Chapter Ten
Beverley stood at the side of the stage next to an ice machine and a crate of beer, waiting for Murder City Ravens to take the stage. She’d seen Jace, heard him play now, but only on his own, or talking and writing with his band mates. She’d heard the albums, listened to them repeatedly over the last few days. Two with Maxx Syccoraxx, and the last one with Zazz, Riku and V.
Less like a new band, more like evolution. She’d left Jace to prepare himself, recognizing his vague answers to her questions as nothing to do with her. He needed space before going onstage. So she made an excuse, said she needed to visit the bathroom and she’d watch from the wings.
It had taken her a while to find her way to the stage. This venue was primarily a sports stadium, but used to putting on other events so it had quickly and efficiently been converted. Even the last-minute change of band hadn’t fazed them. If she hadn’t found Chick backstage, she doubted she’d have found her way to this spot so fast if at all, but after asking her if she wouldn’t feel better in the audience, he’d given her the equivalent of an Access All Areas pass—a selection of different-colored wristbands—and brought her here.
So she got to see the preshow, though she missed the opening act. Watching the lighting guys climbing up to the spots they’d occupy throughout the whole performance made her wish she could go there. But these days, very little remained to chance. She wouldn’t get halfway there before they caught her. The lighting guys wore safety harnesses and, as far as she could see, every cable was grounded, encased and tracked so no one would trip over it. Not what she’d expected from the stories she’d read about wild boys and wild living, but nothing had worked out the way she’d expected it so far.
Someone touched her shoulder. Chick moved so quietly that she hadn’t heard him but he’d alerted her to his presence. She jumped anyway and heard his low chuckle. “I want you to watch this,” he said. “Really watch it. Realize what they’re doing here and what they could do, given time and space.”
“I’ve heard the albums.”
“It’s nothing like this. Nothing. Experience it. And don’t forget that they’re still growing.”
She hadn’t suspected the pragmatic Chick of having a sensitive side until then. She’d thought of him as a man who delighted in making things happen for people he deemed worth the effort, and a man who enjoyed butting heads with authority. She’d seen that too, when some of the band’s riders had met with demurs and “Will this do?” responses. Chick made everything work in Murder City Ravens’ favor.
“That’s what I’m here for.” She tried for an easy response, not trying to take it too deep.
Chick seemed to accept it. He stepped around to face her. “I know Jace is thinking about leaving. Managing that fucking house of his and not giving it to the soulless hotel chain. He thinks he can use music as an outlet, a hobby. He can’t. It’s his life, Beverley. So if you’re here for the hotel, I’m gonna fight you every inch of the way. Know that.”
She swallowed. “I want him to make up his own mind. But I don’t have any influence on that decision. It’s entirely up to him.”
“Are you saying you don’t want him back in his house with you?”
She took a breath and told him the truth. “I don’t know what I want. Great Oaks was a challenge, and I’m proud of what I achieved there, but most people won’t notice. It was all administration, getting people in the right place at the right time.”
His eyes narrowed. “But you don’t want to stay there?”
She shrugged. “I enjoyed it but I didn’t love it. Is that what it’s like having a regular job? I’m not stupid, I know people spend their lives doing things they don’t love, working for the Man, but I still have time, a few years, to make up my mind. But I won’t be a nothing, a hanger-on, somebody’s extra. I can’t do that.” She gave an awkward laugh. “I was dreading the summer. I don’t suit the temperature in Louisiana.”
The corner of Chick’s mouth kicked up in a half-grin. “I know what you mean. Just listen and see if you think he should make his music his hobby. See if he can be happy that way.”
Everything went black and she gripped the beer crate next to her in instinctive reaction. A slow thump resounded in her ears, under her feet, echoing the rhythm of her heart but just a tiny bit slower. Hunter, the statuesque Swedish drummer for Murder City Ravens began the show.
The lights went up slowly, the backdrop, which was really a mesh of lights, twinkled like stars, flickering on and off to give shifting definition to the figures on the stage. The bass player, Donovan, set up the next, coming in softly under the thunder, subtly adding and setting the mood, dark and lonely.
Then Riku, adding a swirling, otherworldly feel on some kind of electronic doohickey. Only then did Jace come in.
He didn’t creep in or set up a mood. He struck over the top, pushing something harsh and discordant—strong, vibrant guitar, fuzzy at the edges. Clashing, not harmonizing with the others and adding a new, half-scary edge.
Like Zazz’s voice, when he began with a soft croon, building in intensity, singing about loss and bleak loneliness. A stray note from V’s saxophone wound around him, thready and hardly there, caressing him, trying to comfort him, fading away when it failed.
Murder City Ravens wrapped Beverley up in its music. It told her what to think and she let them lead her to places she’d never known before. Finally she realized what Chick had been trying to tell her. This was a single, complete experience drawn out of the consciousness of six very different people. Together they made something else, something new. Something that took her breath away.
Their songs were about living. All the experiences that each had undergone, described in sometimes aching detail, as much through the music as the lyrics. Sometimes people found each other, and this band had done just that. The earlier incarnation of Murder City Ravens had been a great rock band, one that could have earned its living, but this—this was something else. Although they played songs she’d become familiar with, they sounded different, took her to different places than they had on the album, as if Murder City Ravens was a living, breathing entity. Of course it was, and her lover was an integral part of it.
Every member of the band was as important as everyone else. Losing any one of them would destroy what they had. When Matt, aka Maxx Syccorraxx, had left, the band had recruited and changed. V, the last member to join, had completed it. If she left, they’d be something different, and the same went for every member. Unlike Chick, who wanted to preserve the current lineup, she could see the fluidity and appreciate that if someone left, they’d change, but not necessarily be worse.
On the other hand, the songs about loss and joy and the corrupt nature of the world appealed to her inner self. They kept her wondering, opened questions she’d pushed into the back of her mind. This music challenged her.
Like every other fan, she wanted more.
The performance passed in no time at all. The band took her and the rest of the audience through an experience, inviting them to participate. A few numbers involved samples from local people and local TV stations, pictures flashed up on the screens on either side of and above the stage. Altogether, the concert was a crafty combination of pure musicianship and dazzling light and video work.
At one point, during a slow, sensuous song, Jace connected with Beverley. Their gazes clashed for a fraught moment, but she didn’t know if he’d really seen her or if he was dazzled by the bright lights focused on him. Nevertheless, she felt the connection. It mattered to her.
It appeared it mattered to him too. Although his spot was on the opposite side of the performance area, he made a point of crossing over to her, taking her chin in one hand and delivering a long, leisurely kiss. As if he had all day.
He broke away and struck a chord, grinning at her. Exactly on time, and she laughed for sheer joy.
Chick watched, occasionally leaving to answer his phone. They were supposed to switch them off, but Chick ignore
d it and went his own way. As he always did, she was beginning to realize, and that was one of his strengths. Chick did what he wanted and fought people when he thought they were going against the interests of his clients. Just as he had with her, telling her what she was threatening to do, whether she meant it or not.
She grabbed a beer and used the opener tied to the wall by a piece of string. Taking a swig, she watched them burst another explosion of sound over the audience and then follow it with quiet, delicate notes, all the more effective because of the major notes of a moment earlier. She loved it.
The band’s confidence overflowed the stage, swept through the arena, infecting the audience, and she felt it even more because she stood so much closer to them. She could see when they took a drink from the small refrigerator onstage—who knew?—and she watched them wipe themselves down with towels and toss them aside. Would they sell the towels afterward?
“Nope,” Chick said in her ear. “Nobody gets souvenirs unless I want them to. I’m not planning to feed online auction sites.”
She smiled up at him. “I saw you looking,” he said, by way of explanation.
He couldn’t say any more, as Zazz roared “Rock!” into the mic, and they swung into something raucous from Matt’s days with the band. During that number Jace lost his T-shirt and let the crowd see his dragon. The screens focused in on it, and the audience yelled its approval. Although his pants had slid low on his hips, the dragon’s tail still disappeared below the garment. She knew where it ended, had traced it with her tongue. Would do it again. The very thought made her mouth water.
Jace came to her when they left the stage and she went to him, heedless of the sweat that slicked his body. He hugged her, his guitar slung behind him. “Like it?”
“Love it,” she assured him. Love you.
Not the time. But if not now, when? If she waited and waited, would she never tell him, never get the chance again? No, she had to be brave, had to take the moment. She’d let a few go by. Not now. Hugging him close, she murmured to him, “I love you.”
He drew back, his blue eyes reflecting his startled look but he couldn’t reply. They were ready to go back for the encores.
She staggered him. For the first time ever, Jace’s mind didn’t remain totally on the performance. Oh he coped, but that amazing announcement, right out of nowhere— Did she mean it or had the performance carried her away?
Just as well the first song in the encore was a rocker, because he could get by on power chords, although the way Zazz glared at him told him he had some shit coming his way later. The second one, though, was one of the crowd-pleasers, a sweet-sounding song about the torture of prisoners.
Why people loved it so much he could never fathom, because they’d all thought this one wouldn’t fly at all and had to fight to keep it on the album. But it had proved popular, and one they could use in concerts to different effect. A flexible song. For that reason he had to force himself to concentrate, and then, once he got back into the zone, the groove, whatever, he found it again.
This time he played for her. What she’d said stunned him, and he still didn’t know what to say. Not in words, that was. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t considered the possibility. Not this soon.
His guitar knew what to say. He couldn’t have put anything in words, but the music flowed through him and out of him. By the end of Some People Hurt, he knew what he should say to her. He understood his heart.
He let himself sink into the music. He gave his guitar to one of the roadies and went to his array to find the Kaoss Pad. This one, Forever, took a fuck of a lot of concentration. He worked on blending and twisting the music his band mates played as slowly, one by one, they left the stage. Only he and Riku were left. They could do this for hours, duetting on the song, twisting it into something else. Tonight he felt nostalgic and calm, so his side took that mood, but Riku had a spiky, angry part of him and he let that out to contrast rather than blend.
Riku gave him the signal and they put down the last of their instruments and left to the roar of the crowd. They never came back after Forever, but the audience could stay and listen to the echoes if they wanted to. It gave them a chance to get out of the building before the rush started.
Tonight they didn’t want to. Jace went straight to Beverley, hooking her around her waist and following the others back to their rooms. “Just as well someone has a sense of direction,” he murmured in her ear. “I’d be wandering around these hallways all night.”
“You’re tired,” she said.
“You can tell? I’m hyped. I feel this way after every performance.” He was, but underlying that was a streak of exhaustion, physical and mental. The war between the two had driven him to drugs in times past. Tired, but not able to sleep times a million. Now he had her, but wise from the drugs, he knew he had to take care now, when he was at his most vulnerable. Otherwise he’d—what, get addicted to her? Probably too late for that.
“So what’s the cure?”
“There isn’t one.” Knowing that meant he wouldn’t go insane too soon. Not yet. Recognizing what he needed at times like this helped. Right now he needed her. But not hasty and frantic, not fucking hard. He wanted to do this right.
He followed the others into the large room set aside for refreshments and after-show interviews. Before they got there, he stopped and turned her to face him, ignoring Riku’s curse as he nearly fell into them. “We have media in there. You can go back to the hotel if you want or play it cool. Will it hurt your career, what you want?”
Tears shimmered in her eyes, brightening them in the dim light. “No, it won’t. I’m used to it. I’m not used to being the center of attention, but I have seen a media frenzy before. Don’t abandon me.”
“Never.” And he meant it.
He always hated this part, but this time a new excitement infused him. Not sure of the reason for this new sensation, he kept her hand in his and led the way to where the other band members were answering questions. The first thing he did was find a bottle of ice-cold water and chug it down. He took another and made sure Beverley had one before he deigned to answer the first question.
One thing he studied in the British members of the band was swagger. He’d learned a lot from Donovan and Zazz in that respect. They had an inner arrogance, a fuck-you attitude that seemed to come naturally to them, and he didn’t think they’d learned it as adults. He remembered old footage of the Beatles in America. They had it too. The Stones had it in spades. US bands could do it, but they did it differently.
Hunter just folded his arms and stared at them. He was doing it now, to a woman who was obviously salivating for the blond-haired hunk who towered above her.
Eventually she asked him what most of them did. “Can you talk?”
“Yes.”
“Do you speak English?”
Hunter nearly smiled. “Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you answering my questions?”
“Is it compulsory? Will you eject me from the country if I don’t?” He got a smattering of applause for that. “I will answer when you ask me something worth answering. So far you’ve asked me questions that insult my intelligence, and probably yours as well. How about I ask you something? Do you read Proust?”
He got laughter for that, but she came back at him, sharp as a knife. “Do you?”
Smiling, Hunter shook his head. “Not recently. I got as far as the Madeleines and stopped. Will you call me an uneducated person now?”
No, because he had her. Once he started talking, they generally fell into his trap and came over to his side.
“Rock bands have that problem,” Jace told her. “They all do. They think we’re ignorant. Some of us are, but not everybody.”
“You had a good education,” she said.
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
A kid, young, gangly and spotty asked Jace something. If he hadn’t recognized the correspondent from Rolling Stone, he might have given him the verbal finger.
Riku already had, by the look of the way they’d turned away from each other. “How’s the next album coming along?”
Not at all right now. They’d planned to at least sketch the outline on this tour, but so far they’d done very little. “Fine. It’s looking good. Now we have Matt back onboard, it’s working well.”
“Maxx Syccorraxx? Do you think he made a difference to the last album?”
“Maxx made Nightstar. He pushed us all to do our best, then he showcased the parts needed to bring the most out of the songs. We couldn’t have done it without him.”
“So why isn’t he here tonight?”
“He owns a production studio and he’s working with someone else. He said he’d fly in tomorrow.” That was no secret. V was pining for him, although she’d done great tonight. He had to remember to tell her so. As the newest member of the band, she was still feeling insecure. She also suffered from stage fright, which Matt had his own way of coping with, but a method he’d kill any of the band for if they tried it. She could use his input, so to speak.
He asked the reporter a question. “Do you think V works well?”
“Great.” The kid blushed as if caught out admitting a guilty secret. Jace was glad to see enthusiasm. “She adds to the textures,” he added, as if he knew what he was talking about.
To do him justice, he probably did. Rolling Stone didn’t employ idiots. Other publications might thrive on fan girl squees, but not the venerable paper that had seen so many others come and go. So he answered without flippancy, and added how much he enjoyed V’s additions and that they were her own inventions, subtly different every time. “She’s fitting in real well,” he added.
“Did you give Maxx a job to keep V onboard?”
“No.” He bit the word out. Would his friend never outlive the reputation he’d once justly deserved? He’d even dropped his stage name, Maxx Syccorraxx, and gone with the one he’d been born with. “Matt’s the producer we needed to complete what we wanted to do. He enjoyed singing but he loves producing. It’s all about finding what you were born for and having the courage to go for it. We heard V at Matt’s studio and knew we’d found the player we needed.”
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