Crazy Love (The Bad Boys of Brit Pop Book 1)

by Madelynne Ellis

  Jessie co-opts the only bit of prime real-estate left, which just happens to be right next to Paradise Kiss’s table. The girl from earlier, the one Jessie almost slogged in the teeth while she was aiming for Dane, gives a squeak of alarm when we muscle in, but she doesn’t object to the trestle table of goodies we set up, or the oversized poster we unroll and fix to the wall behind us so that it’s overlapping the black and white image of Paradise Kiss. The way Ivy pins it, I’m rocking out face to face with Nathaniel Darke. A buzz rolls through me at the notion. I wonder what sort of sounds we’d make.

  “You know he’ll be crap in bed.” Jessie taps me on the shoulder. “The ones who think they’re hot always are. They’re not prepared to put the effort in.”

  Is that an actual universal truth, or merely a lie we like to tell ourselves, so we can be content with the geeks and wash-outs that normally find their way to our beds? I’m certain there has to be a few playboys out there who know how to drive a woman demented in bed, and also manage to be refined, loaded and handsome, and not just sleazy. Hell, I know at least one—sadly now attached.

  “I’m not going to fuck him, Jessie. I told you that. I was checking you’d hung our poster straight.”

  She gives me a look designed to melt flesh. “You think I don’t know what’s in your head. Post show, you’re a cocktail of hot emotions, and screwing is normally your top priority. All it takes is a whiff of testosterone and you’re glued to whoever is offering.”

  “He’s not offering.”

  “Yeah,” she concedes. “Make sure it stays that way. When I said we were coming tonight to screw with Paradise Kiss, you and Nathaniel Darke doing a horizontal mosh wasn’t what I meant.”

  I nod and sigh, but there’s no point escalating this into any sort of an argument. Darke hasn’t even noticed me, and I imagine after the barney between Jessie and his brother earlier, he’s perfectly happy to keep things that way.

  “They’re the official competition, Lowdy, try not to forget that.” She drums two fingers against the side of my head.

  Jessie does believe in labouring the point. If I’m not eyes front and one hundred per cent engaged on the pocketful of fans we have approaching for the next twenty minutes, then she’s going to be berating me with a frying pan, or some other equally hard metal object that’s close to hand.

  Staying engaged isn’t as easy as it might seem. After our five true fans disperse, the second wave of people consists mostly of drunks who paw through our stuff like they might the leaflet stand at the local G.U.M. clinic. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I can’t pretend I’m interested in their opinions about anything, least of all our set. In any case, all our name recognition is now associated with Ivy’s antics. Anyone who walks away from here tonight is going to associate Bitch Slap with the mad woman who flashed her pubes, not the rocking anthems we played them.

  We’re doomed to perpetual obscurity.

  I want to sneak back into the auditorium and watch Bulldozer on stage, just to prove to myself we have a chance in hell of making it. Their tunes aren’t nearly as hot as ours. I can’t believe that the audience are rocking out with anything approaching the same gusto.

  I’m still attempting to convince myself of that fact, when a gargantuan man blocks the entire front of our trestle table. When he sticks out his hand, I’m tempted to ignore his attempt to shake, but the choice become irrelevant, as Jessie barges in and clasps his great big mitt like he’s an old friend.

  “Nice performance, ladies,” the dude says. He has a quiet confidence about him, and I notice he’s wearing a Black Halo Requiem for the Damned tour shirt. “Do you have time for a little chat?”

  “Of course.” Jessie flashes him her wonderful smile. Clearly, she knows who he is. I wish she’d clue Ivy and me in. Actually, Ivy has her back to us, and is on the phone to Nightshift again.

  “Is here a good enough place for a chat, or do you want to find somewhere we can sit down?” Jessie asks.

  “There’s nothing terribly extensive I need to say right away. You girls just stick around after the show is over. I think I have a proposal that might interest you.”

  Oh a proposal, is it? Dear God, it shows what this industry is that every time I hear those words my toes curl. Actually, everything that can curl up and hide does so. I swear every creep in a forty mile radius has honed in on us and laid out their propositions. Ivy’s had at least twelve marriage proposals since we came off stage and a lot more unsavoury offers.

  That said, this guy doesn’t sound local, but maybe they’re just shipping in from farther afield.

  “What sort of proposal?” Jessie asks.

  He shakes his head, refusing to say anything. “In there, once the punters are gone.” He points a thumb towards the function room that houses the stage. “Mind you’re punctual. I don’t hang around.”

  He turns and leaves.

  “Who is that?” I ask, staring at his retreating back. “Do we really want to meet him?”

  “You’re kidding, yeah?” Jessie stares at me as if I’m insane.

  “He’s Graham Callahan,” Ivy answers from behind me. When I turn, she’s still looking at the screen of her phone.

  “And who the heck is he?” I need a little more to go on than a name.

  “Black Halo’s manager,” says the girl manning Paradise Kiss’s stall. “Haven’t you heard, since they’re taking a short hiatus, their manager is looking to pick up someone new to take under his wing.”

  Jess looks sceptical. Ivy is tapping on the phone, but not to Nightshift. She shows me the Metalworks News page, there are certainly rumours to that effect, and that the right band will be expected to open for Black Halo once their tour resumes.

  “That’s not what he’s about to offer us,” I say.

  “Yeah, but imagine if it is?” Jessie squees and hugs me.

  “I’m not sure I’d like that,” Ivy says squashing both our dreams with six unbelievable words.

  “Ives you love travelling. They’re touring Europe, before moving across to the States and the rest of the world.”

  “Cities—they’re touring cities. I like green, open places. Not belchy, smoky, noise-filled locations.”

  She wouldn’t go without Nightshift packed into her suitcase either, but hey, I’m sure that could be arranged. Graham Callahan can probably organise anything. He manages one of the biggest rock groups in the world, sorting out the plebeian wishes of three barely twenty-something girls should be a doddle for him.

  I see him return to the main room in time for the scattered applause the end of Bulldozer’s set receives. There’s a thunderous cacophony of stamping feet, whoops and wolf whistles a few seconds later, and I realise Paradise Kiss have taken to the stage, which is when it hits me that tonight might result in more drama than even Jessie planned. Mr Callahan might want a word with us, but I’ll lay money on him chatting to Paradise Kiss too.

  -5-

  Nathaniel Darke

  We play seven tracks and encore, which means Hypocritical Bitch gets two outings. Dane leaves the stage smiling, and proceeds to tongue tango with several of our fans. The man is gross. He just works his way along the line. I’m not sure he’s even paying attention, since he almost snogs a bloke.

  Eventually, folks drift away, and the hotel quietens. We head back stage, switch shirts and grab some drinks before we head back to the now emptied function room for our scheduled chat with Graham Callahan. There’s something distinctly depressing about the place after the fans have gone. The pattern on the carpet no longer hides the stains, and the miasma of real ale and sweat pokes two fingers up your nostrils. Knox looks confused, like he’s not sure why we’re here. As long as he remembers we’ve played the gig, all will be cool.

  “Far corner,” one of the bar staff engaged in glass collecting points us towards the right of the stage where there’s a section of seating that was cordoned off earlier, so the bands could use it as an instrument store. There are six people seated there
now, Graham Callahan and his minions I expected, but the remaining three come as something of a shock.

  “Bitch Slap,” Joel mouths.

  Dane is far less circumspect. “Why are they here?” His fists curl, prompting me to tense, ready to pounce the minute he shows any sign of going for Jessie’s throat. He has a nice bruise across the bridge of his nose from where she thumped him earlier that he’s currently disguising with sunglasses, so he’s already on a short fuse.

  Jessie sits tight and keeps her mouth shut. Her two partners in crime, the exhibitionist and the maverick, shuffle a little closer to her.

  Joel plants a hand on Dane’s shoulder.

  “Good question,” Graham Callahan replies.

  Actually, it’s a shite question, since the answer is bleedin’ obvious. They’re here because Callahan thinks they’ve the chops to open for Black Halo. A more relevant question would be, why are they still here given he could have sewn up the deal anytime over the last hour, and more importantly, how does this development affect Paradise Kiss?

  “Are you replacing us with them?” Dane just can’t hold it in. I don’t blame him, I’m sure I’d feel the same way if it was my harridan of an ex-girlfriend sitting on that couch looking so beautifully smug.

  “You were guaranteed consideration, Mr. Darke, not a definite spot on the roster. They’re here because I’m impressed with what I’ve heard from both bands. However, I only need one opening act.”

  “Then what’s the solution?” I ask, because somebody has to.

  “I intend to sleep on it.” He’s going to make us wait until after breakfast to see which band has made the cut, and which is going home empty handed. I can’t help suspecting he’s been watching too much reality TV. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he’s already made his decision, and this is actually a test to see how we handle the stress. Everyone knows that Black Halo have put him through the wringer these last few months. I reckon Callahan’s looking for a nice together, low maintenance band, who are going to do what they’re told, when they’re told. But that’s just not what being part of a rock band is about. Some level of anarchy is necessary to keep the creative juices flowing. The moment everyone feels contented and settled is when the passion dies.

  Callahan pushes his considerable girth up out of the chair. “I want both Bitch Slap and Paradise Kiss back down here at 6:00a.m. You’ll get one chance to give me your best track, and then I’ll give you my final decision.”

  “Six?” Loveday Trevaskis bounces to her feet.

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  She shakes her head, even though I’m certain she’s thinking the same thing as the rest of us. Who the hell wants to see that time of the morning?

  “I’ve a tight schedule, ladies and gents. I don’t have time to waste. 6:00a.m. sharp, if you’re not here, then I’ll assume you’re not interested, and I’ll find another band who aren’t so commitment phobic.” He strides away without saying a damned other thing, leaving his minions to scurry after him.

  “Christ!” Joel complains. “The only time I see 6:00a.m. is when I pull an all-nighter.”

  “I think that’s true of most rock stars.” Not that we’re genuinely entitled to that moniker yet, but we keep similar hours to get the practice in. “It wouldn’t be nearly the same test if he’d said 4:00p.m. now would it?”

  “He wants us to play rock music before breakfast.” Dane wraps his arms around Knox and Joel’s shoulders and drags them into a huddle. “You never said the man was a complete sadist.”

  “Aw, are the lickle boys scared they’ll not be able to rise in time without their mums around to help them get dressed?”

  Jessie is such a frigging bitch, but maybe Dane has realised she’s deliberately trying to goad him, because he manages to constrain his response to a twitch.

  “I do my salutation to the sun at six,” Bitch Slap’s resident hippy chick complains. “I’d arranged to meet—”

  “—you can see Nightshift once we’ve bagged this deal, Ivy,” Jessie snaps.

  The other girl’s eyes go wide, and she gives her head a little shake. I’m not sure if she’s objecting to adjusting her plans or something else, but it’s good to know Bitch Slap aren’t as together as Jessie would like to have us believe. It’s a strange boost to be sure, but it is one, because while we’re all huddled together faking solidarity, I know we’ve issues of our own that need resolving before tomorrow comes, the first being what we’re going to play that has any chance of competing with what Bitch Slap have already shown they can produce. I’m certain they’ll use that song again—Loveday on vocals, weaving a spell with her bass guitar. It’s down to that rollicking, foot stomping piece of dynamite that everything is buggered up. I’d like to say it’s not fair, but the music scene isn’t about fair. It isn’t even about talent, more luck and opportunity. Still, if she’s wholly responsible for that song, as I believe she is, then she’s a fucking genius, because the strands of it are playing in my head even now, when I’ve heard six of Bulldozer’s offerings, and played eight of my own since hearing it.

  We need to play something equally great to compete. We even have that, well sort of. TL:DR is going to be the goddamned anthem of a generation once it’s done, but there’s the rub. It has lyrics, a killer drum track, rhythm and lead, but no sodding bass yet, because Knox has so far failed to produce the goods.

  “We need to do To Long: Didn’t Read” I tell the guys as we leave the function room.

  “You’ve finished it?” Dane asks.

  I shake my head. “Knox and I still have some work to do.”

  “Right now,” the big oaf complains. “I was hoping to get some down time, since we have to get up so early.”

  I consider it a good start that the dawn wake-up call has pierced his skull and made it to long-term memory. I’m still going to set his alarm for him and get the reception desk to give him a wake-up call or three at the appropriate hour. That’s assuming sleep is on the cards for any of us, given the task ahead. “You can sleep or whatever after we’ve blown Bitch Slap out of the water and nailed this deal. Until then, you and I are working. We’ll all rendezvous at five, to give us time to put it all together and work out any creases before we perform it for the boss man.”

  “5:00a.m.” Dane scratches at the front of his head. “That’s a fucking dead zone if ever there was one. Might as well stay the hell up and mainline a few caffeine tabs. Got any of those, Knox?”

  We all fix our gazes on Knox, because if there’s a weak point in this plan, he’s it. Joel, Dane and I want this. We’re willing to sacrifice a bit of shut-eye in the name of fame, but Knox doesn’t inhabit the same plane as the rest of us. Fame’s too transient a notion for him to grasp. Hell, he struggles enough with time. He has a few other issues too, namely his inability to hit the sack without having a smoke to chill himself out first. Actually, he doesn’t do much without calming his nerves first. He’s been too laid back recently, which is one of the reasons this track still isn’t complete after six weeks in the making.

  The three of us stare at him.

  “What?” he asks, raising his hands before him palms up. “I don’t have anything like that. Why would you want to take something that leaves you jangling?” He squints at us. “I can get you something better.”

  “I’m good,” Dane gives Knox’s shoulder a squeeze. “I think I can find a way to pleasantly while away the hours, without having to poison myself.”

  No guesses as to what he has in mind, as long as that soft comfort doesn’t involve him humping the fuck out of Jessie, I don’t care. Too bad that I wouldn’t put it past either of them to lock horns like two raging bulls, beat the crap out of one another and then turn it into a demented fucking session. I try not to be pissed at Dane for putting us in this position. If his harridan of an ex-girlfriend hadn’t got it into her head to form a band out of spite, then we’d be celebrating right now.

  “Nate, a word,” Joel shoots me a look that says th
ere are choices to be made, and things we urgently need to discuss. I don’t agree, but he’s not going to piss off and leave me to fix this song before he’s said his bit.

  “Right.” I head toward the door to the men’s loos.

  Knox looks confused. “I thought you wanted us to work on the track.”

  “I’m taking a dump. Twenty minutes. I’ll see you back here.”

  “Right, man.” He brushes knuckles with me. “We’re going to fucking nail this.”

  I wish Joel shared his belief.

  Joel follows me into the men’s toilets. He doesn’t even wait until I’ve unzipped and pissed before he starts laying everything out like there are actual choices to be made. Yes, I know Knox has issues, who the fuck among us doesn’t, but that’s not a reason to go backstabbing him.

  “It’s not happened before, Nate, there’s no reason to suppose he’s going to deliver tonight.”

  “He will. It’ll work. I’m not giving him a choice.”

  Joel shoots me a look as he pisses right alongside me that lets me know he’s unconvinced. “Knox isn’t going to give you shit and you know it.”

  “He wants this just as much as we do.”

  “Pfft! You don’t even believe that.”

  “He’s come up with the goods plenty of times before.”

  “He’s getting worse, Nate. Don’t pretend you can’t see it. Wake the hell up. If we fuck up tomorrow, we’re not just going to be playing dingy clubs forever—it’s going to be over. No one is going to sign the band that Graham Callahan passed on.”

  “And what are you suggesting, eh? That we give Knox marching orders? Jeezus, Joel! If this track isn’t right by tomorrow morning, we can just play a different one and hope Callahan appreciates we’ve a solid backlist, and not just one decent track.”