Taking place in the summer of 1978, the story follows 18-year-old aspiring music journalist, nicknamed Goldie, tasked with following up-and-coming UK rock band - The Orphans - while they do their first tour of the U.S. New to life on the road, Goldi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Starlit glitter dashes across the dark sky, accompanied by gray smoke and white noise from their fellow campers. Tents zipping. Quiet chatter. The smell of marijuana and damp moss. Fans howling like coyotes in the distance. Wild predators, there for the music that feeds their souls like small critters.
"ROLLING STONES! ROLLING STONES!" A group chants, their voices echoing in the empty sky.
"THE ORPHANS! THE ORPHANS!" A smaller group rebuts.
Word has gotten out about the fight and allegiances had quickly formed. Under the thin fabric of the communal canopy, Goldie tends to Matt's wounds with a frozen bag of peas from the bus and rubbing alcohol.
"You should see the other guy." Matt jokes, embarrassed by the various cuts on his face.
"I did. You guys did good," Goldie says. Harry clears his throat loudly, not-so-subtly pointing to his minor injuries, signaling for her to help him next. "Take this." She hands Matt the bag of vegetables. "It'll help the swelling."
Matt nods and goes into his tent. All The Orphans sleep soundly. Wendy tended to the trauma of her Lost Boys, save their leader.
She walks to Harry, as though she's walking across a tightrope. The journey towards him is small, yet significant. She has tunnel vision, focused on the bruises littering his beautiful face and body. A flash of fantasies pass her eyes. Kissing each dark blue patch. Running her fingers across the lines of the damaged wings of his butterfly tattoo, up to the splattered wings of the swallows at his clavicle, the wings extended by black blood leaking just beneath the surface of his clear, unblemished skin.
Harry looks directly at her, like a dog with his tail between his legs. Awaiting her truthful commentary. Awaiting her opinion of him.
"Are you disappointed in me?" Harry asks. His voice wavers as he asks the question. He sits atop a wooden picnic table, legs spread and elbows resting on his knees.
"Now why would I be disappointed in you?" She maneuvers her way between his long legs.
He presses his bony limbs against her sides, not wanting to let her go. He brings her in closer to him. She presses a cold rag against his injured face. He closes his eyes. Grabbing her wrist, he takes the hand towel from her hand, places it on top of the splintered table, and presses her bare hand against his cheek and takes in the scent of her pulse point.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispers.
"Stop," she whispers back, kissing his wounded hairline. "You were just defending all of us."
"But at what cost, Golds. I should have thought about it. I should have stopped myself. I heard what he said about you. About the guys. He made them sound like they were servants. Like you're disposable. I couldn't stop myself." A small droplet of salty moisture drops from his eye and works its way through the love and life lines of the palm of her hand.
