BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds

by Lexxie Couper

  If we get called back for an encore, he can play whatever the fucking hell he likes.

  TWO

  Loveday Trevaskis

  “Let me look at that?”

  After Jessie’s punch up, the three of us retreat to the ladies’ bathroom. There’s no point trying to hustle our way into the dressing room. With this many bands on stage, space is at a premium which means only the top acts have any sort of official spot in which to get ready and chill. I’m not sure what the rest of us are supposed to do, mill about in the corridors, I guess. Anyway, we’ve co-opted the backstage ladies’ loos. Since most of the bands are all male, it’s not put anyone’s nose out of joint.

  Jessie’s nose is thankfully still in its right location. She inspects it in the mirror over the sink by wriggling the end. I’m not so sure it’s her nose she needs to be worrying about. Her eyes are puffy. She burst into tears the moment she was out of sight of knob-head, and she’s going to have a stonking great bruise come tomorrow morning that no amount of foundation will hide. Right now, it’s just red and angry, exactly like the rest of her.

  “We’re going to do it,” she insists through gritted teeth. As if there was any doubt that we wouldn’t prior to this point.

  I turn her away from the mirror and press a wad of wetted paper towels over her jaw where the blow actually hit.

  “Sure we are,” I agree, though I throw a look of dismay in Ivy’s direction. Not that she notices. As usual, she’s glued to her phone, typing missives to nightshift man. “We’re going to go out there and bring the house down, show these fellas how it’s done.”

  “So I can take my knickers off,” Ivy pipes up.

  “Uh, no!” I know Bitch Slap were formed out of rage, but that doesn’t mean we’re not a hundred per cent geared towards making it big, and we’re never going to get a foot in the door if Ivy insists on undressing on stage. The audience don’t need to be seeing her muff while she’s tinkling the keys. I think Ivy sometimes forgets we’re not a political protest collective, and that we are actually in this for the money and at least a shot at the limelight. One of these days, I expect her not to show up, and to discover she’s bought a yak and gone to live in a Tibetan commune with Nightshift.

  “Maybe another time,” Jessie suggests. “I’m not sure the guys here are worthy.”

  “Who was that girl that Dane was with?” Jessie asks a moment later, having straightened out her face and layered on an extra inch of lash extending mascara.

  “No idea.”

  “I hate her.”

  “You don’t hate her. You hate him. Let it go, Jess. Why would you let yourself get hung up on this creep?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just…I should keep on hating him, right?”

  “Forgetting he ever existed might be a better plan.”

  I say it, but I know she won’t. Same as I know she’ll mention him again within five minutes. In fact, every five minutes for the rest of the night, and that includes the time we’ll be on stage. All she’s done since Bitch Slap formed three months ago is warble on about how big a prick Daniel…Dan…Dane…Darke or whatever the fuck his name happens to be is. Prior to ten minutes ago, I only had her word to go on, having never met Paradise Kiss’s lead guitarist. My opinion hasn’t been elevated any by the experience, but I do want to call her over one particular detail she failed to mention in her various renditions of his prickitude, and that was how good he looks, because the devil’s always in the detail, and it explains a lot about her inability to let go. There’s no denying Dane’s a ridiculously good looking man. Not that I’m interested. Pricks don’t do it for me. All right, sometimes they do. Not for the long term, obviously, but sometimes you get an itch that needs scratching, and one thing I’ve learned about jerks is that they’re easy to pull and easy to let go once the itch is scratched. Not that I’d ever go where a friend has been before. I have principles, and there are enough men in the world that it is unnecessary to complicate friendships. As luck would have it, in this case, Dane doesn’t provide any sort of risk, especially when his equally scrumptious clone exists and isn’t Jessie’s ex.

  “What’s Dane’s brother’s name?” I ask, as if it’s of no genuine consequence, merely a point of passing interest.

  I’m assuming it was his brother standing back and staying out of our earlier spat, because there’s no way two men can look that similar and not be related. They’re so blasted identical, they might even be twins. Same collar-length dark brown hair, that falls exactly so, same chartreuse green eyes as if he’s walked right out of a Poppy Z. Brite novel, and the same hard wiry, physique that makes me tingly inside.

  “Nat,” she replies, squinting in a way that furrows her brows. “Nathan…Nathaniel.”

  Nat—Nathaniel definitely gets my knickers wet. Though obviously, I’m not about to announce that fact, his band and mine being mortal enemies at the mo, but it won’t always be this way. One day, Jessie and Dane will get over themselves, and either hook up again or move on. Meanwhile, having a little late night fantasy material never did a girl any harm.

  My thoughts of back stage diving with Paradise Kiss’s guitarist come vocalist are disrupted by Ivy’s raucous cackling.

  “Nathaniel and Daniel,” she says when I look at her. “They have rhyming names. That’s so fucking cute.”

  It’s something, but cute wasn’t the word I’d use. I bet they hate it, which would explain why Daniel appears to be known as Dane. I reckon their folks must have been crazed hippies or else screw-ups who didn’t give a fuck about the hellish nonsense they’d inflicted on their offspring. I bet they have stupid middle names too.

  “You don’t think it’s cute?”

  I shake my head, lips pursed into a sour smile, and hope to God it hasn’t inspired names of the next generation of Dalton’s. Ivy’s already confessed a rabid desire for quintuplets, with names like Marigold, Moonflower and Lotus. The poor unfortunates are probably morphing into Hob, Nob, Bob, Job and Sob right about now.

  “Why do you want to know about Nate?” Jessie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’d better not be thinking of mucking around with him, Loveday Trevaskis. You realise we’re at war, right?”

  “As if. What do you take me for?” It’s not like I’m planning on handing him my number. Sins like Nathaniel Darke are strictly one time affairs, and like dark chocolate, best savoured in itty bitty bites.

  Jessie’s glower doesn’t disperse.

  “Chill, Lynchpin,” I say tossing out her high school nickname. “I was just curious. I like to know the names of the fuckwits I might have to sue.”

  She laughs at that notion, and immediately she’s back to being the fun loving Jessie, who lived next door to me when we were five.

  “In which case, I’d better give you the full Paradise Kiss run down, because they’re all worthy of that label. The Darke brothers you’ve already met, then there’s Teddy Knox on bass and Joel Aston on drums.”

  “Um hm,” I nod, not really caring about the rest of the band. I mean they’re irrelevant in terms of my idle fantasies. Gangbanging isn’t a big turn on for me. I’m content with the concept of Nathaniel Darke with his shirt pushed up and his tight trousers down.

  “Is it true they’re on the verge of going large?” Ivy asks. “I heard some rumbles to that effect on the way in.”

  “It’s probably just their fans mouthing off. They’re not going anywhere. They haven’t the talent or the looks.”

  She’s definitely mistaken about the latter point, and I’m reserving judgement on the former until after I’ve heard them play. If it does turn out they’re on the cusp of breaking through, then this vendetta against them might not be in our best interests, but Jessie’s too hung up on sticking up two fingers at her ex to care about that, and Ivy has the ambition of a wet noodle when it comes to anything that doesn’t involve making mini-mes with Nightshift. That leaves me as the sole force steering us towards the limelight.

  Guess it’
s lucky, I dream big.

  THREE

  Nathaniel Darke

  The real trouble starts when Bitch Slap walk on stage.

  We’re all idiots for imagining Jessie Lyn wouldn’t find a way to retaliate in style. Dane writes a song about her, so she does the same.

  Dane’s lyrics might be angry, but there’s at least of thread of wistfulness and melancholy about the melody courtesy of yours truly, but nobody’s attempted to assuage Jessie’s venom. It’s a full on, full throttle, sledgehammer of a track. Strangely catchy too, as demonstrated by all the air thumping and foot stamping happening in time with the synthesized drum beat.

  “Perverted tit fucker. You’re a perverted tit fucker, and you’ll never be mine, because I never came, even when you banged me all the mother-fucking time.”

  Dane’s face is purple.

  He has his fist wrapped so hard around the neck of his beer bottle, it’s a wonder it hasn’t shattered yet. If she was a man, I reckoned he’d have had us booted out by now for glassing her. It could still happen. Dane swings first and asks questions later, and not because he’s thick. There’s a good brain in his head, it’s just going in with a killer hook generally brings about a quicker solution, and Dane does love expedience.

  “Cool your shit, brother.” I wrap a hand around his wrist. “If you want to get back at her, the way to do it isn’t by leaping on stage and throwing your weight around like a gorilla, or blowing their fucking instruments up.”

  “It’d be satisfying.”

  “Momentarily, maybe. Think about the long term. Do you want to scupper our chance of making it big because some bitch is calling you names? Is she even calling you names? I mean, perverted tit fucker describes pretty much eighty per cent of the male population given half a chance.”

  “Totally does it for me,” Knox interjects, giving his hips a lewd roll and thrust to add additional emphasis. “Does Jessie have pretty tits? How many times did you fuck ‘em?”

  “One hundred and forty-three,” some smart Alec behind Dane shouts.

  I make that lock around his wrist doubly tight. “What difference does it make if it was three or three hundred and three? We have a show to put on, and a record exec to impress, so keep your goddamned cool.”

  “I don’t fucking care,” he swears through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah, well I do. We all do.” And by we, I mean Joel and I. Who the hell knows what Knox wants. The man lives in the moment because his memory is fucked, and I don’t just mean through smoking too much weed. Kid got shot in the head with an air rifle when he was fourteen. It’s been hit and miss what goes in and makes it as far as long-term memory ever since. Ask him if he knows half our songs, and I swear most of the time he hasn’t a fucking clue, but stick a bass in his hands and muscle memory comes up with the magic. “That means staying in line, Dane. For one night, just take a fucking deep breath and hold it all in.”

  “I don’t want to hold it in.” He’s staring murderous rage at Jessie, who currently has her guitar slung across her thighs, her legs spread wide and is making her instrument scream like a frickin’ master. I swear, if I’d had any idea she could play like that, she’d have been part of the band, and not the girl always hanging around or shrieking down the phone at Dane to stop playing around with his mates and get his butt over to her place. But I guess none of us ever thought to ask if she could play a guitar. I’m not even sure if Dane knew, unless he was giving her private lessons, because I swear that whammy bar technique is textbook Dane Darke.

  “Dane! You can go blow up a supermarket or whatever later, but right now, you will fucking well hold it together, all right. Have you got it?” I drag him around so that his eyes are on a level with mine, and not getting glassy looking at Jessie flaunt her stuff.

  “Yeah,” he groans. “Yeah, I’ve got it.” His shoulders sag a little, making him look slightly less twitchy. Still, I’m relieved when the six-stringed scream ends, and the stage is briefly bathed in darkness.

  During that brief lull, I can still hear Dane snorting like a bull beside me, but unless Jessie has another song prepared to top that one, the worst is now over. I just need him to hold it together for another thirty minutes or so while Bitch Slap finish their set and Bulldozer does theirs, then we’re going to rock this place into oblivion, exactly as planned. The audience might not know it, but they’re about to watch history being made.

  The spotlights turn on again, this time illuminating not Jessie, but a girl poised with a bass-guitar that almost dwarfs her. She’s only yay tall, but the thrum she plays goes right through me and makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. She plays like she owns the world, like the crowd before her doesn’t matter. It’s like the audience doesn’t exist. It’s just her and the bass, and with it she’s weaving existence around her.

  I snatch a look at Knox. If he could coax something half that good out of his Fender then we’d already be a household name, and the anthem I’ve been working on for the last six weeks wouldn’t still be missing its bass track. Sadly, the only brilliance Knox has ever shown has been while he’s been tapped into the collective unconscious. Unfortunately, he’s been stoned so much lately that those flashes of magnificence are being obliterated by his memory loss problems. “It’s almost there. I almost have it,” he’s said to me every blinking morning for the last week. Tonight, we somehow need to keep him away from the dreaded weed, and wired into our sound.

  My thoughts don’t stay with Knox for long, they’re compelled by the woman on stage.

  Her voice is a whisper at first. It slides over my senses and blends with the underlying burr of the bass.

  Frickin’ hell, she’s good. I watch, afraid to move my gaze for fear of seeing one particular face in this audience; Graham Callahan came to see us tonight. I picked this time and location because the competition would be seriously lacking. And yet…Oh my God! Never mind Dane losing it, if Bitch Slap cheat us out of our prize tonight, I’m going to need sitting on, or the club will be the site of a goddamned massacre.

  I can’t let this opportunity slide. We have to be so stellar compared to everyone else that there’s not a shred of doubt in his mind that we’re the perfect choice to head out on tour with Black Halo when they resume their requiem tour in the winter. God help us, but I actually contemplate heading back stage and sabotaging Bitch Slap’s set by tampering with the fuse box.

  “Who the hell is that?” Joel kicks Dane in the ankles. Seems I’m not the only one who’s aware we have competition on our hands.

  “Lowdy—Loveday Trevaskis,” Dane replies, though the hand he has clamped across his mouth muffles his words. “She’s Jessie’s mate from school. They used to be neighbours, or something.”

  “Did you fuck her?” I ask, because these things are important to know, and not wholly because I want to know if it’s Jessie who has it in for us, or the whole of her band.

  “No way.” Dane twists his mush up into a tequila-face, like the very notion is noxious to his being.

  “What’s up, she turn you down?” Joel asks.

  “Fuck you. No she didn’t. She’s way too easy.”

  “You mean she didn’t offer.”

  Dane casts me the evil eye, but whatever. He’s such a goddamned hypocrite.

  “Who are we talking about?” Knox butts his way into the middle of our group.

  “Loveday Trevaskis, the lady on stage.” I let Joel bring Knox up to speed, while I continue to be mesmerised by both what I’m seeing and hearing. I kid you not, the first flush of love is blooming right here and now between me and the girl who is bruising me with her perfect bass-playing. It’s melodic simplicity at its best, and it’s right there at the heart of the song. Clearly, my attention must have been riveted on Jessie and Dane earlier for me not to have noticed this woman, because not only is her talent obvious and astonishing, she’s stunning too. She’s the most perfect woman I’ve seen since Reception class at school, when I was blessed with a whole year of Miss He
witt, of the never-ending legs and azure eyes.

  This pixie is also blonde, but it’s more a yellowy, buttercup blonde, than Miss Hewitt’s ashen tresses. Nor has it been ironed into perfect straightness, but instead forms a halo of light around her face. My palms tingle with the urge to reach out and touch those dazzling strands, to cup the curve of her cheek, drag her closer and spread my palm over her perky behind. I want to jam with her, duel with her, and then gradually blend our sounds. I’ve no doubt the outcome would be an explosive eargasm.

  All right, so the image of us riffing off one another fades to one of us battling in a different way, but cut me some slack here. It’s not often that music turns me on in this way unless it’s something I’ve just written. What’s more, I know I’m not alone in what I’m feeling. There’s an energy in the room that’s unmistakeable. It’s like this is ’74 and I’m watching Led Zepplin play, or hell, even ’84 and Cliff Burton is blinding everyone by sticking two fingers up at the notion of the bass being the backing rhythm and playing like he’s leading the show.

  This girl is one monumental turn-on.

  “Yeah, I remember her.” Knox giggles over whatever Joel said, and has a brief showdown with gravity. He prevails by throwing his arms around Dane and Joel’s shoulders, before leering at me. “She’s Jessie’s mate. The one with the pulling pen.”

  Please God, don’t let Knox have been inside her pants. That’d be almost as bad as finding out she’s slept with my brother.

  “Pulling pen?” Joel asks. I wish he hadn’t.

  “Yeah, she has this Sharpie that she carries around with her, and if she wants a guy, she walks right up to him, tugs up his shirt and scrawls her number right across his abs. This one time, I heard she wrote an invitation right onto a guy’s dick.”

  “Yeah, right.” Like that’s at all likely.

  “Straight up. She wrote, ‘Stick it in my pussy.’”