Storms by Carol Ann Harris

and platform shoes that laced up around my ankles. I got dressed in the store’s dressing room and stuffed my blue jeans and T-shirt into a shopping bag as I ran out of the shop’s door to my car. Already late, I touched up my makeup under the red glare of stoplights and chain-smoked the entire way to SIR. I pulled into the large multiplex of soundstages and entertainment offices and drove up to the window of the small guard station. Giving my name, I watched as the guard checked it off the short guest list in his hand. I parked just outside Soundstage B, and shivered in the darkness and cold as I climbed out of my car. My dress and small jacket did little to ward off the chill that I was feeling both from the cold of February and the butterflies in my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the big doors that opened onto Soundstage B.
    It was huge. I stood quietly at the back of the rehearsal hall to get my bearings. There was a brightly lit area straight ahead of me in the arena-sized room. In the center of the light, I could see Mick’s drums, Lindsey’s guitars on their stands, huge amps, and microphones with snakes of cables extending off into the darkness behind. As I took baby steps toward the light, rows of metal chairs came into view, grouped in front of the stage area.
    The first person I saw was Stevie Nicks, sitting on the edge of a wooden crate with an acoustic guitar strapped around her neck. Lindsey was leaning over her with his hands on his head in a classic pose of frustration. As I approached, unseen, Lindsey let out a loud wail of frustration.
    â€œJesus, Stevie! You said you wanted to play guitar on ‘Go Your Own Way’! This sounds like shit! It’s easy to play, so what’s the problem? Try it again. Now!”
    Stevie bent her head over the guitar and slowly, painstakingly tried to make it through the opening guitar riff of “Go Your Own Way.” She sounded like a child playing her big brother’s Gibson acoustic. John, Mick, and Christine were all lounging in the front row of metal chairs, not even trying to muffle their snickers and laughter.
    Lord help me
, I said to myself,
could I have picked a worse time to arrive?
    Lindsey let out another “Arrghh!” at full volume and began to stomp away from Stevie toward the cheap folding chairs. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing just outside the circle of light. His angry expression left his face, replaced with a glow of pleasure as he walked quickly toward me. Cringing inside, I felt all eyes upon me as I unwillingly became the center of attention. The band swiveled in their chairs, vodka tonics in hand, to become spectators to the play that was unfolding before them. As Lindsey reached me, he picked me up and swung me around in his arms. Looking over his shoulder, I could see Stevie standing up—anger and disgust etched on her face. With a toss of her hair, she took the guitar from around her neck and threw it on the floor. She then stalked off into the gloom behind the stage.
    â€œI was about to lose it! Man, you probably saved her life by coming in just now! Where have you been? I was worried about you! You look good, angel. Come take a walk with me.” Lindsey pulled me by the hand into the shadows and began to kiss me. I heard a loud guffaw from Christine, and then John and Mick started applauding. “Well done, Lindsey! Make her feel welcome, my boy!”
    Even though I was completely embarrassed, I couldn’t help but laugh between kisses at the comments coming from John and Mick—comments about male virility and lust. To my relief Lindsey finally let me up for air and then took me by the arm, steering me toward the row of seats. As I got closer, I could see that John’s girlfriend Julie was sitting directly behind him and that J.C. had appeared from out of nowhere.
    â€œWelcome, m’dear!” J.C. proclaimed as he pulled out a chair for