Strike a Chord

by Salsbury, JB

  Is that how this thing between us is supposed to go? Hiding behind crates and in back alleys to hook up? I frown. “This is my job now. I can’t risk it—”

  “You won’t, I swear. Tour managers don’t give a shit what we do as long as we keep it low-key and still get our job done. You know how many guys in my bus hook up with groupies every night?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Are you comparing me to a groupie?”

  Last night, after the great Ethan Crow sent me out to fish for eager pussy, I wondered what would make a woman so desperate that she’d sleep with a man she hardly knew. I’d rather get fired than be party to setting up a woman to be used by a man she looked up to and respected (at least talent wise), only to be discarded directly after.

  I know exactly what it feels like to be thrown away and forgotten by someone I love, and I have zero respect for anyone who would do that to another human being.

  So yeah, I may have been angry and spiteful when I saw the two beautiful gay men waiting with the groupies at the backstage door. I know Ethan isn’t gay—his reputation certainly precedes him—so I knew the men would be safe, and I also knew Ethan couldn’t complain about me not doing my job. Hopefully I proved my point that he shouldn’t fuck with me and I won’t have to deal with his annoyingly handsome ass for the rest of the tour.

  “I just don’t see why we can’t have some fun while we’re working,” Paul says.

  “I thought I was clear before we kissed the first time that I don’t do casual hookups.”

  “You did. But the kissing was fun, wasn’t it?”

  The kisses were my first, so I have little to compare them to. “I guess so.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I’m sorry, it was great. Really.” I push up from the wall to stand. “I really need to go. If my dad sees me slacking, he’ll kill me.”

  “We’ll talk later!” Paul says to my back as I walk away.

  I’m heading to the trough—the room where food and drinks are set up for the duration of the band’s stay—hoping to find the rest of the crew. I pass stacks of gearboxes and crates, thinking about Paul asking me to make out with him behind them. Nothing makes me feel more like a piece of ass than a proposed hookup backstage at a concert. I turn down the hallway and see Creeper. I’m about to call out to him when he steps aside to reveal the person he’s talking to.

  Ethan.

  I scowl from under my hat even while a smirk lifts my lips. “Hope you were satisfied with the groupies last night,” I say to myself, still too far away for him to hear me.

  Creeper turns toward me and I panic, wondering if maybe I’d spoken too loudly and they heard me. They’re at least five yards away. No way my voice would carry that far.

  I’m questioning the acoustics of concrete and brick when Creeper calls to me. “Tommy! Got a minute?”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble and force my feet forward.

  Ethan’s a tall guy, just over six feet I’d guess. Creeper’s short, my height, which is how he earned his nickname. He’s in his late fifties and is one of the best guitar techs in the business. If I keep my eyes on Creeper, I can’t see anything above Ethan’s chest, which means Ethan can’t see my face either. Great, because I can feel my cheeks heating at his nearness.

  He’s famous for God’s sake, and I kind of ruined his sex plans last night. Am I here to get an ass chewing?

  “Can you tell Squeaks I need to see him ASAP before sound check? He’s not answering on the walkie.”

  I nod once and head back in the direction I came, knowing Squeaks is on the soundboard.

  “Tommy.”

  My feet freeze at the rough way Ethan says my name. I turn slowly, my chin slightly lowered so I don’t have to look at his face.

  “Come find me after sound check.” Oh God, he sounds angry. “We need to talk.”

  I nod again and race away, having dodged a bullet.

  I’ve heard of bands firing crewmembers. When I was fifteen, I toured with Tawney Gray and she fired one of our riggers because he told her she had beautiful eyes.

  “I’m so fucked.”

  Fired on my second day of work? Way to go, Tom.

  Chapter Three

  Ethan

  After sound check, I hand my bass off to Creeper. I give the area a quick once-over, expecting to see Tommy waiting for me, but the little asshole is nowhere to be found.

  “Hey,” I say to Creeper as he’s placing my guitar on the rack. “Where’s that kid, Tommy? I said come find me after sound check.”

  The man turns toward me, one brow lifted, looking less than pleased. “What do you need with Tom?”

  I recoil slightly. What the fuck business is it of his? “It’s personal.”

  The man chuckles and shakes his head. “You tell me what you need and I’ll take care of it.”

  “What I need is to talk to Tommy. Now.” Who the fuck works for who here? I’ve never had to ask for something more than once while on tour.

  “Prophet ain’t gonna like that,” he murmurs.

  “Why the fuck does he care? Why are you protecting this kid?”

  Creeper holds up his hands in a placating way. “Tommy’s new. If you’re not happy with something, you can take it up with me—”

  “That little shit was supposed to screen some grou—fans after last night’s show and have them delivered to my dressing room. I walked in to find two very eager men hoping to get in my pants—it’s not funny!”

  Creeper’s howling in laughter.

  I cross my arms and watch him try to rein his shit in and fail miserably. “You ‘bout finished?”

  He nods, holds up a hand, and barks out a laugh. “I’m sorry, but that’s Tommy for ya.”

  “Now you know why I need to have words with the kid. This kind of shit can’t continue all tour. Now find him and bring him to my dressing room so I—”

  “Him?”

  I roll my eyes toward the sky and pray for patience. How much weed does this fucker smoke? “Yes,” I groan. “Tommy, the guy we’ve been talking about.”

  When I take my eyes off the ceiling, I find Creeper pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders jumping in silent laughter.

  “If Tommy isn’t in my dressing room in five minutes, he’s off the tour.”

  I don’t wait to hear what Creeper has to say. I storm off down a series of corridors to the Jesse Lee dressing room. Jesse and Ben are inside, their wives probably out to dinner, sight-seeing, or shopping—whatever it is women do when they’re not sucking face with their men.

  “You all right?” Ben, ever the caregiver, studies me. “You look upset.”

  “I am.”

  Jesse leans in. “What’s up?”

  I tell Jes the story, ignoring Ben because he was there laughing and enjoying the awkward moment. Jesse smiles when I finish telling him what happened.

  Ben pipes up. “It was just a prank. When did you start taking life so seriously? Do you have a good relationship with your dad?”

  I point at the man. “Stop trying to get in my head!”

  “Chill out, Ethan.” Jesse’s laid-back response is laced with humor. Dickhead. “Pranks happen on tour. Remember when our crew glued all the water bottles together? Or when we were hammered and pranked our security by sneaking out and walking around downtown Denver after a show?”

  “This is not that.” I prop my hands on my hips. “What if word gets out that I’m having male groupies brought to me backstage?”

  Ben shrugs. “Is that really any different than your reputation of having female groupies brought to you backstage?”

  “No one asked you.”

  “But you did,” he says, grinning. “You just asked me.”

  There’s a timid knock on the door.

  “That’s him,” I whisper-hiss. I fling the door open wide. “Tommy, you were supposed to find me after sound check.”

  I step aside, and he eyes Jesse and Ben before coming into the room.

  “I’m sorry.” H
e nods and looks at me, his eyes shadowed by his baseball cap so I can’t tell if he’s genuinely sorry or not. “I was busy helping one of the riggers—”

  “How old are you? You sound like your balls haven’t dropped yet.”

  He tilts his head, and in a very un-masculine way, he props one hand on his hip. “My balls?”

  I feel my eyes widen as understanding hits me like a slug to the chest. “You’re a… a…”

  Jesse’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “I believe the word you’re looking for is woman.” The guy smiles at her and holds out his free hand. “Jesse.”

  She smiles. It’s small but enough to see the tips of her straight, white teeth. “I know who you are.” She shakes Jesse’s hand. “Tommy.”

  “Tommy. What kind of a fucking name is Tommy?”

  She drops Jesse’s hand and I expect her to shrink away from the irritation in my voice, but she shoves out her chin and hardens her feminine jaw. How did I not see she was a… she? “You’ll have to ask my dad. He’s the one who started calling me Tom.”

  “But you’re a girl,” I say, as if no one else in the room can see it but me.

  “And you’re an asshole.”

  My jaw hits the floor and I stumble back a step, damn near stuttering. “I—I—”

  No one talks to me like that. No one but Jesse, who is chuckling loudly next to me.

  “Nice to meet you, Tommy,” Ben greets the kid… woman… I check out her chest. Not much there, probably all nipple. Is she even wearing a bra? “My daughter’s name is Elliot, so I get it. Names should really be genderless.”

  She gives Ben a genuine smile that makes me want to elbow the guy in the throat. She then goes on about unisex names and how no one questioned Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, or some chick named Blake something and blah blah fucking blah…

  I close my eyes. “Hold on one fucking second.” When I open my eyes, her face is tilted up at me enough that light makes its way under her cap and, oh fuck, she’s glaring. Hard. “We need to discuss what you did to me last night.”

  She shrugs. “You asked for groupies. Blond ones of legal age. I did exactly what you asked.”

  “Except those guys didn’t have tits!”

  She shrugs. “One of them did—”

  “Listen, you know I was requesting female groupies. I don’t know what your problem is, jealousy or whatever, but—”

  She burst out laughing. “God, you’re a pig.”

  Jesse laughs.

  I scowl at the asshole. “You mind giving us some privacy?”

  He settles into the nearest chair. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” He rolls his hand. “Continue.”

  I ignore him and go back to the little punk in front of me. “I’m in the band, which technically makes me your boss—”

  “Elijah Marsten of the Elite Touring Company is my boss.”

  “She’s right,” Ben says softly.

  I grind my teeth. “You were hired by my band—”

  “Actually,” Jesse interjects, “Elite is hired by Arenfield Records.”

  “My point,” I say, trying as hard as I possibly can not to throw a fucking chair across the room, “I could have you fired.”

  She grins. “You could try.”

  I step closer, hoping to intimidate her with my size, which doesn’t seem to work at all. “This is how you want to play it, huh? You want to go to war with me?”

  “Not particularly, no. What I want is for you to do what your fans pay you to do which is play music, not play with their feelings to get into their panties—”

  “They are willing and consenting adults!”

  “I want to do my job and not be used like a claw crane to help fill your bed. Because when I look in the mirror everyday, I don’t want to live with the guilt of seeing every woman you fucked over reflected in my eyes.”

  Jesse sucks in air through his teeth with a muttered, “Damn.”

  I can’t find words as I stare at the woman who suddenly looks older than I first thought. My mouth gapes.

  Say something, Ethan! Don’t let her get the best of you!

  “Well, Tommy…” I clear my throat and fold my hands under my biceps. “You’d be lucky to see those women in the mirror because you look like a dude.”

  “Jesus, Ethan,” Jesse grumbles.

  Ben steps forward as if gearing up to comfort her but stops short when she laughs. Genuinely laughs. The gentle, melodious sound eventually turns guttural and maniacal. I take a step back, anticipating her swinging at me.

  She doesn’t. Instead, she shakes her head and swipes tears from her eyes. “Oh man, that was awesome.” She lets out a long sigh. “If we’re done here, I really do have some work to do to ensure tonight’s show goes off without a hitch. Unless of course you’d rather continue to rip on the way I look, you know, for shits and giggles?”

  Jes and Ben both have their judging eyes on me.

  I shift on my feet and nod. “So long as we understand each other, you’re free to go.”

  She licks her lips. They’re not too big, not small, just typical, boring lips. I wonder what color her eyes are? “Oh, I understand you all right.”

  “Good.” I don’t think she means that she heard me and is going to respect my demands from here on out, but I’ve done enough damage for one conversation. “You can go.”

  “Thank you…” She plucks the hem of her oversized T-shirt with dainty fingers and gives me a dramatic curtsy. “My lord.”

  Ben covers his mouth to keep from laughing.

  When Tommy leaves the room, Jesse sighs. “I dig that chick.”

  “Me too,” Ben says.

  “Are you guys insane? She’s a disrespectful little pain in the ass.”

  Jesse looks me up and down with clinical precision. “How long has it been since you’ve been laid?”

  “Too long.”

  Five days. I’m strung tight and so frustrated that lifting weights or booze don’t even help. What the fuck is wrong with me? And why does this Tommy chick add fuel to my already flaming insides?

  Taylor

  By the time Jesse Lee and his band hit the stage, I’m ready to crawl back to the bus for a power nap. I’m going to need all the energy I can muster once the show is over around midnight. I tell myself to take advantage of the couple free hours to go rest, but curiosity about Ethan after our confrontation in his dressing room finds me sitting side-stage.

  He’s the stereotypical rock star—arrogant, rude, and entitled as fuck. So why am I spending my precious off hours watching him perform? Call it snooping. Or a wicked desire to see him fail. I suppose the Jesse Lee name wouldn’t be a world-renowned phenomenon with sub-par musicians, but a secret part of me hopes Ethan is the weak link in the band and that his bass guitar skills suck balls.

  Turns out, as much as I despise Ethan, I have to give him credit for being a masterful performer. I hide out in a dark corner between two stacks of crates where he can’t see me. The stage lights leave little to the imagination. Dammit. His shaggy brown hair is wet with sweat, and his T-shirt clings to his body. He makes playing bass guitar look effortless, as if his instrument is an extension of his body. It all just makes me hate him more.

  I down a Red Bull before the last song ends. I’m going to have to tap into all my reserve energy to pull off striking the stage and loading up the trailers.

  I find Dixie and my dad and squeeze between them as the house lights drop. When Ethan comes off stage, I don’t want to be caught alone. I’m not afraid of him—I’m afraid of what I might say to him that could get me fired. I lucked out today with the brothers, Jesse and Ben, there to have my back. I won’t try my luck again.

  The house lights come up, which is our signal to get to work. The band accepts hugs and kisses from their significant others and I purposely avoid looking at Ethan, fearing he might misinterpret my glance. His arrogant ass would assume I was checking him out rather than keeping an eye on my enemy.

  “Start with t
he bass amps,” my dad’s deep, grumbling voice demands over the noise of the crowd.

  I look at him, hoping he’s talking to Dixie, but his no-bullshit stare is aimed at me. “Why? You usually ask me to work on the drum mics first.”

  In the glare of the bright lights, my dad gives me a look that says do what you’re told and walks off.

  I head to the stage, to the spot where Ethan spent most of the night—when he wasn’t jumping around or hanging ten off the front of the stage while playing to his screaming fans.

  “If they only knew what he’s really like,” I grumble to myself as I pull and wrap cords.

  Grateful Ethan never showed his face again on stage, I relax a little and go through the process of breaking down things. The loading dock of the arena comes to life with hundreds of crewmembers as we work together like a well-oiled machine.

  I’m pushing a crate of gear to the trucks when Paul passes by me on his way back inside.

  “I’ll take that,” he says and attempts to push my crate for me.

  “I got it.”

  “Let me get it for you.” He nearly shoves me aside to take my spot.

  “What the fuck? I said I got it.”

  Paul’s eyebrows drop low and he holds up his hands. “Damn. I’m just trying to help.”

  “I don’t see you trying to help Squeaks or Captain.” Because they’re not weak little girls, are they, Paul?

  His smile is quick and controlled. “My bad.”

  I bite my tongue against a “Thank you” because really, what should I be thanking him for? For respecting my wishes? I don’t see anyone else thanking each other for no reason at all.

  Shoving the crate down the corridor toward the shipping container, I weave through the organized chaos. Exhaust from the tour buses idling nearby creates coils of eerie smoke in the air.

  Two people emerge from the talent bus area, headed toward me. I blink to focus through the blur and see Ethan with a gorgeous blond under his arm. He looks as good as ever, wearing a black hoodie that’s probably designer and super soft. His jeans aren’t too loose or too tight, and a black baseball cap tops his wet hair that curls around his ears and jawline.