MirrorMusic by Lily Harlem Page B

depended on it. My pussy spasmed and throbbed, pulsating around his cock
as he filled the condom, riding through his insanely intense pleasure as I
claimed mine with a greed I’d never known before or since.
     
    Our breaths slowed and I dropped my hands from my eyes. It
had been a long time since a flashback had overwhelmed me. Blinking in the
harsh light of the corridor, I reoriented myself to my surroundings. The walls
were painted a sickly green and the floor strewn with litter. Robbie was still
singing, hammering out the chorus of Strawberries and Screams . A small
tremor attacked my body. I could have told myself it was the cold but I knew it
was the vividness of the memory that had generated the pleasurable little
shiver.
    I glanced left and right and pushed away from the wall. Soon
the corridor would be heaving with thousands. I didn’t want to get caught up in
the surge of people. I should really get going.
    I shoved my hands deep in the pocket of my pink hooded top
and my right fist clutched the small red plastic card that had dropped on my
parents’ doormat two weeks ago. Manic Machines—Full Access Backstage Pass was written in thick black letters along with the dates and Jenny Calahan .
    I knew he’d sent it, along with a single ticket for
each of the Wembley performances. Four tickets in total. Four separate nights.
    He wanted me to come.
    Really wanted me to come.
    The tickets were strange after such a long time with no
contact but Robbie had never done things the conventional way, which, I
guessed, is why he was the superstar he was.
    I hadn’t wanted to come to his
concert and never would have chosen to. I knew seeing Robbie in the flesh would
exhaust my confused, long-buried emotions. Also I didn’t know if I could cope
with seeing him do his stuff. Singing brilliantly and entertaining thousands
with his chat and his devastating smile and all the time him not belonging to
me. But curiosity had gotten the better of me, which was why I was here on the
last night of Manic Machines’ tour.
    My soft shoes were silent as I searched for signs to
backstage. Eventually, after what felt like a mile with no luck, I asked a
stern-looking security man who bent my pass with nailbitten fingers, testing
for authenticity.
    “You’ve come the wrong way, love. Best thing you can do now
is go outside,” he said after he’d all but bitten the plastic between his
teeth. “Then head toward the heavy gates and show this pass. They’ll direct you
from there, it will be quicker than going back the way you came.”
    “Thanks,” I said, re-pocketing the small rectangle of
plastic and wondering whether to follow his directions or just jump on the
Tube. It would be easier to ride home and forget all about Robbie. Forget that
I’d seen him. Forget that I’d listened to him sing about the way we’d been when
things were good between us. The way we’d kissed and made love, shared our
fears and dreams. The way he’d held me tight and lost himself in my
vanilla-scented hair. How he remembered I’d used vanilla shampoo was beyond me.
Had he really become lost in my essence when he buried his face in it?
    I stepped outside into the cool October evening. It was
pitch dark and the lampposts shone amber. A hint of drizzle caught in the pools
of light and dampened my hot cheeks. I turned toward the looming black gates.
They were huge and spiked. Beyond them was a host of trucks and vans. Several
generators chugged.
    “Can I help you?” a stern voice asked from the darkness on
the other side of the gate.
    “Er, yes,” I said, looking for the owner of the voice.
    A small man wearing a suit and a peaked cap appeared. Stadium
Security was embroidered in gold thread on his jacket sleeve.
    “I’m trying to get backstage,” I said, holding up my pass as
if it were a golden ticket. But this was no golden ticket. This was no pass to
a chocolate feast. In my hand I held something Robbie had sent to bring me to
him. A key, a