Frankie rose from the bed, wrapped the sheets around her naked body, and walked over to Alex’s collection of guitars propped against the wall. She teased, fingering the strings on the six-stringed guitar. “May I?”
            Alex reclined against the backboard of the bed and lit a cigarette. “You know how?”
            Frankie lifted the guitar and strummed without caring which notes she played. “I’ve played around with a guitar here and there. I even played once in a show. Does that count?”
            “Sure,” said Alex. “Knock yourself out.”
            “I’m going to serenade you.” Frankie said as she sat crossed-legged on the bed opposite him.
            Alex sat forward, interested. “You’re going to serenade me?”
            “Yes. Ready?” she said with a smile. He nodded and she strummed the guitar and sang loudly and off-key. It was an old-time American folk song that Alex didn’t know:
 
Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’,
Oh my darlin’ Clementine,
You are lost and gone forever,
Dreadful sorry, Clementine.
 
            “I’m fucking lost and gone forever? What kind of serenade is that?” asked Alex. “That’s the best you got?”
            Frankie laughed. “Okay, wait. I have another one. This one’s going to be good. Are you ready?”
            Alex placed his arms behind his head and said. “Go on.”
            “Okay,” she said and then strummed softly as she sang “Moon River” to him.
            Alex watched her, naked beneath the sheet, her messy blonde hair and her skin glistening with sweat as she sang the sweetest of songs and her voice was so unbelievably beautiful. At that moment he knew he could never love another girl the way he loved Frankie.
            When Frankie finished her song she looked at Alex and asked, “How was that? Do you think I’m ready to go on tour with you?”
            He cracked a smile. “With an act like that, no one’s ever going to pay any attention to us again,” Alex reached for his twelve-string guitar and began playing “Pretty Woman.” He sang loudly and terribly off-key.
            Frankie laughed and fell backward on his bed. “Are you one of those geniuses who can hear a song once and play it?”
            “I wouldn’t say genius, but some.” With the cigarette dangling from his lips, he asked, “Do you want to hear some blues?”
            She rolled over on her side and watched as Alex played old-fashion guitar blues music. “Oh, that is so sexy.”
            Alex kicked her gently and said. “It’s not supposed to be sexy; it’s supposed to be the blues.”
            “The blues are sexy and you know it. If not, you would not have played it for me.” Sitting upright on the bed, Frankie once again propped Alex’s guitar on her thigh and began to play. “I have another song. It’s one of my favorites.”
She sang:
 
We see only from our own eyes,
But fail to see the other side
To realize that everyone cries.
I see the pain you try to hide.
It’s no use to put on a face
That the world can easily erase.
Know that one day you’ll be set free.
Until then, know that you got me.
 
            “That’s mine,” said Alex with a grin.
            “I know,” Frankie replied, raising her eyebrows. “Tell me, who was it about?”
            Alex puffed on his cigarette and then extinguished it in the astray on the bedside table. He chuckled and then said, “Marlene Ulrich. She was a German stripper . . . and my first. I was seventeen at the time, and . . . well, once I got to know her—her story was kind of heavy, yeh know? She lived through Nazi Germany. She always put on this brave, strong front, but I could always see through it.”
            “Did you love her?” asked Frankie.
            “At the time, yes . . . or at least I thought so.” He smiled at Frankie. “Love changes with everyone you meet. I believe with each person you love, you find more to fill your heart.”
            Frankie leaned forward toward him. “You are just so damned thoughtful and sensitive.”
            “Auw no, don’t call me sensitive,” replied Alex.
            “Well, you are. And thoughtful, too,” she said with a seductive tone.
            “Okay, but don’t tell anyone else; let it be our little secret. I have a rough-and-tumble reputation to protect.” Alex returned his guitar to the case and returned to bed where he collapsed alongside Frankie. “What am I going to do with you?”
            “Love me,” she said.
            Alex ran his fingers through her blonde hair. It was an easy request.

It was all comical to Frankie, these young men fawning over her and her friends. For such famous young men, they were acting like a bunch of stooges. It made her laugh to think that just a few minutes ago in the car, she and her girlfriends had been scheming over which one of them to pursue.

            Frankie was not the type of girl to choose a guy by how great his picture looked on an album cover. I mean, what is a picture anyway? she thought. It’s just a picture—a moment in time—and, more often than not, unnaturally posed. But when she glanced up at Alex, she realized she would have never recognized him in person, had it not been for the band’s comedic introductions. What she didn’t expect, however, were the shivers that went up her spine when Alex shook her hand. He wasn’t nearly as cute and polished as his image portrayed—much more rugged-looking and rough around the edges. Far away from the cameras, Alex displayed a darker, more dangerous personality that certainly piqued Frankie’s interest.

            “Yes, I’m Frankie Robinson. I am me and no one else,” she said, shaking his hand. “How did you know?”

            “I saw you on television last year,” he said.

            “You remembered me from last year?” she asked incredulously.

            Alex lit a cigarette and took a drag. “You were very good and very pretty,” he said. “Didn’t you win an award for that show?”

            Frankie’s eyes widened, shocked. “Most Promising Newcomer,” she said. “I haven’t actually done anything yet; apparently I just have promise.”

            “You will,” Alex said, taking a drag on his cigarette. Normally girls were falling all over him and his words; with Frankie he didn’t know what to say or do.

            “Do you want to dance,” asked Frankie, “or would you prefer to just stand here?”

            Alex laughed and said, “I guess I would prefer to dance.” He held his hand out to her. She grasped it and allowed him to guide her into the crowd of dancers.

            “Johnny B. Goode” was spinning on the record player as Alex found an open space on the dance floor and turned to face Frankie. Frankie had always felt confident dancing before strangers—it was her best method of self-expression—but standing before Alex, she couldn’t help feeling like a novice with two left feet. Looking at Alex, she noticed he was feeling the same way. She saw him move much better in performances; now, he looked as awkward as she felt.

            “Loosen up a little bit,” she said, playfully punching his chest.

            Alex grabbed Frankie around her waist and moved a little faster to the music.

            “See? There it is. I knew it—you have a dancer’s soul,” she said.

            “Yeah, I was thinking I should give up the gee-tar and take up the ba-LET,” he said, gazing down at her. “What do you think?”

            Frankie laughed and answered, “It would be interesting to see you in a tutu.”

            “I never show a girl my tutu on the first date,” he responded, roughly spinning her around.

            Frankie spun around fast and then purposely slammed hard up against him. “Somehow I doubt that. I think you and your tutu have made quite a few debut performances.”

            As Alex began dancing slower, feelings ran through Frankie’s body that she wasn’t quite ready for. She had just met him not ten minutes ago, so to offer any suggestions would be rather dangerous. The moment was a little too intense in a room full of dancing, sweaty bodies. She pulled back from him a bit to give herself some distance. As soon as she did, the lights in the room went out, and everyone was left in darkness.

            Hoots and hollers erupted from the darkness as “Under the Boardwalk” by the Drifters began to play. Alex pulled Frankie closer to him and held her tightly, just short of pressing too far. Alex had the play down to a science. He instinctively knew the exact limit to stir Frankie up without scaring her away. Frankie had experienced everything from men who couldn’t entice any sensation, to those who pushed and pressed to the point of near disgust. She sensed Alex knew the perfect combination and didn’t resist.


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It was during the winter of the entire world’s economic collapse that New York, the city that never sleeps, figuratively closed its eyes and literally turned off its lights, in response to the desperation and depression being felt by all. The formerly illuminated Empire State Building was now dim. Streets that were once filled with music of all types and origins were now quiet. People who had at one time walked the streets in search of dreams had now left. Even the light in Lady Liberty’s torch had gone out. All the pomp and circumstance of New York City had faded away like a distant memory, and so had the citizens.

Many people had come from around the world to the place where dreams were made, only to witness their hopes shatter. When all hope of recovery seemed fleeting, many returned home to live their lives in moderate comfort, but always wondered what might have been. Some stayed in pursuit of their dreams, vying never to give up, but soon found themselves poor and desolate. When a dream dies, all that is left is a void, and that void must be filled somehow.

The once proud city fell lower into the depths of crime. It wasn’t the colorful crimes of former times with the mafia and street gangs; these were crimes of self-inflicted pain, so despicable it made one wonder if there had ever been honor or integrity in the world. It became a place where many lost their self-respect and found themselves living on the surface of life. Instead of rebuilding a foundation, they enhanced their façades. Those who remained relied on image and attention, selling their ideals and bodies for the slightest promise of opportunity. Love and friendship became virtually non-existent.

Jonathon Spade was one of the only few men who survived the collapse. Spade was a visionary—a man who saw and sought opportunity at every corner. His first love was real estate, and he provided the fantasy and encouraged the idea that anyone could be wealthy and successful. Once inside one of his properties, a poor man felt like a king. He capitalized on everything the average man could desire, dangling a golden carrot which few men could actually achieve.

Spade also sold his services to politicians and businessmen. He built fortunes for others who had the means to pay, and he became an expert at building reputations and power. Outwardly, he appeared to do all of this for others, but ultimately it was for his own benefit. If there was no one to lead the way, no one would follow, which would mean there’d be no reason to spend money on his products and services.

Personally, Jonathon Spade did everything he could to present himself as a man for all people—a pillar of fashion, to attract the attention of the upper echelons of society; a rugged demeanor and honest smile, to gain the trust of the average working man; a gallant showman, to warm the hearts of the ladies. There was never a day when Jonathon Spade was not in the spotlight or seen without a beautiful woman at his side. In order to be successful, a man needed to appear to have it all; and that was Jonathon Spade’s agenda.

Years later, Jonathon Spade made the decision to stop being a tool for politicians. If he controlled the powerful, then he should keep it. He decided to run for mayor of New York City and won by a record-breaking count—in fact, Jonathon Spade won by a miraculous one hundred and twelve percent. The city of Manhattan was joyful, and the people cried out with exultation at the idea of dreams being returned to them. It was, of course, Jonathan Spade’s platform: Where Dreams Are Realized.

On the night of his election win, the lights returned to New York City. Lady Liberty’s torch was reignited and flickered like a beacon to all those who still had the courage to dream. People emerged from their apartments and filled the streets, celebrating in high spirits and revived hope. While parties were held throughout the city, Jonathon Spade watched from the balcony of his tower. He could smell something in the air. What he smelled was failure, which was something he was not accustomed to. Something had to be done.

Leona sashayed her way toward him, red robe open, exposing her body. She admired him imagining the man shrouded in the darkness seeing only the shadow of his wild dark hair and eyes reflecting silver. She sat across from him at the table, purposely exposing herself to him.

“Seems rather lonely to sit in the corner and not be a part of the fun.”

“Who says I am not having fun?” he responded.

“Are you a voyeur? Do you like to watch?” she asked seductively.

“People are fascinating,” he said.

She sat against the seat, spread her legs under the table and touched herself. “Some say I am fascinating.”

“That would be an understatement.”

She rose and slithered around the table ready to position herself on his lap. “I make big statements.”
He pushed her away. “Not here.”

She hesitated, wrapped her robe tighter around her body and glanced over her shoulder at the rest of patrons. “Alright.”

He lowered his head as he left with Leona through the apparition of patrons. Once outside, he drew comfort in the darkness. Walking down the cobblestone street, they passed a few stray people—derelicts and lovers looking for privacy within the alleyways.

Leona arrived at a lavender-painted door and escorted him up the narrow staircase to a third floor flat that overlooked the backyard of other homes. Through the window, he saw other lovers having sex, one in their bed and others by the window. The woman across the alley grinned at him. He closed the curtains and turned back to Leona.

“I see you have met the neighbors,” she said lighting, a lantern setting the humble room in a soft glow. The room was much different than the woman. A few scattered dolls portrayed a woman who, despite living a bawdy lifestyle, was still deeply connected to her youth.

“They seem to be very friendly,” he said admiring the room. Under the amber light, she did not seem so hard, more innocent and lost.

She clutched his collar and gazed into his eyes. “Your eyes shine like an animal, very primal.”

“We are all primal. It is our nature.” He gazed upon her face—green eyes and light freckles dotting her nose. “Do you like this life?”

“I enjoy it very much.” Leona engaged her reflection in the mirror as she loosened her robe from her body and let it flutter to the floor. She admired her naked body and upon feeling him behind her, she let out a slight moan. “You make my skin tingle.”

Her passions intensified until she glanced into the mirror and saw only her reflection. She felt him enter her from behind. Gazing downward she saw his hands caress her belly and lower between her legs yet was shocked there was no sight of him in the reflection.

The scream she let out was one of terrified orgasm. The motion of her body rocked forward against the bureau upon his impact, although there was nothing to signify his existence—only the feel of him inside her and his hands that covered her body.

A sharp pain radiated from her neck. In the mirror, she noticed blood trickle over her shoulder and down toward her breast. All went black.