Constellations of the Backstage

I didn't go to the show for Poison. I went because Ratt was in town and I needed to wash the taste of Stephen Pearcy out of my mouth. Not literally. Though I'd done that too, once, and let me tell you, the man tasted like Jack Daniels and regret.

The Whisky was packed. Sweat dripped from the ceiling, condensation from three hundred bodies breathing the same hot air. I stood near the soundboard, where I could see everything. The stage. The exits. The roadies moving like ghosts in the dark, hauling amps and adjusting monitors while some opening band I didn't care about finished their set.

I'd been doing this for three years now. Since I was seventeen and fresh off a Greyhound from Ohio, convinced I was special. That I'd be discovered. That I wasn't just another girl with a fake ID and a willingness to spread her legs for a backstage pass.

Turns out I wasn't special. I was just willing.

But I learned. I learned which bands paid for hotel rooms and which ones expected you to sleep on the bus floor. I learned which singers actually remembered your name in the morning and which ones called you "baby" because they'd forgotten it. I learned that the roadies were usually nicer, but nobody wanted to fuck a roadie. That was the rule. You didn't climb the mountain to settle for the foothills.

So when Poison finished their set and the crowd surged toward the stage, I stayed put. Let the fresh blood push forward. Let them fight for a spot where Bret Michaels might see them, might point, might mouth "after the show" and change their whole pathetic lives.

I'd been that girl. I didn't have the energy for it anymore.

The lights came up. House music blasted through the speakers. I lit a cigarette and watched the roadies swarm the stage, breaking down the kit, coiling cables, moving with the kind of efficiency that only came from doing the same shit job night after night.

That's when I saw him.

He was hauling a Marshall stack off stage left, sweat soaking through his black t-shirt, muscles straining against the weight. His hair was short and messy, brown and unremarkable. He had a five-o'clock shadow that looked permanent, like he'd been born with it. And his eyes. Tired. Heavy. Like he'd seen every shitty thing this life had to offer and was still clocking in for more.

He set the amp down and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Looked up. Caught me staring.

I didn't look away. That wasn't my style.

He held my gaze for a second. Two seconds. Then he shook his head, almost laughing, and went back to work.

I should have walked to the backstage door. Should have found someone who could get me in. Should have done what I always did. But I stayed. I watched him coil cables with those thick, grease-stained hands. Watched him argue with another roadie about something I couldn't hear. Watched him ignore a girl who tried to get his attention, waving her off without even looking at her.

There was something about the way he moved. No performance. No swagger. Just work. Just getting the job done so he could pack up and do it all again tomorrow.

I crushed my cigarette under my boot and walked over.

"Got another one of those?"

He didn't look up from the cable he was wrapping. "Got my own, thanks."

"I wasn't offering. I was asking."

That got his attention. He straightened up and looked at me, really looked, like he was trying to figure out what angle I was working. "You're not with the band."

"Observant."

"You're not with the crew either."

"Also observant."

He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket. Shook one out. Lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. "So what are you doing back here?"

I shrugged. "Wanted to see the show from a different angle."

"The show's over."

"I know."

He took a long drag, studying me through the smoke. I could see him trying to place me. Trying to figure out if I was someone's girlfriend, someone's sister, someone's problem. "You one of those girls who hangs around after?"

"One of those girls?"

"You know what I mean."

I did. I hated that I did. "Maybe."

He nodded, like that confirmed something he already suspected. "You're not gonna find what you're looking for here tonight. Poison's already gone. Took the tour bus to the hotel twenty minutes ago."

"I know."

"Then why are you still here?"

I didn't have a good answer. I should have been at the hotel. Should have been finding out which room Bret was in, or which room the guitar tech had access to, or which door would open if I smiled the right way. But I was here. Watching a roadie smoke a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

"I don't know," I said. And it was the first honest thing I'd told anyone in weeks.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he did something I didn't expect. He laughed. Not a mean laugh. Not a mocking laugh. Just a laugh, like I'd said something genuinely funny.

"You're weird," he said.

"I've been called worse."

"I bet you have." He took another drag. "I'm Greg."

"Starlie."

"That's not your real name."

"Nope."

He didn't push. He just nodded, finished his cigarette, and ground it out under his boot. "Well, Starlie-Not-Your-Real-Name, I gotta finish breaking down the kit. You can stay if you want, but I'm not gonna entertain you."

"I didn't ask you to."

He shrugged and went back to work. I sat down on a flight case and watched him. Watched the way his hands moved, sure and steady. Watched the way he talked to the other roadies, short and sharp, no bullshit. Watched the way he didn't try to impress me, didn't try to charm me, didn't try to get anything from me.

It was the most refreshing thing I'd experienced in years.

The other roadies noticed me. They looked at Greg. Raised eyebrows. Questioning glances. He ignored them all. Just kept working.

An hour later, the bus was loaded and the crew was packing up. Greg grabbed his bag and walked past me. "You got a ride?"

"I can find one."

He hesitated. I could see him fighting with himself. Could see the part of him that wanted to walk away and the part that wouldn't let him. "The crew van's got room. We're heading to the hotel. If you want."

I should have said no. Should have found my own way. Should have kept my distance from this man who was already making me feel things I didn't want to feel.

"Yeah," I said. "Okay."

The van smelled like sweat and smoke and stale beer. I sat in the back, wedged between two roadies who were arguing about some guitar tech from another band. Greg sat up front, next to the driver. He didn't look back at me. Didn't acknowledge me at all.

That was fine. I didn't need his attention. I didn't need anything from him.

The hotel was a Ramada Inn off the freeway. The kind of place that had seen better decades. The carpet was stained, the elevator smelled like weed, and the front desk clerk didn't look up when we walked through the lobby.

Greg got a room key. So did the other roadies. They dispersed, heading to their rooms, leaving me standing in the hallway with nowhere to go.

Greg stopped at his door. Looked at me. "You need a place to crash?"

"I'll figure something out."

"I got a couch."

"I don't sleep on couches."

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you sleep on?"

"King-size beds. Preferably with Egyptian cotton sheets."

He laughed again. That same genuine laugh. "Sorry to disappoint, but all I've got is a double and polyester."

"I'll manage."

He unlocked the door. Held it open. I walked past him into the room, and I could feel his eyes on me, trying to figure me out.

The room was exactly what I expected. Two beds. A TV bolted to the dresser. A bathroom with a single plastic cup wrapped in cellophane. I sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked off my boots.

Greg dropped his bag on the other bed. Didn't sit down. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me. "So what's your deal?"

"My deal?"

"You're not like the other girls."

"How do you know?"

"Because they would have already asked me what I could do for them. You haven't asked me for anything."

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The popcorn texture was stained yellow in places. "Maybe I'm just tired."

"Maybe." He sat down on his bed. Pulled off his boots. "Or maybe you're hiding from something."

"Maybe I'm hiding from everything."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I get that."

I turned my head to look at him. He was staring at his hands, those thick, capable hands, like they held answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.

"What's your real name?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

I closed my eyes. I could feel the exhaustion pulling at me, the weight of three years of this life, of nights I couldn't remember and mornings I wished I could forget. "Catherine."

"Catherine."

"Don't call me that."

"What should I call you?"

"Starlie. It's what I picked."

He nodded. "Okay, Starlie. Goodnight."

I heard him lie down. Heard the springs creak. Heard him sigh, a long slow exhale that sounded like it carried years of disappointment.

I should have kept my distance. Should have gone back to my life, to the bands and the parties and the endless rotation of hotel rooms that all looked the same. But something about this man, this gruff, tired, honest man, made me want to stay.

I didn't sleep. I lay awake, listening to him breathe, wondering what the hell I was doing.

The next morning, I woke up to find him already dressed, already packed, already moving. He had a cup of coffee waiting for me on the nightstand.

"Cream, no sugar," he said. "Lucky guess."

"It's how I like it."

"I know. I asked the front desk what kind of creamer they had." He shrugged. "They had the little plastic cups."

I took the coffee. It was terrible. Instant. But it was hot, and he'd made it for me, and that meant something I wasn't ready to name.

"We're heading to San Diego tonight," he said. "Poison's got a show at the Sports Arena."

"I know."

"You coming?"

I should have said no. Should have gone back to L.A., back to my apartment, back to the life I knew. But I looked at Greg, standing there with his bag over his shoulder and his tired eyes and his complete lack of pretense, and I said, "Yeah. I'm coming."

He didn't smile. But something in his face softened. Just a little. Just enough.

"Good," he said. "Van leaves in twenty."

And that was it. That was how it started. Not with a bang, not with a declaration, not with anything dramatic. Just a cup of bad coffee and a decision I couldn't explain.

The tour moved. San Diego. Phoenix. El Paso. I followed. I told myself it was because I had nothing better to do. Told myself I was just killing time. Told myself a hundred lies that all sounded hollow.

Greg and I fell into a rhythm. He worked the shows, and I watched. I sat in the wings, or on the flight cases, or in the back of the van. I didn't try to get backstage with the band. Didn't flash my tits at anyone. Didn't do any of the things I'd built my reputation on.

The other roadies noticed. They started giving me looks. Started whispering when they thought I couldn't hear.

"Bro, she's a groupie. You know that, right?"

"She's been with half the bands on this circuit."

"Don't get attached. They're all the same."

I heard it all. I pretended I didn't.

Greg never asked. Never brought up my past. Never treated me like I was anything other than just a person who happened to be there.

But I saw the way he looked at me sometimes. When he thought I wasn't paying attention. A long, searching look, like he was trying to find something hidden.

I didn't know what he was looking for. I didn't know if he'd find it.

We were in Houston when it happened. After the show, after the gear was loaded, after everyone else had gone to bed. Greg and I were sitting on the hood of the van, watching the city lights blur through the humidity.

"Why don't you go after them?" he asked. "The band. That's what you do, right?"

I didn't flinch. "Used to."

"What changed?"

I looked at him. At his profile, sharp against the neon glow. At his hands, resting on his knees. At the way he didn't look at me, like he was afraid of the answer.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe nothing. Maybe everything."

He turned to face me. His eyes were dark in the dim light, but I could see something in them. Something raw. Something scared.

"You're not like what they say," he said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I've been watching you. For two weeks now. And you haven't once looked at a rockstar like you look at me."

My heart stopped. I could feel it, a physical halt in my chest, like the world had suddenly stopped spinning.

"I don't look at you any special way."

"You do." He reached out. Touched my hand. Just his fingers, brushing against mine. "You look at me like I'm real."

I didn't pull away. I should have. I should have run. Should have gone back to the life I knew, the life that didn't ask questions, the life that didn't require me to feel anything real.

But I stayed.

"Greg."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"Me neither." He moved closer. I could smell him. Sweat and smoke and something clean underneath. "But I know I don't want you to stop."

I kissed him. I don't know who moved first. Maybe both of us. But suddenly his mouth was on mine, and his hands were in my hair, and I was kissing him like I'd been starving for it.

It wasn't like the other times. It wasn't performance or transaction or survival. It was just him. Just me. Just two people who'd found something they weren't supposed to find.

We didn't go to his room that night. We stayed in the van, tangled together in the back seat, and I let myself feel something I'd been running from for years.

The next morning, I woke up with his arm around me and his breath warm on my neck. I didn't move. Didn't want to break the spell.

But the world was waiting. The tour was moving. And I knew, somewhere deep in my gut, that this couldn't last.

The other roadies knew. They saw the way Greg looked at me. Saw the way I stayed close. They didn't say anything, not to me, but I caught the glances. The head shakes. The pity.

I didn't care. For the first time in years, I didn't care what anyone thought.

We were in Dallas when his friend pulled him aside. I saw it happen. Saw the guy, Mike, one of the guitar techs, grab Greg's arm and drag him into a corner.

"Bro, you need to hear this."

"What?"

"That girl. Starlie. I know her."

"So?"

"So she's been with half the bands on this tour. She's a groupie, man. She's not looking for a relationship. She's looking for a ride."

Greg's jaw tightened. "You don't know her."

"I know her type. We all do. She's gonna use you up and move on. And you're gonna be the one left holding the bag."

I watched Greg's hands curl into fists. Watched him take a breath. Watched him force himself to stay calm.

"Thanks for the concern," he said. "But I can make my own decisions."

"Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Mike walked away. Greg stood there for a long moment, staring at the wall. Then he turned and saw me watching.

I didn't look away. Didn't pretend I hadn't heard.

He walked over. Stopped in front of me. "You heard that."

"Yeah."

"He's wrong."

"Is he?"

Greg looked at me. Really looked. Like he was trying to see through me, past all the walls I'd built, past all the lies I'd told myself.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe. But I'm willing to find out."

I wanted to tell him he was a fool. Wanted to tell him to run, to save himself, to find someone who hadn't been used up by this life. But I couldn't. Because I wanted him too much.

"I'm not good at this," I said.

"Neither am I."

"I've hurt people."

"So have I."

"I don't know how to stop."

He reached out. Took my hand. "Then we figure it out together."

That night, after the show, we ended up in his hotel room again. This time it was different. Slower. More deliberate. He undressed me like I was something precious, something worth taking time with. His hands were rough from years of work, but they moved gentle across my skin, tracing lines I'd forgotten I had.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"You."

"Tell me what you need."

"I need you to not let go."

He didn't. He held me through the night, through the sweat and the breath and the moments when I forgot my own name. And in the morning, when the light came through the cheap curtains, he was still there.

I should have told him I loved him then. Should have said the words that were burning in my throat. But I was scared. Scared of what it meant. Scared of what he'd say. Scared of the way my whole world had shifted on its axis without my permission.

So I stayed quiet. And he stayed patient. And we kept moving.

The tour wound on. San Antonio. New Orleans. Atlanta. Each city blurred into the next, a haze of hotel rooms and show lights and the smell of his skin on mine.

The other roadies stopped warning him. They'd given up. They just watched, waiting for the inevitable crash.

I was waiting for it too. Waiting for the moment when he'd see me for what I really was. When he'd realize I wasn't worth the trouble.

But that moment never came.

We were in Nashville when I finally broke. After a show, after the crowd had gone, after the gear was loaded. We were sitting on the edge of his bed, and he was looking at me with those tired, honest eyes, and I couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Why me?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you pick me? Of all the girls who throw themselves at you, why me?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Because you never asked for anything."

"Everyone asks for something."

"Not you. You just... showed up. And stayed. And that's more than anyone's ever given me."

I felt the tears coming before I could stop them. Hot and shameful and impossible to hide.

"Hey." He reached for me. Pulled me close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I don't deserve this."

"Deserve what?"

"You. This. Any of it."

He held me tighter. "That's not for you to decide."

I buried my face in his chest and let myself cry. For the first time in years, I let myself feel the weight of everything I'd done, everything I'd been, everything I'd run from.

And he held me through it. Didn't try to fix it. Didn't try to make it better. Just held me, his hands steady on my back, his breath warm in my hair.

That night, after I'd cried myself empty, I told him.

"I love you."

The words hung in the air between us. I'd never said them to anyone. Not once. Not ever.

He looked at me. His eyes were wet. "Say it again."

"I love you, Greg."

He kissed me. Soft. Tender. Like I was something worth protecting.

"I love you too, Catherine."

And in that moment, in that cheap hotel room in Nashville, I let myself believe it might be real.