Rock

by Kendall Grey

  None of it is surprising, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

  There are countless private messages. Girding my loins, I scroll through them, looking at the previews.

  Hold on. There are actually a lot of supportive comments here. I click one, and my hopes lift slightly:

  “You don’t know me, but I’ve been a fan since you were playing bass for Cherry Buzz Float. I met you once after a show in Charlotte, and you were so nice. I saw the video they posted about you, and I didn’t think it was that bad. I don’t believe they showed the real you. I’ll always love and support you. Long live The Rock!”

  Another message simply states, “Here’s to making art, not money!” A picture of a man wearing a KBF shirt and holding up a beer follows.

  My eyes widen as I scan through gobs of positive messages. Maybe I’m not as universally hated as I thought. When I flip to my timeline and take a closer look, I realize many of the comments and posts there defend rather than degrade me.

  The tightness in my chest loosens. I swear to The Rock, it feels like a horde of masked superheroes untied me from a railroad track and pushed me out of the path of an oncoming train. Relieved, I begin the arduous task of replying to all these messages, my heart plump with love and appreciation.

  An hour later, I haven’t even made it through half the messages, but I’m determined to answer every one. Shades, Jinx, and Toombs mount the steps and peek inside the bus. Giddy, I call them over and show them what I’ve been doing.

  Shades smiles widely and hugs me. “I knew our true fans would support you. Did you finish your video?”

  “Yeah. As soon as Jillian gets back, I’ll let her watch it. She can tell me to redo it if she wants. I don’t care.” I’m so happy not to feel like a trash bag made of human skin anymore, the thought of Jillian making me start over doesn’t even bother me.

  “We’ve got some news too,” Jinx says, settling in beside me.

  “Like what?”

  “The three of us have been sniffing around the Banging Betties camp. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear Lizzie’s a total bitch, and aside from her bandmates and manager, pretty much everyone on the inside hates her.”

  “Ha!” I slap the table. “There’s a shocker.”

  “We had some enlightening discussions with sound guys, roadies, and techs,” Toombs says. “They say she’s meaner than a cottonmouth. Demanding, yells at people, argues constantly. Total diva. She thinks she deserves royal treatment.”

  Shades scoots in on my other side and drapes an arm across my shoulders. “She obviously didn’t get the memo that you gotta earn royal treatment.”

  “Will any of them stand up to her?” I doubt they will, but I have to ask.

  Toombs shakes his head. “They’re too scared to lose their jobs. Nobody’s gonna put their livelihood at risk.”

  “That sucks. But you know what? Fuck her. This unexpected deluge of positivity and memories of what Shades’s cock did to me last night,” I grab his bulge to the tune of Jinx’s giggle, “have inspired me. I got a groove in my head that won’t let go, some lyrics dying to dance with y’all’s mad music skills, and a driving need to reclaim my former title of Badass Bitch onstage tonight.”

  Shades lifts a brow and swats my rump as I stand. “I’ll get Rax.” He sidles up to me, kisses me hard without touching anywhere but my lips, and presses his forehead into mine. “Phoenix from the fuckin’ flames, pussycat.”

  I nod, more in love with him than ever before. “Let’s burn this bitch to the ground.”

  Get It Up

  The vibe at the venue tonight is very different from what it’s been the last several days. The cloud of gloom and doom hanging over me and the band seems to have dissipated, thanks to the fresh breeze of sanity I saw earlier on the Interwebz.

  Jillian watched the video I made. She didn’t smile or pat me on the back. No “Good job, Letty!” or even an “I hate it. It sucks. Do it again.” She said nothing. Her body language told me it was passable, though not necessarily approved of. She simply harrumphed at me with her shoulders—not even with the accompanying sound of a harrumph, just a visual indication of critical commentary without any real commentary at all.

  Since she didn’t tell me not to, I posted the video on my personal fan page and on YouTube a few hours ago. I haven’t had the heart to check and see what kinds of accusations the trolls have drudged up since, and quite frankly, I no longer give a fuck. Shouldn’t have given one in the first place.

  Now, backstage as we’re preparing to go on, Jillian follows me with her eyes in the same harrumphy way she did on the bus. Like she has a lot of things to say, but something’s holding her back.

  I don’t know why she shut herself off from us, but I plan to confront her. I’ve talked to the rest of the band, and they agree something’s gotta give. Good to know I’m not the only one who’s noticed a distinct change in her behavior, but it doesn’t make tackling the problem any easier.

  Eliza appears on my left with Gabrielle. I smile big for the baby, and she smiles back. “How’s it going, Tater Tot?” I ask her with a goofy voice.

  She buries her laughing face in her mom’s shoulder. Eliza grins at me with her beautiful white teeth. For the first time, I don’t feel jealous of her. Shades and me, we’re okay. That means I’m okay with Eliza.

  “Love the new ’do, Letty.” She picks up a few red plaits and runs her fingers over them.

  “Thanks.”

  “I saw the video you posted,” she says, cutting a glance toward Lizzie behind us. “I thought it was very brave. And well done.”

  I look down at my combat boots and kick my heels together. “Thanks, but I doubt it’ll change anyone’s mind.”

  “It already has. Haven’t you read the comments?”

  I shake my head. “I was scared to.”

  “You? Scared? Pfft.” She blows me off like she doesn’t believe me. “Your fans love you. And the ones who don’t were never your fans to begin with. Screw the haters, and do what you do best. Bomb-ass bitches write bomb-ass music.”

  “I appreciate that, Eliza.”

  She reaches out to me with her free arm. I stare at her. She wants to hug me?

  “Uh …”

  She pulls me close, hooking me into her embrace. Eliza, Gabrielle, and me engaged in a massive Kumbaya lovefest. Someone snap a goddamn picture. This will probably never happen again.

  “I believe you,” Eliza whispers into my braided hair. “And I believe in you.” The baby giggles and squirms, and Eliza breaks her hold on me. Sweet, wide little green eyes surprise attack me from below. Kind, understanding brown eyes tackle me from the front.

  I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  I nod quickly and dart away before I really do cry. Naturally, in my eagerness to get the fuck outta Dodge, I run smack into Lizzie.

  “Watch where you’re going, bitch.” She shoves me.

  I stop. Stare. Consider.

  Okay, where I come from, when a bitch puts her hands on you first, it’s free game to beat the motherfucking shit out of her face. Hair pulling, bitch slapping, and titty punching are all acceptable responses in a situation such as this. My personal fave, however, is a good ol’, straight up right cross.

  But given my recent run-in with the law of crowds, I’m gonna be better than that. For once.

  My hands fly up in surrender. In my peripheral vision, movement from Jillian catches my attention. Zeroed in on us, she slinks closer but doesn’t say anything.

  “If you got such a problem with me, why don’t you tell me about it right here in front of all these nice people,” I glance to Shades and Rax off in the corner chatting to some fans and increase my volume so they can hear, “with camera phones. I’m sure your fans would love to see the real Lizzie Smith immortalized on video like they saw me. Except this time, we won’t hire an editor.”

  She pushes her chest against mine. Her expression is steeped in gasoline, waiting for me to
strike the match and cut it loose. Bitch, don’t give me the pleasure, I psychically beam at her.

  Lizzie lowers her voice out of earshot of everyone else. “I won’t end you, Letty. I’ll fucking bury you.” She pokes me hard in the sternum, right between the tits.

  I’ll admit I’ve got a temper. If it were just Lizzie and me here, she wouldn’t be standing. She’d be on the ground with my fists forcibly evicting the breath from her lungs and deleting the smirk right off her cunt-face. But this week has taught me the lesson Jillian claimed I needed. A smidge of restraint can go a long way.

  I look over Lizzie’s shoulder. Shades is filming. So is Jinx. I’m guessing other interested parties such as disgruntled roadies and sound guys might be too. If I play it right, our little confrontation could be the perfect opportunity to expose Lizzie’s true colors to the world.

  Hey, world. In case you were wondering, her favorite color is green.

  “You wanna say it a little louder? I don’t think everyone heard you.” I cup a palm behind my ear.

  She looks around, huffs disgustedly, and stomps away. “I want that band off this tour,” she yells to Richard, jabbing her finger in my direction on her way out the door. The hawk fixes his gaze on me. A head shake so slight, I almost don’t perceive it, tells me he’ll see to it Killer Buzz Float is done for.

  Camera phones continue to roll.

  “Check,” I mouth to him and blow him a kiss as the announcer introduces Killer Buzz Float.

  I don’t give Jillian the pleasure of a glance as I prance past her onto the stage. Burning with energy, I grab the mic and yell, “Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”

  Behind me, Rax and Toombs bust into a few measures of a hard rock version of “Bad Boys” by Inner Circle, and I bend over laughing as the ravenous crowd picks up the lyrics for me.

  “Sorry we’re late, ladies and gents. We were having some fun backstage.”

  I chug a few swigs of water while they wind down to a low buzz of frenetic activity. Someone up front screams, “I love you, Letty!”

  “I love you too,” I shout and swing my arm in a wide arc. “I love all of y’all!” I wait for the crowd to quiet down again. “You may have heard I got myself into a wee bit of trouble this week.” The screams pick up and whistles tear through the air. “But those who know me, know you can’t keep this bomb-ass bitch down.” I glance to the side stage and grin at Eliza, who shoots me a thumbs up. Then I bend to one knee and smack the hands of a rabid patch of screaming fans bouncing like ball sacs against tight, Friday night pussy.

  Resting an elbow on my knee, I tune in, connect with the crowd, making visual contact with as many faces as I can hit. I smile, accepting the positive energy and goodwill they offer. Their Rock. These people give me the strength I need to stand up to my enemies: Lizzie Smith, Anna DeVille, Jillian Frost, and maybe even Letty Dillinger.

  I hop to my feet. “Anybody here ever like to go down? I mean, in the good way, of course.”

  The atmosphere electrifies, sputtering sparks of fireworks felt but not seen, sizzling over skin, setting hair alight with molecular movement.

  I nod. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Ambling across the stage to Shades, I continue amidst roars and whoops. “Well, tonight, I’m gonna show you how to get it up.” I goose Shades’s butt. His exaggerated shiver taunts the fans, and we launch into “Get It Up,” balls out, tits perked, asses shaking.

  Below me, feet stomp, hands clap, mouths scream in reply.

  Get it up

  Jerk it hard

  Spank that bank

  You can't go wrong

  Get it up

  Burn one out

  Scream my name

  I'll sing along

  Get it up

  Smack that ass

  Grease your piece

  Drop that bomb

  Get it up

  Shove it in

  Turn your frown

  Upside down

  Get it up

  Beat your meat

  Whack that monkey

  Let’s do some humpy

  Get it up

  Fix my plumbing

  Honk your horny

  Make me moany

  Get it up

  Knock them boots

  Stuff the taco

  Like they do in Morocco

  Get it up!

  Get it up!

  And love me on the comedown

  The fans eat the shit up.

  Stabbing the night with my voice, I leave behind a trail of musical soul carvings for our followers to rediscover later when they head for the parking lot, ears ringing, heartbeats thumping from the rush still swirling in their blood.

  Remember me? Fuck yeah, you will. I’m Letty Motherfucking Dillinger. Don’t you ever forget it.

  As I run through the chorus one more time, giving it every droplet of sweat blooming on my skin, shredding every pang of sadness and desperation I’ve lived through this week, my gaze settles on a girl in the front row. She’s banging her head to the beat, making devil horns with her hands, swinging and slamming like she just don’t care. Kinda reminds me of myself a few years ago, when I had stars in my eyes and dreams of playing on a stage smaller than the one I’m standing on now.

  How many times did I consider giving up? How many times did I cry myself to sleep wondering whether the record execs would ever see in me what I felt coursing through my veins? How many rejections did I power through in the name of The Rock?

  A million and eleven.

  On those few occasions when I couldn’t take any more, I inwardly admitted defeat. But in the angry, rebellious moments of reflection following, I knew I was a goddamn liar.

  Because I always got up again.

  Shades’s bass pounds the walls like Thor’s hammer. I point at the girl in the front row. Her face lights up. “Letty!” she screams. And then, I notice her clothes. She’s wearing your standard black T-shirt with white lettering. But the message is anything but ordinary to me: #MakeArtNotHousePayments.

  Fist balled in a show of solidarity, I salute her, spread my arms wide …

  … and fucking dive into the writhing crowd. Too many hands to count lift me up. This is much more than support. It feels like flying.

  “Get it up! Get it up! And love me on the comedown,” I sing into the mic as the audience carries me away.

  I’m safe. I’m appreciated. I’m loved.

  Me, my fans, and The Rock.

  Afterblow

  Needless to say, tonight’s show blew the lid off this tour.

  After the fans shuffled me around for several measures, they kindly passed me back to the front, a couple security guys set me on my feet, and Shades beamed so hard at me, I felt his love and pride in my marrow.

  I’ll bet I get some awesome fucking on the bus tonight.

  Maybe getting knocked on your ass every once in a while is a good thing. Reminds you to appreciate what you have.

  People swamp us backstage afterward. The floor possesses its own heartbeat, the air seems to breathe with life, and the walls welcome me with warmth. I greet sweaty, bath-challenged fans, giving hugs and posing for silly pictures that’ll likely show up on my page later. I laugh, sing, and celebrate with them.

  Not a single person has a negative word for me.

  Life isn’t good. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.

  As the meet-and-greet wraps up and the security guys clear the house in anticipation of Banging Betties taking the stage, I notice Jillian’s absent. She always meets us right after our shows—usually with some form of critical commentary about me flashing my thong at the audience or other such nonsense. After the crowd surfing earlier, she ought to be happy I wore white jeans tonight.

  I step into the hall to look for her. The Betties will take the stage in about fifteen minutes. She’s gotta be around here somewhere.

  Shit. Here comes King Dick thundering toward me, arms swinging, nostrils flaring. Pissiness aside, I’ll admit the dude is kinda hot. Fuc
kin’ gay guys are always the best-looking ones. But I don’t let his good looks interfere with business, which he clearly means.

  A couple of stragglers pass. For their benefit, I’m sure, Dick transforms his tone into one of a benevolent ruler. “Letty.” He smiles, threading my hand through the crook of his arm and patting me like an obedient pet. A Rolex peeks out from under his coat sleeve. “Lovely show tonight. May I have a word?”

  I wriggle free of his tight hold and yank my arm away in an exaggerated arc. “I’m busy,” I lie. “Got things to sign and pictures to take. Maybe later.”

  His “now” manifests as more of a detonation of domination forced through clenched teeth than a coherent word, but I get his message loud and clear. He guides me by the elbow to a vacant side room and shuts the door.

  “What do you want?” I demand. If this dickhole shits on my parade—

  “I warned you to stay out of our way, but you didn’t listen. This smear campaign you started has forced my hand.”

  I shake my head, thoroughly confused. “Wait a minute. What smear campaign? I haven’t done anything.”

  “Oh really?” He pulls his phone from his pocket and hits a few buttons. “So, you had nothing to do with this?” He flashes the screen at me.

  I take the phone, and my jaw drops. A Facebook page called “Letty Dillinger ROCKS” with over 10,000 likes and an image of me flipping off the camera with #MakeArtNotHousePayments emblazoned across the bottom stares at me. Countless posts by adoring fans, hilarious meme pictures, and hashtags including #StopMakingNoise, #StartMakingMusic, #LettysInnocent, #CruellaDeVilleNotSoChill, and my personal favorite, #LettysBetterThanBetties eat up the white space on the page.

  I laugh and pass the phone back to Dick. “Maybe they liked my ‘statement.’”

  “Well, Banging Betties didn’t. I heard no apology for what you said, only implications of wrongdoing deferred.”

  I hitch my hands to my hips. “Because your girl Lizzie put Anna up to it. Are you so unscrupulous you’d let Anna take the entire fall? I mean, I know you’re a band manager, but this is ridiculous. The least you can do is tell Lizzie to admit her mistake before someone does it for her.”