by Salsbury, JB
“Ethan’s not used to having all the wives on tour.” Ashleigh tilts her head while Ben nuzzles her throat.
“Get a room already, shit.” I pop the top on the tequila and down it in one gulp.
As a recovering addict, Jesse’s not big on us having booze on tour, but he’s flexible as long as I don’t overindulge. And I don’t. Mostly. At least, not around him.
“You know, Ethan, nothing is stopping you from settling down with the right woman,” Ryder says, pulling Jade closer to his side. “Maybe it’s time to give up the groupies and start—”
I hold my hand up to silence him. “Let’s not get carried away.”
“Ryder has a point,” Ben says, pulling Ashleigh’s knuckles to his lips. “Jumping from bed to bed with any willing woman might be fun, but the thrill is temporary.”
“Okay, Pastor.” I laugh. “Because you have so much experience with groupie love.” I roll my eyes while at the same time hoping I don’t get struck by lightning for sassing one of God’s homies.
Ben chuckles. “If I’m wrong, please, set me straight.”
Motherfucker. He’s not wrong.
Groupie love is fun. Thrilling. And also temporary.
I look the good pastor in the eyes. “I know you are, but what am I?”
His brows pinch together. “What?”
“You heard me.” I push my chair back hard enough to make a screeching sound on the concrete, drawing attention from the room. “I’m going to… do… something.”
I gear up for a dramatic exit with all eyes on me when an explosion of commotion roars behind me. At least twenty tour members, all of them in their uniform black with the word Crew on their backs in yellow, cheer and yell “Tommy!” while they give a dude I’m assuming is Tommy slaps on the back and tugs on his ball cap.
Thanks for stealing my thunder, asshole. I stomp away from the table to go pout in private like the grown-ass man I am.
Taylor
“Tommy!”
I’m enveloped in a sea of bodies, my family, greeting me as if they hadn’t seen me only two weeks ago.
Bear, Squeaks, Judge, Medicine Man, Creeper… none of them called by their real names. Not that I don’t know their real names, but living on tour in close quarters with people for months at a time, nicknames become a way of life, all terms of endearment.
“You came back.” Dixie—real name Debra—wraps me in a motherly hug that she earned when I started my first period while on tour at eleven years old.
My dad’s expertise is on the heavy lifting side of the tour business, where women are few and far between. Dixie is built like a linebacker and benches more weight than most of the guys, proving her place in the pack of tour pushers. She also practically raised me. She taught me how to shave my legs, made sure I was on top of my online classes, and she cuts my hair to this day.
I hug her hard. “Where did you think I’d go?”
My dad steps up beside me, puts his big hand on the back of my neck, and squeezes. He’s never been a hugger or a talker. His squeezes say it all—I’m here for you, watching you, got you, even I love you. “Tom’s a hired pusher now.”
The family erupts in more cheers.
“You’re late,” Bookie says through his overgrown gray beard and ‘stache.
During the time off between tours, I turned eighteen. My dad, the great Elijah “Prophet” Marsten, gave me the choice to stay at our condo in Los Angeles, get a job, and make my own way in life, or I could join the Elite Tour team as an official employee. I didn’t need much thought to decide. I don’t fit in among the rich and beautiful of LA, and staying in one place too long makes me anxious. I’ve lived the last ten years of my life in a state of forward motion, and the highway calls to me. Besides, Elite pays great, and I get to see the world with all my favorite people.
“Background check, new hire paperwork, drug test—I passed, so they flew me in to meet up with you guys.” I mock-punch Bookie in the gut. “I’m an official employee now. Which means—”
Creeper wraps an arm around my shoulder. “We don’t need to babysit you anymore.”
“You can buy your own cigarettes and stop stealing mine!” Bear calls.
“No more sneaking off with boys,” Dixie says only to me.
I roll my eyes. “Both of those things only happened one time.”
I throw my arm over Creeper, a pudgy middle-aged man with a smoker's rasp. “I get dibs on the top bunk.”
Squeaks grips the top of my ball-capped head in one palm and shakes me playfully. “You’re a newbie, ballyhoo. You’ll sleep where you’re told.”
“We’ll see, old man.” I shove his shoulder and smile at the fatherly love that shines back in his eyes.
Paul Foster pushes through the crowd, his blue eyes sparkling. At twenty-three years old, he’s the only one on the crew who’s close to me in age. He runs a hand over his buzzed haircut. “I’m happy you decided to join us.”
Paul smiles at me and my stomach flutters a little, which I find to be highly annoying.
“No.” My dad comes up behind Paul, picks him up by his shoulders, and moves him aside—to the delight of everyone watching.
Paul laughs, looks back at me one last time, and winks before disappearing through the crowd.
I often wonder if I would’ve noticed Paul had I been a normal teenage girl out in the world, playing high school sports and shooting hoops with the guys on the weekends. Would a guy like Paul have caught my eye had I been given hundreds to pick from? Probably not.
But on the road, the pool of possible romantic partners is slim. The crew is twice my age, and the talent… well, as tempting as most women might think falling in love with a rock star would be, to them, a woman’s heart is as disposable as yesterday’s boxer shorts. Paul might not be ideal, but the only other option is being some rock star’s shit-stain. No thanks.
“Tommy, get a plate.” My dad’s deep voice snaps me from my thoughts. “Eat.”
After a few final congratulations, I grab a plate and pile it high with a sandwich, chips, an apple, and a Coke. I sit at the crew table while looking around the room.
The talent is easy to spot. No matter how hard they try to look like everyday citizens, their jeans are designer cut and their sneakers are fresh out of the box. Even their hair has a pretentious too-cool-to-care look that probably cost five hundred dollars to achieve.
I sift my fingers through my shoulder-length hair. I might be due for a haircut myself.
I lift a chin toward the headliner of this tour, Jesse Lee. “He still sober?”
My dad grunts an affirmative while wiping mayo off his mustache.
The third tour I ever went on was a Jesse Lee tour. I was eleven. Jesse was drunk and drug-addicted and his lifestyle followed him on the road. Up until I was sixteen I wasn’t allowed out of the sleeper cab of my dad’s big rig once the sun went down. But I saw plenty from the window.
Most of Jesse’s band is at one table, each of them seated close to a woman.
“Those don’t look like groupies.” I take a big bite of my roast beef sandwich.
“Wives.”
“Risky,” I say with a cheek full of food.
Another grunt from my dad.
I’ve been on enough tours to know that wives and groupies do not mix. Not that I’d ever speak of the things I’ve seen.
Roadie 101: Whatever happens on the road, stays on the road.
I fold my paper plate, turning it into a funnel so I can get every last chip crumb into my mouth, then gather my trash. “You gonna put me to work?”
My dad hands his trash to me.
“Seriously?”
He stares blankly through dark gray eyes and no smile.
I grab his garbage and glare. “I don’t remember seeing ‘Prophet’s Bitch’ on the job description.”
“That mouth is going to get you in trouble someday,” he says, but his semi-grin screams of fatherly pride.
Dad always taught me to stand up
for myself, never take shit from anyone, and be the hardest working person in the room.
“Go check mic wires.” He pushes his chair back and stands to his full six-foot-five height. “Then go back to the bus and crash until—”
“What? I just got here, I don’t need a nap—”
“You see who’s listed as your supervisor on your job description, yeah?”
He goes silent, letting me sit for a bit in a puddle of humility.
“That’s what I thought.” He walks away, still talking. “Get some sleep. We’ll be working all night to get to St. Louis for setup by sound check tomorrow.”
I salute my dad’s back using my middle finger to my forehead.
I’ll follow orders, but as soon as the band finishes their last set and the house lights go up, I’ll crush a Red Bull and prove to my dad that I deserve to be here.
Chapter Two
Ethan
“Saint Paul, you’ve been amazing!” Jesse calls through the mic as the last chord of our encore rings out over a packed arena of thirteen thousand fans.
My heart is pounding, I’m drenched in sweat, and adrenaline mixes with endorphins pumping furiously through my veins.
The stage lights go dark to the roar of the crowd as I hand my bass to Creeper, the guitar tech, and grab an offered towel from a crewmember. Ben comes off stage behind me, looking just as worked over and equally energized.
“Great show, man!” I clap Ben on the shoulder. “Loved the chord progression you added at the end of ‘Dark Shadow.’”
He wipes his face with a towel. “Did it sound okay?”
“Fuck yeah—”
Ashleigh barrels into his arms and he lifts her off the floor, her legs wrapping around his waist. “Take me to bed. Now.”
I scowl at the newlyweds and turn to talk to Ryder, but he’s all wrapped up in his wife while holding his daughter, Katie, who has a bright orange pair of noise-canceling headphones on her fluffy little head. Jesse has his tongue down Bethany’s throat and two fists full of her ass.
“So this is how it is from now on, huh?” I say to myself because everyone else is occupied. “Fuck you guys, I’ll go find my own entertainment.”
The house lights go up, sending a blinding light over the stage. A wave of crewmembers jogs by me, scurrying to strike the stage for the move to the next city.
I snag one of them by the arm. “Find me three groupies. Preferably blond with big tits.” I feel his scrawny arm stiffen under his sweatshirt. “Have them waiting in my dressing room when I get out of the shower.”
He doesn’t say anything. With his baseball cap on over his too-long hair and his chin down, I can’t see his face to see if my request even registered.
“We’re back on the road in an hour, so bonus points if they're willing to travel,” I add. “I’ll pay for their trip home.”
He lifts his chin, his spine straight, and I realize this guy can’t be more than a kid. About five foot six, he probably weighs a buck twenty even with all the baggy clothes. I can only make out the firm line of his mouth under his cap.
“Check IDs. I don’t want any fucking jailbait in my bed. You hear me, bro?”
He pulls his arm free of my hold.
“Fifteen minutes,” I say and walk away because I’m running out of time and he’s got a job to do.
I push into the dressing room, grateful none of my bandmates are here yet. I get first dibs on the shower. Our assistants already have fresh clothes and towels in the bathroom, so I make short work of washing off tonight’s sweat, and with plans later, I pay extra attention to my dick and balls.
What can I say, I’m a gentleman.
Once I’m clean, I take a few extra minutes to let the hot spray relax my sore muscles. I’m not twenty-one and full of cum anymore. I’m twenty-seven and, well, still full of—
“Ethan!” My name is followed by a series of urgent knocks on the bathroom door.
I turn off the water, begrudging the interruption. “What?”
“You, uh…” Ryder’s voice lowers. “Have company.”
“Shit.” My five-minute shower ended up being more like twenty. Oh well, sexual anticipation makes the experience more intense. And it’s not like groupies care. I had one waiting for me in a hotel lobby for three days because I got the show dates screwed up. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
There are muffled voices coming from the dressing room. Both male and female. I take my time slipping on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, forgoing boxers for easier access. I run my hands through my hair, shake my head, and rinse my mouth with Listerine. Shoes on, phone in my back pocket. Good enough.
I walk into the dressing room with a smile and a semi—only to find Ryder, Ashleigh, and Ben, and they’re not alone. Two groupies are with them. I know they’re groupies because they’re wearing matching T-shirts that read We’ll hit our knees for Ethan, please! They have glitter on their eyelids, lips painted in porno gloss, and they’re wearing skintight jeans and heels. The groupie uniform.
Their eyes are wide, lips parted, clearly starstruck.
Ashleigh clears her throat, starts to say something, but her voice cracks with laughter, so she coughs and tries again. “These adorable gentlemen were told you were looking for…” She clears her throat again.
I glare at her while she tries hard not to laugh.
“They were told you were, uh…” She’s smiling now, her face turning redder by the second as she holds on to her control.
“Looking for some overnight travel companions is how I believe it was put,” Ryder says. He too is covering his mouth to hide his smile.
“Ah, right. Um…”
They both have blond hair, but that’s about the only thing that crew guy got right. No doubt either of these men would do just about anything I asked. Flattering, but unfortunately, wrong gender.
I say, “Listen, guys, I, uh…”
One of them steps forward. “We’re both in our twenties, totally legal.”
“Great, that’s, uh…” I run a hand through my hair. “Great. But…”
I look at Ryder, Ben, and Ash, hoping for help, but they all stand there with eyes bulging from their heads with hilarity. Fuckers.
“We’re such big fans.” The other one steps closer, moving more fluidly in high heels than most women. “And we can get a ride back to Saint Paul—”
“I’m really sorry, guys. But I’m not gay.”
The first one leans in, away from the three assholes in the corner of the room. “It’s okay if you’re not ready to go public. We’ll sign an NDA—”
“No. That’s not necessary.” When I get my hands on that fucking crew guy, I’m going to strangle him. “There’s a swag table over there. Feel free to take as much as you want. This was a… misunderstanding.”
The second one pouts. “Boo.”
“I’m sorry, but really, take as much free stuff as you want. I’ll even…” I snag a black Sharpie from the table. “I’ll sign your T-shirts.”
They stuff their arms full of free shirts, cups, stickers, and Jesse Lee G-string panties. We take a thousand selfies. Then Ryder saves the day by insisting we have to go and offering to walk them out.
With a big-ass grin, Ashleigh sits on the arm of the couch. “I knew going on tour with you guys was going to be epic.”
“Where’s the crew guy who brought them here?” My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth and I’m breathing through a frustrating case of blue balls. “The little guy.”
She and Ben shake their heads and mumble some version of I don’t know while avoiding my eyes. Liars.
I’ll find him myself, then I’ll make the rest of this tour a living hell for the little shit.
Taylor
We broke down the stage in St. Paul until three o’clock in the morning, loaded up the bus and trailers, and drove over eight hours to St. Louis. I squeezed into my tiny bunk on the bus, where I attempted to sleep. But the Red Bulls combined with seven other crewmembers snoring their as
ses off pushed sleep far from reach. When we pulled up to the next venue, we did the whole thing over again in reverse, getting the stage and equipment up and running in time for sound check.
At three o’clock in the afternoon I’m dead on my feet—or ass as it is, because I’m backstage planted against a wall during a brief break.
“Thirsty?” Paul offers me a Coke. Already opened, so it must be his.
“I’m tired as hell, but my heart’s racing. I think I’ve tapped out my caffeine intake for the next three weeks.”
He chuckles and sits next to me, hip to hip. With ten feet of wall behind us, his choice to sit so close feels intimate and I check to make sure my dad isn’t nearby.
He rocks his thigh into mine. “You’re eighteen. We don’t have to hide from your dad.”
“Ha!” I pull the bill of my cap farther down my forehead until it’s resting on my brows. “You know my dad better than that.”
It’s not so much my dad I’m worried about. Paul and I have kissed a few times, mostly because I was seventeen years old and had never been kissed. I’m not even sure if I like Paul that much, and I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea about us. Most specifically, him.
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
“First day’s the hardest. Takes a while for your body to adjust.”
I roll my head to look at him. There’s a tenderness in his voice that I don’t like. A tenderness I bet he uses only with me. I’m not a fragile flower who needs to be coddled.
“I’ll be fine. I should probably get back to work.” I turn away and make a weak attempt to stand but can’t will my sore legs to move.
“Yeah.” I can tell by the proximity of his voice and tickle of his breath on my neck that he’s looking at me.
“Paul, I—”
“Meet me later.”
Fuck. “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“Once Jesse goes on, half the crew will be either eating or sleeping. Meet me behind the amp crates.”
