|
Post by orinocoflow on Mar 29, 2010 20:24:52 GMT -5
Okay, I have finally gotten around to editing this story, so I will now be posting it chapter by chapter. Hope you all like it! This is by far been my favorite story to write, so let's see how it goes! The total--26 chapters, 97 pages in a word document (page breaks between the chapters), and 36402 words! PS--the original epilogue was written before anything else was known, so mark that it is pure fiction. Other notes will be posted at the end once I think of them. -orinocoflow
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:28:02 GMT -5
First Date, Last Mistake
Chapter One
Meeting Celtic Thunder “Good morning, Sharon,” murmured Paul Byrom as he awkwardly shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other. He was nervous, which was a first for him in a long time, considering he was a professional singer. “Oh, hello, Paul,” came the swift reply. “The rest of the lads are in the other room. Just put your bag down here and you can go on and join them. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Nodding once, the handsome 28-year-old headed in the given direction, glancing around himself as he went, taking in his surroundings. But as he stepped through the door, turning to close it, his pocket caught the knob and sent him into a rather disgraceful sprawl on the floor, the slim black jacket he wore twisting upwards since it was buttoned and the pocket was still stuck. He heard several guffaws as the other men he was supposed to sing with got a load of his frantic struggles to free himself. After a few moments, however, he felt a large pair of hands grasp him by the arm and haul him effortlessly to his feet. Straightening the tangled coat so that it was once more in shape, he looked around the office. The man who had helped him was dressed casually in old, yet still sharp, jeans, with a tan T-shirt on top. He appeared to be somewhere between 35 and 40, with his bald head and fatherly expression. He kept his hand on Paul’s arm until Paul nodded his thanks and took a shaky step to the side. A step behind the older man stood a fellow about the same age as Paul, but entirely different. He was dressed in a green Celtics T-shirt and faded jeans, his frosty eyes accentuated by the black hair falling around them. Beside him stood a boy no older than 14, maybe younger. He was grinning from ear to ear, braces in his teeth, and his dark hair was spiked. After a moment of looking into Paul’s face, however, he burst out laughing again, and that started off the other three as well. With a sigh, Paul smiled back broadly and looked at the last occupant of the room. On the other side of the room lounged a tall fellow with long, blond hair and a deep tan, a guitar slung over his shoulder. His eyes were full of mischief, and Paul knew he had finally found someone who just might match his wit and humor. His loose shirt and casual jeans again made Paul feel over-dressed in his semi-formal attire of a clean, collared shirt, pressed black pants, and the designer suit jacket. And since everyone in the room had on sneakers or, as in the case of the young boy, Converse, his leather dress shoes seemed even more out of place. Shifting uncomfortably, he waited for the laughter to stop. “Ya better be more careful comin’ through that door nex’ time,” chuckled the blond man. His accent was deep, and Paul frowned as he turned the words over in his brain. The blond must have misunderstood his confusion, for he repeated what he said, scowling when Paul continued to stare at him. “Do you speak English?” asked the short man with the icy eyes slowly, drawling out the words. “Yes, I do, but I have trouble understanding Northerners. Sorry, I’m a little slow this morning. Had a bit of a late night.” He smiled weakly, doing his best to cover up his unease. Since when was he intimidated by other singers? Shaking his head to clear the worry, he looked at the bald man. “Thank you for helping.” “No problem. My name’s George Donaldson, by the way, and these are Ryan Kelly, Damien McGinty, and Keith Harkin,” he explained, pointing out each one as he came to them. “And here come Sharon Browne and Phil Coulter.” Paul turned around as his new manager and producer walked through the door he had stumbled in. After the plans were made and the lads briefed on what was going to happen, they all headed for a quick break before starting work. Paul watched the others sit together at a table, but decided he wanted to be by himself this one time. Grabbing his lunch, he walked in the opposite direction, towards an empty table in the shadows of the huge room. Finished with his food, he stood up and was about to walk over to the trash in the corner when he felt someone bump into him. A loud clatter followed, and he found his jacket covered in what appeared to be juice of some sort. I really should get rid of this thing before it gets me into more trouble, he thought, frowning down at his stained chest. But then he lifted his bright blue eyes to the woman who had been unfortunate enough to crash into him on his off day and froze. Beautiful blonde hair cascaded down delicate shoulders. A pleasant face looked up at him, the sparkling eyes concerned. She quickly reached for a napkin as the stain on his shirt grew, and they both chuckled nervously as their hands brushed, trying to do the exact same thing. Paul felt a heat rush up his cheeks as they both dabbed at the juice spreading on his jacket. Giving up, he took it off and then glanced down at his shirt; that was no better. Unsure of what to do, he just smoothed it out as best as he could and ignored it. “Sorry about that,” he murmured, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ve been clumsy all day today, just ask the lads.” “It’s quite all right, Mr. Byrom,” she answered, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “First day, after all, so everyone is jittery.” How had she seen through his disguise? Or had everyone known that he was nervous? Paul tried to figure it out, but then decided against it. “Please, call me Paul,” he said, calming his leaping pulse as much as he could. “Dominique is mine. You’ll be seeing a lot of me in the following months, Paul,” she answered, smiling. “Really? How’s that? You part of the crew?” He found himself relaxing into his usual manner, not at nervous. He even allowed himself a quick eyebrow dance at the last question, earning a ringing laugh from the beautiful girl before him. “You’ll find out soon enough. Now go, change that shirt and be ready for rehearsal. And Paul,” she added as she turned to walk away, “you don’t have to be so formal. Wear a t-shirt next time, and jeans. You’ll feel more comfortable, believe me.” With that, she disappeared into the crowd.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:29:47 GMT -5
Chapter Two
What is wrong? The following day, he wore a Steelers’ t-shirt and a pair of A&F jeans. Though old, they were still quite classy, and he hoped that Dominique would find them more appealing. Since when does it matter if some girl finds my jeans nice? It’s not like I’m going on a date, right? It took a few repetitions of that to convince him. At the studio, rehearsals seemed to drag. They were all trying to learn a song called “Raggle Taggle Gypsy” and his classical voice just could not sing in a rugged way, whereas George was having trouble memorizing his lines in general. Phil played well on the piano, but it was still difficult, since all of them had to lean in over his shoulder to see the text. Paul and Keith found it tricky to do so from their lanky, over-six-feet-tall bodies, and George gave up completely, having someone else dictate them to him. Pretty soon, however, the other lads were slagging him for his voice, especially when he held out notes for too long or let it vibrate as in the opera training he had had as a teenager. It hurt, but he kept that to himself, laughing along with them at the teasing. Another favorite target of theirs was his accent. He was the only one in the group with a Dublin accent, so they would often nag him about it when Sharon wasn’t around, all good-naturedly, of course. They never meant it in an offensive way, but Paul couldn’t help but feel an outsider. Sure, his humor and sharp wit quickly made them all friends, but other than that, he was alone in his ways. At lunch he tried to find the girl again, but could not. Just as he was about to give up hope, a light hand tapped his shoulder. He tilted his head sideways, thinking it was Damien trying to fool him again, but the corner of his eyes caught a length of blond hair. His spirits rising immediately, he twirled in his seat, his eyes bright. “Careful, Paul!” she laughed as he almost fell out of his chair in his eagerness. “You are accident-prone!” She sat across from him, returning his smile. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he said quietly, thinking, at least, only when I am around you. They ate lunch at that table in the shadowy corner, talking about what was going on with the show and business, and then gradually slipping into books or movies, as conversations often go. He ended up telling her about how hard it was to sing certain songs with his voice, but how understanding Phil was about that. Just as the break was finishing, she reached out and stopped him mid-sentence. “Paul, I know you think a lot about how you perform here, and of how the others look at you, but don’t take their comments to heart. They only punch at your style of singing because they envy you, your voice, and your flair. Unlike them, you have been singing professionally since you were quite young. Well, so has Damien, but he still is young. At his age, your first album came out and you were singing your first opera, so don’t feel too down if they tease you about your voice, true? That’s why you were chosen in the first place,” she finished, smiling at him. And, having the final word again, she walked away towards where Sharon was calling everyone together for the rest of the rehearsal. How can she read my mind? Or am I that easy to understand? Frowning, he picked up the leftovers of his food. I sure hope not, he thought as he lost himself in the people milling around the studio. * * * A few days later, Paul was casually chatting with Dominique about what was going on in his life. He was completely relaxed by now, joking around, showing quite a different personality from the shy, restrained fellow that had walked through the door some two or three weeks before. Then a shadow crossed over him as Phil walked up, an unreadable expression on his face. “Dominique, can you come here for a second please.” His voice was hard, but a tight smile stayed at his lips. He glanced over at Paul for only a moment before leading Dominique away to the side. Concerned, Paul could not help but watch the facial expressions, hoping to catch some sort of emotion. Finding nothing, he just leaned back in his chair and waited for her to return. But lunch ended, and there was still no trace of her. After the work day was over, he called her a few times, but she never picked up. In the parking lot, he could not find her car, only an empty spot where it had once been. Unsure of what to do, he drove home and did his best to sleep, worried sick over what might have happened. Did Phil not want us talking for whatever reason? What was wrong? Was it my fault, or has something just come up? Flipping onto his other side for the hundredth time that night, Paul slipped into a restless sleep. * * * The next day at lunch, she was there, but she just looked at him wistfully before sitting down next to Sharon. After that, she did not so much as glance in his direction, and he found that he could not eat the food he had always gulped down with relish. Without Dominique there, it tasted like cardboard, although he could not find any connection between the food and her. As he sat there, he suddenly remembered the song “She” and realized how fitting it was that he was supposed to sing it today during practice. With a sigh, he got up and headed out for a breath of fresh air before he was needed inside. Walking, he didn’t hear the door open or anyone around him until Dominique said his name softly. But he hardly reacted, just stopped and tilted his head a bit, acknowledging her but making no move to confront her. “I’m sorry, Paul, but something came up. Sharon and I had to figure it out at lunch today.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture he was now familiar with, knowing it was meant to be comforting, but it didn’t do the trick. He knew she was hiding something from him, but, as he had often done before, he covered it up with a smile, turning and taking her hand to walk back inside. She hesitated for an instant, but then followed, matching his evasive smile. Once the prep was done for the day, he walked back to his car; half-way there, Phil drove up to him, asking him to stop. Catching up, he leaned in close to Paul. “Listen Paul, I know you mean no harm, but try to keep your personal and professional lives separate, alright? Thanks.” Clapping him on the shoulder, Phil rolled up the window and drove off. Confused, Paul could only stare at the disappearing lights.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:31:23 GMT -5
Chapter Three
First Date “WHAT?!” Dominique had just told Paul why Phil had been acting so strangely, and Paul could only sit still in his chair, open-mouthed. He had told her of his strange conversation with Phil the night before, and she, after being silent for a moment, let loose and told him what her surname was. Now, she was worried because Paul seemed to be in shock, judging by how his face paled and he had frozen. “Paul?” she asked, hoping that the people staring at them would look away. They had all jumped in their seats when Paul had exclaimed, and did not seem to want to be at all discreet about watching them. After what seemed like a long time, he cleared his throat and raised his eyes to meet hers. “Well…eh…that explains quite a bit, all right,” he muttered, still dazed. How could I have not noticed it before? His brain screamed. All those glances Phil had been sending my way I had taken to be aimed at the fact that I sat alone, but THIS was why! Then another, more disturbing thought crossed his mind, but he pushed it away with a quick shake of his head. Clearing his throat again, he focused on her eyes. “Well, thank you for telling me eventually. At least I didn’t make a great fool of myself.” With a grimace, he turned back to the table and settled there, a thoughtful look crossing his face. The rest of the day flew by without another word between them. * * * Sometime later in February, Paul spied a banner announcing the “Have a Heart Ball.” Grinning broadly, he was sure that Dominique would go with him; they had been getting along very well even after the bomb had been dropped, and he thought that this might go well as a first date. However, he had to make a call first. * * * “Hello?” “Hello, Phil, this is Paul. Er, I was wondering if it was alright with you if I took Dominique out to the ‘Have a Heart Ball’ this next weekend.” He paused, trying to imagine what was going through Phil’s head right now. When the silence stretched, he felt that he had over-stepped the line. “Well, of course, it is quite all right if not, I unders—“ “No, no, it is fine, Paul, don’t worry!” laughed Phil. “Long as you’re not calling me up to ask for her hand in marriage, I’m all right with it. Just, be careful with her, true?” “Aye, thank you, Phil. I will.” Beaming, he replaced the receiver and wondered how to break the news to Dominique and still pass off as calm and controlled. Although considering it was her he was going to talk to, that seemed a bit unlikely. His heart thudding with anticipation, he grabbed his warm jacket and raced out of the house, tripping over the stairs and landing face-first in the snow. * * * The ball went beautifully. Paul picked her up around seven and they stayed well into the night. Since there was no practice the next day, Paul could allow himself a late night and a few drinks, although not too many. After the wonderful time spent mostly dancing and talking a little, he drove her home. Arriving, they just sat together in the car, talking more about what went on, and how magnificent the night had been spent. The sun was already tinting the sky a pale gray color, and the cold was almost unbearable, even with the heat blasting full-out. As the horizon began to streak with pink shades, then on to red and yellow, they sat in that car, watching the sun gradually crest the hills. When it was completely up, he walked her up the steps to her house and bid good-bye. Fortunately, her father was still asleep—or so they thought. Neither had seen the window curtain part ever so slightly when they arrived, or close after they had finally made their way to the door. Pressing a soft kiss on her cheek, he waited until she was inside before heading home.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:33:45 GMT -5
Chapter Four
The Wind-up Recording was done! They had finally completed the songs, recorded them, and were now celebrating. After the pub closed, the lads, Sharon, and Phil migrated to Sharon's house to finish the party, staying up well past three in the morning. Exhausted and having drunk quite a bit, Paul was glad he could walk home, since he knew he would never be able to drive in his current condition. Next morning, however, a sharp ringing woke him from a meager four-hour sleep. Groggy, he squinted at the culprit and groaned when he saw the numbers. Flipping his cell-phone open, he managed only a mono-syllable conversation with Phil and Sharon on speaker phone. “—lo? “ “Phil?” “Yeah…” “Sure.” “Time.” “Eight.” “Gotcha.” Clicking off, he collapsed on the pillows, a sharp-shooter of a hangover sniping his temples. But, with a lot of complaining, he got up and staggered into some clothes, falling only once before getting them on entirely. Grabbing an apple that would serve as his breakfast, he pocketed his keys and stumbled out of the house. How am I going to drive? He wondered. His answer arrived in the form of a very tired-looking Ryan behind the wheel of his car. “Climb in, bud, I’ll give ya a lift.” He didn’t sound any better than Paul, and that relieved him quite a bit. * * * At the studio, the other three were already in the recording room. “All right, now that we’re all here, I’ll explain what’s going on.” He glanced at Ryan, who had suddenly slapped a palm to his forehead and groaned, barely managing to stay on his feet. Phil smiled, and then continued. “We hardly have any Irish in our songs, yet our name is Celtic Thunder, so I took the liberty of re-writing ‘Raggle Taggle Gypsy’ in Gaelic. It won’t take long, just this one song, so let’s get in there and sing. George, one of the other lads will help you out, don’t worry.” First in was Damien, reciting it horribly at first, and then, after hearing Phil and Sharon pronounce it to him, tried again and managed to sing it more or less understandably. He, being a minor, had not drunk anything other than cider, so he was just tired. As he headed out, he noticed Sharon smiling at him, but since she always did, he shook it off with a shrug and plunked down in a nearby chair. Keith, who came in next, however, was much like the rest of the lads. Learning the gibberish quickly, he only needed a few tips from Phil on the pronunciation, and then he was good to go, singing it and dropping down next to Damien as soon as he came out. By now, Phil had a grin splitting his face from ear to ear and Sharon was laughing. Keith, thinking their reactions were aimed at his sleepiness, grumbled and looked away, offended. Paul, having disregarded the others singing, had to be shaken awake when his turn came. Nodding listlessly, he strolled into the recording room, asleep on his feet. Phil read him his lines through an earpiece, annunciating every word. Paul nodded through it all, but then screwed up the text in every which way possible. Phil read them again, and the same thing happened. Now Paul, being a tenor, could not sing after a night spent drinking, especially with only a few hours of sleep. His voice was as gravelly and as hoarse as Ryan’s on a bad day. His head was pounding, and he felt like he was dying from the major hang-over he had. His voice shot, he could only rasp out the text, messing up entirely, not even trying to interpret what he was reading. Then Keith, suddenly feeling that he was a master at Irish, stood up and made his way over to the opposite side of the glass, and began criticizing Paul for his pronunciation. Paul glared at him, but then the head-ache took over and he groaned. Shaking his throbbing head at Phil and Sharon, who were now roaring with laughter, practically rolling on the floor, he lurched out of the room and crumpled into a heap on the couch right outside. George walked in after clapping Paul on the shoulder and pulling him inside with him. Protesting at first, Paul gave up and simply followed George’s lead. As Phil read the lines, Paul helped George with the pronunciation, messing it up even more. As he was failing George in the Irish 101 lesson, Keith was now screaming at the two through the soundproof window, calling Paul every name in the book as he continued to teach George ridiculous pronunciations, and he was yelling the correct way to say it at George. It was a wonder he could do that, considering he was as hung-over as any of them. When George asked how to pronounce, “Ag,” Paul replied, “Egg, George, it’s pronounced egg.” This brought Keith into a rage, Sharon and Phil into fits from laughing so hard, and Damien joined in as Keith continued shouting at the two, who in turn were still teaching and learning. As soon as Paul and George stepped out of the room, Keith stormed up and, grabbing a groaning Paul by the shirt, dragged him off to the side, all the time carping the horrible translations. While they fought, Ryan sent Sharon a suspicious glance but sang his lines anyway. Finally done, they headed out for lunch, where Sharon broke the news to them. “Okay, that was very interesting. Paul, you have got to be the worst teacher in your own language I have ever seen. Remind me never to get you drunk before having you sing.” With a smile, she turned to the others. “I hate to tell you guys, but that was all a wind-up, and you fell for it marvelously. We filmed it, so it may show up in a future DVD in some format. I hope—" She stopped as all five, hung-over or not, got up and swore loud and clear, and rather creatively. When the choice sentences slowed down, she couldn’t help laughing. “Paul, for someone with a hang-over and not very fluent pronunciation this morning, that was very much to the point. If only your Irish vocabulary was as advanced, maybe George would know how to really pronounce ‘Ag.’” As the others slagged him, Paul muttered a few more unrepeatable phrases, causing George to cover up Damien’s ears playfully. “Easy there, sailor, we have a boy on the premises.” Grumbling, Paul went to get his lunch, the others following close behind, heading for their usual table. Since it was Dominique's day off, and Paul did not want to sit alone even after all that had happened; he joined the group at their center table, borrowing a chair from a nearby table. * * * A few days later, Phil invited the lads and Sharon to come to his house for a dinner. The first thing they all asked was whether they needed to sing the following day, earning a laugh from the host and a confused look from Dominique. That evening, Phil served a wonderful dinner, and a game of cards followed. Damien was promptly sent to the other room, since Sharon insisted that this was not something a young boy should learn. What would his mother think if he came back a card player? Losing repeatedly, Paul gave up and excused himself to the living room, sprawling on the couch and effortlessly falling asleep. He dreamed vividly, and of happy memories. Waking to the sunlight streaming through the window, he was surprised that he had slept all night and a few hours into the morning. Hearing cutlery clattering in the kitchen, he got up; folding the blanket someone had wrapped him in, he followed the sounds and smells of breakfast. “Good morning, Paul,” said Phil cheerfully, immediately reaching for another plate as he walked through the door. He gave Paul’s rumpled shirt and tousled hair a quick glance before inviting him to the table. Nodding sleepily, Paul sat in the chair offered to him with little on his mind except his growling stomach. Starting at a hoot coming from the stairs, he was surprised to see George, Ryan, and Keith run into the kitchen, grab plates, and make themselves comfortable around the table as well. Dominique came up when everyone was seated, holding a frying pan with some food on it. “All right, what do you guys want? Bacon, hash browns, anyone? George, Paul, would you like some eggs as well?” The other two guffawed as George and Paul exchanged glances and looked at Dominique with incredulous expressions on their faces. “What? Did I say something wrong?” “Oh, nothing, Dominique, nothing. You can ask Paul sometime, but I think neither he nor George will be eating eggs for a while,” joked Ryan, digging into his food. Wanting to prove him otherwise, Paul and George unconsciously both took a heap of scrambled eggs. Dominique raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:35:02 GMT -5
Chapter Five
Secrets Unfolding After a week or two of evening dates and the occasional movie, Paul picked Dominique up at her house for a night at a local concert hall. He had heard that her favorite band was playing there and wanted to surprise her, knowing that she had heard nothing about their performance. Afterwards, if she felt like it, there was a nice discotheque not far from it. Content with his plans, he pulled up to her house, wondering what her reaction would be when she realized where they were going. When he knocked, Phil answered the door, slightly astonished to see Paul there. “Oh, hello, Paul,” he said, smiling quietly. “Just saying, don’t stay out too late, since you have an early sound check tomorrow, true?” With a low laugh and a light clap on the young tenor’s shoulder, he let him in. Paul simply smiled in response. Dominique rushed downstairs, smiling and wrapping her arms around Paul’s shoulders when she met him. Planting a soft kiss on her cheek and receiving one in return, he turned her around to face Phil, one arm around Dominique's waist, the other in his pocket, fingering the tickets, making sure they were still there. “We won’t be out too long, I don’t think. We should be back with plenty of time for me to catch up on my sleep, no worries, Phil,” he answered solemnly, holding back a grin. As Phil continued to gaze back at him with a bemused, understanding smile, a broad grin split his face and he couldn’t hide the laughter anymore. Shaking his head, he grabbed Dominique's coat and they headed out into the cold night. “So Paul, where are we going?” she asked when he had turned on the car’s engine and pulled onto the deserted street. “You never did tell me. “Oh, you’ll see,” he replied with a secret smile hidden in the shadows. Oh, yes, she was going to love it! * * * “Paul!” Positively beaming, he led her down the aisle to their seats. She could hardly believe her eyes when she had seen the sign, and that smile was one of the reasons he had bought those tickets, probably even the main one. They had cost him a small fortune since there was only a limited amount of them, but the burning hole in his pocket had been worth it. Well, another inspiration for the buy was the enthusiastic hug she gave him, as well as the sound kiss on the mouth in the process. Touching a hand to his lips, he could still feel it. Clearing his throat, he settled back in his seat to watch the show, occasionally glancing sideways at her. * * * “Thank you so much, Paul,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder as they walked back to his car. “It was no problem, no problem at all,” he answered, taking her delicate hand on his arm in his larger, yet still slim, one. Sighing happily, he thought about how lucky he was to have someone like Dominique as a friend. He stole a quick look at her; maybe something more, too, he thought, smiling contently. When they came to house, though, they just sat in the car like they had so long ago, talking in low tones. She told him about her life a bit, what it had been like growing up in a musical family, what Phil was like as a father. They laughed when Paul said he sounded the same as when they were in the studio; Dominique agreed, saying that her father had always believed it was best to treat the people you employed the same as your own family, especially if you knew them well and spent so much time with them. This went well until she wrapped a gentle hand around his arm, catching his attention in her eyes. “What about you? What was your life like growing up?” When he hesitated, it was obvious she regretted asking, but after a while, he relaxed a tad, and gradually opened up, telling her about his childhood, the happier part at first and then onto the later, sadder parts. He had sung his first song, a Stevie Wonder song called “I Just Called to Say I Love You”, when he was only four; he came from a musical family, and even his grandfather was a tenor; he started training professionally when he was seven; after that, though, he paused for a lengthy time. When he spoke again, it was with great difficulty and sorrow. A long while afterwards, he finished, his throat choking up and his voice tight. He stared at his interlaced hands, afraid to look Dominique in the eye, unsure of what she would say. When the silence stretched, he had to see what she was feeling, and immediately kicked himself for having told her the whole truth. Tears were running down her cheeks, and it was obvious this had started a while before. “Dominique, I’m sorry, I should never have told you all of that,” he started, reaching forward to wipe the tears away. But she just shook her head, leaning away from him. “Oh, Paul…” Drying her tears as best as she could, she gathered her purse and, wrapping the coat tighter around herself, escaped the car. “Dominique!” he called after her, angry with himself for upsetting her. “Dominique, please, come back, I didn’t mean to say that to you that way! Dominique!” Just then, Phil opened the door, catching those last words, seeing her tear-stained cheeks, and, putting two and two together, let her into the house before rounding on Paul, his face absolutely furious. “I don’t want you anywhere near this house, you understand? Better yet, why don’t you come by for a paycheck tomorrow and then be on your way for good? A tenor is not hard to find in Ireland.” With that, he slammed the door in Paul’s face, a gust of wind blowing out. All Paul could do was stand in the crisp cold, frozen, the sharp late winter breeze chilling him to the bone, but he did not care. He was not only fired, but he had just lost his chance at going a step further from just friends for the first time in a long while. His breath shuddering as he swallowed hard, he turned and stumbled back to his car, not feeling the wind stabbing at him through his thin, collared shirt.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:36:58 GMT -5
Chapter Six
Recovering The next day, he was flat-out in bed with a severe cold. His voice was completely gone; he could hardly whisper. His head was throbbing, and he had trouble breathing through lungs that were impossibly clogged. A raging fever left him in that same position most of the day, slipping in and out of consciousness. He could hear his phone ringing in the afternoon as though through water but was too weak to get up and answer it. Coughing, hacking, and gasping all day and night, he did not even feel like eating anything. In the morning, he woke up from the cold. If the day before he had been suffocating, now he was freezing. Wrapping the blanket tighter around himself, he glanced around; the window and door were both closed, but he was drenched in a cold, clammy sweat. Groaning, he forced himself to sit up and walk to the shower, turning it up to the top heat, and then scalded himself with hot water. Still in a bad mood and heavy with a sick feeling, he climbed back into bed and passed out for a few more hours. * * * “Paul? Are you all right? Paul?” Cracking his eyes was a major task, but he managed, regardless the fever that was back. Staring back into his glazed-over blues was a pair of concerned ones. Slowly, recognition flooded him, and he closed them again with a moan, pain restricting his chest and snaking around his heart. “Paul, please, look at me.” Dominique ran a tender hand through his wet locks, ruffling them slightly, and then pressed a cool hand to his forehead. She frowned at the high temperature, gradually tilting his head up to gaze into his pale features. He was about to light out, but he opened his eyes just enough to see her reaching for her cell phone. “All right, that’s it; you’re going to the hospital. I have no idea what to do if you are this badly sick.” Ignoring his incoherent protests, she stroked his hair as she dialed the number. His strength failing him, he slowly slipped into oblivion once more. * * * This time when he came to, he was in a hospital, sure enough. Everything was white, but as he turned his head around, he saw the other lads sitting in chairs nearby. “He’s awake,” came the caring voice of George. Damien and Ryan immediately jumped up, coming to his side. “How do ya feel, mate?” asked Ryan, his hands in his pockets, his face tired. “How long have I been here?” croaked Paul, his throat sore and the voice, consequently, utterly shot. “Figures,” muttered Keith, coming in with coffee for everyone. “Not going to sing in a while, I guess, eh?” “Ya’ve been here about a week, I guess,” replied Damien, taking the only soda Keith carried. “Most of it out cold.” Nodding slightly, Paul felt himself going once more as exhaustion overtook him. As he blacked out for the umpteenth time, he heard the lads move aside as someone came through the group and placed a cooling hand on his brow, lightly running those fingers over his face and through the hair, now disheveled. * * * “Good morning, Paul,” a familiar voice came into his awareness as he woke up the next day. He was starving, and felt better altogether, though a temperature still touched him and his throat was sore. Glancing towards the voice, he smiled when he recognized Dominique. “How are you feeling?” He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. He tried again with the same result. Finally, he just nodded, but then pointed to his throat and shook his head. She laughed softly; how wonderful it was to hear that sound again! Then he remembered, and his happiness ended abruptly. Forgetting his hunger, he leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes, wishing he could just disappear. “It’s all right, Paul, don’t worry, I talked to Dad about that,” she murmured, brushing his unruly, wavy tresses from his face. He opened his eyes, great sadness in them. “I don’t care about that. I’m gone from CT, and that’s it, there’s no going back. But I upset you, I made you cry, and I can’t forgive myself for that. I had no right telling you all that, heck, any of it, but I did, and I have to pay for that.” Pausing to catch a breath, he locked his eyes with hers. “Even if it means giving up my biggest chance to get out of Ireland, maybe even get famous.” “No, Paul—“ “No, Dominique, just…just…just go, okay? I can get out of here myself.” Sighing, he reached for her hand. “Thank you for getting me into the hospital, though. Definitely wouldn’t’ve been able to do that myself.” Squeezing her hand gently, he settled back and smiled weakly. “Go…” She sat for a minute longer, but then stood up and left without a glance behind.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:38:47 GMT -5
Chapter Seven
The Aftermath Back home, Paul listened to all his messages, did the bills, and sorted through his mail. He was surprised by how many times the lads had called him, wondering where he was, and also a few from Dominique, wanting to talk to him. Sighing, he planned to call them back, saying that he was out of CT, but then decided against it, figuring Phil would tell them anyway. When his doorbell rang, he was curious about who would bother him in the evening. Opening it, he fought the urge to shut it right away. “Paul, I need to talk to you. Please.” “Sure, Phil, nothing’s stopping you; come on in.” “Thank you.” Walking in, Phil looked uncomfortable. “Listen, I came to apologize for what I said to you that night.” No need to specify which night, eh? thought Paul sarcastically. “Anyhow, I acted rashly, not hearing the full story, and I want you to come back to Celtic Thunder? Please, Paul, I realize what has happened, and though Dominique won’t tell me why she was really crying, I have a feeling it has something to do with you, and you regret it yourself. So please, come back. Finding another tenor with the same humor and charm is harder than it seemed at first, Paul.” He stood in the hallway, his eyes dead-serious and his face hard. Paul stared back, emotions churning in his heart, but his face revealed nothing. Then, he nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Phil, for the second chance. And yes, I do regret telling her what I had. Greatly.” “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow. You can learn the actions for now, and when your voice is back, you can start singing and coordinating the show. Be careful with it, true?” After he left, Paul turned and leaned his back against the door. What use is it if I cannot have Dominique? She was the reason… Realizing he was reciting one of his songs, he smirked and found it very fitting he lost the girl in the concert. * * * The next couple of weeks flew by, but they seemed emptier. He no longer was eager to get home, change, and drive over to Dominique’s house to take her out somewhere; instead, he would linger after everyone had left, then go either home or to a pub. His spirit was drained, and even the lads at the studio had noticed the stark change in him; not only was he silent now except for singing, he had grown a bit thinner, and he seemed a good five years older than he really was, if not more. One day after rehearsal not long before the show was supposed to premier, Phil and Sharon called him over after a particularly sullen rendition of “That’s a Woman.” Jogging closer, he could see their concerned expressions, but he did not care, his own being flat and emotionless. “Paul, can you brighten up a bit? One of the reasons we invited you to sing with us was because of your sense of humor and cheerfulness.” Sharon did not look at all happy, especially when he shrugged nonchalantly and continued to stand there, looking at them, expecting a lecture. Phil, however, was watching him closely, knowledge in his eyes. Just as Sharon was about to go into another long speech, he laid a hand on her arm and drew her aside. They spoke for a while, and then Sharon glanced at Paul in surprise and nodded slowly, still listening to Phil. “Okay, Paul, you can go, but keep in mind what I told you.” * * * The next day, rehearsal went normally until lunch break. Then, as he walked over to the old table he used to sit at, in the shadows, he was greeted by someone who also once sat there. Turning swiftly, he was about to go away when she called his name softly. “Paul, don’t go,” pleaded Dominique. When he hesitated, she said, “Please don’t be stubborn; I know you have very little patience, but curb your horns a bit and stay. Please.” He stood there a moment longer, but then, resigning his pride, turned and sat opposite her at the table. “What.” It was a statement, not a question. Dominique shifted in her chair. “I was hoping that we could…” she trailed off, but then got up, her mood swinging in the other direction. “Fine! You want to be rude, go ahead, and I hope you enjoy yourself. I wanted to try to make up with you, but it just didn’t work out. Dad was right when he said you were stubborn as a bull.” With that, she left, leaving Paul behind while Sharon and Phil sat a distance away, worry in their faces. * * * A week passed, and the concert in Helix was gaining on them. The lads were performing almost every day on different TV stations, promoting the new show, participating in interviews, going on short tours around Ireland to encourage people to come. Not like they needed much help—the people were all curious about this group of singers that were going to perform a strange, new concert in a way it has never been done before. They were all happy, even Paul. When he got back home in the middle of summer, he had almost completely forgotten about Dominique and their hanging relationship. The second night after he was home, however, she came over, wanting to talk. It was a warm night, and he was in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot on the wooden floor of his home. When he answered the door, he had a beer in his hand and a content expression on his face from having just bought a front-row ticket for his grandmother. Several of his friends were also coming to the premier, so he was happy beyond belief. When he saw her, though, he stiffened. Manners won over eventually, and he let her in. “Paul…” she began, but he quickly cut her off. “Dominique, I have been thinking about our last talk,” he said quietly, his eyes fixated on his bottle. “I’m sorry about the way this whole thing turned out. I shouldn’t’ve told you, but since I did, I’m sorry and let’s just get it over with. And…” he paused, not sure how to continue. “And I want to try again at all this, okay? Can we try that?” He looked at her hopefully, his wonderful blue eyes sparkling. She stared at him, and then broke into a joyous smile. “Yes, Paul, yes, yes!” Laughing the laugh that he loved, she wrapped her arms around his neck, missing the feel of his tall, lean form. When he placed his drink down and mirrored her, they both knew that everything was going to be fine. Then she realized what the writing on his old, worn-out, white t-shirt was and couldn’t help but laugh again. “I sure hope it isn’t so worn out because you’ve had it on a lot,” she teased. Paul glanced down, read the writing quickly, and laughed, too, something he had not done in a long time. “’If this shirt is on your floor…’ oh, yeah, good point. You don’t mind, though, do ya?” he asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye. She smiled, and then stepped back. “You have a lot of nerve, you know that? Or at the very least, not an ounce of shame.” When he grinned back, she sighed. “We’ll have to see how you do on tour. Hopefully, having your grandmother front row center will tame your attitude.” “Well, it’s not like she hasn’t seen me grow up, ya know…they say the teen years are the most rebellious…” he laughed lightly. “All right, I’ll go change; it is a bit early to wear this one.” He laughed again when a shocked expression crossed her face, quickly followed by a blush. Happier than he had been in weeks, Paul went to his room in search of a more appropriate shirt.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:41:32 GMT -5
Chapter Eight
The Show The day had finally arrived! The concert at the Helix, complete with the video crew, was about to begin. At sound check, Paul had realized that his mic did not work, so he had had to quickly find a new one. As soon as he did, could not find his duster for “Heartland,” and one of Ryan’s socks for “Caledonia” was shorter than the other; overall, chaos reigned. When the crowd cheered and whistled for them to come out, they did a last-minute check, making sure everything was in order, and then waited for their cue. Out of the mists of Time it comes Older than the oldest rhyme it comes Coursing through our veins it comes Pulsing in our brains it comes Crashing like a thunder roll Echoing in our very soul Listen for it as it comes The pure and primal sound of drums “Okay, lads, this is it. If you mess up, cover it as best as you can. If you have no idea how, look to Paul; he will come up with something,” whispered Sharon, smiling when Paul winked at the others in confirmation. “Don’t worry, lads, I’ll work it out. No one will know.” With a conspiratorial grin, he turned on his mic and prepared to sing his introductory line. The others glanced around at each other, holding back giggles, but managed to control themselves before flicking the switch on their mics. Hear our hymn from the heartland Hear our prayer Steer us through stormy waters Lead us there... Sharon gave them each a gentle push as their time came to walk out, holding back Paul, who was a little ahead of schedule. “All right, good luck and keep in beat.” With that, she ran back to the control box and watched the show, a walkie-talkie in her hand to help the lads if they forgot something or went in the wrong direction. A short while later, “Raggle Taggle Gypsy” was up. When Damien ran out, sliding to a stop less than a yard off of the edge, the crowd cheered. Keith, with his longer legs, walked the whole way until the end, jogging the last few yards. But then came Paul. Damien by this time was cracking up, barely able to clap, while Keith was still holding up. However, when they saw Paul strut out, his arms out, full of attitude and character, snapping his fingers on the last line of his verse, they could not hold it back, laughing along with him. He did not even have to run any part of the stage; his long legs and swanky stride ate up the distance and let him walk all the way to the end. When Paul came out for his “Love Thee Dearest,” however, the audience became silent as a clam, and you could hear when someone sniffled from across the whole auditorium. Sharon realized that she was clutching the walkie-talkie so tightly that her knuckles turned white, unsure if the people would like an opera piece, especially in Italian. When he finished and stood there, his arms out-stretched, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, there was a moment of silence before the room was filled with cheers and loud clapping. Letting out the breath she had been holding, a smile broke across her tense face as Paul beamed at the crowd, giving a little bow, and then ran backstage. “Great ending, Paul,” she said into the communicator. “Ryan, you’re up. Zara, get ready. And please, with attitude. Your boyfriend just broke your heart, make him pay for it. Paul, relax, then get ready for ‘Nights’; Zara, keep in mind that you have to be ready for that as well.” “Nights in White Satin” went beautifully. Paul’s rich voice filled the hall, the message of the song carried across exactly as it was supposed to, as if it had been written for Paul in particular. He almost fell while running up the steps, the toe of his cream shoes catching the edge, but it was barely noticeable and he finished the song without a hitch, his gorgeous voice soaring beautifully. During the interval, she went backstage. “Damien, excellent ‘Puppy Love’ version, although try not to slide right off the stage next time. You might need a rougher sole on those Converse. Keith, great job on the guitar; keep it up. Paul, watch those steps and clear up your voice. Remember, you’re leading ‘Steal Away.’ George, good, a little louder, though. The mics can only do so much. Ryan, not bad, but a bit more feeling in ‘Brothers,’ okay? Everyone set? In that case, go get ready and sing your hearts out.” Smiling at them all stiffly, she turned to walk away. “Oh, and Paul, your grandmother was absolutely happy when you sang that opera; she is utterly convinced that you were singing to her, so don’t disappoint her if she mentions it to you.” As she walked away, she could hear the others slagging him but knew that he would take it easily. “Remember Me” went well, although Paul’s hat almost flew off when a door opened and closed in the auditorium, sending a gust of air across the stage. For “Desperado,” Ryan received a wild cheer, the audience loving the song. Now for “Ireland's Call,” the crowd was on their feet, singing along with the lads, and she could hear some of the teens laughing when Damien turned in the wrong direction, his feet twisting, and then right afterwards when Paul did the swanky walk back during the music run. The ending was strong, and the audience appreciative. For “That’s a Woman,” Ryan did a wonderful job, and Paul scowled at him after they were finished dancing and Zara walked away with Ryan, leaving Paul behind for his solo, “She.” How he played it! At the end, he looked to where the other two had gone while singing, “She………..oh, she.” They had to keep that in the DVD! For “Young Love,” she laughed along with the audience when the three had to roll around and dance while Damien sang. She remembered when Paul had made it up during rehearsal, and how he had protested when she said, “All right, let’s put it in.” But as the song continued and they were supposed to leave the stage, Paul grabbed Ryan’s arm and started talking to him. This is not in the script, thought Sharon, about to tell Paul to leave when she realized that neither of them had their mics on. But the crowd hooted and cheered when Paul snapped his fingers and began to walk forward in a rolling way, first in one direction and then in the other, glancing at Ryan to do the same. When they finally reached Damien, Paul had the funniest expression on his face as he walked around the boy and knelt on his knee, taking out a pad and pen from his back pocket. He planned this! thought Sharon, but there was nothing she could do except listen to the applause. Ryan tugged at his shirt and pretended to click a pen, so it was obvious he had nothing to do with this ad lib. But it all added to the greater good, so maybe Paul should be given those extra credit points for creativity. “Caledonia.” This song was wonderful; all the lads came out, and while walking forward, you could see Keith and Paul having a small contest of who was going to turn with the most flair. But the main part was that they were all in kilts! The crowd screamed with joy when the men—and boy—came out in swishing kilts, their legs clad in dark knee-high socks, except for Ryan’s, whose were falling down around his ankles. They finished, ran backstage, and then came out again for an encore. When they were given flowers, Paul jumped off the stage and ran to his grandmother, quickly passing them to her before escaping the hands of the audience. After about ten minutes of bowing, clapping, and laughing, they finally made it backstage for good. “That’s wonderful, you guys!” she called out as soon as they were all together. “Paul, keep that piece you added in ‘Young Love.’ Ryan, bring a pen next time for real. And Damien, maybe throw your hat off at Paul tomorrow, as a favor to a fan, all right? Otherwise, everyone, don’t stay up late, don’t drink, don’t smoke, and get a good night’s sleep. Paul, don’t jump off the stage again; we might lose you forever, especially if you do that in the U.S.” He grinned in response, but she knew he would do as she told him; beneath all that attitude, he would follow reasonable advice as long as he understood that it was reasonable. * * * Touring America was great craic, but Paul began to miss Dominique after a short while. Sure, they talked on the phone or via the Internet, but it wasn’t the same as talking to her in person; web-cams could only do so much, and his broke after Damien dropped his bag on top of it early in the tour. But still, he did all he could for those few months he was away, waiting to be back home in Ireland. * * * “Dominique! Over here!” Paul caught her as she almost ran by him in the airport, swinging her in his arms and kissing her right there in front of the lads, ignoring the snickers and wolf whistles. He did, however, hear Phil chuckle softly and immediately he let go of Dominique, embarrassed. “Don’t mind me, lad,” laughed Phil, walking past him. The others, smiling, did the same, leaving the two alone. “Why don’t you come over to my place tonight?” asked Paul, keeping an arm around her waist. “Why don’t you rest first, nurse that sunburn, and then I’ll come over?” she replied, checking his shirt. Nodding approval at the plain navy blue A&F polo with a warm jacket over it, she slipped out of his embrace and walked with him out to the car. “All right, I’ll take you up on that offer,” Paul said as he held the door for her to sit in the passenger seat. “I’ll drop you off at your place first though.”
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:44:03 GMT -5
Chapter Nine
The Take Me Home tour “Damien, when will you stop growing?!” Paul could not hide his grin at Sharon's exasperated exclamation. Damien had been growing at the speed of light, and this was his third suit in 6 weeks. The first two had lasted two weeks each, but the third had only survived a week and a half before it was tight in the shoulders and short at the sleeves. The same went for shoes—he had gone through 4 sizes since the start of the tour! As he glanced at the young lad, he realized that those songs he sang were getting a bit…young for him. Young love? Puppy love? Not quite, considering his changing voice that seemed to have a mind of its own since it alternated randomly between a piercing squeak and an extremely low baritone that was even lower than George's. He remembered how, in one show, he was singing the last high note of a song and his voice cracked, sending it into a shriek that had the audience in stitches and the poor guy red from head to toe. Well, only a few more weeks left, he thought, smiling to himself. * * * The new tour was coming. Paul stood in front of the mirror in the dressing room, completely ignorant to the general pre-show chaos. After so many years of being a professional singer, he was used to people running around, panicking that mics weren’t working or suits were missing or something else like that. As he adjusted his scarf and tugged the sleeve of his leather duster down a bit, he thought about what they were going to do. A new show, but a lot of old songs. He had a few ideas on how to change them up; of course, not that Sharon knew, but he was sure that the audience would love them. He wondered how the crowd would take to Damien’s new voice, it having changed so much. And the new style of music…what if they did not like it? Paul sighed. What could possibly go wrong? He always had these doubts before major concerts, even considering he had been singing since he was seven. Shaking his head, he prepared to go out and give them that tenor voice. * * * “Where’s my shirt?!” Paul stared at Ryan, trying not to laugh. First Damien, now Ryan. He was running around behind stage in his black pants and a tight black t-shirt, the mic dangling precariously down from his ear. “Ryan, please tell me that this is just another one of your jokes,” muttered Sharon as she stalked over to him. “Five minutes before we go onstage and you realize that your shirt is missing.” She groaned, checked her watch, and shot a furious glare at Ryan, who was sweating with nervousness. Everyone knew that crossing Sharon's path was dangerous, especially just before a show. “Ryan, wear that shirt for the first few songs while I have someone run out and buy you another, understood? If we don’t find another, then…well, we’ll get to that if we get to it.” With that, she went to find someone to get that shirt. * * * The music for “Heartland” playing in the background, Paul walked across the small stage, careful not to fall off of it. When it was his turn, he stood front and center. As he began, he added more of his operatic voice into the note, holding out the last one beautifully. When at the end Ryan came up to sing the part that had once been Damien’s, Paul winced slightly as Ryan rasped out that line. He had come down with a cold a few days before recording and it was still around. Glancing down, Paul could see the crowd begin to look around the stage to see where Damien was and why he was not singing. Ryan leaped onstage for “Ride On,” the young teenage girls in the front row screaming happily when they noticed the black t-shirt he was sporting. And Ryan was enjoying it, bounding around the stage, jumping across the steps, flinging his arms out, pumping his arm several times, showing off. The lads backstage had to turn off their mics so that they would not be heard as they commented and laughed, enjoying the entertainment. When Damien walked out for his first solo, the crowd fell into a shocked silence at his new, changed voice. Afterwards, though, there was thunderous applause. Smiling, Paul hesitated for a moment before slipping out onstage into the soft lights. Right as he walked out, though, he knew that something had to be done to the crowd. They looked absolutely asleep, waiting for a cheerful song. Frowning slightly, he walked out and sang “Love Thee Dearest,” and then ran off-stage to sprint across to where he was going to exit for the next song. And he had the perfect idea… The drummer, Declan, was enjoying himself incredibly, hitting out a familiar, upbeat rhythm much louder and better than the one from the first show. About twenty seconds later, Damien jogged out, jumping down those steps, careful not to fall. Finishing his line, he started clapping his hands, encouraging the crowd. Not like he had to do that—they were already on their feet, whistling and cheering them on. Keith came out, sang, cut the last note short, and started clapping, nonchalant the whole way through. And then Paul strutted out; there really was no other way to describe what he was doing. He sang a bit rougher than usual, shorter notes but they were much louder and stronger. Then, at “his lady-o”, he paused, turned sideways, pulled open his jacket…and did that crowd wake up! Grinning, he continued down the steps, shrugging casually at Damien, who was cracking up, losing the beat. George came out next, winking at Paul and grinning from ear to ear. Ryan jogged out last, finally wearing a black collared shirt. The crowd cheered, as was expected, and Paul could not help but feel a twinge of envy at the support Ryan received. There wasn’t usually a loud cheer when Paul came out, unless he did something, but Ryan, all he had to do was walk out! Sighing, he got ready for his next song. “PAUL MICHAEL BYROM!” He winced as his earpiece, which he had just switched from microphone to walkie-talkie mode, screeched in his ear. Groaning softly, he struggled to find the volume switch. To his utter dismay, it was jammed on maximum. “What were you even thinking of?” Sharon continued in the same tone, obviously not happy. “That was seriously uncalled for! Never mind inappropriate…” “Aw, come on, Sharon! It wasn’t that bad! And the crowd loved it…don’t you think?” He grinned, imagining her face at the moment. As she muttered something on the other end, he said, “Gotta go, next song is up.” The concert went well up to “Heartbreaker,” where, halfway through, Zara slapped Ryan on the cheek. HARD. He had an absolutely astonished look on his face, totally not expecting to get hit mid-show. During practice, she had swiped at him teasingly, but she had never actually made contact! Unable to help himself, Paul burst out laughing, wondering how he was going to manage singing his next song while looking at Zara and seeing her slap Ryan. Paul leaned back on the railing, waiting for his cue to start his favorite song, “Nights in White Satin.” As he sang, he knew that the new lighting would play on his bright blue eyes, and he took every opportunity to let them sparkle. Not that he was trying to show off, but if he had the blues, why not use them? He added spunk to the first line of the choruses, aiming his gaze at someone in the audience in particular. Smiling when he heard the reactions, and trying not to laugh when Sharon murmured, “Paul…” warningly in his ear, he finished his piece, and paused to watch as Zara slipped out onstage. This was the hardest part. How could he get around for the next 30 seconds or so without cracking up? Judging by the smile on Zara’s face, she was wondering about the same thing. Well, only a little left, just 15 more seconds… Zara swayed gently on the steps, her moves graceful and practiced, and Paul turned around, looking over his left shoulder, one eyebrow curved. Then, when inspiration struck him, he glanced sharply at Zara and then snapped his head back around to face the crowd, dancing his eyebrows expertly for a few seconds just as the music reached crescendo, and then ran after her up the steps, covering the distance easily. Looking to where Zara had gone, he began the last chorus, turning toward the black space that was the crowd, a happy grin on his face. He was oblivious to the grumbling on the other end of his earpiece, singing with all his heart, his eyes closed, enjoying the sensation. Yes, the lads were right—he WAS addicted to singing. The song ended, and he ran off-stage in high spirits. The next few songs went well. Damien nailed his sweet 16, and the girls were on their feet, screaming when he came out with the rose and pointed at some girl in the audience while singing. When “Steal Away” came up, Paul could not hold back a slightly bitter twinge in his chest when the audience looked around and was wondering why he did not lead out the group again like in the first concert. Pocketing his hand, he tried to be as casual as possible as Damien took the lead, biting his tongue when habit almost had him singing his solo. He missed that solo, but Sharon had wanted to pull him out and give Damien the lead. Instead, Paul had been assigned one more solo song than the others to make up for that, and he was intent on playing it to the utmost. Paul jumped back onstage for his duel with Ryan, and it went perfectly. While Ryan was lecturing him, he glanced at the crowd, eyebrows dancing and an incredulous expression on his face, chuckling and playing it out. Checking his non-existent watch, he waited impatiently, and then gave Ryan a look that said, “Are you done yet?” And when he lost her, well, how else to act but like a distraught young man, arms open in astonishment that she could possibly even THINK about leaving him for a…bad boy, a heartbreaker. As he did that, he suddenly had an image pop into his head: Zara slapping Ryan. Hiding a grin, he turned from the crowd, controlling himself before returning for his new, extra solo. “You Raise Me Up” was a wonderful song that he loved to sing, and again, he let his bright blue eyes glitter in the pale light. When for the finale he prepared to sing the last part, he was surprised by the absolute silence in the auditorium; not a single sound, almost reverent. Smiling, he finished the piece, emphasizing the notes with strong movements. At the end, he paused for a moment before singing the last line. The crowd erupted with applause, and Paul, bowing slightly, ran backstage, happy. “Ireland.” Paul frowned. He had sung it, but the words were no more than his usual speaking voice. He had not heard his voice with the others on the loudspeaker. With a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, he walked out to his place, fumbling with that little bug in his ear. It was failing him just as when they had come out for the same song during the first concert at the Helix. Finally! It worked! Grinning with triumph, he prepared to sing his part. As they ran backstage to change out of Armani suits into Armani kilts, Paul was busy thinking about what to do for a finale. The crowd was already watching his every move during the concert, and he knew that he had to finish strong. What to do, what to do… From Sharon's point of view…George walked out, sang his piece, and Paul followed shortly, a slight smile on his lips, a mischievous gleam in his eye. Sharon, recognizing that sparkle, quickly switched on the two-way to tell him to get any ideas out of his head, but it was too late. Paul bent down slightly, touched the border of his kilt…and LIFTED IT!!! She stared in shock as he acted out in the corner of the stage, the spotlight on him, the audience screaming their support and appreciation. When he finally finished the verse, he flicked the kilt back down, but then glanced at Dave on the piano, lifting his eyebrow in a teasing, questioning expression, and then he flipped the kilt again, this time to Dave in particular. With some amusement, Sharon noticed that Dave lifted his hands as though to say, “Don’t involve me in this!” After the song, while the boys were bowing, Zara walked out onstage, quickly kissing a very astonished Damien on the cheek before joining the two duelers. Taking each one by the hand, she, smiling elegantly, allowed both to kiss her lightly on the cheek. Paul, thinking that she would leave with him, started to take off his jacket while turning to go, one leg already in action, but the jacket was hardly off of his shoulder when she slid her hand out of his and left with Ryan. His eyes wide and glancing longingly over his shoulder, Paul straightened his jacket, and then looked sharply down at the audience, finding someone in the front row, and repeated his “Call me” skit, extending it to “writing down a number.” After that, he turned and walked back up the stage, waving occasionally before leaving. Just as he was about to leave, Keith jumped up and did some sort of Jackie Chan leap that had the crowd screaming. Smiling, he left. * * * The last tour concert for the second tour was ending, and as Paul walked toward the exit off of the stage, he was suddenly struck by a genius idea. Grinning and ignoring Sharon once more, he walked back out, taking off his jacket as he went. Everyone else was gone, and the spotlight was on him, only him. With a whoop, he gripped it by the collar and whirled it above his head like a lasso while the audience cheered and screamed, urging him on for more. Unfortunately, when Sharon’s screech in his ear threatened to fire him if he kept it up much longer, he winked at the fans with another grin and left.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:44:58 GMT -5
Chapter Ten
Meet and Greets “Look, it’s Paul!” Paul looked around the small room where the meet and greets were being conducted this last night of the Take me Home tour. In the doorway stood a teenage girl in the black “Kilted Lads” t-shirt. Beside her was another girl with a Damien shirt, and she was making a beeline for her victim, an unsuspecting 16-year-old. However, when her friend had squealed and pointed at him, she stopped short, gave him an up-and-down, and scowled. “Dude, seriously, he’s OLD. He’s like, 30, or something. Come on, why him? There’s a certain cute 16-year-old guy over there all alone, just waiting for autographs and photos. Come on.” Without a backward glance, she headed for Damien. Paul flinched at the harsh words, looking away from the girl, knowing that his fan-group was getting smaller and smaller by the minute. No matter what he did on the stage, it seemed that Damien was going to get the younger group. With a sigh, he strained to see any people that might find him more interesting than his fellow singer. * * * “Paul?” It was the end of the meet and greets, and when he turned to the shy, tentative voice, he was surprised to see the teenage girl from before. Glancing over her shoulder, he could not see her friend who had criticized him, and when he looked back at her face, he realized that she was nervous. “Can you please sign my program?” she asked quietly, holding it out. With a gentle smile, not his signature beaming one that he usually reserved for meets and greets, he accepted happily. “What’s your name?” When she told him, he signed her program with a short note to her in particular, adding an extra swirl to his autograph, making it very stylish. The whole time during the meet and greets, he had had only four people come up to him for an autograph before moving on to Damien across the room, and he was grateful for anyone who bothered to come over to him and actually stay and talk a little. Smiling, he returned the program, and she surprised him yet again. “Can I get a picture?” Paul stared at her in amazement. Damien was drowning in fans that wanted, at the very least, an autograph and a picture. Most of them were teens, but he could see that the age varied from kids to adults. And yet here, a teenage girl that should have been hopping around Damien was actually asking him to take a picture with her, even if her friend did not like that. She shifted uncomfortably. “Um, or not, yeah, sure…” Paul snapped back to reality, motioning for the camera guy to come over to take a picture. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he beamed at the camera, photogenic as ever. After two pictures, she pulled out her own camera, blushing as she was not sure if he was willing to take another picture. Grinning, he asked the photographer to take a picture, and this time he smiled naturally, not forcibly as he used to for most. When she left, he was sad that he had only had a few fans come up, but glad that at least one had actually seemed to be a fan of his, not Damien’s. But just as that joyous thought hit him, he felt a stab in the gut as he remembered the comment from that other girl. With a soft sigh, he headed back to his hotel room, too sullen to join the party with the rest of CT.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:47:37 GMT -5
Chapter Eleven
Deleted Scenes from the Spring Tour “That’s a Woman” was playing, and Paul danced with Zara, lifting her easily and twirling around, singing in the background while Ryan scolded him for possibly thinking that women could be those angels. When he set her down, however, she landed hard on his left foot, her sharp heel digging into the soft leather. With a silent groan, he just barely managed to suppress a grimace and then he continued smiling, his voice a bit strained as he sang. Fortunately, that was the moment Zara left him, so the pained expression on his face was more believable. The next day, the group got together to walk around DC and, as was his tradition, Paul hit every designer clothes store he found, using up his whole budget for clothes in those few hours. By the end of the day, which was mixed in with visits to several main historical sites around the city, he was exhausted, thankful for the long bus trip between the two concert halls. At the new hall, they were met with a few problems. First of all, Keith’s suit for one of his songs mysteriously disappeared. After a fitful, sleepless night, Paul awoke to a cold, and was disappointed that the hotel’s menu falsely stated that they had Buffalo Wings. Then, at the concert hall, all five of them shared a single, tiny dressing room that was built for people less than five and a half feet. Next, there was hardly any space to turn around when running off, on, and around the stage, and at one point, Paul had to play leap-frog to switch places with George when they were both walking down the same, narrow hallway that both men could only go through if turned sideways. Fortunately, they went to a local pub afterwards to celebrate a wonderful performance, albeit one interrupted by illegal camera flashes from the audience. However, the pub closed at only one in the morning! Now what kind of Irish pub is THAT?! * * * “Hello?” “Hi, ma, it’s me.” “Paul! How is everything? Is the tour going well?” Paul smiled, surprising himself with how much he actually missed hearing his mother’s voice. Then, turning serious, he hesitated before continuing. “Um, Ma…do you remember that girl I told you about? The one I’m dating?” “Yes, of course. Dominique, Phil's daughter, right?” There was a pause. “Is everything all right between you two?” “Well…” he began. “Paul…” came the warning, exasperated reply. “Go and apologize. I will NOT get mixed up in your personal life. That was my mistake when you were in high school, and I do not want that repeating itself.” “Well, it’s kind of late for apologizing, you know?” “Why?” she asked cautiously. “Um, well…I…I…she’s pregnant,” he finally blurted out. Biting his lip, he waited for her answer. Silence drifted over the other end. When his mother spoke, it was obvious that she was trying not to yell at him. “Are you still with the group? Or have you been promptly fired? Have you even told Phil yet?” “Um, no, not yet. I’m sort of afraid of how he would react.” “Well, you’re both adults, figure it out. But if you get a boot on the way out the door, all I can say is ‘Good riddance, you had it coming.’” Paul’s eyebrows went up of their own volition, astonished by her response. Maybe this wasn’t a very good idea after all, he thought. “Well, I think there is no better time than now to say, ‘April Fools’! Bye Ma!” When he heard his mother understand that this was all a joke, he hung up before he received an earful from a very talented Irish speaker. Laughing, he began planning how to set up the next joke for this wonderful day. * * * It was April 11th, and thankfully, Paul had the day off from work. In the evening, he went out with a few of the lads to a restaurant, enjoying the setting sun over the water. Much of the conversation at the table was led by Phil, who was busy telling stories of his life before any of the others had even been born! However, even with all of this, he felt a bit sad. Here he was, in a little restaurant with the people he worked with, celebrating his Big 3-0 in Nova Scotia. He had always thought that he would spend it with friends and family in Dublin. He had been planning for this date for ages, and now found himself on tour for it. As they sat around the table, he thought back to when he was 21. Why that particular year? Many reasons, not all of which he was proud to admit to himself, though. But now, even though he was officially 30 years old, he still felt 21. Smiling secretly, he glanced around the group, and then thought about the long phone conversations he had had a few hours before with friends, family…and Dominique. They were the reasons he still felt so young. Paul walked back to his hotel room alone, intent on sleeping a full night, and maybe watching some TV. But when he saw his door, he stopped short and laughed his heart out, causing a few doors to open cautiously into the hallway. Phil and his wife had taped balloons to his door and left a card with a short note for his birthday. Grinning, he went inside, feeling as young as Damien. His phone rang right before he was turning in for the night. “Hello?” “Happy birthday to you…” Paul grinned as he recognized Damien's deep baritone singing the familiar song, and he was happy as a clam. Until, at the end, he heard, “That will be twenty bucks, mate.” And immediately, his high spirits sank as the lad made him feel 40 with that casual comment. Sighing, he clicked off and went to bed, falling asleep as soon as he hit the pillow. * * * Paul groaned when he felt someone prod him awake. Turning in his bunk, he blinked sleepily at Damien. “Are we there yet?” “No, we’re at the border. The guys who patrol here want to see the famous Celtic Thunder singers!” he added with false excitement. Chuckling, he grabbed Paul’s blanket and ran off with it. Fully awake from the freezing cold, Paul sat up in his bunk rapidly, hitting his head on the one above him. Hearing an “Umpf!” from above, he leaned out and looked up at Keith, who was just getting out of it. “Way to kick me out of bed, Paul,” came a groggy mumble as the blond tried to find a pair of pants. But since his stuff was always clustered in the corner in a messy pile, it was hopeless. “Come on, you guys, we have to get going soon!” Sharon hollered from the door to their room. As Paul looked at her, he was struck by how familiar this scene was to him; he remembered every single school morning, except for the last one before graduation, when his mother had always struggled to wake him. Paul, not being a morning person in the least, had constantly been complaining. He smiled crookedly at the memory. “The longer you take, the later we’ll be, and the less time you’ll have to get ready for the show!” Sharon looked at Paul curiously, trying to understand the weird expression on his face. “Okay, Sharon, we’ll be out in a sec.” “And come out the way you are, don’t worry. Just make sure you’re decent.” With a last look at Paul, she walked out of the bus. Grumbling, the rest of them filed out of the bus in the clothes they had been sleeping in, mostly boxers and t-shirts, their hair sticking up in whichever way they had been sleeping: Damien’s was matted on the left side, but straight out sideways on the right; Ryan’s was everywhere, like a porcupine’s, the results of tossing and turning regularly; Paul’s forelock was straight up and to the left, the hair on the left side was flat, but the hair on the right was spiky and out straight from his head. The hair at the back of his head seemed as though he had gelled it so that it was clinging to his scalp—straight up, though. As he tried to smooth it back downward, however, it just jutted out at odd angles. Sighing, he gave up. Keith was spared from a bed-head—his was picture-perfect, lying normally on his head, blowing in the wind. George did not even have that problem. The border patrol took one look at the ragged lads and gaped. They had no doubt expected the five to be as well-groomed as they were onstage and in something other than shorts and old t-shirts, the latter mostly sports-related. After a few autographs, they stumbled back into their bunks to continue the eleven-hour long trip. * * * “We’re here! We’re here!” Paul grimaced and smirked, turning to look at an overly-excited Ryan, who was currently just short of bouncing up and down in his seat. This was a few days after the border patrol incident, and they had been asked to sing the National Anthem at a Celtic’s game. Also, afterwards, they had been offered excellent corporate box seats. Naturally, Ryan, a life-time Celtics’ fan, was thrilled at the idea. “You know, Ryan, you sound just like my nephew does when we go to the zoo or to get ice cream,” Paul laughed, slagging the other man. Blushing, Ryan leaned back in his seat, unsuccessfully trying to hide his enthusiasm. Just then, Paul’s laptop chimed, announcing an email. Glancing down, he saw that it was from his sister. His eyebrows shooting up as he was creeped out by the coincidence that he had just been talking about his nephew…anyway, he opened it, curious. It was a video link. Following it, he laughed nervously as he watched Michael Bolton mess up while singing the National Anthem and then getting booed by the crowd. The other lads crowded around him, wondering what was so funny. When they saw, they all laughed. * * * Paul, Damien, and Dave headed out to watch a new movie at the local theater, joking about current tour life and how a girl working at the nearby gym had let Paul go there for free for those two days after looking into his bright blue eyes for only a moment. Afterwards, of course, she had practically been hypnotized by them, staring at his eyes until he left, but they were slagging him that if it were not for his blues, he would have had to pay a two-day club membership. After seeing a series of previews of movies that had long before come out on DVD, they watched the movie. About twenty minutes in, Paul became aware of snoring. Frowning, he looked around the semi-empty theater and held back laughter as he noticed that it was Dave who was sound asleep. Poking Damien, he nodded towards the sleeping pianist. The younger man’s eyes immediately gleamed with some evil, mischievous plan as he glanced down at his bag of popcorn in one hand and the soda in the other one, then at Dave, and then at Paul, wiggling his eyebrows in a poor imitation of Paul’s swanky gesture. Snickering, Paul gave him the “Go ahead, but if you get caught I had nothing to do with this” look. Moving out of the way, he watched, amused, as Damien worked his magic. At the end of the movie, they quickly left without Dave to stand outside just within earshot to hear someone wake him up, and then his exasperated scream, “PAUL! DAMIAN!” When they heard that, they turned tail and ran back towards the hotel, laughing the whole way. * * * As Paul posted his new MySpace blog, he re-read the last paragraph and realized that he really did miss Dublin. So far, few people in America knew about Dominique, although the two of them had had a few articles published about them in the Evening Herald in Ireland. He knew from certain pub conversations that there were some fans that had read those articles and knew about them, but otherwise, most Thunder-heads still had no idea who she was in his life. For now, that was the best. But eventually, he would have to tell them about her. * * * Towards the end of the tour, Paul was beginning to get a bit homesick. His humor was becoming as strained as it had been in those first few weeks without Dominique after they had broken up, and it was beginning to show in his actions onstage; he was easily distracted, with fewer things to cheer up the show each night, and extremely quiet when with the lads after each show. Pretty soon, he had stopped even going to the pub after a show with a day off the following day, and the days off were spent in his hotel room or in his bunk on the bus. He did not bother going to the movies anymore—at the rate he had been doing that, he had seen every single movie that had come out, and the only ones left were kid’s movies. He had caught up on his reading and bought more than enough clothes; otherwise, his computer was his main source of entertainment. One day, two weeks before the end of the tour, there was a knock on the door. Grumbling that he had not ordered room service but knowing that it might be Phil, he opened the door. And his jaw hit the floor. “Dominique?!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed. She smiled back at him, her eyes shining happily. Rushing forward, he caught her in a tight hug, squeezing her to his chest. She laughed, gasping for breath, her arms around his waist. Dragging her into his room and shutting the door with his heel, he did not see Phil standing at the end of the corridor, smiling knowingly. “What are you doing here?” he asked, a wonderful feeling filling his chest that had not been there for a month and a half. “Well, something told me you were feeling a bit down from traveling so much, so I just wanted to see how you were doing. And since this time it was Keith who broke your webcam, I figured that if I came in person, it would be better than if we talked on the phone.” She smiled sweetly, and Paul beamed at her, in sky-high spirits. That night, she had completely changed his room around; now, there were no more take-out boxes stacked near a trashcan, no more clothes in two piles—clean and dirty. And there were no more nights spent on the couch with remote in hand, clicking the channel-forward button endlessly. Instead, they spent the time catching up for a bit over a dinner at a quiet restaurant in town. Following a stroll along an isolated path in the nearby woods, they stayed out late, sitting under a tree, looking over the lake and the stars above, reveling in each other’s company. Paul was happier than he had been in weeks, and he wanted to make this week he had with her count. Phil had arranged that she could come to a concert, and Paul was thinking of what would be best he did—behave as he did in the first show, or show some attitude as in the second? Grinning, he pressed her back against his chest and rested his chin on her head, breathing in her soft scent and ignoring the world around them.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:48:41 GMT -5
Chapter Twelve
Storm and “Bucking Bronco” Saddles Storm was coming. Paul was excited for the new show, although it cost him more energy than he ever thought it would. THEY ACTUALLY HAD TO MOVE AT THE SAME TIME AND DANCE!!! Rehearsals were more trying than any they had had before. He loved his role, yes, but otherwise, this show had gone from pretty much random songs with only a few tie-ins to a whole story! He was not sure how the audience was going to take it, and honestly, he knew that Sharon was also wondering the same thing. But, as long as no one threw rotten eggs and tomatoes at them, they were okay. Tapping was harder than he expected. It was hard to do, his legs hurt a lot afterwards, and he could hardly find any coordination in himself. He kept on remembering how he had gotten into the finals in the “Celebrity Jigs ‘n’ Reels” back in Ireland so many years ago. With a groan after each rehearsal, he had to appreciate how hard Zara worked to do her short run in the shows before. But now, another change had occurred—Zara was no longer with them. She had left and started her own dance studio, and from what they had talked about when they had chatted, it seemed she was doing pretty well. Other than that, rehearsals were some of Paul’s favorite things to do. For “Still Haven't Found,” he was constantly adding parts which Sharon forced him to take out, and once, seeing the camera aimed straight at him, he did what he had been yearning to do for ages. When it showed up in the DVD several months later, everyone had a huge laugh over him in his pink polo shirt goofing around backstage so much more than onstage. Sharon had just sighed, looked at the ceiling, and shook her head as she had been doing a lot lately, looking over her group of men that acted like young boys. ALL OF THEM. Even George had a few moments, such as when no one could find him and then it turned out he and Damien had been playing on the kid’s XBOX. * * * Finally, the show was the next day. As usual, everyone was worried as to how the new show was going to go. This time, however, Ryan made sure his shirts were all there and that his leather vest was gleaming and his red sash was clean. Damien was busy checking the fake grass so that there were no sharp objects in it that would cut his feet when he ran across it barefoot, and he seemed to enjoy making his clothes as dirty and ragged as possible. Keith, for his part, loved his frilled collar and kept it meticulously clean. Even mature George polished off the silver-colored buckles and buttons on his vest and boots. Paul, he kept his vest straight and was careful to insure that his black pants stayed black. The vest was two colors and had spilt sleeves going down half-way to his elbow, which gave him a slightly medieval look. Otherwise, most of all, he loved his poet’s shirt and his boots. The other lads were slagging him about that shirt, but he could not help himself. It reminded him a bit of the Sleeping Beauty musical he had done but that had never come out, but also, it felt much better than the restricting dress shirt he usually wore at concerts. As for the boots, the soft brown leather made it easy to move around, and they fit him perfectly. So yes, although the others teased him that he liked playing “dress-up”, he did enjoy those dress rehearsals they had. Another great thing was the Western saddle Ryan had brought to the rehearsals once, and now, whenever they had time, they would take turns pretending to ride it. This was awesome craic and took up pretty much all of their spare time. Sharon later joked that if she needed to find any of them at a certain point, all she had to do was follow the cowboy cries coming from the stage or wherever the saddle was that day. The recurring joke was that Damien had managed to fall out of the saddle four times, two of which were when George was holding the saddle still on the barrel they had placed it on, and with Paul helping him get on. Each time, however, he somehow managed to slip out of their firm holds and fall to the ground. Once, they even went as far as seeing who could make the best impression of riding a “Bucking Bronco” with the stationary saddle. This went on for two hours, with Ryan and Paul coming in a close tie. Damien fell off after about a minute, when he had tried one simple turn; George hadn’t wanted to risk his neck; and Keith lost a stirrup and just simply slid out of the saddle. Paul and Ryan, however, were doing the craziest stunts of all, even pretending to be holding on by nothing except their hands, while in reality doing handstands. And then, one last time before they were supposed to go back to rehearsals, they decided to see who could stay at a handstand on the saddle the longest. What they did not know, however, was that Phil, Sharon, and Dominique were watching from the second level with a camera set up, pointing straight at the unsuspecting lads. They had been there for those two hours, and this was the best moment yet. Ryan slipped off after a minute and 48 seconds, and Paul was still standing at a minute and 30 seconds when Ryan, getting playful, lightly tickled Paul. With still 18 seconds to go to beat the record, Paul remembered a move he had once learned as a kid. Recalling it now, he bent his arms a bit, lowered his legs, and then twisted his torso, executing a perfect swipe, catching an unsuspicious Ryan in the chest with his left leg. After straightening himself, he lasted for two minutes flat before getting pushed off. Laughing, he pulled his shirt back down from where it had slid up his stomach during the trick. “Wow!” laughed Ryan, getting back to his feet. “Where did you learn that?” “Surprisingly, from a friend when I was a kid. I wanted to skateboard, but my parents never let me get one, so I persuaded him to teach me. It got to the point where he taught me tricks, and certain Jackie Chan style swipes are also considered skateboard moves. Go fig, eh?” he chuckled, punching Ryan lightly in the shoulder. “Anyway, let’s get back. We’re already ten minutes late for prep.” As he turned to go, Sharon turned on a loudspeaker and said, “It’s okay, Paul, that was quite entertaining. And I think that means that you are the official winner of the longest handstand on a stationary saddle.” As his face turned a bright red even as he laughed along with the others, Phil and Dominique walked into the lower room. When he saw her, his eyes widened. “Did you…er…see…t-that?” he asked, blushing an even deeper red, if that was possible. She nodded slightly, smiling, and he grinned sheepishly. Clearing his throat, he murmured, “Well, I guess that, with, uh, tomorrow being the show, I’d, uh, better get a full night in. No more wind-up repeats.” Still embarrassed, he stiffly fled the room. As he walked along the corridor, he realized that he was not sad or hurt by the joke, but happy. This had been a great time, and he felt a part of the group.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:53:10 GMT -5
Chapter Thirteen
Storm It was October 1st, the premier day for Storm. As he waited for his cue, he watched the changing images on the screen. Clouds rolled over a full moon, and someone sang the vocal theme from the first show, “A Thiarna, déan trócaire,” faintly in the background. There was a haunting, bell-like quality to it that made Paul shiver slightly. He had heard it all before, but never like this, with stage nerves. There was a flat, grassy plain, surrounded by trees and plants. To the left, there was a wagon and a well. In the center, two sheds with thatched roofs and baskets and stumps in front. To the right a bit more, there was a pot hanging over a fire with split logs for benches. What appeared to be a treasure chest stood beside it. On the right, there was a small bridge leading to a gypsy camp area with a little pond. Thunder rolled through, the sound so deep he could feel it in the floor. Then, lightning flashed across the stage, lighting it up for a second before plunging it back into inky darkness. And at the second flash, he could see a band of gypsies emerge—Ryan and his group. They just came out of nowhere, leaping onstage with so much energy, dancing very well and chanting in Irish. Heart beating fast, Paul watched, fascinated, amazed by how wonderfully the crowd was responding. And Ryan was definitely loving it—tossing around the camp’s props, knocking over a bench, basically wrecking chaos to the place. As Paul looked through it, though, he noticed that there was too much greenery on the stage. Maybe for tomorrow, they will clear out part of it, he thought, looking on with a criticizing eye. As Ryan and his band left the camp in a mess, doing a form of a jig through it, Paul heard Sharon say, “Settlers, you’re up.” Grinning, Paul quickly switched his mic over and ran onstage with the others, chasing away the intruding gypsies back to their camp. This first night, the four ran out with a group of others. Next time, he felt that they should go out first, and then the others should come out after a moment, so that it would be easier to see them. Making a mental note to tell Sharon later, he enjoyed himself, chasing Ryan out of his camp. They turned around and started to sing, and pretty soon, Ryan came back and joined in. Thank you Lord, for a new day dawning. Over the mountains and valleys of green. As they continued, the crowd started clapping out the beat with them, loving it. They went into the next song, Ryan’s “Outside Looking In.” As he ran across the stage, snatching from the settlers when they were not looking and passing necklaces to the girls, women in the audience were screaming, and there was one that actually tried getting on the stage. Keith and Neil sat in the back corner, chatting casually, seemingly ignoring the chaos. Paul, feeling that he wanted a little amusement, switched his mic to radio mode, listening in. “—and then the other guy just totally tackled him and grabbed the ball and ran a clean run to score! Not a single other player could stop him—he just ran from start to finish and scored. Seriously! Defense, anyone?” Paul grinned, switching back as he realized that it was sports talk. Ryan appeared backstage, beaming. When he saw Paul, he ran up to him. “You were right, Paul; I should’ve undone another button. This one was a bit too high.” “Well, you still have tomorrow.” “True, true.” Damien was up with his "When You Are 18,” and the crowd went wild when they saw that he was out there…barefoot. Paul was now sitting with the other four by the “fire,” and he chuckled at a certain memory—Damien had needed good shoes for an interview, and when he had asked Paul if he could borrow one of his spares, they had discovered that Damien’s were a couple sizes bigger than Paul. Now, onstage, you could really see how huge his feet were, and the guys had to hide their grins as they all remembered the same thing. At the same time, however, they had to push him away, saying he was still a kid and therefore was not old enough to sit with the “adults” yet. But as Paul watched him, he snickered. Damien, the poor settler boy, had forgotten to take off his gold Timex watch. Sharing that news with the other lads, they all shared a laugh at Damien’s expense. Finally, at the end, he came to stand beside them as George started his “Life in the old dog yet” song. Paul stood in the back, swaying to the beat, and Neil played on a red mandolin or something like that. Keith, having probably not gotten the message that Damien was now 18, therefore an “adult,” started poking him. Paul smothered a grin at the obvious big-brother-picking-on-little-brother action. It was just the kind of thing he would have done, too. When Paul went to dance with George’s “daughter,” he twirled with her a few times, and then let her finish by herself, standing to the side and swigging his ale. He smiled as a thought occurred to him—had that ale been real, they would have all been out cold drunk before the first act was over; they were drinking it so much! Except for Damien, of course. Then, as everyone left to the side, Paul sang “Not the One.” It was a beautiful song, and his voice carried excellently through the still atmosphere of the concert hall. As usual, everyone was absolutely silent when he sang. At the end, he stood up sadly and walked off-stage. Still, the lyrics hung in the air: She’s young and pretty seemed a bit sharp but she’s not the one meant for me I haven’t found her yet
She’s not the one for me. Keith’s “Stand and Deliver” was wickedly sung, the crowd loving it—again. He even climbed into a tree to sing it. In the backdrop behind him, it showed him riding a horse—bouncing like a sack of potatoes, but riding nonetheless—and robbing a stagecoach. At the end, he brandished a pistol and laughed “evilly.” He was portraying a Robin Hood sort of fellow, and the could very easily be one of those many he had robbed. She should have been mad, but she was entranced by him instead. Paul watched the crowd carefully, knowing that the riskiest part of the new show was having a woman sing. As a matter of fact, there were six girls, all of them swooning around him as he sipped his ale. He’ll take all your jewels but do it with style as he pockets your diamonds he’ll flash you a smile He’s stolen from princes and stolen from earls but his greatest pleasure is stealing from girls And the last line for each chorus was “Who is the Highwayman?” but in this last line, there was a haunting ring to it. Then, Paul, Neil, George, and Damien sang “My Lagan Love.” Paul frowned as he realized that the other lads were seemingly half-asleep, mumbling their lines and barely annunciating even the main line, “Now, my Lagan Love.” At the very end, Damien finally got a solo line and muttered it spectacularly. Paul could hear in his ear Sharon telling Damien to stop mumbling, and the same for George. Neil, with the higher voice, was easier to understand, and Paul’s voice was made for this song, but the other two were struggling. But they got through it and cleared the stage for Ryan. “Midnight Well.” Paul closed his eyes as he listened to this beautiful song. He had always loved it, ever since he had first heard it on the Take me Home CD, and this was no exception. At the start, there were a few cheers, but then it died down to a silence almost as pronounced as the ones Paul usually received. Ryan obviously loved acting, that much was for sure. At the start, his foot was propped up slightly near a tent after he walked out of it, and then, at the “Fire” in his eyes, he dipped a bit like he did in “Ride On” in the previous DVD. But otherwise, no pouncing Ryan as in the other song. Unless, of course, if you count the time the woman lay down in the grass and he did sort of a push-up, falling down over her without actually touching and then springing back up. Paul was a bit envious of that—he had tried to fall into a push-up and then pop up as easily as Ryan had, but all he got in return was a sprained wrist. After standing up again, Ryan backed up to the well, where his girl was waiting, and then, taking her hand, ran to the other side of the stage onto the bridge. He stood behind her, taking both her hands and sort of embracing her, where they stood until the end of the song, when the lights went out. Honestly, as far as Paul could tell, there should have been more action. The music of the song is absolutely gorgeous, and crescendos seemed to scream, “Run! Pounce! Leap across the stage, Ryan!” but he had none of that. Keith sang and danced in “Shadows Dancing,” and Paul had to admit, Keith was pretty darn good at it. Now, in the show, this was supposed to be Ryan’s sister. So naturally, when she came up to stand right behind Keith and placed her hand on his chest while swaying in time, he blew his top, chasing them offstage at the end in a definite, “I can steal away girls by the midnight well, but don’t you dare steal a man in the dancing shadows!” Paul smirked as the three ran off, the phrase playing in head. Now, the next song, “Harry’s Game,” Paul thought that it was too Celtic Woman. There was a girl starting it off with a pronounced Enya or Clannad style, and the five of them were just harmonizing with her in the background. Afterwards, they joined in and took over the song, but when Paul took another step as if to try another Zara episode, she very obviously said, “No,” with her gestures. Sighing, he stepped back, finishing the short song. As the others left, Paul sang, “Tender is the Night.” As he sang it, he could not help but think about Dominique. Towards the end of the song, he walked over to the girl sitting in the grass and helped her up, and they sang and danced a bit together. I’m yearning for your touch yearning for your tenderness you’ve made me whole touched my very soul
The future is so bright tender is the night! George sang, “This was my Life,” and in the background, Ryan sat in the gypsy camp, listening. Then George sat beside one of the settlers; now this one, out of all of the settlers, Paul thought, stuck out the most because of his white golf shirt and gray pants. In truth, he looked less from the period as the rest of the guys did, and more as though he had come over to his neighbor’s barbecue. Now, one of the group’s favorite songs was “Look at Me.” It had an awesome beat, Damien was hilarious in his dirty, ragged clothes while saying that he had flair and flirting with the girls. But mostly, the constant tormenting between Keith and Damien was entertaining. Keith was always poking Damien in the chest, trying to knock him over, and when two girls walked by, Keith waved slightly. Damien kept on singing, Look at me, I’m cool, and I’m charming Debonair and disarming Don’t need no fandango…
Look at me, I’m cool, and I’m charming I ain’t no beginner A natural winner!
I can sing a capella, I’m a heck of a fella, look at me! For that last part, he actually did sing it a capella. At the same time, Keith kept on saying, Look at you! You know nothing at all about ladies! You’re heading for trouble! Take a good look at yourself for goodness’ sake all the ladies are laughin’ And then the two started out singing their own parts, overlapping and picking on each other. It was so much fun to watch the two of them sparring! Next, and last for the first act, was “Hail the Hero” combined with “Mo Ghile Mear.” All in all, it was a stand-off between the two clans. It was a wonderful ending, and the crowd was on their feet. On the way out, Keith totally took on the big brother role, catching Damien in a headlock and then kicking him—playfully—in the behind. The intermission was 45 minutes due to a lot of set-up changes and one very pesky curtain. No matter what they did, it was stuck. The lads all waited backstage, and as Ryan walked past Paul, he said, “That curtain reminds me of you—it just wants so much attention!” Paul veered around, but started laughing as he realized that that did have some truth in it. After 30 minutes, they finally managed to get that curtain up and the show began! “In case this happens again tomorrow night, bring a flashlight,” said Sharon over the radio. “Take Me Home.” As Paul walked out, he could not help but hold his jacket open while strutting out in a very swanky manner, true to his name. Ryan stood as he always did, with his arms, as usual, not straight down at his sides, but slightly bent, as though about to grab something. At the end, all of them ran back, but Ryan paused to prepare for his next song, “Every Breath You Take.” Just before beginning, though, he hesitated as though saying to himself, “Okay, you can do this; now put your Dark Destroyer face on.” And he did. But as he sang, Paul marveled once more at how different Ryan was on and off stage. He was the heartbreaker before the camera, but a very kind and relaxed man when offstage. The transformation was very much like a Jekyll and Hyde difference. Now, again, there was a connection between two songs. In “Just Like Jesse James,” she was very clearly mad at Keith, basically saying, “You messed up, now I’m going to back off while you think about what you’ve done,” and he was sorry…hence the song, “Hard to Say I’m Sorry.” In the first, however, Paul kept his mic off because he was laughing at how Damien tried to disappear but Keith kept on tugging him back next to him. He could just hear Keith’s silent yell to Damo: “Wait! Get back here! I need you for moral support! Come on, I promise I won’t poke you anymore!” But cruel, cruel Damien just shook his head, donned the “No Way!” look on his face and drew a finger across his throat before successfully escaping. Next came Damien with his Michael Bublé song, “Home.” When he pulled his hand out of the pocket and the white inside was sticking out, Paul groaned and hid his face in his hands. Ever the fashion expert, it killed him to see a friend mess up so much. Fortunately, Sharon told him via the mic and he casually pushed it back in. George nailed the “My Life with You” perfectly, dipping the microphone like Damien once had. And then Paul came out for his “You Raise Me Up” solo. The song was one of his favorites, especially the ending, and as he has grown accustomed, for his songs the crowd was absolutely silent, whereas for the others’, they were cheering and screaming and clapping along. This awed silence was one reason he loved singing these songs. At the “I am strong” lyric, he was so intensely absorbed in it that he could feel tears pricking his eyes as he thought about what this song meant. When he finished, he could see that many others in the audience were crying, tears streaming openly down their faces. With a slight bow, he left the stage to quickly change for his next song, returning as fast as he could. Suddenly, the fake tree at the back fell over. The lads exchanged glances, but figured that it would just have to stay that way. “Hallelujah” was beautiful—the three could harmonize perfectly, with their high, slightly raspy voices. Damo walked out from behind the fallen tree and leaned on the fence, crossing his arms. “Standing on the Corner,” Damo was wearing cream from head to toe and singing, “I’m the cat that got the cream.” He remembered how Sharon had wanted him to wear that color exactly for that reason. He danced with his girl, eyed others, and the two winked at each other at the end. Now who could possibly hate “Bad Bad Leroy Brown?” Ryan ran across the stage one way and then back again, wearing a fedora and a totally gangster-style pinstripe suit. The dancers were incredibly coordinated, and the song went great. They chased away Damien and his new girlfriend, and Paul smiled at that one. Now Keith ran out for his “Surfer Medley.” As before, Paul smirked at the light-colored shoes. First Damien, now Keith, had taken the light shoes away from Paul, who had always worn them in the other shows. Keith was great, totally rocking out, playing that guitar like his life depended on it. But, halfway through the song, one of the dancers suddenly broke the zipper on her left boot. Frowning as he tried to figure out how you could shred a zipper onstage by simply dancing, Paul watched the audience, smiling when he saw some of the older generation stand up and begin dancing along. And at the “bushy bushy blond hairdo” line? Keith tossed his head back, showing off his bushy bushy blond hairdo. Hearing the Keith’s music end, Paul slung his cane over his shoulder and casually strutted out, leaning on it and crossing one ankle over the other when he got to the end of the stage. It was wonderful! A short opera run in the middle, swinging on the pole like Fred Astraire, tap dancing, and tilting his head in time to the music. At the very end, just as he was supposed to strike the final pose, he jumped up, twisting in the air…and landed a little bit off. Teetering there, on the verge of falling backwards, he laughed quietly, hearing some of the audience notice and chuckle along with him. Just as he was running up the steps to his dressing room, the slick taps on his shoes made him skid on the smooth steps and he fell forward, hitting his shin hard on the step above it. With a groan, he sat down on the top one, massaging the hurt spot. “You all right, Paul?” asked Ryan, running by to get ready for the next song after George’s. “Yeah,” he mumbled, struggling to his feet. Limping the rest of the way, he managed to get to his room. And then they all came out for their most favorite song of all, “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” Paul had had just enough time to change into a normal shirt and black jacket, and they were now all wearing black jackets, pants, and white shirts with black ties. Grinning, Paul glanced down at his sparkling tie. He had convinced Sharon that there was no need to go buy another one for the show after he had “lost” his plain old matte one. She knew that he had just not wanted to wear it, but went along with his ploy, letting him wear it. And honestly, it did look better. He had even overheard her talking to Phil, saying how “that Paul has an uncanny sense of fashion—his sparkling black tie is the best.” During the part where they were still on the steps, Paul lifted his hand to his ear, encouraging the crowd to cheer, and when they responded, Damien immediately looked over his shoulder at him, wondering what his friend had done now. Since his jacket was buttoned, he had to undo that one button just before they started singing the chorus. But from then on, Paul did a Michael Jackson strut, arms out, hips swinging, face beaming, and emphasized the last line with a clenched fist and a face scrunched up with the effort. While they ran up to get into their kilts, the band filled in with a quick number. For “Ireland’s Call,” they all waltzed out in kilts. The crowd leaped to their feet, cracking glow-sticks and cheering. While George sang, he and Damien knocked fists. Now, with his deeper voice, Damien joined George in his solo, but also stayed with Paul for his original one. After the second one, however, he forgot to stand still and stepped down to go forward. Paul instinctually grabbed his shoulder and tugged him back up; as a result, he himself turned a second too late to face Keith and Ryan while they soloed. Sharon saw the mischievous gleam in Paul’s eye that could mean only one thing. What worried her, however, was that Damien seemed to have the same look in his eye. Groaning, she watched helplessly as they turned around fast enough that the kilts flew straight out. They walked back, almost all identical, and she considering ordering Damien to find someone else to be his idol—such as Ryan, whose kilt seemed glued to his legs, never lifting once. Smiling, she mused, If I switch the kilts on those two, will it change anything? Is it in the kilt, or in the lad? As far as she could tell, they all twirled the same. On the way back, turning again, Paul twirled so hard this time that it REALLY flew out, showing way too much for those in the first few rows. They did, of course, appreciate the view, but it was inappropriate. Growling, she waited for them to finish. * * * “Paul!” she called as she came backstage. There was no answer, so she went to where the commotion was. Paul was there, chatting with Damien, but his leg was on another chair, a heavy ice pack pressed tightly to his shin. He had a pained grimace on his face, and judging by how gingerly he checked the injury, it hurt a lot. “You all right?” she asked, biting back the lecture she had been about to unreel on him. He glanced up in surprise. “Yeah, just hit my leg going up those stairs to my room. Apparently, tap shoes and linoleum do not mix to create much friction. Who knew?” he added with a lopsided grin, but underneath, she could see that he was in pain. “Okay, do you still want to do the M&G? Or should someone else fill in?” He shut his eyes for a second, and then opened them again. “Totally forgot about those.” He looked up at her. “Naw, it’s okay, I’ll do them.” He stood up stiffly, but his leg almost gave out when he put pressure on it. Catching his balance, he limped off to where Keith and Ryan waited, tossing the ice pack to Declan, who had hit himself on the arm while walking through a doorway. She frowned again. How could he have danced and gone through two more songs with that leg, if he is limping so much now? Shaking her head, she left to go find the others.
|
|
|
Post by orinocoflow on Dec 23, 2010 14:54:36 GMT -5
Chapter Fourteen
Trouble names Storm Finally, tour was over for the next few months. The only time they would have to get back together was for promo tours and maybe special-request appearances. Paul loved being back in Dublin, but as he drove slowly through a pouring rain with lightning and teeth-rattling thunder, he had to admit that the one thing he would never miss from home was its notorious weather—rain, rain, and more rain. Toss in a few hundred lightning bolts and thunder to knock your teeth out and you have a prescription for Dublin. Sighing, he focused on the road ahead, of which he could see only three feet in front of his car. Suddenly, there came a loud thud and a jolt as he hit something that was on the road. Slamming the brakes, Paul stopped, wondering what to do. He had on a suit because he had just come back from an interview for his solo concert, and the raincoat was in the trunk. No umbrella to speak of because he had let Dominique borrow it after a dinner they had shared and they had gone separate ways afterwards. Grumbling, he got out of the car, squinting to see in the downpour. A black lump lay in the road just ahead of his car. As he got closer, he could see that it was a dog, and going by the form and the coat, it was a German Shepherd, although a small one. No collar was around its neck, and as he ran his hands over the drenched fur, he could not feel too much fat; in fact, there was nothing but tough muscle on the lean body. Paul could not see any injuries until he got to the legs. Well, “see” was an exaggeration—he could only feel anything. Sight was next to impossible under the conditions. Anyway, there was a single broken leg, and as he checked for anything else, the dog lifted his head and growled. “Yeah, okay, you have full right to be mad at me, fella,” murmured Paul, feeling to see how bad the leg was. “Except now, I’m trying to help you, all right? No need to bite me.” The dog looked at him with a pair of midnight blue eyes, and then lay back down as if understanding what Paul was saying. Slipping his hands underneath the dog, Paul struggled to his feet under the surprisingly heavy body. Staggering to the car, he laid the dog on the back seat and got back behind the wheel, soaked from the rain. * * * “He’s going to be fine, no worries, Mr. Byrom,” said the vet, coming back into the room. “Just make sure he rests enough, and his leg should heal in no time. He’s tough, and will no doubt give you trouble. A bath won't hurt him, though,” added the vet with a small smile. “He could definitely use one.” Paul nodded. “Yeah, sure, I’ll see what I can do about that.” The vet looked at him for a long time. “Mr. Byrom, if you won't mind me asking, you travel a lot—who will take care of him when you’re out of town?” Paul glanced up. He really had not thought about that at all. Shaking his head, he shrugged. “Honestly, when I get to that, I’ll think about it. For now, I’ll stick to this.” “Okay, your dog. Just be careful, okay?” * * * Trouble was a major understatement. Pretty soon, the dog, which he had named Storm, was becoming a horrible handful. He refused to rest, ate anything in sight, and although he loved baths, he also loved running around the tub and then escaping through the window to go swim in the pool. Overall, Paul never thought a dog could be so much trouble. Also, he had learned a new trick from somewhere—he could make a high whine that sounded incredibly like someone saying “Paul…” It was always confusing, especially if Paul was on the phone. So far, he had told no one about Storm, not even Dominique. She had been a bit curious as to why Paul had canceled a few of the dates that they had had, but had not asked any questions. However, each time they talked, Paul could hear her getting more and more suspicious. It got to the point where Phil was also beginning to wonder why Paul did not go out as he had been aching to do all tour, and that was not something Paul wanted to get into. He had seen that upsetting Dominique once had practically cost him his job, and he was not going to make that mistake again. And so he avoided her as much as possible. One day, he returned from letting Storm out in the backyard and closed him in the bedroom as he usually did. He was tired and sweaty, since Storm had wanted to run, dragging Paul with him. Being covered in mud from where there had been a pair of paw prints on his chest, he threw the shirt in the laundry when the door bell rang. Expecting Ryan since the two were going to hit the town, he opened the door, saying, “Hold on a sec, let me get ready,” but stopped half-way through the sentence when he saw who it was. Dominique took in his bare chest, tousled hair from pulling the shirt off, flushed and sweaty face, and, with a frown, took a step back. Paul jumped back, astonished. “Dominique, I-I…it’s not what you think…” but just then there came a “Paul…” from behind the closed bedroom door. She glanced toward it, her face turning pale with anger and false realization. Without another word, she stepped forward, slapped Paul hard across the face, and left, the door slamming shut behind her. Paul stared at the closed door, trying to grasp what had just happened. When it hit him, he closed his eyes and groaned. There was a horrible case of déjà vu as he remembered, on a winter night so long ago, Phil shutting the door in his face, furious. He walked back to the room, looking at his German Shepherd dog whose middle name was T. R. O. U. B. L. E. He plopped down on the bed, exhausted from the run and the recent events. Storm was completely healed now, happily running around whenever he could, a bundle of energy. There was only one thing he could do, and that was to tell the truth. Grabbing fresh clothes, he went to take a shower and then planned on paying a visit to Phil and Dominique, bringing the four-legged demolition squad with him. * * * When he got back, there was a message on his phone. Already guessing the context, he clicked on it anyway. “Paul…what is going on? Didn’t we already go through with this two years ago? Call back when you get this; I need to talk to you in person, so set up a time.” “Yeah, Phil, we did,” muttered Paul into the empty air. Grabbing the leash, he practically got bowled over by a whirlwind excited over another possible walk. * * * When the door opened, Paul thought it would be Phil. Surprisingly, it was Dominique. When she saw him, she let him in silently, and if he could he would have wrapped her in his arms right then and there and apologized, explaining everything, but a sudden jerk on his left arm sent him sprawling and sliding through the house at incredible speed until he reached the kitchen, where he could do nothing until he hit the counter at full speed head-first. All went black. When he came to, he was still on the floor, his head resting on something soft, his left shoulder felt like it had been wrenched out, and the back of his head throbbed. Opening his eyes, he saw Dominique kneeling beside him, pressing something cold to the back of his head, her face worried. He struggled to sit up, dizzy, but mumbled, “Where’s that crazy dog?” before sliding back down, feeling lightheaded. Phil laughed from somewhere above him, and suddenly he was being licked by a long, wet tongue that smelled of ham and cheese. Sputtering, he pushed away the furry friend…or fiend, depending on how you looked at it, who started saying “Paul…” again, this time with an accusing tone. Dominique froze when she heard that sound and looked into Paul’s eyes. He glanced away, not sure how to tell her. “Um, at first, he was going to appear at that party Phil’s throwing next week, but I guess that plan kind of back-fired,” he muttered, getting to his feet and sitting down on a chair. She looked at him for a moment, and then hugged him tightly, laying her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Paul, I thought the worst when I saw you like that. I think I’d better start listening to your side of the story before making decisions.” “I can see where you were coming from with that,” he replied, rubbing the back of his head. It was still pounding, and he was not sure that he could stand up straight if he tried, but it was better. “I had just come back from a very tiring and muddy walk with him, so that’s why…yeah…” he trailed off. Phil cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that that explains pretty much everything. And judging by what just happened to lunch, I understand why you would be afraid to leave him home alone,” he added with a smile. Paul looked at Storm, who was again sniffing over the tabletop, hoping to score another sandwich. He had grown since Paul had first gotten him, and now towered above other German Shepherds by at least three inches. “Does he have any training?” asked Phil, eying the hungry dog with amusement and approval. He was a handsome, lean, muscled German Shepherd in excellent physical shape, and his dark blue eyes hid a smart, creative, mischievous mind. Paul nodded sullenly. “Sort of, but only if he wants to. The guy at the center said that Storm is the hardest dog he has ever tried to train, and we are still trying to. He can sit and lie down easily enough; can jump over anything, including the fence in the yard, my car, and across the room in a single leap; fetches anything, no matter where it is, even if it’s at the bottom of the pool. He can roll over as many times as you ask him to, and plays dead beautifully—kind of scares me a bit, especially when I really can't tell if he’s okay or not. He brings the paper without shredding it, doesn’t chase cats if I tell him not to, and can walk next to me without ripping my arm out if there is no food around. I don’t think he has a ‘full’ mode—he’s always hungry, and believe me when I say always.” Phil laughed. “Sounds like any growing dog to me. How old is he?” “About year, probably less, since he was smaller when I got him. I could lift him then, but now it’s quite a strain.” Dominique looked up at that last part. “How long have you had him?” “I found him a few days after I came back from tour. You know that really bad storm we had? It was that night.” Storm finally gave up on another sandwich and veered around to face Paul and Dominique, his pink tongue lolling. Uttering a short, clipped bark, he jogged over and slumped his huge head on Paul’s knee, his fangs peeking out from his mouth, long, white, and sharp. He danced his eyebrows, and Dominique laughed when she saw how similar it was to Paul’s signature move. The dog shifted his gaze to her, and immediately lifted his head, his mouth open again, and began to yodel as only his breed could. They all laughed while Paul grimaced, trying to catch the “singing” dog, but Dominique stopped him, shaking her head and smiling. “He’s a member of a singing family—what did you expect?” Paul grinned when he realized that that was true. Except… “Family?” Dominique looked at him, confusion in her eyes. “All of Celtic Thunder, basically.” When she saw his face contort, hope giving way to a closed expression, she felt distraught. “Oh, Paul, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that you thought—“ “Naw, it’s okay,” he said quickly, cutting her off with a shake of the head. “Today seems like the day for misunderstandings.” Pulling her into his lap and wrapping both arms around her as he had wanted to when he first came, he leaned back in the chair and watched Storm sing along while Phil played “Steal Away” on the piano. Ironically, the howling was perfectly in tune with the melody and changed tone from high to low notes in just the places it was supposed to. The new member of the singing family.
|
|