way when he walked out, which–by no strange coincidence–is exactly when I got my chance to the do the same. I wrap my arm around Lori’s waist and start inside.

  Tony pulls me back, allowing others who had fallen in line behind us to go ahead. I am flabbergasted as I stare at him. “What are you doing?”

  Tony just grins as he reaches inside his jacket. “Just the second part of your gift, man.”

  He pulls out a lanyard and loops it around my neck. I hold the tag up in my hand. “It’s a backstage pass,” I murmur incredulously.

  “Fuck yeah, it is,” Tony smiles as he pulls me into a side hug. “Nothing’s too good for one of my boys.”

  I want to hug him, but we do have an image to maintain, especially Tony, who is still single. I see how he eyes the single girls around us, who are dressed to the nines for their favorite rock idols. I’ve seen my man Tony in action before. He could hone in on a girl who caught his eye like a bird of prey. I have seen many a girl crumble under his charm. And now he had the job and the apartment in the city to lure new flies onto his web. He wears a leather jacket that still smells brand new, one I have coveted ever since he bought it with his first big paycheck. It intoxicates a redhead nearby, who flashes him a wide smile when he puts his own backstage pass around his neck.

  My buddy doesn’t miss a beat. He winks back at her, causing her to giggle.

  When I was single, Tony and I were pretty scandalous as we prowled for a little female companionship. We knew all the dude tricks to leave them wanting more. It got complicated every now and then, with pissed off boyfriends that would try to run us down, or jealous girls who wanted to stake a claim. I cuddle my girl closer under my arm, glad to be done with all that drama for once. I only want three things out of life. I want to take care of my aunt Susan. I want to make love to my girl, Lori. And I want to make music.

  The lights finally go down for the first act. I don’t really know their music but I don’t care. I’m on my feet, my fist pumping in the air, trying to sing along with every song. It’s all so fucking intoxicating, man. It’s like ingesting pure ecstasy. When the band I’ve come to see hits the stage, I lose my mind like every star-dazed groupie in the crowd. I know all the songs, which I sing loudly and on key, not that anyone can hear me. The massive amplifiers are almost as loud as the roar coming from the crowd.

  Lori can’t see much, so I lift her up in my arms. I hear her try to sing along as best she can. I know she’s trying. I reward her with a kiss for the whole damn world to see. When our kiss breaks, I sing to my audience of one. I don’t care about the crowd around us. I don’t care about the band in front of us. All I care about is the possibility of the future. I lean forward to shout into her ear, “One day I’ll perform here. And you’ll be front row!”

  She laughs as she wraps her body around mine. I know she thinks I’m daydreaming again, but I’m dead serious.

  When we finally head backstage to meet a few of my idols, I am full of questions. “Such a fan, man. That show was killer.”

  “Thanks, man. Glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Hey, do you think you have a few words of wisdom for an aspiring singer?”

  “You sing?”

  “
I want to.”

  The older man just chuckles. “It’s a yes or no answer, dude. You want to sing, you gotta sing. Period. Only a handful of people get anywhere in this business. What sets us apart is we’re willing to go for broke and make it happen. You can be a dreamer. Or you can be a doer. Your choice, man.”

  I nod my head. I know he’s right. And I know this next year is my opportunity to do something about it. I’m sure as hell not getting any younger. The clock ticks louder every year.

  I convince myself that my birthday officially starts my new year, ten days ahead of schedule. By the time I turn twenty-seven, I want to make music my focus. No more schlepping pizza or wearing hairnets.

  I’m ready to become a star, to live the life I see all around me, with fans and excitement and music and sheer creative orgasmic bliss.

  I’m still flying high as we head to SoHo, to the club where Lori works. We squeeze in past the pretty people who are there to see a local band. More music? I’m game. I follow as Lori leads us to one of the VIP tables on the top floor. We start with beer, but I couldn’t care less about the alcohol. I’m already drunk on my dreams. It’s exhilarating. I pull Lori close and plant hot kisses along her neck. The fact that we’re in public only makes it more exciting. Let them see. I want every guy in the joint to gnash his teeth that the prettiest girl will be leaving with me.

  “Vanni,” she says as she pushes me slightly away. “Come on. This is where I work.”

  “You’re not on duty tonight,” I tell her as I nibble her sensitive earlobe. She sighs against me and tries a little harder.

  “Come on, Vanni. I’m serious.”

  I slip my hand up her shirt, around her soft tummy and along her smooth side. She wears no bra, which makes me instantly hard. I drag her hand to my lap so she can know how crazy she makes me. “So am I.”

  She pulls a little stronger. “Vanni.”

  “Fine,” I relent. “But there will come a day you’ll want me to prove to a room full of sexy strangers that you belong to me. About a year from now almost exactly, I’d say.”

  She offers a benign smile. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before. I dreamed of being a rock star long before Lori walked into my aunt’s living room for the first time.

  Tony, however, leans across the table. “It’s a tough road,” he cautions at once. “If you ever want to explore Plan B, I can probably get you something where I work. I mean, it’d be something in the mail room to start you out, but it pays more than Cynzia’s.”

  I roll my eyes. Mail room, good God. “There is no Plan B,” I tell my friend. There are a variety of reasons I don’t accept Tony’s generous offer. First and foremost, I don’t want to leave Brooklyn. What would happen if Susan needed me and I was working all the way in the city? I need to be close for her, especially the older she gets. She’d smack me for saying it, but she’s gotten noticeably feeble in the last year, after Mama died. I know Mama’s cancer took every bit as much out of her as it did out of me, arguably even more so. Mama was like a daughter to her.

  Two, I can’t leave old Santino, even if he was a grumpy slave master. He gave me a job when no one else would. He deserves my loyalty. Starting off in some mail room where nobody knows my name, where I become a faceless cog in the machine, has never interested me. I love to interact with people, and Cynzia’s was one of the places I could sing while I worked, often charming the girls and the ladies who would tip me very well for the privilege of hearing me croon to them as I presented the daily specials. Those tips make working at Cynzia’s more profitable than some entry level position in the city.

  And fuck the hair net… some hoity toity big corporation would probably force me to cut my hair entirely. If I’m going to be on stage within a year, singing and fronting a band of my own, I want to be a wild carefree rocker, not some button-downed, clean cut milquetoast corporate drone.

  I glance over Tony, who had cut his own ponytail off by the time he trotted off to college. We used to look like brothers. Now we’re like some before and after photos, with me stuck in perpetual, rebellious youth. I guess that’s who I am, who I’ve always been. As a rock star, I can stay that way. I can be me and be totally and completely accepted and loved for it.

  Sounds like heaven to me.

  Lori, who sits practically in my lap, runs her hand over my arm. “You might to reconsider, babe,” she tells me. “It’s always good to have a five-year plan.”

  “I do have a five-year plan,” I say. Down below where we sit, the band everyone is waiting to see takes the stage and the place erupts in wild, wonderful chaos as the crowd goes crazy. I point at the lead singer, who looks like some random punk on the subway. He’s got spiked black hair, smudged black liner around his dark eyes, a chain slung across his shoulder, holding his guitar in place while his fingers, tipped with black nail polish, grip the neck. He wears jeans, T-shirt and biker boots, but the minute he opens his mouth, he has the crowd captivated. I have to shout for Lori to hear me. “That’s me in five years, but in bigger, better venues. That’s the life I want, babe. And I’m ready to go for broke.”

  She scowls immediately as she scoots of my lap. “Emphasis: broke.”

  My mouth drops open as I stare at her. I can’t believe she is making a deal about this. She knew what I wanted to do with my life the minute we started going out. Here I am ready to make a commitment and she’s trying to bring me down to earth?

  I want to soar, with her, through the stars.

  And I know I can do it. The only thing left to do is prove it to her.

  “I’m going to go get a drink,” I tell her as I scoot out from the booth. She doesn’t fight me. Inside I’m glad.

  I make my way downstairs, past the bar and towards the stage. I need to get up close to watch this guy work the crowd. He’s good, I have to admit. He knows how to get the crowd involved. He sings a couple of cover tunes that everyone knows the words to, so the crowd is delirious to be a part of the show. When they get to their original material, the crowd is already on their side. The material is good, too. Solid rock music, with a heavy beat I can feel in the center of my chest.

  It’s like sex, with its raw, primal rhythm. God, it gets me so pumped. I figure that Tony or Lori must not feel it the same way I do, way down deep in their bones. If they did, they’d understand why my passion to make music happen drives me, even when it makes no logical or rational sense. I want to be a part of something beautiful and magical and epic. Staying in the crowd, lost in the numbers, physically pains me.

  Giving up is not an option. Plan B is a prison sentence.

  I thrust my fist into the air along with the rest of the crowd. This is the essence of rock and roll. It’s the Don’t Give a Fuck aspect that pumps the blood through my veins. It’s heaven and hell, pleasure and pain, sex and heartache, all rolled into one. It’s fucking fantastic and I’m a part of it whenever the music starts to play. I can’t even stop it anymore. I sing the songs I know the words to, and race to learn those songs I’m unfamiliar with in order to keep up with the high octane band onstage.

  By the end of their set, I’ve forgotten about Lori and Tony. I linger by the stage as the musicians load out their equipment. The guitarist carefully puts away the three guitars he’s brought along to perform. He’s got long hair as black as night, which contrasts with his pale skin. “Hey, man, great show,” I tell him.

  His dark eyes meet mine. “Thanks.”

  He tries to go back to his task, but I need to know more. “You can really shred. Have you had formal study?”

  The slight man offers a shrug. “You could say that.” I don’t say anything as I wait for him to fill in the blanks. Finally he says, “Julliard.”

  “No shit?” I say, immediately impressed.

  He finally smiles. I get the feeling he doesn’t do that often. “No shit,” he answers.

  I reach out my hand. “Giovanni Carnevale.”

  He looks down at my hand, as if he debates whether or not he should engage
me. “Yael Satterlee,” he responds as he shakes my outstretched hand.

  I love it. Sounds exotic and interesting. “Nice to meet you. I’m an aspiring performer myself. I have to say that set was quite inspiring. Maybe I could buy you guys a round and pick your brains about the business.”

  The man named Yael chuckles humorlessly. “If you can tie Marty down, more power to you.” He nods off towards the bar, where nearly a dozen girls surround the lead singer. He has his arm around one, while he chats up two or three more. He’s literally got his hands full.

  “Girl in every port?” I ask.

  “Something like that. It would sell tickets if he didn’t give them all away. He likes to fluff up the crowd with sexy girls at every show. I tell him they’ll buy them, but I think he prefers other types of payment.”

  Watching the man named Marty work his groupies, I figure Yael is probably right.

  “Just you then,” I say. “You have to tell me about Julliard. That’s like a dream come true for someone like me.”

  Yael raises an eyebrow. “You play?”

  I shrug. Aunt Susan has tried her best to get me to play an instrument, but I really have no patience for it. “Chopsticks, mostly,” I answer. We laugh.

  He looks down at his packed guitars for a moment before he finally says, “Sure, why not? I could use a beer.”

  I notice that there are no groupies surrounding the stage for Yael. He seems perfectly happy with that. His fulfillment comes from elsewhere, and that’s a beautiful, fascinating thing. “Let me help you,” I say as I reach for one of the cases. He doesn’t argue, so I carry the case and follow him outside through the exit behind the stage.

  The December air turns our breath to frost the moment the heavy steel door closes behind us. Neither of us wears a jacket, so we trot over to his tiny, second-hand car parked close to the building in the private lot. As much as their act had filled the small club, his car is beat to shit. I can see why he’d be miffed that the lead singer gave away so many tickets for free.