Punishing Me (Shaft on Tour #6)

by Cat Mason

  “Lucky for us, we get a week’s worth of downtime before heading up the east coast to kick off the last leg of the tour,” she says as her fingers move furiously, tapping on the screen. “I’m exhausted.”

  Yeah, fantastic. Downtime. Exactly what I don’t need. I like the hectic, busy life we lead while moving from city to city. Too much time on my hands is never a good thing. I need my mind and hands to stay as busy as possible.

  There is nothing I hate worse than being alone. I had enough of that shit growing up. Now, I surround myself with noise. People, music, chaos. Without it, that anxious little girl I used to be finds her voice, bringing every insecurity I have buried down deep to the surface making them all too present and very real.

  “It’s hard to believe this time tomorrow we will be home,” Chase says, smiling brightly as she stands. “I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed.”

  “Yeah, sleep. Can’t wait to get some much needed sleep in my own bed,” Hunter says, grinning wickedly. “Plus, it’s hard to fuck with Mack from so far away. Someone has to keep that jackass on his toes and Jazzie’s not the best at executing my pranks. Kid has no poker face.”

  “Are you seriously using our daughter in your shenanigans,” Chase asks, her eyes locking on her husband.

  “Hey,” Hunter shrugs, running a hand through his perfectly mussed up, dark brown hair. “Desperate times require desperate measures. It was a judgment call.”

  “Well, as much fun as this conversation is,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes at the mention of Dominick, or Mack, as he’s known now. Joining Shaft was a dream, until I was standing face to face with him again. Luckily, he’s back home in Nashville playing the domesticated bodyguard to the nanny and kids, and not here causing me to lose focus of what is important. Bouncing on my feet, I grin in anticipation of getting out there. “There’s a sold out arena and a neglected Ibanez calling my name.”

  Gesturing with his large hand, Henry chuckles. “Well, don’t let us keep you waiting. Lead the way.”

  Every step I take toward the stage, the chanting of thousands of screaming voices grows louder and louder. Every cry is like a shot of adrenaline straight into my vein. Music is my drug of choice: overdosing is mandatory.

  After our customary hands in chant, Aiden wastes no time getting to his kit. Running out onto the stage, he takes his seat on his throne and begins pounding out a punishing rhythm. Grabbing my axe off her stand, I slip the strap over my head, making my way out as the sound of my bass guitar merges with the pace he sets.

  Every slam of his foot on the pedal matches the beating of my racing heart as we amp up the crowd. The rush of playing sold out stadiums is something I hope I never get used to. The screaming fans all chanting our names as we rock the fucking place to the foundation still gives me butterflies. It’s a rush that is incomparable to anything I have ever felt in my life.

  My fingers take on lives of their own, moving along the frets of my bright purple Ibanez. They don’t need me to guide them; every finger knows each chord by heart, as if engrained in my DNA.

  Stepping into the spotlight, Hunter begins belting out the lyrics of Slaying Dragons. Every note on point, as usual, and the crowd goes fucking insane. Grayson comes in on the chorus, shredding his guitar, almost sounding like it is crying out into the night while Aiden and I anchor down the steady hypnotizing rhythm that holds the song together. People underestimate the bass player, thinking we are a non-essential, background fixture. Truly, if you were to take us out of the equation, every song, every riff, would be lacking that edgy anchoring effect that only a rich bassline can provide.

  I binge on the high. The music flowing around me just as vital to my existence as breathing. Every riff pours from my bleeding heart. Every word to the song, every musical note that weaves its way through the arena evokes emotion, a raw interpretation of life that touches the heart and soul of every person packing the place tonight.

  That’s the thing about music. It has the power to transport you to the place you were when you first heard that song. Your senses tie to that bar, that lyrical genius, catchy tune, or even annoying as hell jingle on television, and you can’t forget it even if you tried.

  It’s an amazing entity and much bigger than just people on stage playing instruments. It has a life of its own. You may not be able to physically see it or touch it, but you know without any doubt it is there and can’t deny the affect it has on you. You can close your eyes and simply feel it coursing through you as if it is engrained in your very soul. It transfers from person to person and though everyone hears the same song, the experiences and interpretation are rarely the same.

  Damn, I love my job.

  “Ladies, and those guys smart enough to have brought you here so you’ll let them in your pants later, I’m Hunter Chesterfield and we are happy as hungry hookers during rush hour traffic on payday to be here tonight,” Hunter says into the mic, with a huge smile. “We have hit our quota for badassery for the night and now they’re kickin’ us out. May the only humps you have in life leave you spent, shaking, and screaming. Goodnight!”

  Flicking my pick into the crowd, I exit the stage. My blood still roaring in my ears from the rush and excitement. My body is buzzing, every nerve ending pulsing from aftershocks.

  “You guys killed it!” Daisy says, slipping off the stool.

  “Thanks,” I reply, bumping her fist.

  “Fucker,” Hunter says, shoving around us as he points toward the stage where Gray steps up to the mic. “He’s about to make us all look bad. Again.”

  “Everyone havin’ a good time tonight? My Wildflower drove all the way here just to see us play tonight, so ya think you could handle another song?” Gray asks while adjusting his guitar. The crowd screams and the lights adjust to focus solely on him. “Okay,” he grins, giving Daisy a wink. “If you guys know this one, help me out and sing along, okay?”

  Daisy hangs onto every word of Criminal by Framing Hanley as Gray sings, her eyes glued to him on stage. Their eyes meet from time to time, but there is no mistaking the connection they have. There was a time when a moment like this would have me swooning and writing a damn poem while I secretly wonder if every man I lay eyes on could be the one for me.

  Not anymore.

  After coming to terms with Dominick’s betrayal, I realized that I didn’t like the insecurities I saw in my reflection. The heartbroken seventeen-year-old girl, with red rimmed eyes, and mascara streaked face was not who I wanted to be. The sad girl looking back at me in the mirror let someone else have the power to control her happiness and I know now what a mistake that had been.

  Ready to blow this pop stand, I jerk my head at Jared who, though he doesn’t say anything, knows the drill all too well. Depositing my bass back on her stand, I make my way toward the ramp where Sargent Sourpuss stands waiting beside Henry.

  “I don’t like that look,” Jared says, leading me down the hall. “That’s the look that says you’re not planning on a nice, quiet night alone, back at the hotel.”

  “Tomorrow, it’s back to Nashville, Jared. At least a week with no stage, no screaming fans, and all the soul crushing boredom and loneliness I can stand,” I say, patting his arm. “You can bet your ass tonight will be goin’ out with a bang.”

  Chapter Two

  Bangover

  Ireland

  “Rise and shine!” Henry’s voice cuts through the residual alcohol that lingers in my fuzzy senses. I groan, hoping that he will have mercy on me and leave me the fuck alone until I can get a handle on my over-churning stomach. “Come on, it’s a beautiful, Sunday morning. How about we have coffee and chat while we read the paper?”

  The hell? I have no love for this cheery mood of his… Give me bossy and broody any day over Henry, the fairy guardmother.

  Last night, will without a doubt, go down in the history books as the hardest partying I have ever done. I just wish I could remember all of it. Who knew things could get so fuzzy after drinking your weight in alcoh
ol?

  “Just give me twenty minutes, Big Man,” I murmur, wincing at the sound of my own voice. “Need to shower and pack my shit. Can you ask Jared to get me a coffee from the lobby and maybe some aspirin?”

  “’Fraid I can’t do that since he damn near broke down my door at the crack of dawn, refusing to handle your ass anymore.” The curtains open, causing the sun to pour through the window, mocking me from its spot in the sky. “You’ve done it this time, girl. This break in the tour couldn’t have come soon enough.”

  Groaning again, I roll over and cover my face with the pillow beside me. “Fuckin’ sun,” I mutter into the cool, cotton pillowcase. “It’s too early for this shit.”

  Just as quickly, the pillow is yanked from my fingers. My eyes fly open just in time to see a very pissed off Henry dump a stack of newspapers and printed hard copy pages on the mattress in front of me next to a pair of red jockey shorts and a green lace bra. Neither are mine. Shit. “This,” he grounds out, pointing to the stack of tabloid and media headlines with my face plastered all over them, “is not how Shaft is known by the public, Ireland. For fuck’s sake, Hunter hasn’t broken the rules this much. No matter how dirty his dick got, he knew he was expected to keep his nose clean.”

  Bolting upright in bed, my hands fly up to cradle my aching head. My stomach rolls violently and I find myself torn between vomiting and sobbing. Focusing on my breathing, I open my eyes and stare down at the tabloid highlights from my celebration last night.

  Shaft Bassist Has No Shame…

  Booze and the Bassist: Shaft Bass Player Shames Group With Behavior.

  Shaft Girl’s Gone Wild: Drug And Alcohol Filled Sex Parties Between Shows.

  Band Outcast, Ireland, Drowns Sorrows At Local Bar…

  Snatching up one of the papers, I read the article titled Tour on Hiatus: A Shaft Scandal.

  “It has neither been confirmed, nor denied, if the break in the sold out Perfectly Warped Tour is because of the antics of new bassist, Ireland Tyler, or just an excuse for the group to return to their Nashville compound for some much needed R&R.

  Photos show Tyler drinking and partying at Crawl, a local and popular dive bar, before being spotted outside the hotel the band is known to be staying at, ushering up several guests to her suite. Hotel manager, Marshall Witherson, refused to comment, but there is talk amongst the staff of several guest complaints being filed due to noise.

  As of now, no shows have been rescheduled or cancelled, but it leaves us all to wonder what will management be forced to do if this little time out doesn’t help put her in check.”

  “Bullshit,” I huff, shoving the papers out of my way and climbing from the bed. “None of this shit is true.”

  “They report on what they see, Ireland,” Camaron says, stepping into the room. “Putting a spin on things is what they get paid for. Scandal equals sales, plain and simple.”

  “Can we discuss this once I’ve had coffee?” I ask while my brain bangs out its own bassline against my skull.

  The bottom of her sleeveless, slate gray dress swishes around her knees. Every inch of her is flawlessly put together, as always. I would be jealous of her long legs and a bit intimidated by her confident demeanor if I wasn’t fighting the urge to climb back in the bed and hide under the covers until my head stops pounding. “Here.” Tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, she crosses the room toward me and hands me orange juice and a bottle of aspirin. “This is better for you than coffee.”

  “Thank you,” I say, quickly downing two of the pills and chugging the juice.

  Nodding, she sighs. “I haven’t said much about how you’ve behaved on the tour the last few months, in hopes you’d reel yourself in on your own; but, last night, has forced my hand.”

  “Is this you firing me?” I ask, meeting her eyes. “Or are you gonna tuck me away in one of those overly priced, cushy rehabs in hopes talking about my feelings will cure me and cause me to spew out Grammy worthy material?”

  “No one is being fired, and I don’t think you need rehab, Ireland,” she replies, taking a seat in the large, fluffy, red chair by the window. Cocking her head to the side as she studies me, she crosses one leg over the other. “I could be wrong, but I don’t see addiction when I look at you. I see someone who hasn’t figured out her place in life yet and is going about finding it the wrong way.”

  “Good to know,” I deadpan, crossing my arms over my chest. “What about the label?” I ask, knowing that she has yet to mention their reaction to this morning’s trending topics on social media and Sunday reading material. I also know that they can’t be too pleased since I signed a moral’s clause when I joined the band.

  “I’ve assured all necessary parties that the issue is being handled in house,” she says, pushing to her feet. “That was enough, this time.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, sighing in relief.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” she counters. “We still have a lot of tour left. I expect you to prove that you belong here.” Leaning up in the chair, she pushes to her feet. Heading for the door, she glances at me over her shoulder. “Bus pulls out in twenty.”

  ***

  After rushing through the fastest shower ever, I hurriedly dress while shoving my shit into my bag. Henry is waiting outside the door for me the moment I open it and has no problem rushing me downstairs to where the bus is parked. The other guard, Mike, is loading things up with the help of some of the road crew.

  “Where’s Jared?” I ask Henry when I don’t see him helping. Looking around the parking lot, I brace myself for the man to jump out of a bush and scare the hell out of me. “Someone needs to tell Sargent Sourpuss it’s too early for these ninja games of his.”

  “Rode back with Gray and Daisy earlier this morning,” he replies. “He’s no longer with the tour.”

  I nod, swallowing the guilt I don’t have time to feel as memories of me arguing with him before locking him out of my suite hazily come back to me. I mean, it’s not my fault he was too sensitive to handle a joke, right?

  “Hey, girl,” Chase says the second I step up onto the bus and drop down on the sofa beside her. “Whoa.” Wincing, she pats my arm. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks,” I deadpan, crossing my arms over my chest and wishing I could disappear into the cushions.

  “You know what the perfect cure is for a bangover?” Hunter asks, spinning his recliner to face me. Toeing off his sneakers, he kicks the leg out on his ugly ass chair and stretches out. “Bacon,” he says reaching over to shove a piece in my face.

  “Get that shit away from me,” I growl, swatting away the piece of disgusting, fried, pig flesh.

  “How the hell does bacon instantly cure a hangover?” Chase asks, shaking her head. “Bacon isn’t the cure all pill of everything that is wrong with the world, baby.”

  “Wrong,” he counters, nearly flipping the chair to rescue the meat from the floor before shoving it into his mouth. I swallow around the vomit rising in my throat at the sight of him, not only eating bacon, but eating it off the floor of the bus.

  “You’re disgusting,” I groan, clamping a hand over my mouth.

  “Rule one: never waste bacon. And it’s bangover, not hangover,” he corrects her, before looking at me. “The bottle that you sucked dry like some cheap prom date had a guy’s name, correct?” he asks, arching a brow. “Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Johnnie Walker, Jose Cuervo: all men that will fuck you hard every time you swallow them and leave you walkin’ funny the next day.”

  “Do you hear the shit that comes out of your mouth?” Aiden asks from the small kitchenette table where he sits with Camaron.

  “I know, I’m a genius,” Hunter nods. “One day, I’ll write a book and everyone can have a piece of me on their shelves.”

  “Or use it to steady a wobbly table leg,” Henry says, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Get comfortable, asshole, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

  “I hope you bought Rae dinner before using that line on her
,” Hunter laughs, nearly dropping his plate. “Or, at least, used lube.”

  Digging the Beats from my bag, I plug into my phone and blast my playlist as loud as I can. That way I won’t hear Hunter’s screams if Henry beats him to death with his bacon plate, and I’m less likely to be named as an accessory. With music blaring, I settle in for the ride back to Nashville, trying to figure out what the hell I’ll do with all my free time that won’t have me plastered all over every media outlet and knee deep in shit with Cam.

  Chapter Three

  Mackumentally Fucked

  Mack

  “Mommy! Daddy!” Jazzie screams, the second the bus rounds the corner. “They’re home!”

  “Not a word to Henry,” Rae says to me in a hushed voice. “I mean it, Dominick.”

  “Whatever you want, darlin’, but you and I both know you should’ve told him already,” I reply, rolling my eyes as I cross my fingers over my heart like a jackass. “I still don’t understand why you just don’t sit his big ass down and explain what the doctors are saying, Rae. That’s his monster spawn you’re bakin’ in there; you can’t just keep him out of the loop. He’ll be pissed when he finds out we’ve been going behind his back and keepin’ secrets.”

  “It’s my place to tell him,” she argues, rubbing a hand over her ever-swelling baby bump. Rae is short to begin with, but now with the oversized lookin’ Buddah belly she is working with, she looks like a normal colored version of that blueberry brat off Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

  She wears mismatched shoes and has given up on pants most days and socks completely. It’s entertaining as hell to watch.

  Until she catches me laughing and hits me with the closest, hard object…

  Which is usually a wooden spoon…

  Which hurts like a motherfucker.

  This may or may not be the reason why those evil wooden bastards have begun to disappear. Though, I’ll never own up to that shit. I have learned it is smart to fear the women in tiny packages, and Rae is no exception. She may need a stepladder and a safety net to bash my skull in, but I’ll bet money she has the nearest hardware store on speed dial.