Alexandra, Gone Read Online Free PDF Page A

Jack was in performance mode. He bounded across the stage like a puppy and threw his arm around the manager, who was now red-faced and fumbling. The man was scared. He was scared because Jack was well known for being as unpredictable as he was energetic and as mischievous as he was hypnotic. He prayed he wouldn’t be the butt of one of the singer’s jokes and sighed with relief when he got the mike working well enough so that it screeched only intermittently.
    He explained that the entire street was experiencing a blackout. He wasn’t aware how long the problem would last, and he apologized because for some reason the backup generator wasn’t working as it should.
    Back in the lift, the human condom’s ear was to the door.
    “What?” Elle said.
    “As I said, it’s a blackout.”
    “So what now?” Elle asked.
    “Shush,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.”
    Onstage, the manager assured the audience he had someone working on it and that if the generator didn’t kick in within the next ten minutes they could have their money back, but they booed him and that was when Jack took the mike from him. Jack was fired up and ready to play, and electricity was not something he was short of. He paced the stage like a caged panther before placing the mike to his mouth.
    “I’m not ready to leave,” he said, and the crowd roared its approval.
    Jack would often be described as anything from sexy to forbidding, one commentator even going so far as to describe him as the result of a struggle between a vampire and a wolfman. That night his mood and demeanor could only be described as a hybrid of Jack Nicholson’s malevolent Joker and Johnny Depp’s playful pirate.
    Jack bounded toward the side of the stage. In the blink of an eye he had scaled the wall and was hanging out of the balcony.
    “So are we going to do this?” he shouted. The audience screamed to signal it was. His dark arched eyebrows rose, his big wide grin appeared, and he jumped back onto the stage from the considerable height. “Let’s do it, then!” he said, and the crowd roared. He handed the mike to the manager, who was still standing on the stage and staring at the wall the singer had seemingly walked up, his mouth slightly agape. Jack patted him on the back. The manager walked offstage, thinking that he was going to have to put a sign up in the dressing rooms asking artists not to walk on the walls, while ruminating as to how the man had managed it.
    Jack pushed his hand through his shock of thick black hair, then turned to his guitar player and unplugged his guitar, and the crowd roared. The roadie handed the guitarist an acoustic guitar, and he fixed it around his neck. Jack looked toward the drummer, who took out his brushes and held them high.
    The crowd roared again.
    In the lift, the four captives wondered what was going on.
    “He’s not going to play, is he?” Jane said between deep breaths.
    “I think he is,” Elle said.
    Onstage, Jack nodded and leaned into the guitar player and said something unheard. The guitar player picked out the familiar chords to “Move On,” and Jack opened his mouth and his haunting, mythical voice emerged as clearly as though it was still amplified, and in that second he silenced the crowd.
    And as soon as he began to sing, inside the lift his voice resonated as though he was in there with them.
    “Ah Jesus, I love this song!” the condom said, punching the lift door. She slumped to the floor, leaving leaflet man as the only one still standing.
Makes no difference who you are, love will find you, yeah,
Opera or movie star, love will find your path.
All the money in the world won’t save you from that.
All the beauty in the world you can’t just cover your tracks …
    The audience joined in for the chorus:
And if you move on it will keep up
And if you jump town you know you’ll be found.
    “Should we make some noise?” Elle asked after a minute or two of the group sitting in silence save for Jane’s