Two Way Street

Mirage drifted on the inflatable pool lounge, one hand holding a mocktail that Vice had mixed for her, and the other trailing in the water, as she watched the two men from behind the shield of her sunglasses. There were worse ways to spend a hot summer afternoon, she thought, and there couldn’t be a better view.

If there was a God, she definitely was a woman, Mirage concluded, because only a woman would have crafted Vice and Victor. They belonged on the covers of the romance books her mother used to read. Victor was a sun-kissed idol of a man, all broad shoulders, bronzed skin, strong jaw, and almost white-blonde hair, reminding her of movie superheroes, and Vice was lean, his hair like thick black silk, all sharp cheekbones and smouldering eyes, reminiscent of the models that sulked their way across the billboards, hands in pockets, and moody darkness in their eyes.

A man for every taste, she joked to herself, except for hers. She was done with men. She was not into women, either however, so she was not exactly sure where that left her, except with very vivid wet dreams over her hosts, and a vibrator with flat batteries.

Discovering that Vice and Victor were not together, had been a shock. She had agreed to come stay in their house to work on her music with them, thinking that she would be safe in doing so because they were a couple, and not into women, and therefore no risk to her. The idea of hiding out on their very secure and seclusive property had been tempting, too, and they had no connection to her that the media could trace so it was hiding in truth, without a trail left behind her.

Vice and Victor had been nothing but gentlemen, and she was glad that she had resisted her initial instinct to find an excuse to leave when she had first turned to see them in the garden. She was not sure what she had expected, she had seen pictures of them from social media, but in person they had been very big and, intimidatingly, very masculine. Her first instinct had been to get back into the car and leave, but they had very quickly put her at ease.

Nice guys, she ruminated, who would have thought they were not unicorns, after all?

And what they did with her music… It was enough to undo a girl. Watching Victor on the drum set, whilst Vice crooned his way through one of her pieces, she had just about left a wet spot on her seat. Men did not do that to her, not her, but there was something about these men, in this hypnotically isolated environment… It felt as if the outside world had ceased to exist, and there was just the music and the three of them, and it was a very intimate, very sexy environment to be in.

If the outside world had ceased to exist, she could live the rest of her life, happily, she thought ruefully, in this oasis with Vice and Victor. In her fantasy world, she would take them both to bed, she decided. Why not? It was a fantasy world, and they were the last men on the world and she the last woman, it would almost be a civic duty to do so. They would spend every day making music in between f-king, and it would be beautiful, and decadent, and glorious, like a romance book.

The reality was that she was not even sure she would ever trust someone enough to let them that close again. She had made a mistake before, trusting someone who was not trustworthy. She did not have the same confidence in her judgement as she used to have. One night out, two glasses of champagne accepted from her producer, Mr Rich, and she was still suffering the repercussions over a year later.

The concept of getting right back on the horse was all very well. But she had been knocked off her horse with a sucker punch and climbing back on it was a terrifying prospect. 

When she had woken face down on the tiles in the front entrance of her house, she had been groggy and confused. She had made her way to the bathroom and begun to remove her clothing, sick to the stomach and with a feeling of growing dread. There had not been bruises, scratches or marks to indicate violence, but she had been sore, an aching raw soreness that had made her body feel alien to her. An awareness had grown that something had happened to her that she could not quite remember.

She had showered, trying to find coherency in her memories of the night before. She had been to a night club, and had two glasses of champagne, before things began to get… fuzzy. She had a strict rule, no more than two alcoholic drinks ever. It helped keep her weight down, something that her publicity team were strict on, and it also ensured that she was never photographed stumbling out of a club or party a mess. There was just no way that she had broken that rule without some help.

The security cameras caught her return at three am, staggering from the limo onto the porch, punching in her door code, lipstick and mascara smeared, stockings ripped, top on backwards, one shoe clutched to her chest, the other she had never found. She had managed to close the door behind her, before collapsing.

The magazine covers and online stories had followed. Images of her, makeup a mess and clothing dishevelled, stumbling out of the night club with Mr Rich’s help. She had hidden in her house for three days, too ashamed and confused to try to fight the battle that she knew lay ahead of her.

It had been a week before a meeting about her next album had forced her out of the house to the label’s offices, and it was there that she had confronted Mr Rich with the inconsistencies of the night and learnt the harsh realities of being a woman in the music industry.

“Don’t be mistaken, Mirage,” he had hissed at her. “You may be topping the charts, but if you push this, you will never work again. I made you, I can unmake you just as easily. You are signed for another album and then you are up for renewal. I can bury that album, and you will never record again, never be free of the contract.”

She had recoiled from his fury. “F-k you, Richard,” she told him. “What you did was criminal. You will be lucky to see the outside of a jail cell again after I am done with you.”

“Prove it,” he had replied, with a sneering smile. “Another stupid girl, too many drinks, waking up the next morning with buyer’s remorse. Do your research, sweetheart. Even if you manage to get the police to put forth your case, the judge will rip it to shreds, or the jury will throw it out. At most, I will get a good behaviour bond, meanwhile, your career will be at an end. That is how it works. It is a man’s world. Sucks to be you,” his grin was malicious.

He was right. Her lawyer was not quite so blunt about it, but he had said that cases were not won on she said versus he said, and with no evidence of force, no police report the morning after, no hospital records, that was what it came down to.

“I had two glasses of champagne,” she had protested. “Both of which he served me. There is no way I would have passed out unless he dosed me with something.”

But she had not sought medical help the morning after and so had no evidence of assault, no record of it, and too much time had passed in between for any remnant of drugs to remain in her system to show on a test. And so, he would get away with it, and she would be forced to make another album with him.

And it did not matter how responsible she had been throughout her music career, how committed to health and fitness, how professional she had always been, one night had changed her profile with the media. Suddenly she was a bad girl pop star, and every article that she read about herself debated what sort of crises she was undergoing.

“Mirage in rehab” had stung after a visit to the GP to get a STD check in case Mr Rich had not used protection and to start contraception – something she had never worried about, making the few sexual partners she took to bed wear a condom anyway. “Mirage’s struggle with drugs and alcohol” when they had caught her without makeup and in a tracksuit after an early morning hot yoga session – it had been her first trip out, trying to recapture the sense of normality that he had stripped from her. “Mirage’s sudden weight-loss” was attributed to her drug habits, not to the stress of being hounded by the media and betrayed by her producer.

She had been frightened, and then that fear had shifted and changed into anger. She had focussed that anger into her music and decided, if she could not fight the battle on one front, she would fight it in the way she was equipped to do – through her lyrics and her songs.

She had set her lawyer onto the contract with the label and found two clauses that she planned to use to secure her future. The first utilized Vice and Victor – the clause stated that she could use another producer as long as they were also signed by the label and if she had the label’s approval, which she had gained by pointing out that she wanted a more rock sound and that Mr Rich was strictly a pop producer.

The other label producers had turned her down, put off by her fabricated reputation and threats from Mr Rich. Whilst Vice and Victor were not, strictly, producers, they were artists who dabbled, and the label had agreed with her using them, and they had accepted her, and so there she was, making the album which Mr Rich had threatened to bury.

And it was a hell of an album. She could feel the magic of it building every day, coaxed into actuality by Vice and Victor’s skilled hands. They knew what they were about, she thought with satisfaction. She would work with them again if she got the opportunity.

The other clause, she was holding in reserve, until it came to negotiations with the label.

Victor popped the top of a champagne bottle, and she laughed as the cork flew over the pool and disappeared into the garden. “Can I tempt you?” He asked. Both men were shirtless, in board shorts, preparing to join her into the pool. Oh, yes, she thought, eyeing them up from behind her sunglasses, they sure could tempt her. There was a lot of male muscle on display – they could tempt a nun, she suspected.

She hesitated. “Oh, alright, then,” she decided. She had seen him open it, after all, and the flutes were right there on the table. And Vice and Victor were not Mr Rich. As if reading her mind, Victor brought the plastic flutes to the edge of the pool and poured right in front of her. No, they were not Mr Rich.

Inside the house, she could see the caterers beginning work in the kitchen. They were expecting James and Seb from Two-Way Street for lunch, followed by a recording session, and were using the time in between to catch some sun. She needed some vitamin d, she thought, surveying how pale her skin had grown in the past twelve months, from hiding away from photographers behind oversized tracksuits and sunglasses.

Vice waded into the pool and collected two flutes on his way, bringing them over to her. “Lady’s choice,” he said, with a wicked grin that flashed his perfect teeth. She felt the sharp kick of desire and had the sudden urge to find out if he tasted as good as he looked. She had a suspicion that Vice would taste of absinthe and dark chocolate, whereas Victor would taste of champagne and honey.

Oh, but she could just imagine the magazine covers that would result. Mirage in sex retreat with Vice and Victor, she thought wryly, as she smiled and took the flute from his left hand. “Thanks.”

He took her empty mocktail cup back to the edge, and Victor collected it up and placed it onto the table. And wasn’t he a glorious sight doing so? She sighed a little as she sipped her champagne. He filled his swim shorts so well… from both directions.

She needed to buy new batteries. Things were just getting way to vivid without that relief.

“So, the guys from Two-Way Street are arriving soon?” She asked Vice when he returned to the side of her float.

“Hold this,” he replied passing her his champagne flute.

She took it automatically, and he lifted himself up onto the float with her, causing her to shriek with laughter as the float dipped beneath the surface, bathing her back in the cold water. She managed to avoid spilling the two flutes of champagne as he arranged himself along her side, his skin cold from the water. The float folded them in together, and there was a lot more of Vice than her, so she slid into him, but she was acclimating to Vice and Victor’s tactile tendencies and did not resist it.

And, oh, gawd, being pressed up against Vice’s side was not exactly an unpleasant situation to be in. He put his arm behind her head, balancing out the float so it did not tip them into the water, and she rested her head back against his bicep.

He did not know, she thought, how much trust it took for her to do so.

He smelled of dangerously masculine things; ocean spray, smoke, and whiskey, she thought. And his skin warmed quickly now that he was out of the water. He seemed content to float with her against his side, sipping champagne together lazily, and she relaxed against him.

“James and Seb,” he said now that they had achieved balance on the float, and they were both relaxed. “They don’t live far away, and so agreed to come by today. Victor and I aren’t awful,” he turned his head and grinned down at her. “But James has a more edgy style which we think will heighten your music. Seb is very imaginative, too. He will think of chord combinations and alterations that we might not otherwise see. Their band is really very good.”

“I have heard them,” she agreed. “I liked what I have heard.”

“Yes, they are very talented, and good people,” Vice replied comfortably. “It is important in this industry to find and keep close the good people. Talking about…” He saw Victor step into the house. “I think they just arrived.”

“Should we get out of the pool?” She did not want to. It was nice floating with Vice’s hard body against hers.

“No,” he lifted his sunglasses, watching the inside of the house. She heard voices and saw a group of people enter. “Ah, they brought the whole band,” he added, unbothered by the additions.

“Hey!” Two-Way Street’s drummer James’ hair was an overgrown ash-blonde, and he wore a scruff of stubble on his face as if he had not bothered shaving for a week. She recognised him from the promotional videos and gossip pages.

“No fair, Vice,” he complained already stepping out his shoes and pulling off his designer-faded t-shirt. He had the sort of physique that was naturally given to skinniness, she thought with envy, and with lean muscles that were reflective of his instrument’s demands. “I want to float with Mirage.” He shoved his jeans off his hips and waded into the pool in his underwear, completely uninhibited by the fact that he wasn’t wearing swimwear.

“Beat you to it, James,” Vice replied with a lazy smirk. 

“Hi,” James came to her side of the float and crossed his arms on its edge, grinning up at her with pure cheeky charm. “I am your future husband, James.”

“Does the divine Megan know about your unfaithfulness?” Vice drawled.

“She knows that Mirage is my free pass, and is completely open to a threesome,” James replied with dignity. “You will like her,” he added to Mirage. “She will make us a great mistress.”

“I am sure I will,” Mirage was amused. “When is the wedding?”

“James, stop drooling on the pop-star,” Owen, the lead guitarist and composer of the band, stepped out the house, holding the hand of his very pregnant fiancé, and lead singer, Emily’s hand. “We thought we had better come,” he said to Vice, “and keep an eye on the kids. You know how they are when there is a new toy.”

“More the merrier,” Vice replied easily. “Emily, you look like a gorgeous beach ball. I would come and welcome you properly, but doing so would tip Mirage into the water, so, alas, I am stuck here until she grows tired of me and shoves me off.”

Emily laughed and turned to the side so he could get the full impact of her stomach. “You look very comfortable,” she said. “I would need a crane to get onto a float at the moment, so I will just lie on a sunbed and watch you with envy.”

“I will get you a drink,” Owen told her as she settled on one of the sunbeds.

“Thanks,” she rubbed her stomach, and watched him go back into the house before turning her attention back to the occupants of the pool. “Seb and Jacinta are getting into their swimsuits,” she added to Vice. “And I think Jeremy has pinned Victor at the beer fridge… Ah, no, here they come.”

Victor, Jeremy, and Owen came out carrying drinks and laughing.

Owen handed Emily a glass of sparkling water dressed with a slice of lemon, before pushing a slice into the neck of his beer bottle and taking a swig. “So, introductions,” he said.

“The one bonus of being famous is that they are so rarely needed,” Victor observed with an edge of amusement. “But for the sake of appearing polite, Mirage, this is Owen, Emily, Jeremy, and James has probably introduced himself. The beautiful lady that Vice has his arm around is Mirage, of course.”

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” they chorused back to her.

“And this is Jacinta and Seb,” Owen added as the keyboardist and his girlfriend stepped out of the house.

“Hi,” the young, blonde woman beamed. “Oh my gosh, I so want your autograph, if that isn’t rude to ask. And a photo. I am such a fan. I went to your last three concerts and own every one of your albums.”

“She does,” Seb confirmed.

“Sure,” Mirage replied. “We will do it after lunch.”

“Oh, so cool.”

“So, you are moving into rock?” Seb waded down the stairs into the pool and grimaced as the cold of the water hit him. “Pool isn’t heated?” He complained.

“Cold water is good for you,” Vice replied. “We turn off the heating when it is a very hot day.”

“The only thing cold water is good for is shrinkage,” Seb ducked down and blew out as he acclimated.

“Speak for yourself,” Vice purred, sliding Mirage a smirk. “Not an issue I experience.”

“You are not human, and that is why,” Seb replied, swimming out towards them. “I would tip you into the water, but that would mean tipping Mirage, too, and that would just be rude.”

“Refill?” Victor brought the champagne to the edge of the pool.

“Yes. James if you would oblige,” Vice used a hand to direct the float and James paddled them over to where Victor stood. Vice handed him Mirage’s flute before she could protest. What was the harm, she decided, with letting her guard down a little? Vice was drinking out of the same bottle, and the champagne was being poured in front of her, after all.

Victor poured himself a glass and sat on the edge of the pool, before slipping into the water. He walked over to Mirage’s other side. “Off with you, James,” he nudged the drummer. “Or I will tell Megan.”

“Megan said if I could persuade her into bed, she would join in,” James protested pouting.

“Mirage isn’t going to sleep with you or Megan, are you Mirage?” Victor chuckled. “Just tell him no,” he encouraged. “Or he will cling to the hope that he can charm you into it.”

“Sorry,” Mirage said to James. “You are cute, but have you seen my press? I can’t risk playing around, or before you know it, I will be having your love-baby according to the gossip mags.”

“Oh, the woes of fame,” James winked and paddled off.

“He is harmless,” Victor said under his breath as if to reassure her.

“Yeah, I got that,” she acknowledged.

Conversation ebbed and flowed around them, and she thought this was what it would be like at a family function, everyone comfortable with each other, relaxed, and enjoying each other’s company on a beautiful day, by a beautiful pool.

“Alas,” Vice said. “I think our lunch is served.”

Victor scooped her off the float, causing her to exclaim in surprise, and tipping Vice into the water. He chuckled at his partner’s complaint as he carried her with apparent ease, above the reach of the water, and up the steps, before placing her feet to the ground. “Ah, thanks,” she said breathlessly, more than a little aroused by the physicality of the gesture.

“No sense in you getting chilled before the meal,” he replied lightly.

“What about me?” Vice sulked as he waded his way to the steps.

Mirage laughed.

Once everyone had settled around the beautifully dressed table and helped themselves to the food, Seb tried again. “So, changing from pop to rock, is interesting?” He prompted.

“I was rock, before I got into pop,” she explained. “But the label preferred me as pop, so that is how I was rebranded when I signed with them.”

“Rock rock, or pop rock?” James wondered.

“There are so many sub genres and fusions of rock,” Seb complained. “We’re pop rock,” he pointed out to the drummer.

“Nah, we are garage,” James argued.

“Alternative,” was Victor’s opinion. “But it depends on the song and album. Your first album was more garage. The current album you’re working on is a bit more punk and alternative.”

“It just depends on Owen’s mood at the time,” Emily smiled fondly at her fiancé.

“What mood am I in at the moment?” He asked her with a crooked grin.

“Not at the table,” Seb told them haughtily, but with laughter behind the hauteur. “And they call us children,” he said to Mirage. “So, where are you leaning with your genre?”

“Glam,” she winked, and made a face, her tongue out and a rock on hand signal.

Seb almost snorted his champagne as he laughed. “Oh, that is a good look.”

“Isn’t it, just,” she grinned, and sipped her champagne. It was fuller than she remembered and had a moment of suspicion that tightened her gut but made herself relax. It was fine, she told herself. Everyone at the table was drinking from the same bottles.

As they finished the meal, Mirage posed for a photo with Jacinta, and signed a napkin, before the group took the leftover champagne to the studio.

“We will play the backing track we have been working with, so you get a feel,” Victor decided.

Mirage took her place at the microphone and put on the headset, tapping her foot as the pizzicato began. When the track ended, James burst in. “I want in on that,” he declared enthusiastically sliding onto the drum stool. “Start over.”

She had not enjoyed working on an album this much before, she thought as the afternoon progressed. Her first album she had loved working on, when the excitement of finally getting a toe into the industry was still fresh. Working with Mr Rich had been considered an honour and an achievement. He had a strong history in the industry, coming into producing after being an artist himself, a similar path to that Vice and Victor were taking.

But, so much of her music had been controlled by him, it had been less of a collaboration and more her presenting the raw and him doing what he liked with it. And it had never been without a side serving of criticism, about her weight, her look, her skills as a musician, her voice, or her career. She had never worked hard enough for him, never been thin enough, pretty enough or dressed right.

It had been a toxic artist and producer relationship that had edged towards abuse on several occasions that she could recall now with hindsight, even before that night. At the time, she had believed him that she needed to toughen up, take it on the chin, suck it up if she wanted to succeed. But behind her endurance, there had been a growing anger brewing.

It felt good, she thought, to give that anger air, to scream it out into a microphone from between clenched teeth, to spit her rage like venom onto a recording for everyone to hear. Poor little rich girl had been the story of her life, from the time she had lost her parents, until she had aged into the trust fund left to her by them and used it to be free of her grandfather and pursue her music.

No more, she decided. She was not some fragile little flower, not a damsel in distress needing rescue. She was a woman grown, and she had a plan. Get this album out, use her secret weapon to kick Mr Rich where it hurt – the hip pocket - and whilst he was still reeling from that surprise, she would take him down. She was not entirely sure how that last step would be achieved yet, but she would find a way.

Her smile was feral as she sang.