by Shey Stahl
I read things like:
SHE HAS NO BUSINESS BEING ON THIS TOUR.
SHE’S GOING TO CHOKE ON REVVED’S FLAMES!
THE LINE-UP IS AMAZING, ASIDE FROM TAYLAN. I HATE THAT POP-BITCH.
Oh, look. I have a new nickname. Pop-Bitch. Sounds like a gadget from an infomercial.
“Why are you reading that crap?” a gruff voice asks from behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know who it is, but the reaction is the same. Panic.
I nearly choke on my sandwich and drop the remainder of it on my lap. My cell phone and sandwich go flying toward the ground when I realize Revel is in my dressing room. “Holy, crap. What are you doing in here?”
Revel smirks and shrugs one shoulder, leaning into the wall beside my vanity, reaching into his pocket for his lighter. “Tinkerbella said you needed me.”
Tinkerbella? Oh, cute. He gave Bells a nickname too.
Wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, hood up, eyes hidden behind shades, I can’t tell if he’s looking at me until he raises the hand holding the lighter and slides the dark glasses down his nose. He eyes me carefully. “You’re not happy to see me?” He picks up the set list on my vanity table and examines it. For a moment, I panic. Is he going to light it on fire? I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Don’t touch that.” I rip the setlist from his hand, my voice quivering around the words. Why does he make me so damn nervous? “Why did you really come here? You and I both know you don’t listen to anyone, let alone my assistant.”
It’s in that moment, the one where I reach for my set list that my robe falls open and I flash my nearly naked body to a rock god. So embarrassing.
Naturally, his eyes drift over the exposed skin. Guess what? I don’t cover myself right away. I’m not sure why, maybe because I want to see his reaction.
Stepping forward, he leans in, and we’re chest to chest again. He grins down at me, pulling me closer. “I can tell by your reaction to me, you’re not disappointed by me being here, are you?” he asks, his warm minty-vodka breath tickling my neck.
Am I? No. Nope. Not one bit. What I’m disappointed in, is the fact that I’m imagining the hard planes of his muscles under his black sweatshirt and his talented hands dipping inside my panties.
Air! I need air so bad! Trying to clear my thoughts, I huff, pushing back away from him. My gut churns and twists. I think I might throw up. Not from fear, but confusion, or anticipation. “I can’t say I’m relieved. I’m still trying to figure out what it is you’re up to.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “Maybe I don’t know the answer to that either,” he drawls with lazy cynicism.
I smooth out the creases in my robe, tying it, staring at my sandwich I’d tossed on the floor at his arrival. I don’t dare bend down to get it because I think I know what’ll happen if I bend down. He’ll say something inappropriate. To my surprise though, Revel reaches for it, sets what’s left of it on the vanity and then steps back. With his eyes on the floor, he reaches for his cigarettes, then pulls out a flask from what I assume is the back pocket of his dark jeans.
Before I can tell him it’s time for him to go, his manager walks in, knocking lightly on the door after she enters. “Rev, are you in here?”
My gaze darts to Revel who’s now smoking, and drinking from his flask. Liz looks from Revel—to me—then back to Revel with disappointment. “Leave this poor girl alone.”
“Oh, please. She wants me here.” He smiles sarcastically at his manager, then regards me again, tipping his flask my way. His bloodshot eyes make a leisurely pass over my body. “Want some, Princess?”
My skin burns under his gaze. Yes. No. I shake my head, denying him, and sit down in my chair, crossing my legs and fearing my silk robe and him in my dressing room is giving Liz the wrong impression. “I don’t drink before I go on stage.”
“You should take some pointers from this one, Rev.” Liz gestures to Revel with a flick of her wrist, then to the door. “Sound check is in twenty minutes.”
A smoldering cigarette dangles from Revel’s downturned lips. He takes a brief, perfunctory draw, then removes the cigarette, holding it between his fingers. Smoke billows from his nose and mouth as he replies with, “I’m thinking about not going.”
Liz arches an eyebrow at the admired front man who captures more than my attention. “The fuck you aren’t, boy.”
She motions him forward, and surprisingly, he does as he’s told without another glance in my direction. Just before Liz closes the door, she looks over her shoulder at me. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
I shake my head, unable to respond.
She smiles, checks out the door, then glances back at me. “I’d keep your distance from him if I were you.”
Seems everyone is giving me the same advice these days. I know in my gut I should listen to them, but I can’t seem to convince myself of that.
To have a successful career in music you have to have quality music, talent, belief, determination, endurance and be willing to sacrifice your ego at times. The press, even fans, and haters, they will pry into your personal life, your weaknesses, lifestyle, and sexual preferences. That doesn’t matter to me. Being a child prodigy, I’ve been in the spotlight my entire life and had just about every mean thing imaginable said about me. What matters to me is proving them wrong. That I won’t be tucked away as the girl who can only produce pop music under the security blanket of her father’s record label. If everything goes as planned, I will gain the attention of rock labels and maybe even record an album in a different genre. I knew going into this I had high hopes, but a girl can dream.
Once we landed in Sacramento, the dynamic of the combination of artists begins to change. Maybe it’s because of who’s on tour together, or maybe it’s the simple fact that it’s not unheard of for a line up saturated with talent to become competitive and try to outperform the other.
Following Revved’s performance, I head out for my thirty-minute set, and it’s great until the second to last song when the lighting rig, with every light on me snaps and crashes to the stage beside the drum riser. It’s hard for me to see anything, but I continue through the song despite the stage filling with smoke from the dry-ice machine. I’m caught off guard at first, but with the help of my backup dancers, we continue on. I’ll admit, I’m distracted with the equipment managers trying to move the lights, but my performance remains the same. Flawless.
Apparently it’s not good enough because that’s when the fans in attendance at the Golden 1 Theater make their feelings known. They want the same rock star who openly poured a vial of cocaine on the stage and snorted it in front of everyone. Yep, Revel did that.
They begin to shout “Revved” at me and toss bottles on stage. Emotion claws at my chest, my stomach knotting. I stand frozen, my heart pushing through my throat and ready to jump ship. Confession? I have no idea what to do. Do I walk off stage? Do I walk off the entire tour? Tears surface. Spill over. I can’t believe this.
Horrified, I consider maybe I should leave the stage when my bodyguards come on, ready to push me off stage. I’m frozen, unable to move. My blurry vision sweeps to the side-stage, and I make out two people through the smoke. My dad, who doesn’t budge from his position, his hard eyes on mine as if to say, I told you so.
Then further away Revel, with a murderous expression and his hands clenched at his sides. I never thought I’d look to him for help, and I’m not entirely sure I am, but I can tell you it’s a look of panic. I don’t know what to do and I’m looking to him for something. He knows it too.
He says something to a man beside him and then steps forward, the stage manager handing him a microphone. He motions to my band, and they immediately start up again.
What’s he doing? And why is my band listening to him?
Because he’s Revel Slade.
It’s him, the one with restless untamed eyes who’s here to save me and make it known I’m not going anywhere, at least not until he has the last say.
Maybe this is how I see through your lies
Maybe I just wasn’t good at hiding my fears
I guess maybe I fed the lies
Or maybe you should just open your eyes
And then he changes the chorus, by using the chorus of Revved’s song “Aftermath.” Never would I have thought the two songs could have been intertwined that way, until now.
Go ahead, baby, seal our fate
Maybe we both know where this is going
Yeah, I know I’m the danger
But, honey, I’m not the monster who destroyed you
Why can’t you see you’re a product of the aftermath?
Taunting the audience, his vocals are flawless as he stands mere inches from the edge of the stage. Faces and voices around me fade away. It’s Revel who has my attention now. His voice is unique. It’s what makes Revved. Speaking in a somewhat baritone voice, his singing is tenor range, yet he can easily move through to subharmonics when he wants. And he’s one of the best screamers there is. Okay, Prince was but still, Revel is right up there with him, and yes, I imagine, okay, obsess over what it might sound like in the throes of passion.
The crowd responds.
They adore him.
Here’s where it changes for me. When I know I’m in deeper than I can handle. We sing the chorus of “Maybe I” together, and you would have thought we’ve been playing together for years at our instant stage connection and perfect harmonics. Revel shifts his attention to my guitarist, and that’s when a bottle thrown from the left of the stage hits my foot, and I yelp in shock.
“Get off the stage!” a kid yells at me and starts chanting, “Revel! Revel! Revel!”
Standing next to Revel on stage, a place I never thought we’d share together, I search his eyes for a trace of emotion, and I’m neither granted nor denied anything I can decipher other than anger.
Revel notices the bottle, and it’s like a switch is flipped in him. He scowls harshly at the audience and motions to the band. They stop playing immediately. “Come up here and throw a motherfucking bottle at me!” He turns around, grabs a beer bottle from my drummer and then taunts the kid in front of him, motioning for him to come on stage. When he doesn’t, Revel pours the beer on him and hands him the bottle. “I’ll give you the bottle. I bet you can’t even hit me, ya fuckin’ douche.”
The kid says nothing and stares up at us, beer dripping from his hair matted to his face. I fight back a smile, my shock-stricken eyes on the wild man next to me.
“You motherfuckers throw another goddamn bottle or anything else for that matter, we’re going to walk out of this place and never return.” He stops, midsentence and raises an eyebrow. “You want that? And if that happens, we’ll never play in the fuckin’ city again.”
Silence. Dead. Silence.
“That’s what I thought,” Revel shouts in the mic. “She’s earned the right to be on this stage, and you give her the fuckin’ respect she deserves.” He’s motioning toward my band members. “Turn it up!”
And they do.
I know what you’re thinking. Or maybe it’s just me, but holy crap, did he really just do that? Did I mention he’s half-naked? He’s only wearing jeans and is freaking barefoot! So hot. Nope. Control yourself.
We finish out the song, together, and I’m still shaking by the time we come off the stage. Gasping, I grab his shoulders, around twenty or thirty people surrounding us from stage managers, bodyguards, assistants, road managers, everyone you can think of is beside the two of us. But all I see is him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think his eyes were black now under the harsh shadows.
Without warning, I yank him into a hug. I’m not even sure why. Revel pulls away immediately, but not away completely. Maybe he doesn’t like hugs?
My back stiffens because what I see in his eyes frightens me more than his presence on stage with me did. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, just that it’s intense. I break away from his gaze, blinking rapidly as though I’m trying to clear my memory of him. Not possible. Never.
My eyes wander back to his. “How did you do that?”
Revel smirks, raising a flask to his lips. It’s loud backstage, so he pulls me close, his touch gentle but callous. “Do what?” he asks, his breath tickling my ear.
I search his face again, looking for something I don’t know or understand. People say my name, they tug on his arm, but neither of us responds. “Pull that song off like you’ve been singing it for years?”
He takes another pull from his flask, keeping it at bay once he’s done.
I don’t get my answer before his manager approaches, and mine. “That was amazing!” Liz gushes.
Revel rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, don’t go crazy. I went out there so they didn’t fuckin’ murder her.”
“You didn’t need to,” my dad points out, positioning himself between Revel and me, which is hard to do since we’re standing so close. The two of them exchange hushed words, ones I’m not privy to, but it’s Revel’s hand on mine and the nod away from the stage that makes me feel there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than coming to my rescue.
“You comin’, Red?” he whispers, looking my way and then tipping his head toward the exit.
“Where?” I dare to ask, Bella standing next to me now. I glance at my dad, then away just as quickly, waiting on Revel’s response.
He whispers, “Anywhere but here.”
My dad crosses his arms over his chest, huffing out a quick aggravated breath. “You’re not going anywhere with him. You should be getting on your bus and heading to Anaheim.”
“She doesn’t need your permission,” Revel points out, his words casual but their meaning is anything but that.
My breath catches, unable to speak the words, so I nod instead and take the rock star’s hand. A night out with Revel Slade?
I might regret saying this, but yes, please.
THE NIGHT I LOST MY MIND
REVEL
Told you I was in the business of jarring people. Do you believe me now? I can’t tell you why I did it either. Maybe to get a rise out of her, or maybe out of everyone else. Throwing bottles at her. That shit made me fucking crazy.
We’re outside the venue, misty rain falling on sleek blacked-out windows. There’s an umbrella being held over the members of Revved as we make our way to the row of cars alongside the tour buses. Once we’re in the public’s eye, Red let go of my hand. Can’t say I blame her.
Hardin approaches me first. “What was that about back there?” Hardin asks. “First a press conference, now you’re walking out on stage with her?” A provoking smirk appears. “What’s Hensley gonna think?”
I’m not sure if it matters, but it’s a topic of conversation for TMZ and every other media outlet trying to paint me in a bad light. Hardin and I don’t get along. We never have. The only reason I haven’t kicked him out of the band is his ability to play the guitar and do it well. I can’t think of anyone better. His personality is shit though, and he’s constantly trying to instigate shit with me just to piss me off.
Like now.
With unsteady hands, I push one through my hair knocking my hood off. “I don’t give a fuck what she thinks.”
“But still. . . .”
I stop walking, shaking my head in disbelief. Cruz and Deacon follow close behind us, and further back, her. “Would you rather I stand there while they hurl shit at her?”
“I
’m just sayin’.” Hardin raises his hands, smirking, as though his implications should be obvious. Oh, they are. I just don’t appreciate them enough to care. “I’m just sayin’,” he repeats again, chuckling this time.
With a hard knock of my fist, I shove him away from me. He bumps into our bodyguards. “You’re just sayin’ what? Why does it fucking matter what I did?”
Like I know him to be, persistently annoying, Hardin smiles, righting his position and his jacket. “I don’t understand why you’d defend her.”
I don’t like the way he says her. Like she’s not good enough to be here. It’s what everyone thinks, and up until her performance in Portland, I was one of them. She is good enough. I can’t tell you what changed any more than I can tell you why I walked on that stage tonight.
I’ll be honest. When I first met her, I thought she was another product of bought talent. After Hensley, I saw Red and smelled revenge. I see now it’s not revenge. It can’t be with her. She’s surprisingly modest, innocent, beautiful and in ways you wouldn’t exactly expect, humble about her immense talent. Behind her back, I ridiculed her for lack of identity, thinking she’s the typical manufactured bullshit every record company produces to sell an image. What I hadn’t been expecting was her to have the talent to back it. Not many people would have remained standing on that stage tonight. And though she looked to me, she didn’t ask me to come on stage.
Hardin follows me to the line of cars, my attention elsewhere, uninterested in his reply. It’s when his gaze falters to Red who steps toward us with her assistant and bodyguards, that I have a problem with him. It’s Hardin’s interest in her, the way his eyes wander that sets me off. He sweeps his black hair from his face. “Sharing?”
Rage boils in my veins. Believe it or not, when I first started with Hensley, I didn’t give a fuck who dipped in. It was later we became exclusive, after everyone had their turn. But this girl, not a goddamn chance of that happening. I pity anyone who takes a shot at her tonight, or any other night while we’re on this tour. Or for the rest of my life for that matter. Again, I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I can’t stop it. Licking my lips, I catch Hardin’s eyes and make it known with my words, hands off. “Unless you want me to slam your face through the windshield, I’d say no.”
