much skin. Sue brought over boxes of pizza, and sent her own oldest daughter home to change. Diane chewed pizza, and put on jeans and a white tee shirt under a black leather blazer. She brushed her hair, refreshed her mascara and lipstick, and they were off.
She had gone on the Internet the night before and typed in the name of the band. The number of sites available shocked her. She read reviews. The first album eight years ago had been a stunning breakthrough, nominated for five Grammy Awards, winning two. The last album was considered their best yet. She read a few interviews. The band mates had nothing but respect and affection for each other, and there wasn’t even a rumor of back-biting. There were sites dedicated to individual members, Joey Adamson having a large, rabid following of women who speculated in chat rooms about everything from the state of his marriage to the size of his penis. Seth Bascomb had been engaged six times to six different women. The Martone brothers, Monty and Phil, were happily married to sisters and their children were born three months apart.
The pages for Mickey Flynn were mostly divided between women of all ages who wanted to either knit him a sweater or have wild with him sex on stage. He was also widely discussed as a songwriter, with a few fan sites devoted entirely to that aspect of his life. Although the band received credit as a group for all original material, Michael did most of the writing. Before he had joined them, the band had been called Mitchell Street, and they had been known as an R&B cover band. Once Michael came on board, and they began to play his original material, things had taken off.
The current tour was considered a financial and critical success. Their concerts were called old-fashioned block parties, with everyone up and rocking. The new material was well-received, but also included plenty of old favorites, and at the end of every show, Mickey Flynn would tell a story. It had apparently started when the band went on their first major tour. They had no material for a second encore, so Michael had gone out and told the crowd one of the funnier stories of the road, then sat down and played an old blues number that no one had ever heard of, but had received a standing ovation. After that, every concert ended with a story and a song from Mickey Flynn.
Diane had not seen a concert in years, and had never been to the Arena. She dutifully showed a red-shirted security guard her ticket and pass, and they were lead through the swarm to the center section, second row. The place was massive, the stage looming before them. Speakers were everywhere, a giant screen across the back of the stage. They had all gotten programs, and she bought her two daughters’ tee shirts. She and Sue settled into folding seats, keeping an eye on their charges.
“We should have roped them all together,” Sue said, directly into her ear, and Diane nodded with a grin. They could easily get lost in the vastness of the arena. She couldn’t imagine how they were going to get backstage.
She heard someone calling her name, and turned to see another security person. He was very tall and broad, with several earrings and a ponytail. She stood up and moved to the end of the aisle.
“Are you Diane?” The guard yelled into her ear.
She nodded, and the guard stuck out his hand.
“Michael is worried you guys will take a look around and give up on coming backstage.”
She shook his hand. It was huge. “I was thinking about that, actually.”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry. After the lights come up, just stay in your seats, okay? I’ll come and get you. You follow me back.”
“Thank you very much,” she shouted.
“Thank Michael.”
Sue looked at her, questioning, as she made her way back into the seat. When Diane explained what the guard had said, Sue lifted an eyebrow.
“That’s pretty considerate of him, isn’t it?” she asked.
Diane nodded. She had not told Sue about their