The Aviators

You can never tell what he is thinking. That one thing always gets to me. He wears those goddamned aviators all the time. Not that I have any right to complain. He does what he wants. He owns me. And my dog. Well, okay...the dog belongs to him. It’s so…grating. But, that’s my life really. No. Really. He owns me. I’ll show you the papers.

Who am I even talking about? Yeah, I hear you, my friend…and really, I’d love to tell you the whole story, but you would never believe me. Because, who would? I mean if someone came up to you and started blabbing about how the M Shadows of Avenged Sevenfold fame owned them, would you believe them? I know I wouldn’t. Except…that is exactly the position I’m in.

And, y’know what? Maybe I will tell you the story. I have plenty of time. Plenty of time…

It’s a good tale, a real humdinger. And…those aviators…well. I’ll tell you about it. Starting with the man himself.

M Shadows. Well, okay. Matthew Sanders. Matt to his friends, or Shads, or Shadows, or M. Master to me. Yeah…Master. He insists upon the title. I mean…I don’t mind really. If I were going to call anyone ‘Master’ it’d have to be him, right? He looks the part. Those aviators… Anywho…

The first time I saw him was at a concert. Yeah…I know, how the hell does someone like me even end up at a concert? Remember, to the world, I’m just a piece of meat to be bought, or sold, to the highest bidder. Not that Matt would ever sell me. He’s taken a shine to me apparently. Lucky me.

I’m not even all that attractive, really…it must be the Italian blood, or something.

Anyway, the concert. My handler at the time, this pudgy fat guy with bad breath, decided to drag me along…maybe he thought he could fob me off on some unsuspecting guy…trade me for some drugs or something, who knows. Anyway, there we were watching from somewhere in the ‘pit’ and the headlining band come on.

These five inked up men, ranging from really short to built like a tank, prowl onto the stage and basically give the world a big ‘fuck you’ and begin to scream the house down. M Shadows sure has some lungs on him, I can tell you that now. He uses them to great effect…always…even if it’s not a pleasant experience for me. Anyway, I digress.

The one built like a tank. He’s the lead singer…and the first thing I notice about him, apart from his tattooed arms [they’re massive...or at least compared to my twig-like limbs] are those damned shades. I couldn’t get over the fact that the man was wearing aviators indoors at nighttime. I really couldn’t figure it out.

Of course, I know now it’s so no one can read him. He’s an extremely private person. What the public see isn’t what he’s really like…I can tell you that for a fact. Not that it’s a total lie. On stage, he acts like the biggest motherfucker alive…but he’s really very sweet. Even to me.

Yeah, sure. So, you think he should be mean to me because I’m his slave? Come on. Only the biggest asshole would want to be mean to me. And he’s not one of them. Okay, so I piss him off a lot and he makes me regret it. He’s still sweeter than sugar.

The fans who are lucky enough to meet him after a show or at a meet and greet…they catch glimpses of the real Matt Sanders. But, I see the complete package. If he feels like showing me. Which isn’t as often as I would like. But, hey, I can’t pick and choose…he’s the one wearing the pants.

There I go again, waffling. Must be the Italian blood. So, there we were, or at least I was. I think fat slob disappeared to find some drugs, who knows? And damned if Mister Frontman stared straight at me through those aviators. He was pointing in my direction, singing, screaming some line about ravaging somebody’s body.

Yeah, that really shouldn’t be a turn on, should it? Any self-respecting woman should wilt in disgust from hearing such words. But, coming from M Shadows’ mouth? Totally swoon worthy. Not that I was swooning. No, the man half scared me to death. What with those muscular tattooed arms and hidden glare, I definitely didn’t want to tangle with the likes of him.

I actually shrank back into the mosh pit, yeah…I was scared then and I have to say I’m not sorry to admit it. He still scares me shitless now. Why? Because he’s so damned closed. It’s not just the shades, though they do help to conceal his emotions from the world around him.

Fatty reappeared at that moment, luckily for me, and dragged me away into some secluded corner, away from the stage. Away from the penetrating stare of those otherwise emotionless aviators. I don’t know, but that first sighting of M Shadows really bugged me.

I stood by fatso as he rambled to some guy…looked about the same age as the band members. Extremely short but built with muscle upon muscle. Not really that attractive if you ask me. Not that anyone would ever ask my opinion on anything. I’m a slave…remember?

This story is going to take longer than I thought. Right. So, what happened next, you ask? Well, turns out this chunky monkey, his name’s Dan by the way, is a close friend of the band. Says they’re called Avenged Sevenfold…and he reckoned he could get us backstage to meet the guys after the gig. Mister Fatman decides that it could be a good thing. Probably thought he could buy or sell drugs to the band.

Too bad for him the Avenged guys are as straight as they come. The worse I’ve ever seen them do is smoke tobacco and get drunk on Absinthe. Matt doesn’t smoke anymore; at least I can’t taste it on his breath when he kisses me. So, either he uses truckloads of mouthwash or he quit smoking. I’d go with the latter, because he never tastes of peppermint.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Dan was telling us he could get us to meet the band, but not that first night. He gave fatso some passes and told us to come back to the final show in Long Beach, two nights from then. My handler was all sleazy grins and sanctimonious comments. Disgusting.

Dan just left us with a genial smile and my handler hustled me out of the venue and back to our hotel. Then two days later, we were back at the venue. This time though that chunky fellow, Dan met us in the foyer and lead us to the backstage rooms.

That afternoon I met the man who was to become my master, face-to-face. And wouldn’t you know it, he still had those aviators glued to his face. I still shudder at the memory of that meeting. Fatso walked me into the dressing room behind Dan and well…this is what happened…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hey, Dan, who’re your friends?” A deep raspy voice filled my ears and Fatso and I turned our heads toward the man who had spoken.

M Shadows, or Matt Sanders as he was actually known, leaned against the wall curious expression masked by the dark shades he wore over his eyes. His tattooed arms were folded across a broad chest, sweat soaked wife-beater clinging to his muscled torso.

I swallowed hard at the sight of the band’s frontman. He oozed supreme confidence, dominance and charisma as he pushed away from the wall and approached us, one eyebrow arching above his shades.

The small buff dude smirked nodding to Fatso. “This is Giovanni. He’s a tradesman. But, he’s also a fan.”

Matt’s gaze narrowed behind those dark aviators. I could tell only because of the tightening of the skin on either side of his face.

“What do you trade?”

Fatso snorted. “Stuff.”

Matt chuckled low his covered stare turning to take in my presence. “And, who are you?”

That husky voice directed toward me, sent chills running through my body, and made the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle.

Before I could respond, Fatso spoke up. “She is what I would trade.”

Matt’s head swiveled away from me to stare hard at my handler. “You trade in humans?”

Fatso smirked coldly. “The slave trade is alive and well in the America’s, Mister Sanders.”

I shivered at his words and tucked my chin into my chest, linking my hands behind me. Matt looked back at me a small frown creasing his brow and drawing the corners of his lips down.

“You want to sell her?”

“Yes. At some stage. She is…damaged goods.”

The singer’s frown deepened and he walked toward me. I stood my ground keeping my chin tucked into my chest, eyes fixed on a point between his shoes. My heart was hammering in my chest so loud I wondered why no one else could hear it. Next thing I knew, he had my chin in one large hand and was tilting my face up to his. I gazed nervously at my reflection in his aviators. He stared back at me, appraising me carefully.

Then he released me and I stumbled back from him, feeling stifled by his closeness. He let me back away and looked back at Fatso. “How much?”

I was stunned. Everything happened so fast after that. It felt like mere minutes before details were exchanged and then Matt’s large hand latched firmly around my left elbow. He led me over to the other side of the dressing room and pushed me down on the sofa there. I craned my neck to see Fatso being ushered out the door by chunky monkey Dan and then my view was blocked by Matt’s solid frame.

He stared down at me for a long moment no apparent emotion on his face, and then…he cracked the hugest grin, the cutest dimples I’ve ever seen appearing on either side of his mouth, tilting his head back and letting out a laugh. “God damn…I’m sure ya glad to see the back of him, hey? Giovanni…what kind of a stupid name is that? Sounds like some kind of wannabe Italian artist.”

I couldn’t respond, just continued to gaze dumbly into his shades.

He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down my spine, as he stood there shaking his head at me. “Damn…count yourself lucky, girl. That man…he seems like all kinds of trouble. You just sit tight there and I’ll be getting ya home real quick.”

I caught the little wink he gave me, a slight flutter of his eyelashes then he swung away and went to join the rest of his band practically ignoring me.

Count myself lucky? Hah.

Notes