by Kacey Shea
“All right, you heard Mommy. Playtime is over.” I kiss the lips of each woman, a sweet, sensuous good-bye to ease the push out the door. Plus, I’ve learned it does wonders at keeping future cat fights or blowups from occurring when I run into them later on with a different woman on my arm. Which I most certainly will. It’s just how they work, all of them. These women think they’re different, special, or owners of magical pussy, when in fact they’re all the same. Hungry for money, fame, the lifestyle, and willing to do anything to get there.
For a second, a shred of sadness seeps into my being, wishing things were different. Wishing there was more. Stupid.
Probably just my blue balls disappointed at the lack of release.
I have no clue what’s so damn important that Bedo called an emergency meeting and Mom had to drag me away from my daytime extracurriculars, but now I’m pissed I didn’t get to finish. Gathered in the basement with Sean and Austin, I’m nursing a killer case of blue balls while our manager barks into his cell like he has all the time in the world.
We rented this property for the band to live in once our second album went double platinum. The four story hillside home in the Hollywood Hills is our oasis away from the Arizona desert we called home our entire lives. For so many years we struggled, touring out of a cheap rental van, before everything started to fall into place. Pieces of a puzzle we took years to build, all of a sudden just fit. Hard work, love of the music we created, and a fraction of luck landed us here in this place.
And I fucking love it.
It’s big enough we have all the privacy we desire and then some, and after converting the basement into a musician’s dreamland, we never have to leave or even get dressed to practice. Notably convenient after a long night of partying or fucking, which I often enjoy.
We’re leaving for our next tour, a three-month trek across the country, in only another week so my guess is Bedo’s here to go through last minute logistics. We’ve been practicing and planning all spring and we’d be one hundred percent ready if it weren’t for the slight problem of finding a permanent drummer. Okay, it’s a big problem. We can’t seem to keep one for the long haul, and it’s a cloud of gloom hanging over the band. We decided to let one of our roadies stand in for now, but I know Bedo’s not thrilled with the decision. And sure, it’d be nice to fill the spot, but I’m in no rush to make a rash decision and end up with someone who doesn’t jive with our band. I don’t know about Sean and Austin, but I’m anxious to get on the road again. Even if it is with our roadie filling in on drums.
Bedo pulls a chair over and flips it backward before straddling the seat in his red polyester pants. He slides the gold rimmed shades from his eyes and pockets them in the front of his T-shirt. “Here’s the deal. I’m not gonna beat around the bush. We’ve got a problem, or an opportunity—depends on how you see it. The label wants a woman on board to amp up the sex appeal for all genders and sexual orientations.” He pauses to pop his knuckles. “They want a woman drummer.”
“No fucking way.” Sean shakes his head.
I second that. “Dude. Bedo. No chicks. And not days before we tour.”
“Trent’s right, man. We’ve always been a foursome of bros,” Austin pipes in.
A chuckle leaves my lips before I smack Austin on the shoulder. “Speak for yourself, Austin. I’m not into fucking guys.”
His mouth opens to respond but Bedo cuts us off before we derail into a flurry of insults and comebacks. “Look, I’m just relaying the message. You guys gotta give me something. You love women as much as half your fan base. A woman drummer wouldn’t be so bad. I have a few lined up for you to interview.” It’s then he reaches down and pulls out three folders from his briefcase. Tosses one at each of us.
“Why can’t we have James back?” Sean grumbles and I have to agree with him. James was awesome.
“He was only subbing for the Justin Hill tour. He’s got his own band. You knew he was temporary.” Bedo points to my hands and the folder I still haven’t opened.
Austin flips through his folder and his eyes widen appreciatively at what’s inside. “Yeah, but he was fucking good. Dude, we’re like doomed with drummers. Ever since Derek’s hand got smashed by that psycho, we’ve been cursed.”
I meet Bedo’s stare, the folder still clenched unopen in my hands. “James was a sub. Derek checked out when he decided he’d rather settle down with his girl Carly and play daddy. We knew this day was coming. What I don’t understand is why you’re on board to invite a woman? And a week before we start the new tour? That’s not enough time to get anyone up to speed.”
Bedo rubs his palms down his face and blows out a deep breath. “I’ll go to bat for you on the drummer issue, but you gotta give me something, T. Your sponsors want a woman on this next tour.”
This is why I like Bedo. He’s fair. I know we aren’t in a place to call every shot, but he goes the distance when it’s something important. And as much as I’m all for equal rights, we’re three attractive guys with roaring sex drives. I can tell without glancing at the profiles in these folders that we’d bring on a hotter than fuck drummer, because sex sells. It’s a good reason we’re so damn marketable. Bringing a gorgeous woman into the band would breed nothing but trouble. Trouble we don’t need. “What about the opener? Get some pretty little thing to open and that gets them what they want but we don’t have to play with her.”
“Speak for yourself. If she’s hot, I’ll play.” Austin’s lips pull into his shit eating smirk. I slap my folder against him and push off the couch.
Bedo’s lost in his phone again, completely ignoring us, so I walk off some of my nervous energy by pacing the room. Sean and Austin admire the rack of one of the suggested drummers. Bedo’s laser focus remains on his smartphone. He’ll speak when he’s ready, but not before that.
“Dude . . . her rack needs its own zip code. My vote’s being swayed by tits.” Austin’s wide gaze snaps to mine but I cut him off.
“No way. We’re Three Ugly Guys! The name only works when there’s guys. Preferable four of us, because I’m sure as shit not the ugly one.”
“Shit.” Austin scratches his head, his eyes trained back on the folder, “But . . .”
Sean leans over and nods solemnly, “Trent, man. You need to see this one. Maybe we should consider her? Having her on tour wouldn’t be torture.”
“Yes!” Bedo shouts and for a moment I think he agrees with Sean and Austin until he looks up from his rapid fire messaging thumbs. “Opening act, it is! Brilliant, T. We’ll stick with Iz on the drums. He’ll be happy to have the star treatment. That work for everyone?”
Iz, one of our roadies and a long-time musician, knows how to play drums just fine. He’s actually pretty fucking talented. We’re not sure exactly how old he is, though. There’s a real possibility he played on the first Van Halen tour. His talents include knowing all our songs and playing exactly how we want him to, which are a great asset to the band. His other talent, his tendency to smoke anything you stick in front of his weathered lips, is not so great. Cigs, marijuana, crack—he’ll do it all. Yet none of us can tell him to stop for the same reason we can’t ask him his age. He’s a grown man, and our elder. Besides, his extracurricular activities aren’t a problem. He plays “Stairway to Heaven” better than John Bonham. As long as the drugs don’t interfere with his playing we pretend to look the other way.
“Iz is cool until we find someone permanent,” Sean answers and Austin and I nod our agreement.
“What about bringing him on for the long haul?” Bedo asks and I consider his question. I’m sure we could, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s my fear of commitment, or the fact Iz is so much older than the rest of the band. I don’t know, but I’m not comfortable putting a metaphorical ring on it. I’m sure Bedo would love to be done with it already. Maybe after this tour, if we still jive after months on the road together, we can bring him on permanently.
“Let’s see how this tour goes,” I suggest
and Austin and Sean nod. They feel the same as me. We all like Iz, but he’s not family. Not in the same way the three of us are. Maybe we are eternally cursed when it comes to a drummer.
“Fair enough. For now. But the label wants a longtime fix. Fans, promotion, marketing, it all works better when we have four familiar faces. Let’s get through the next three months and re-evaluate. You guys better be ready. This won’t be like any of the other gigs. This is the big time. You’re front and center. That’s more of everything. Press. Responsibilities. Fans.”
“Women.” Austin grins.
“Yeah, that too. So, don’t be a dumbass. Think with your brain, not your dick.”
“I can’t promise that, but we’re ready, Bedo. This is everything we’ve worked for,” I say.
“Damn straight.” Austin nods.
“I know you are.” Bedo’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So don’t fuck it up for everyone else.” He stands and points at each of us. “That’s my advice to all of you. Now. When do you want to meet your opening act?”
“You booked one already?” Austin’s brows twist with surprise.
“Sure did. I’m the best goddamn manager you could ever ask for. That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
“Who is it?” Sean leans forward on his elbows, his hands clasped together.
“You’ll find out when you meet her.” Bedo goes back to his phone. “Tomorrow. Four o’clock. Right after practice. That work?”
“Here?” I ask.
“Yeah. That a problem?”
“Works for me,” I say but for once a little nervousness about our impending headline tour works its way into my belly. I’m not quite sure why, other than I want everything to be great. Perfect. And we’ve worked so hard that our opener better not suck. “She better be good, Bedo.”
He stops, a smile plays at his lips, and he slides those gold rimmed shades over his eyes before he nods. “She’s good, T. Oh, don’t you worry. She’s fucking good. See you tomorrow.”
“Is it just me, or does it feel like we just got played?” Sean says the minute Bedo’s up the stairs and out of earshot.
“Not just you.” I chuckle and run my fingers through my hair, pushing it away from where it always falls into my eyes. “So, what’s on tap for today?”
“I think the keg’s empty, man.” Austin frowns.
Sean rolls his eyes and walks toward the stairs. “I’m hitting the gym and calling it an early night.”
“You’re no fun off tour!” Austin launches one of the tiny couch pillows at his retreating form and nails him right in the head. We both fucking laugh.
Sean stops to pick up the pillow and throw it back. “You guys are assholes.”
“Fucking hilarious.” I fist bump Austin and Sean tries to leave again. “Come on, don’t be a pussy and leave.”
Sean doesn’t turn back or acknowledge the comment when his feet hit the spiral staircase.
“Come on, Sean. Come out with us tonight!” Austin shouts.
“I’d rather not.”
“What’s your problem, man?” Austin calls out before meeting my smirk. “He’s probably just pissed you’re having threesomes in the theater room again.”
“I can’t help it, the two for ones love me. Sean just needs to get laid.”
“I get plenty of pussy!” Sean shouts from the top of the stairs.
“Oh, yeah, who?” I call up.
“Well, I’m about to have dinner with your mom!” he calls down. Now I’m the one wearing the scowl while Austin and Sean laugh at my expense.
“Take it back, Willis!” I shout but I’m already taking the stairs two at a time. “You know that’s fucked up!”
Austin’s laughter follows from close behind, and when I reach the top of the steps to find Sean gloating, I tackle him to the ground. He’s shorter than me; stronger too, but I’m fueled by the need to defend my mother’s honor. I try to pin him to the floor, but every time I’m close he hits me in the ribs and gets the upper hand.
“Take. It. Back,” I grind out as we roll around in the hallway.
“What? We all love your mom,” he taunts and throws me off. My body slams into the wall and the two paintings hanging above fall to the ground beside us. I charge him again.
“Boys! Boys! That’s enough!” My mom’s stern tone suspends our wrestling match. “What in the ever loving hell has gotten into you boys? So help me, I’ll send you both to your rooms.”
“He started it!” I point at Sean.
Sean puffs and shakes his head, “No way! I was just walking up the stairs. He tackled me!”
“Enough. Apologize.” She glares, hands on hips, and I can’t help but mumble a sorry. Sean does the same. “There. Now go wash up for dinner and try to act like grown-ass men! It was bad enough when you were teenagers. I’m too old for this shit.”
“Sorry, Mom.” I say but she just pinches her lips and shakes her head before walking back into the kitchen. She’s the only person outside of the band who lives here year round. Even though she’s my mom, she’s kinda the band’s mom, too. With her being single, and me an only child, we’ve always lived together. She’s right, though; we act like big kids sometimes.
“That was fucking funny. You went from fight club to momma’s boy the minute she yelled at you.” Austin slaps Sean on the back before reaching a hand down to help me off the ground.
“I was defending her honor,” I say. But remembering the scuffle, I can’t help but give in to a grin as we walk toward the succulent smells wafting from the kitchen.
“’Your mom’ jokes never get old. Don’t take it personal, T,” Austin says.
“Yeah, I know. It’s funny, just not with my mom, okay?”
“So damn sensitive.” Sean bumps my shoulder. “And winded, too. You need to hit the gym with me more, instead of the bottle with Austin.”
“I’m an equal opportunity employer when it comes to hitting things. Gym. Bottle. Ass.”
“Yeah, yeah. You hit that and then some.” Sean wraps his arm around my shoulder. “No hard feelings, T.”
“And no more jokes about my mom.”
We step into the kitchen and my mouth salivates at the piping hot trays of lasagna and garlic bread waiting on the counter. My mom looks up with a smile before she cuts the pasta into squares with a spatula and a collective groan leaves all of our lips. Damn, she can cook. And she’s right. We aren’t any better than we were as teenagers.
“Spank me and call me Daddy. With food like that, who needs pussy?” Austin whispers at my right. I sneak a punch to his balls when Mom’s not looking, Sean grabs the plates, and all is back to normal in our house. It may be unconventional, but this right here—this is family. My belly fills with good food, and my face stretches with a smile and laughter that nearly hurts, and I can’t help but feel goddamn lucky. Only I don’t completely agree with Austin’s sentiment. Dinner is phenomenal, but at the end of the night, I’ll still want pussy.
My life is no cake walk. Rejection coupled with the struggle to make ends meet, and what do I have to show? Nothing really. But I have to believe everything I’m doing now paves my way to the life I want. Lately, though, it’s been more of a drag. What if this is all for naught? It’s beginning to wear on me. The grind. Bus fare. Shifts at the coffee shop. Rent for my room. Food. Shampoo. Tampons. School loans. Phone calls from Mom. It all adds up.
But today; today is different. When my eyelids flutter open with the morning sun, I’m filled with hope. Promise. Expectation. It’s a frightening thing to hope too much, because my track record shows it’ll only end in bigger disappointment.
No. I shake my head against the pillow and peel my body off the twin mattress. Today I’ll let myself hope. Angel, one of my roommates, is completely into yoga, healthy food, and astrology. She would say I should put my hope into the universe, to let my goals be spoken, and eventually the earth will return them to me. Maybe she’s full of shit, but I’d really like it if she were right. So, inst
ead of my usual morning routine of a run, coffee, and writing, I walk to my most prized thrift store score, a full length mirror, and stare back at myself.
“Today’s the day I get signed with a record label.” I whisper the words aloud. They feel damn good so I say them again, louder. All the while my reflection distorts, making my shoulders tiny and my calves appear huge where the mirrored glass is bent just slightly. Hey, that’s what you get for ten bucks. I’m honest enough to admit my vanity requires I have a full mirror in my room. My look is part of my act. It’s how I sell my music. I’m not an idiot. Half the guys who drop tips in my guitar case on Saturday nights at Leo’s are probably doing so just to get a closer look up my mini skirt. Fishnets and combat boots, it’s a combination that drives men wild. Add in my heavy eye makeup and red painted lips—they’ll cough up fives and tens for that shit.
God, I should’ve been a stripper.
Laughter and a real smile escape my lips even though I’m the only one home. My cell rings with the alarm that lets me know there’s no more time for self-reflection. It’s go time. The next hour is spent in a rush as I shower, get beautiful, and warm up my vocals—just in case—in preparation for my meeting at ten. When the alarm goes off again, this time to catch the bus, I give myself one last glance in the mirror.
“Today’s the day.”
Using my fingers, I tap out an anxious beat on the mahogany armchair and match the pace of my bouncing knees. All the while, my eyes follow Amie—a friend from college and hopefully my future agent.
Her footsteps pace back and forth, and back again, eyes closed as my demo plays into the headset covering her ears. Her eyelids lower and focus solely on the manila folder in her perfectly manicured fingertips. God, I wish I knew what she was thinking. My eyes follow the trail she’ll wear into the hardwood if she always works this way.
My music is everything. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. But breaking into a flooded market where women are still largely in the minority, and refusing to do it any other way than my own way . . . Well, that’s posed a large problem for me up until now. I’m hoping our shared past of Calculus 101 will gain me a little more attention than the thirty other agents who’ve listened to my three song album and passed. Honestly, there’s a good chance they never even listened before issuing a big fat rejection.
