Savage Stalker:
I’m backstage, and my manager, Dave, has cleared out my dressing room. The rest of my band, The Grinders, are in their dressing rooms getting ready for the last song of the night. I can hear the crowd and feel the throb of the people in the stadium. I stare at myself in the mirror. I look freaking terrible—makeup streaks down my face—and I smell terrible. I’m twenty-eight and in good shape. I am a little underweight, but it’s normal after being on tour for sixteen months.
This is our last show.
We’re at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. There are ninety thousand people screaming my name—Katarina Saunders—Kat to the world. I need a minute to regroup. Being on stage can really take it out of you, mentally and emotionally, not to mention physically. I grab a cold water and drink it down in practically one go. I need to freshen up and get back. One last song, it’s the one they’re all waiting for—Heaven. Twelve years ago, it became our first number one hit. We’ve had countless platinum and double-platinum albums, but Heaven was the first, and it’s always been my favorite.
As I try to fix my makeup, I realize I have a grin on my face. Fuck, I love this shit. Suddenly, my dressing room door flies open, and I turn, startled.
“Babe, you going back on or what?” It’s my boyfriend, Gareth Goodman. He’s ten years older than me and is Hollywood’s latest action superhero. He is a tool. He’s not a bad lay, just not great, and he is fucking one of the backup singers. He thinks I don’t know about her. As soon as I figured it out, I stopped fucking him. I’ve let him go down on me a few times since, but I haven’t reciprocated. I’ve told him after tonight’s show I have something important to talk to him about. He’s excited because he thinks he is going to get laid and that I want to settle down. Not fucking likely. I see no reason to limit myself to one person forever. “Babe!” he yells.
For Christ’s sake.
I only move my eyes to him in the mirror. The fake grin is still on my face, but now it looks kind of creepy.
“Kat?” My manager walks in. He puts one hand on Gareth’s chest, and the other grabs the door handle. “Sorry, Kat.” Dave pushes Gareth backward. “Three minutes, yeah? Then it’s booze, parties, and a well-fucking-deserved vacation for everyone.”
I love Dave. He’s seen me at my worst and my best, and he loves me right back. Pity he’s gay. He knows I need time to think and knows I need to be alone. Dave makes a shit-load of money out of me because he knows how to keep me happy. Pushing Gareth out into the hall is a smart move.
I strip and put on my favorite jeans, a t-shirt with ‘Heaven’ written across my boobs, and head for the stage.
Truth, my lead guitarist, has started the riff for ‘Heaven.’ I haven’t walked into the spotlight yet, and as I sing, the crowd goes wild. I strut up to Truth and sing the lyrics to him, and he smiles. Turning, I sashay to the edge of the stage as the crowd surges forward. This is what I live for—to perform for an audience, to hear them sing my words back to me, to know I’ve connected with them.
As the song comes to an end and the lights go down, I’m reminded that this is what God put me on this earth to do.
***
Two hours later, we’re at the Trump Hotel in New York, and I’m in a screaming match with Gareth. I’m so over it. It’s still early, I haven’t nearly had enough to drink, and I’m more than done with this jerk. He wants to draw it out and make it a very public breakup as his new movie is about to come out, and you know the old saying, ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity.’ But I don’t need the headache. Reporters are already snapping pictures and screaming out questions, and I want out.
“Fuck you, Kat! What do you mean, you need some alone time?” Gareth roars at me in front of the eager and ever-waiting press.
“I think we’re going in two completely different directions, Gareth. Could we please do this inside and somewhere a little more private?” He glares at me as I try to keep my cool.
“How much have you had to drink, babe? Is that what this is? A temper tantrum? Fuck, Kat, when you said you wanted to talk, I assumed you were talking about our future, not our ending!” Gareth yells again.
I have had enough.
“No, Gareth,” my voice drips with sarcasm. “This isn’t a temper tantrum. Yes, I’ve had a bit to drink, but, baby, not nearly enough for this.” I make a sweeping gesture with my arm to take in the press. “You’re about to go on a worldwide publicity junket with your movie, and, Gareth, I want to stop. I’ve been on tour for over a year. I want to get back into the studio, and I want to spend time with my mother. I want this to be over,” I whisper now as I don’t want the world in on my private life. They can have me on the stage, they can have me when I’m promoting my band and albums, but I don’t want my private life on the cover of every sordid magazine across the country.
“You want this to be over? Why do you get to make that fucking choice? I’ve traveled all over this fucking world to be with you, and what do I get? What the fuck is in it for me, Kat? Tell me!” Gareth’s eyes bulge out of his head, and I look away.
My band and manager are looking at us, and it’s obvious they’re uncomfortable. If I don’t stop this soon, one of them will intervene, and then it’s going to get very ugly.
“Okay, Gareth, baby, calm down.” He doesn’t get it, so I guess I need to be blunt to end this quickly. “Let’s go upstairs and talk this out, okay? I’m sure we can work something out.” He visibly calms down, and some of the tension leaves his body. Gareth looks at the press, smiles, and sort of shrugs.
Asshole is playing to the audience
“You love me, don’t you, Kat?” Gareth smiles and looks like a lost little boy.
Moving right up to him, I smile, lick my lips, and put my hands to his chest. My right hand travels down his torso. With this gesture, Gareth thinks I’ve changed my mind, and he smiles back at me. Both his hands are on my ass, and the fucking paparazzi are flashing away. It’s like being on stage. I grab the keys to his Ferrari Enzo dangling from his belt, and he doesn’t even notice. I don’t even know why he has a car like this. He can’t even drive a stick-shift properly. It’s a crime this tool has such a gorgeous car, and it never really gets used to its full potential.
“Gareth?” I say in my best sexy voice. “Did you enjoy going down on me the last few times, baby?” He nods his head vigorously. “Good, baby, ‘cause I’m curious about something. Did you go down on Vivian, my backup singer, too, or did you just fuck her and go?”
Gareth completely stills, his smile frozen in time. From his reaction, I’ve caught him completely off-guard. I push him away and walk backward while I shake my head from side to side. His smile is still fixed on his pretty face. When he glances at the paparazzi, I turn and run. His car is out front, and I’m in the driver’s seat with the doors locked before he can even move. I look at him, flip him the bird, and start the car. Quickly, I put the car in first and peel out of the Trump Hotel’s driveway in a cloud of blue smoke. The paparazzi are eating it up, but all I can think is, I’m finally free.
