by Shey Stahl
As I sit on a couch surrounded by the other famous faces of Revved, in the distance, the drone of the opening bands performing can be heard.
Next to me, Deacon is on his phone, texting his baby-mama. On a stool, Cruz is repeatedly tapping and hitting things with his drumsticks, including Deacon’s head when he feels the need to rouse him.
In the corner, Hardin looks to a bottle of Jack Daniels with questions he’ll never get the answers to. I know because I try every day and fail just the same. While the audience listens to whoever went on before us, we remain out of the spotlight. The set list is final and kept confidential. Will we play our hits. . . something new? Only the four lost souls in this room know, and it’s up to me and how my voice is feeling for the night.
The call is given through a walkie-talkie, summoning us to the stage. It’s then the stage plunges the audience into complete darkness awaiting our arrival. Buzzing with energy, we exit the dressing room and make the walk to the stage. That adrenaline right before you get on stage, it’s untouchable. Nothing mimics that feeling. Not drugs. Not pussy. Nothing.
It takes me longer to get on stage, my pants were on backwards, but hey, they’re lucky I’m wearing any.
“What city are we in?” I ask our roadie, because I’ve already forgotten.
He gestures to my hand. “It’s written on your hand.”
I look down, zipping my jeans with the other hand. He’s right, but it’s smeared. “Next time use a Sharpie,” I tell him, pushing past the throngs of people in our way.
Rock and roll is a dynamic, complex monster. So much goes into a performance. The singer, the guitarist, those are who the people pay attention to. To be honest, the drums is where the show is at. I actually started with drums, then moved to the lead vocalist when we discovered what my voice brought to our music. The drums, the tribal, primal sound, that’s the rhythm that moves the crowd. It’s the first sound you hear when they cue the blackout, the indication the show’s starting. It’s the sound that sets the mood for you and those sixty thousand fans. It will begin and end with that sound.
Who takes the brunt of it if the show doesn’t go well? Me! When the audience doesn’t respond to a song, it isn’t the guitar player or the drummer. It’s the lead singer center stage who takes it. Nobody hears if Deacon or Hardin’s guitar is out of tune, but if I’m flat, the headlines are “Revel’s voice is slipping. It’s the drugs.”
Which, in part, could be truth, but fuck that, I’m never flat.
It’s hard to explain what I feel on stage. When I’m standing there, front and center in a stadium, arena, or even a club, it’s Cruz they’re looking at to start the fucking fire and kick things off with his vicious beats, but it’s me who takes it from there. I can tell you this. Once you’ve experienced it, there’s absolutely no going back.
It’s a powerful demon that’ll control the rest of your life.
Drawing in an unsteady breath, I down the remainder of the flask and look to Cruz. “Ready?” I ask, nodding to the stage.
He laughs, twirling a drum stick in his hand. “Do you even remember the lyrics?”
Ripping off my shirt, I toss it at Hensley’s feet who is watching my every reaction from beside Red, also watching from the wings. Apparently, I’m the center of the fuckin’ show these days. “I wrote the motherfucka, didn’t I?”
Cruz smirks, rolling his eyes and reaching for the blunt next to him. “Uh-huh.”
Slowly, I walk on stage after the five-minute-long video that plays in the beginning of all our shows. The audience, the power behind it, it’s consuming. When you’re already somewhat hyperactive and intense by nature, you don’t need drugs and adrenaline on stage. Though I do both, that stage, a place where I’ve lived out the last seven years of my life, it’s essentially a descent into madness and usually a place I find the most comfort in. It’s the only place where I can release the anger, the energy I’m forced to suppress, to unleash the dragon and shed it from my skin for a brief reprieve from being Revel Slade, the fuck up.
Smirking down at the front row, the only people I can see, I ask the one question that gets them going every fucking time. “How ya doin’, Portland?”
It doesn’t matter what city you’re in, or even what ethnicity the crowd is, it always gets them going, and that’s my cue to turn it up.
WHO THE HELL IS THIS GUY?
TAYLAN
I have rituals before a show. It starts with relaxation and tea with honey and lemon to soothe my throat.
I listen to calming rain sounds and meditate.
Only today, I decided to try something different because nothing so far has been expected. Sure, I’ve kept with the proper hydration. No alcohol.
I’ve slept.
I’m. . . prepared.
My set list is finalized.
My show, it’ll be flawless.
I’ve picked all ten songs, including the last cover song of Betty Davis I plan to do, and they’re my best ones. The ones that’ll appeal to everyone, and I guarantee at least half the nearly twenty thousand in attendance have heard. I’ve played bigger. Try one hundred and sixty thousand. I’m not nobody. It’s crazy to even think that, because I can’t even go to the damn store without someone knowing who I am. Sure, I’m no Revved, but I’m the princess of pop and damn it, that means something.
It comes down to my fear and anxiety. Will they like me for me? I might get booed off stage, but I might not, and I’m going with that slim possibility of not. It’s about theatrics and giving the audience an intimate, organic, never before seen glimpse into your creative side. Every song they love, sung live, to create their own memories. That’s exactly what I plan on doing. I plan on being experimental tonight and switching it up. Most people think you start out in one genre and you stay there. I don’t believe that. I think you grow, and your music needs to as well. It’s all about the artist writing songs with lyrics their audience can relate to yet still be something they enjoy and can sing at the top of their lungs.
I bet he can make me scream at the top of my lungs.
Shit. You know what I’m doing, don’t you? I’m not meditating.
But do you see me standing side-stage nervously? I’m distracted by who’s on stage now. I shouldn’t be watching him. I should be freaking meditating, and preparing myself but watching the competition is preparing, right?
Probably not.
A vision bathed in neon green light, the sight of him on stage, shirtless, has my nipples tightening, thighs clenching and things happening between my legs I’d rather not say. There’s no need because when you see him for yourself, you’re gonna understand all this. I anchor my feet to the floor, but my eyes, they’re not easily restrained. They’re locked on that unkempt hair, brooding stare and drift south where I’m sure the vision just gets better from there. The sex tape Bella and I sneaked peeks at comes to mind. Let me just say this now. Google it. You won’t be disappointed.
Crap. Knock it off!
I can’t. I try.
My heart stutters at the sight of him. You have a few assumptions about Revel by now, don’t you? Branded arrogant, evasive, difficult, mean for no apparent reason. There has to be a reason though, right?
I once had this kitten, and he was an orange tabby, runt of the litter and so freaking mean. You’d walk by him and he’d attack you for no reason at all. At least I thought it was a random act of terrorism on his part. Until I watched him during the day. I hadn’t known it, but at the time, our dog used to sit on him and constantly attack him when no one was looking. So in the cat’s defense, he was simply acting out for things done to him. It’s like kids who grow up with abusive parents. It’s a trait they learn.
I know about Revel’s past. Parents died when he was four, raised by a strict Christian grandmother in El Paso, Texas and I think she must have beat the gentleman right out of the boy because I don’t see a single ounce of southern charm left in him.
Cliff, Revved’s tour manager, stands next to me
on the side-stage minutes before the call goes over the radios to kill the lights. With Bella occupied going over security for my performance after Revved’s, I find a moment to pry into the reason why Revel is Revel. “Why is Revel so mean?”
Amusement shadows Cliff’s distinct features as he snorts. He’s one of those guys who has very pronounced cheekbones and lips. Makes me think he’d make a very pretty girl, should he decide to wear makeup someday. “He’s shy.”
“Revel?” I snort, looking at him as if he’s lost his mind. Clearly, we’re not talking about the same guy. The one who said I probably suck cock better than I sing. Don’t think I’ve let that statement go. Nope. It’s burned in my memory. “Yeah, right.”
“He actually is. This guy on stage, that’s not Revel. That’s an image he’s created and hides behind.”
“Why?”
“Can you honestly say you’re the princess of pop even in the shadows?”
I don’t answer him because sadly, I don’t know the answer to the question. Most days I don’t know who I am. The only certainty in my life is that day in and out I know I’m lonely.
“So if he’s shy, why is he mean? That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Everyone he’s ever let in has either left him or destroyed him. That kind of attitude doesn’t just happen overnight. It happens when you’ve been pushed too far.” Someone in the distance calls Cliff’s name, and he turns, nodding to them before turning back to me. “Good luck out there.”
I’ll need it.
Nervousness claws at me and my heart thuds like the short, sharp sounds of a snare drum. It’s not the venue that’s intimidating for me tonight. It’s not even the fact that I’m stepping out of my comfort zone completely. It’s because he’s here and if there’s anyone I want to prove I’m more than a pop princess to, it’s him.
I’ve been everywhere, toured the world, and seen nothing. Arenas, stadiums, intimate venues, they’re all the same when they’re framed by a hotel window, limo, tour bus or high above the sky. I’ve never even seen the Eiffel Tower, yet I’ve been to France eight times. My life is essentially sheltered, and while I wish I could say differently with all the touring I’ve done, nothing compares to seeing Revved perform live, from the side-stage.
Nothing prepares me for it.
Nothing.
A heavy drumbeat thumps wildly in my chest, hitting harder with every second. My mouth dries, every muscle in my body preparing me for what’s to come.
Clearly drunk from boredom, Revel stumbles on stage late due to a wardrobe malfunction. His pants were on backward which had gone undetected until he was walking to the stage. And then he’s there, with the eyes of a fallen angel, center stage, and the image he’s created for the energetic front man of Revved shines through, and his personality morphs into someone you’d never know existed, had you encountered him backstage.
Equal parts charming and volatile, there’s no doubt Revel’s an American rock legend with his iconic rough growls and jaw-dropping vibratos. With him on stage, you feel the energy and the sensory bombardment, the hum of the amplifiers, the taste of the smoke biting your throat. You feel the vibrations of the speaker cabinets and the kick in your chest as the bass drum pumps. The buzz of energy radiates from them, and for me, it’s so much more than being on stage yourself.
I keep every bit of my attention on the one commanding it. Soaked in stage lights, he brings the microphone to his lips. “How ya doin’, Portland?”
The audience screams in response as he moves from center stage to the right, unleashing his signature smile to the unsuspecting women in the front row. My throat bobs, my heart erratic with anticipation for hearing him sing live. Sure, I’ve heard him on the radio, but never live.
The entire audience belongs to him. It doesn’t matter who they thought they came to see because, in this moment, every single person belongs to Revel.
Breckin approaches me, smiling as though nothing has happened between us, as though we’re still together. Snaking his arm around my shoulder, he draws me into his side. “Nervous, T?”
“No.” Though my tone is unwavering, it’s pliable and evident my mind is elsewhere.
His stare follows where mine refuses to stray from.
“Is he being an ass still?”
Revel begins their set with Revved’s number one single, “Violent Heart,” and I really want to listen to it, get lost in the lyrics and his voice, so I shrug. “He’s Revel.”
Pushing away from Breckin, I create some distance between us. “Go away.”
Crap. Revel’s starting to wear off on me, but damn it, I’m missing the song.
The sound around the side-stage is deafening, but Breckin senses my mood is off, his brow dipping as he yells, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Thankfully, before he can pry further and interrupt me drooling over Revel, he turns his attention to his manager who’s been looking for him. My focus cuts to the one commanding the attention of the fans listening to his every word, every deep growl, every breath and vibration of his deep voice. The musically gifted god, center stage, his voice echoing through the stadium, suffering from something so deep inside him even he doesn’t know its depth yet. It’s clear he’s vulnerable, pouring out honest lyrics that evoke both sadness and comfort that I’m not the only one who’s been deceived.
You told me it was real
You gave me what I wanted
Can you even look me in the eyes?
Had I known it was lies
Whatever, I go along
Strangle my violent heart
It’s over now, I’d give it all back
I suggest you get yourself a weapon
Strangle me, darling
It’s your only chance at redemption
Strangle my violent heart
I’m weak and powerless over you
I can’t imagine him powerless to anyone, but I think I know who the lyrics are about and she’s staring at me. I’m certainly hated by many.
As Revel sings the closing lines of the song, repeating the chorus as the music fades, I see the pain behind the words. The feedback from Hardin’s guitar echoes through the auditorium signaling the end of the song as Revel stalks toward me, sweat dripping off his skin from the heat of the stage lights.
Oh God, he’s approaching me. Don’t react. Don’t breathe, and for Heaven’s sake, don’t grab his face and kiss him like you desperately want to!
My breath catches as he stops toe to toe with me before leaning down to wipe his face on the towel I’d slung over my shoulder, his words tickling my neck. “That’s as close to greatness as you’ll ever be,” he spits before turning back to the stage, leaving me speechless, tossing the towel back at me.
Fighting the urge to pick up the towel and smell it, I let out a slow, even breath and put on a smile, trying to pretend his words didn’t hurt, but the significance of them does. Inside, my heart thunders from the aftershock of his attention.
What the hell have I gotten myself into? What an asshole. A hot asshole, but whatever.
Turning, I find Bella standing next to me with her mouth gaping, and who else?
Hensley.
Smiling.
I don’t know her very well, but I can already tell she hates me too by the look of disgust hidden deep within her dark eyes, staring me down like I’m her worst enemy.
“What?” I ask when I realize Hensley’s not moving, nor is she saying anything. Why the heck is she staring at me so much?
Hensley eyes me from head to toe and gives me her resting bitch face. At least that’s what Bella tells me she has. “I should probably warn you now.”
That you slept with my dad? That I hate you? That you’re a slut?
My heart pounds, as though she’s about to tell me someone died. “About?” In my periphery vision, I can see Bella, and the look on her face mirrors my own. Two southern girls standing next to the tattooed, pink and purple haired Hensley Shaw probably l
ooks something similar to when angels meet the devil. Not that we’re angels, but you get what I’m saying, right?
“You know.” Hensley takes a long draw from the joint she’s smoking, nodding to the stage. I fight the urge to gag. I hate the skunk stench coming from the marijuana. “There should be a label on guys like him. He destroys. He doesn’t know any different.”
I’m not sure what she means, but I have a feeling my foolish heart is about to find out the hard way these next three months.
“Don’t,” she warns. “Don’t even go there.”
Without thinking, I mumble, “I don’t, I mean, it’s not like that. I didn’t come on this tour for that.” I can’t say for sure, but my words don’t sound very convincing.
Hensley shakes her head, her thick black lashes fluttering with her whimsical laughter. “Sure ya didn’t, honey. He’s an alcoholic head case. He spends his days high and his nights even higher.” Taking another hit of her joint, she coughs out a half-strangled laugh and leaves me with those words. I can’t help but think in this case, even villains have a story to tell. And I’m not talking about Hensley.
Bella approaches me next, a bottle of water in one hand and a paper cup with what I assume is my honey and lemon tea. She hands it to me. “This is insane.” She beams, pointing to Revved on stage. “I overheard security saying someone passed out when Revel dumped a beer on her. No wonder people say their concerts are legendary.”
She’s right. I never understood it until now. You can’t bring together this many bands and one not try to outdo the other, which naturally causes friction, but nothing compares to Revved. They’re unrivaled.
When their set is finished, I know it’s my turn and to follow that, is impossible.
As they exit the stage, Revel’s attention settles on my face. I stand in front of him. A shiver of fear snakes up my spine in his presence. In my dress, he has a full view of the tops of my breasts, and he doesn’t just flick his eyes to them. He drags them seductively, heatedly over every bare inch available to him. He might look at me like he hates me most of the time, as he probably does, but this look, he definitely likes what he sees.
