Chapter 11
ELEVEN
PANDEMONIUM
Wasp
On the roadside, I kept Taylor in front of me, shouldering our luggage so the cab could drive away. The pavement heaved with people clamouring to get close to the front of the hotel Reportage One had directed me to.
Taylor gave a little hop and pointed up the building. On a brightly lit balcony, the lead singer of Hedonist stood with Rex, Viking Blue’s vocalist.
“Hey, y’all!” Hedonist’s singer howled. She shook out a mane of black-and-white hair. “What the fuck are you doing down there in the streets? Get your asses to the ticket office and buy up the last tickets for Saturday night. We have Viking Blue on our tour. How do you feel about that?”
The crowd roared, surging to get closer.
“That’s Effie from Hedonist! Oh my God!” Taylor whooped.
For a second, I was torn. I should be pushing forwards to get into the thick of it and document the moment. This was what I was being paid for. But I couldn’t take Taylor with me. Which meant leaving her here.
“Get your camera out!” Taylor whipped around and grabbed the bags at my shoulder. “This is huge! Effie never talks to the public. I’ll carry these. Get the shot!”
With our sports bags braced in front of her like a battering ram, she thrust her way into the crowd.
I hustled, keeping a gap around her as best I could while sliding my camera from its cushioned compartment.
I snapped a burst of photos, instantly knowing that I had a cracking shot of Rex and Effie, the two lead singers, smirking at each other.
But the swell of people thickened. At the edges, French police barked orders. Taylor ducked to avoid a rowdy bunch of tourists caught in the mix.
“Want a sneak preview?” Rex shouted, riling the crowd further. “What do ye want to hear?”
On the balcony beside him, a uniformed guard appeared, his face apologetic but stern. They were being pulled back.
That one good shot would have to be enough.
“Let’s get inside,” I directed.
With a determined expression, Taylor shoved her way to the hotel’s entrance. I produced a digital ID I had on my phone, and the wide-eyed doorman let us through, blocking attempts for others to follow. Then at the desk, I had them dial Viking Blue’s publicity manager.
In a few minutes, Taylor and I were in an elevator heading upstairs.
“I’m crashing your gig.” She gave me an apologetic shrug. “I would’ve gone off on my own but I kinda got swept up with it.”
“I had no idea this was going to happen. Sorry,” I replied, but we both grinned all the same. It was a rush, being in the centre of things.
On the tenth floor, we were met by security guards and ushered into an overcrowded room.
The place was in pandemonium, people everywhere.
Reporters, lackeys, band members draped over furniture, everyone yelling at Rex and Effie as they returned from the balcony.
I couldn’t spot the manager so I started capturing the fuss.
“This is Mr McRae, official band photographer,” Taylor said, talking to someone behind me.
I didn’t look around, keeping my focus on getting the pictures.
“Ah right. And you are…?”
“His girlfriend and assistant, Taylor,” she declared, effortlessly lying.
I guessed to make sure she wasn’t thrown out, but it had my gut clenching all the same.
“Hey, it’s the Highlander!” Rex spotted me and charged over. “You made it. Just in time, too.”
I dropped my camera to my shoulder and raised my chin at him. “Nice gig you found for yourself.”
He lifted his eyebrows into his blue punky hair. “Luck of the Scottish.”
“Isn’t that Luck of the Irish?” I snapped a shot of his delighted face.
“Not the way I’m looking at it.” He smirked back. “We fell on our feet getting these nights. I can hardly believe it, but it’s true. And I want the whole thing documented so we can prove to everyone that we hit the big time.”
He ran through a list of events he wanted me to capture, all of which I’d already had from Reportage One. Then something caught his attention, and he stared over my shoulder. I glanced around to find Taylor chatting with a couple of people. She caught my eye. And blew me a kiss.
Fuck. That woman…
When I turned back to Rex, he had that same look in his eye as when he’d first seen Taylor at the Met gala. Of hunger and want.
I knew that look. I wore it whenever she was around, too.
“Taylor. My lass,” I announced, justifying the claiming because she’d done it first. Besides, fuck buddy didn’t have the same ring.
And I really wanted that look off his face.
If Rex remembered her as the woman who’d blanked me a week ago, he didn’t say, and the greedy lust melted from his expression.
He gestured for me to follow him then introduced me to the band’s publicist and a myriad of other faces.
Then he and Effie posed for photos at the doorway of the balcony, the police presence now stopping them from whipping up the crowd any further.
I snapped into the zone and tamped down the buzzing in my head that came from being in such a busy place.
It was a good couple of hours before the meet up calmed and the group dispersed. The tour staff and managers had made their plans, and I hunched over my camera and laptop, getting the first batch of photos sent to the PR company. Within minutes, they’d been posted on various sites.
I never failed to get a kick out of seeing my photos out in the wild. I’d also never stop agonising over any perceived imperfections with white balance or lighting, but nobody complained, so I figured they were good enough.
“Wasp! Nine tomorrow at the tower?” The publicist, a neat, permanently smiling man named Freddie, waved.
“Aye. See ye there.” My phone showed me it was after one in the morning, and I scoured the space for Taylor.
I couldn’t see her, and there was no message, so I packed up my kit in a rush. Did I have the right to call her up and go to her? She could’ve found a room in the hotel.
She could’ve got bored waiting.
My mind slid to a darker place, where Taylor’s wants might be fulfilled by someone other than me. We might be friends, but I had no claim over her. Rex wanted her, that was plain; hell, half the guys she walked past openly gawked.
If she’d wanted, she could’ve entertained herself in any number of ways.
I shook off the unwarranted jealousy, powering down my laptop and sliding it into the compartment in my camera bag. I shoved my kit about a little too hard.
Yeah, Taylor and I needed to talk about what this fling looked like or I’d go nuts by day two.
Then warm hands slid around my waist from behind. Taylor whispered in my ear, “Why the frown? Didn’t your evening go well?”
Actually, it had gone really well. At least I hoped so. “Just had some miserable thoughts in my head,” I grumped.
“Maybe I can help with that.” She winked, and I brought her into my arms, abandoning my bag to the hotel room’s coffee table.
Taylor dug her fingers into my hair and raked her nails over my scalp. I shivered, hopelessly turned on already. Like at the airport, this wasn’t exactly the time, but at least here there was already an atmosphere of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. We didn’t stand out.
“If you’re done, can we take a walk and tick off my first item?”
“You haven’t been out?”
She shook her head. “No. I socialised, drank a couple of glasses of free wine, and watched you. Not a bad night.”
I ran a possessive hand up her spine. There were a few people still milling around the space, so I resisted bringing her mouth to mine for a kiss. “We need a hotel room.”
Taylor’s eyes sparkled. “Ain’t that the truth.
But I already tried, and we’re out of luck.
Paris is crazy expensive, and it was too late to book into the cheapo places.
The band’s tour manager block booked rooms here for people to share.
You have a bed in with two guys, and I bummed a day bed in with two sound technicians. ”
My mouth dropped open, and Taylor grinned. “Female ones. Chill, oh fearsome Highlander.”
“Fearsome?”
She gazed at me then traced a finger over my furrowed brow. “You used to always be happy. Now, you have this stern look in place half the time. Nearly always when your attention is on me.”
“Sorry, lass.”
She heaved a sigh. “Call me lass again and you can stare at me with whatever expression you like.”
A familiar Taylor-shaped bolt of happiness lifted me. “Right, lass. Let’s find our rooms then go for a nighttime explore. If we can’t sleep together then we’ll walk around until we’re tired.”
She led the way, and I dropped off my kit. Taylor had already left our bags to claim our beds. She’d given herself the title of Photography Assistant, and no one had blinked. The woman could charm a grumpy troll.
Then we were outside the hotel and walking into the Parisian night.
We picked our way down the pretty cobbled street in the 8th arrondissement—the nice district the band’s management had chosen.
Ornate, pale-stone buildings with balconies lined the wide Avenue George V and, at the end, the street opened out on the Seine river.
The Eiffel Tower loomed to our right, across the dark water.
“Item number one on my list.” Taylor gawped at the tower. “Shame it isn’t lit up. It only flashes for a couple of minutes every hour.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky. Let’s get over there.” I squeezed her fingers, and we put our heads down against the stiff spring breeze and half ran across the still-busy roads and over the Pont de l’Alma bridge. A long walk later, and we rounded the corner to the tower.
Taylor hopped with every step. “Look, look! William! Oh my God! I had no idea it was so massive.”
Her excitement had me grinning. “It’ll make a great shot if we stand underneath.”
I’d left my camera kit at the hotel, not willing to get mugged on day one of my assignment, so we both snapped shots on our phones. The tower soared over our heads, the four feet giving acres of space underneath and a sweet view up into the ironwork.