SailtotheMoon Read Free

method actor, you use other experiences too. Why call
something Personal if it isn’t? The codes in that song, the use of the
synonyms for personal, and the internal rhymes hint at something else.”
    In response, he gave her a slow handclap. “Best question of
the night, and one I have no intention of answering.”
    A smattering of applause and laughter followed his answer.
People stared at Laura as she blushed hotly, silently begging the floor to eat
her alive. But Zazz continued to watch her, his cool gaze intent on her face.
He ignored the questions directed on him, stared at her, until a slow,
seductive smile replaced the former expression of boredom. She couldn’t help
it. She smiled back.
    He turned his attention to the next reporter.
    His attention scrambled Laura’s brain. He despised her. Thought
her question stupid and naïve, she could tell. Beside her, Kelsie nudged her in
the ribs, not one of her best traits, but one that brought Laura back to earth.
    She tore her avid gaze away from Zazz and scanned the room,
watching the crowd asking the band questions. Girls stood around, some wearing
impossibly trendy clothes, others in miniskirts and skimpy tops, with no sign
of warm outer covering. Far too inadequate for a Manchester that had turned
chilly in recent days. Grimacing, Laura reminded herself that she was
twenty-eight, not eighty-two, and she should feel ashamed of herself for being
so practical. Especially in a situation like this.
    That was her trouble. Too cautious. She only let her inner
wild child free when she played her guitar and sang in the privacy of her own
room. Even tonight, her jeans were comfortable rather than tight and sexy, her
top roomy and well-worn. Kelsie wore leggings and a tiny top with a jacket that
owed more to style than to warmth. She looked great, if slightly on the sleazy
side. Entirely appropriate.
    Not as cool or as effortlessly stylish as the people sitting
behind the table though.
    Zazz’s navy-blue hair looked great on him, contrasting with
his naturally pale skin, like some night creature come to life. He still wore
the second T-shirt he’d worn onstage, a black one with a slogan that said, Come
here and say that . His leather trousers fit him like a second skin, so low
slung she wondered how he kept them up. She glimpsed skin between T-shirt and
trousers when he leaned back, tipping his chair precariously in a way that
would have schoolteachers all over the world tearing their hair out.
    Such a contrast to Riku, dressed in elaborate layers, red
and gold brocade jacket under larger, black pirate-style coat, his hair a riot
of red and gold stripes. Riku subscribed to something called visual kei, a
Japanese style that seemed to involve wearing the most complex clothes and
makeup and creating an astonishing effect. He leaned back in his chair,
watching the audience from under half-lowered lids. One foot was clad in a
wickedly cuffed black leather boot propped on the table in front of him. He’d
painted the soles of the boots red, in a parody of a shoe designer, but blood
red, not the scarlet the designer used. He flaunted them as if he’d trodden in
the blood of the bands they’d disappointed by being so fucking good.
    He spoke in answer to a question, his voice surprisingly
deep, his accent pronounced. Laura didn’t know enough about American accents to
know more than it wasn’t Texan or Southern. “I write all the time, mainly
without words. I watch, and that’s the way it comes out. It always has. I might
write about the way the world is dying under our feet.” That made sense of the
blood-red soles then. “Or the way oldsters are left to die in filthy hovels
after working all their lives for the Man. I might write about the beauty of a
flower, or the guilt of a parent when their child falls ill. Whatever. It’s all
in the music.” He shrugged, as if his answer meant nothing.
    People shouted questions, making Laura’s head spin. Chick
controlled everything,