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Chapter 2

Trevor slept peacefully in the oversized bed at the Willowmark Hotel in Seattle, Washington. The previous night's show went off without a hitch and the after party was just as fun. The blonde sleeping next to him would probably agree.

"Son of a bitch!" Came the muffled curse from under his pillow. The shrill ring of the phone cut through his sleep dazed brain like a chainsaw through sheetmetal.

"Yeah?" He mumbled crankily, wiping the sleep from his eyes and trying to focus his gaze on the bedside alarm clock.

"Trevor? It's Tom. Listen, I've got great news,"

"What fucking time is it?"

"Uh, a little after one in the afternoon. Listen, I got you a documentary crew."

"That's great, Tom," Trevor yawned and looked over at the girl who was just beginning to stir, "When do I need to get outta here?"

"Now if possible," Tom replied, "we need to meet with the crew and get them some spots on the buses."

"Damn," he swore again, angry at the fact he had to drag himself out of bed. He couldn't party now like he used to; he had to remember that he's approaching forty. "Alright, let me just shower and get some clothes on. I'll be ready in about an hour."

"Alrighty then, I'll meet you down in the lobby no later then 2:30."

"Fine," he grumbled as he hung up.

"Something wrong?" The blonde asked, sliding her hand across Trevor's chest.

"Listen, Babe," he began, using the pet name for all of his conquests while on tour, "I have to go. I've got some meetings and stuff before I have to go to sound check so it's time for me to get outta here."

"Well, here," she reached over for a slip of paper from the hotel pad and a pen, "when you get a free minute while you're in town give me a call. Even when you're down in Portland or such, I won't mind."

"Thanks, Babe." He smiled warmly at her, taking her name and phone number. Trevor drew her close and gave her one long kiss before getting out of the bed.

She dressed quickly while he started the shower. He closed to door to the bathroom, leaned back against it, and looked up at the ceiling. He looked at the slip of paper and watched it drop to the floor. He could have cared less about her. She was just one of the many that he and his bandmates had used for physical pleasure along the way. He stripped off his boxer shorts and climbed into the scalding hot shower.

The rush of water felt relaxing and rejuvinating after the previous night's events. It was a never-ending cycle of later nights, women, and parties. The sting of shampoo in his eyes brought back the reality of the task at hand. He had finally agreed for a film crew to accompany the band while on tour.

Only sellouts do things like that, he had scoffed before when the notion was first brought up to him. But the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. This would certainly be the way for him to go out in style. A way for the fans to remember him once he retired at the end of this tour.

He finished rinsing off the soap and residue from the night before and turned off the water. Grabbing a towel from the heated towl rack he dried off his face.

I can't belive I'm going to allow this to happen, he thought angrily as he dried his arms and legs. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he walked into the bedroom and turned on the television. Digging through his suitcase, he pulled out a pair of underwear and began to get dressed.

"...And in other news, the Coffin Dwellers were in town last night and played to a sold out Key Arena," the perky news reporter chirped, "there were several religious groups protesting outside, trying to prevent concert-goers from entering,"

"Thank you, Christians for Moral Entertainment," Trevor smirked, "if it wasn't for you raising such a stink I'd never have gone platinum."

"But the protests didn't stop anybody from having a good time," the reporter trilled, "the Coffin Dwellers will be playing again tonight at the Key Arena and then move on to Portland."

Trevor pulled a pair of faded black cargo pants out of the closet and a green button up shirt from the hanger. Dressing quickly, he returned to the bathroom to put some gel in his medium length hair and brush his teeth. Tying up his black boots and grabbing his black leather jacket, he headed down to meet Jim in the lobby.

As he rode the elevator down from the top floor, Trevor studied himself closely in the one mirrored wall. With the exception of those few lines, he still looked the same. The same charismatic eyes that changed colors depending on his mood; the same nose that was perfect in its size, shape, and proportion; and the same bow-shaped mouth that never smiled or grinned while a camera was around.

Trevor lifted his chin so he could see it a little better. With the exception of the small scar under the sharp feature, it was just as strong of a jawline as it was when he was sixteen. He grinned vainly at himself in the mirror just before the elevator doors opened.

Running a hand through his hair, he stepped out of the elevator car and walked through the lobby. Keeping his traditional grim expression fixed upon his face, he nodded politely to the front desk staff before locating Jim sitting in a chair by the fireplace, perusing the local paper.

"Morning," Trevor greeted, shaking Jim's hand before taking a seat in the wingback chair across from where he was sitting.

"More like afternoon," Jim chuckled, "but that's neither here nor there. All that matters is you were on time."

"Yee fuckin' haw."

"Anyway, my friend George Bickman spared one of his newest film makers for this project just like you asked,"

"Perfect,"

"If you don't mind me asking, why didn't you want a veteran? I mean, why not get someone with some credentials?"

"Because," Trevor began as he eyed the short, russet haired woman that had walked through the entrance of the hotel, "I figured if I got a newbie than they would try a little harder then a veteran. A newbie would have something to prove and will work a hell of a lot harder."

"Good point," Jim agreed, "Millie should be here any moment."

"Who?" Trevor asked absently, following the auburn haired woman's backside as she made her way over to the front desk.

"Millie Davis," Jim replied, sounding exasperated, "she's heading up the film crew."

"That's nice," Trevor continued to follow the woman's path across the lobby. He was suddenly snapped back to attention when the crew leader's name had finally been absorbed by his sleep deprived brain. "You got me some old broad named Millie?"

"Don't get so testy. Besides, you just asked me to get you a new film maker, you didn't specify an age."

"That's beside the point. You've been my manager for damn near fifteen years, you should know what the hell I want!"

"Trevor, I'm--"

The red haired woman was soon standing in front of both gentlemen. "Excuse me, Mr. Compton? I'm Amelia Davis, I believe we spoke on the phone."