by A. m Madden
“Yeah, I can see that. That’s pretty cool.”
Jack nods, “It’s fucking awesome. I can only imagine what real rock stars feel like.” He takes a swig of his beer and smiles wide. “I like to brag that we have the best looking groupies around.”
“He’s probably fucked half of them,” Hunter says, rolling his eyes.
“Dude, why are you lowballing it?”
Hunter eyes my shades and smirks. “Our girls are gonna love you. You won’t be hurting for pussy.”
I smirk and tip my beer in a salute.
Scott has yet to utter one word. Hunter notices when my head turns in his direction. “He doesn’t talk much, but he plays a wicked guitar.”
“I can’t ever get a word in edgewise with these two dick-wads. I’m the smart, silent one.”
Hunter throws him a look like he sprouted antlers. “Shut the fuck up.”
These guys are comfortable with each other, and I’m not sure I’m into that. I don’t need a band of brothers. I just want to play and support myself. I could give a crap about camaraderie. If they’re expecting me to be all rah-rah, forget this shit. If they allow me to live my life, I’m in.
“Where are you from?” Jack asks.
“Originally New York. I moved to L.A. for a year and just got back,” I lie.
“How was L.A.?”
“I missed New York,” I lie again.
“You don’t sound like you’re from New York?”
“Mom was an English teacher, and I grew up up-state,” I lie, yet again. It’s amazing how easily the lies fly out of my mouth.
We continue with the annoying small talk and lie-fest on my part until Hunter asks the same question he asked earlier. “So, do you want in?”
Do I want in?
If I turn this down, it could be months before I find something else. I could always quit if they start to get on my nerves. “When do I start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m a loner.”
“Who gives a shit,” Hunter throws back.
“Yeah, I’m in.”
I’ve been rehearsing with them for the last two weeks. I hate saying this, but I like these guys. First off, they’re funny as shit. They don’t mean to be, but the way they interact is hilarious. Second, they’re real. No nonsense, no bullshit, no mind games. They are fucking real. It’s refreshing to not have to second-guess every damn thing that comes from their mouths. They couldn’t give a shit about me, which is just the way I want it. All they know is I am a born and bred New Yorker, who left a year ago to try out L.A., hated it and came back. They don’t ask, and I don’t need to lie. It’s a perfect relationship.
All these dudes want is to play, live, have fun, and make some money doing it. Our agendas are exact, well maybe with the exception of Hunter. He does want fame and doesn’t hold back his desires to get it. He thinks we’ve got the “it” factor and believes it’s a matter of time. The rest of them just amuse him, because it’s easier than arguing. Fame would be the last thing I want.
Even though Jack is our lead and our band bears his name, Hunter thinks he runs this show. He’s like a mini manager and relishes in that role. Jack sits back and lets him. He confided that the night they found me, Hunter was squirming in his seat, anxious to pounce on me the minute my feet left the stage. Hunter denies the squirming part.
In these two short weeks I’m a legit member of Devil’s Lair. Their groupies have accepted me with open arms, even though I haven’t played on stage with them yet. The guys aren’t interested in rushing me. They want me to feel comfortable with their playlists and move at my own pace. Part of me is chomping at the bit, waiting to get back on stage. Once you get a taste of that high, it’s hard to get out of your system. The other part is having a good time sitting back and watching.
While sitting back I’ve become acquainted with several of their fans, the waitress from Granite being one of them. Sherrie is cool and fun and gives a fantastic blow job.
When I stroll into the joint we are playing at tonight, my arms and legs tingle from the anticipation of getting up on that fucking stage. The guys are in the corner, hanging with some of their groupies. They always get to the bars early. They like to hang and relax before they play. I would rather walk in and walk right on stage. They don’t seem to mind the fact that I’ve avoided the opportunity to hang with them more than I have to. They also didn’t balk when I informed them not to expect me until show time.
When Jack looks up, he grins at my entrance. “You’re early, Dude. We still have four minutes before we go on.”
“No traffic,” I shrug while smirking back at him.
“You have enough time to take a piss. So go do it now, Taylor,” Hunter commands.
“Nah, I’m good. I pissed on your tires on the way in.”
“Bahahaha,” Jack laughs out loud, and leans over to fist bump me. “Priceless.”
Hunter scowls and flips us off. “Fuck you all.”
Scott shakes his head and adds his two cents, “Taylor’s piss would definitely add to the Blue Book value. Don’t complain.”
“You’re hilarious,” Hunter deadpans.
“Let’s do this,” Jack announces. The look on his face portrays the anticipation that I’m feeling inside…you’d never know it by looking at me, though.
We take the stage without any formal introduction. It doesn’t matter in the least. The minute these fans in the bar see us taking our places, they erupt in screams. Jack laughs and engages with them. He makes fun of Hunter, and Scott, and then he points to me telling them that he finally has a partner in making Hunter and Scott’s lives miserable.
Song after song after song, the cheers get louder and the chicks get more animated. From my spot on this wooden stage I can see their eyes dilated, their tits heaving with every breathless pant, and I can practically see their pussies clenching with need. I can see the dudes wishing they were us, but not hating on us because of it. They are into the music in spite of our looks. Their dicks get hard because of the music. They can appreciate how my fingers fly on my strings or how Hunter beats his drums to perfection. They can appreciate Jack’s smooth voice and wish they had that talent in their own pathetic lives. They can even appreciate Scott in all his blushing glory.
They appreciate us, every damn one of them. For the first time I feel these people believe in us. I get this vibe. I never got it from performing with Top Shelf. It’s a good vibe. It’s a vibe that screams we have what they want and they want more.
I’m not one to reflect on life. I analyze and assess. Have I fucked up? If so, what can I do about it? Have I made dumbass decisions? If so, what should I do about it? I look at my life as a chess game. I move this pawn, anticipating my opponent to move his rook. Or, even a poker game. The cards may be what they are, but your moves, decisions, and facial expressions are what really control the game. It’s a simple equation. When you remove all emotions from the equation, it’s very cut and dried. Over these past years I’ve learned that reflection, regret, and remorse are all a waste of fucking time.
When I left Utah, I reacted to all that happened to me by running. After I left L.A., I matured a lot. I was still that eighteen-year old cocky kid. Physically, I had more tats and a few piercings. I’ve changed my hair color a couple dozen times. It’s been long, it’s been short, but the real changes came from deep inside me. I am more cynical and more distrusting because of what Kate and Zane did to me. I’m also in control of my decisions. I kept things simple. I learned that there were only three things I need in life to survive…food to sustain my body, sex to sustain my libido, and rock to sustain my soul. If it doesn’t fall within one of my needs, I avoid it.
When I got to New York, I decided to stick to two golden rules: stay informed, and trust no one.
The staying informed part was easy. Information is power. Whoever said ignorance is bliss didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. The more I know, the better prepared I can be. I was able to scre
w my dad by being one step ahead. I needed to apply those tactics every day.
My calls to the Rappaports increased over the years. I would make it a point to check in with them at least once a month. They told me that my father was convicted and is serving a life sentence. My uncle was running things for him. My uncle kept my mom on a short leash, all decisions stemming from my dad’s jail cell. After a few years my mother finally woke up and filed for divorce. She left to go live with her sister in southern Utah, leaving the house to my uncle’s possession. Again from his cell, my father continued to make her life miserable. He threatened abandonment and said she would receive nothing. The woman didn’t fight him. She took a small settlement and left.
For all the information the Rappaports did supply, there were plenty of calls that turned up nothing new. Those were the calls that made me anxious. Status quo doesn’t last forever. No change only gives you a false sense of security. It is counter productive to believe no news is good news.
The trust no one part of my master plan has been compromised. That changed when I joined Devil’s Lair. It didn’t happen overnight, which is why I didn’t see it coming. Over the course of ten years, they took me in and never looked back. They trusted me when they had no reason to. They gave me this fucking awesome opportunity that I don’t deserve. These three guys have had my back, even when I didn’t deserve their support. They still have no clue who I am or where I come from. It doesn’t matter. They don’t care. They trust me.
They slowly burrowed through my very thick stone wall, and once they got in, they did nothing. They just sat back and let me live. In the process, they earned my trust. I guess that happens when you spend so much time with people. Our jobs threw us together, but when we didn’t have to be, they let me do my own thing. They valued my opinion. Hunter and I became a team putting music to Jack’s lyrics. They let me experiment with my contributions to our repertoire.
We were growing together. Our success wasn’t an overnight thing. It took years of playing in dives and dumps. Hunter would schlep us to all these competitions and contests. We’d complain each and every time. It was so annoying when he announced another place we had to play at because it could be the “one.”
That fucker absolutely knew what he was doing. The “one” turned out to be a band competition that we won, where the platinum selling rock group MACE was in the audience watching. Pure coincidence. Hunter called it fate. Whatever the fuck it was, it changed our lives. MACE loved us and asked us to open for their upcoming tour. Just like that, we were touring the country with one of the biggest rock bands around.
The MACE tour took us from city to city. We didn’t stop in Utah, but we did in L.A. We were only there for one night and it felt like an eternity. I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of that town. I spent most of the time looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone from my past to appear. It could have happened. The studio heavily promoted the tour. Banners announcing MACE would be performing with their new protégés littered cities coast to coast. I knew it was just a matter of time before someone would recognize this Trey Taylor, who was touring with Devil’s Lair, was the same fucker on the run ten years ago.
While there, I looked up Top Shelf. From what I could see, they were still playing in the same places they were when I was with them. A Google search told me Zane Zaslo was arrested for a bar room brawl. All charges were dropped. Otherwise, there was nothing new on him. That Fuck-Face was stuck in his mediocre, pathetic existence. He never contacted me, which I found odd. My only guess is because he won’t give me the satisfaction. I made it, and he never did.
There was a part of me who wanted to show up at Hank’s in search of Hank, Bob, or Mel. I still carry some major guilt with the way I took off. A note to all three left on the table in my apartment, along with three months’ rent for Bob was my pathetic goodbye. I thought about walking in, just to see their faces and catch up. A moment of clarity talked me out of that stupid plan. Nothing good could come from visiting old friends that I’ve purposely cut from my life.
A monumental thing did happen for us while in L.A. Our agent Jen Baxter discovered us, and it changed our lives. She zeroed in and took us on as clients. We didn’t have a choice. I love blondes and at the time she tempted my resolve daily. She’s extremely professional in her tight skirts and clingy blouses. It took me a while to get over the desire to want to bend her over and fuck her hard. Even though none of us actually voiced it, I know we all had the same desire to take her from behind. That is until we got to know her. She’s been ruthless in getting us noticed and seen. She’s tough, tenacious, and relentless. Most importantly, she can be a nasty bitch when necessary. There’s no sugarcoating it.
The minute we got off tour with MACE, Jen got us signed with LRV Media, and the rest is history. Fame was finding us. That meant the possibility of finding Trestan Barton increased with each milestone we reached. I had a decision to make. I could leave them all behind, yet again. I could run and find another city to attempt to start over in, once again.
Did I want to?
No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to leave New York. When these jackasses found me, I had no worries this would happen. We amused Hunter by playing at all his competitions, but I don’t think any of us knew this would actually ever happen. Jack desired it, so did Scott. I never did. If fame had threatened to find us when I had just started playing with them, I would have left immediately. Now ten years later, I can’t leave.
I love New York. I love these dudes.
Even that little, feisty, gorgeous brunette who plowed her way into our lives got to me. Fuck if I know how she did it. It could have to do with the fact that she’s perfect. Yes, Leila Marino Lair is stunning. She’s also kind, sweet, spirited, and most of all she loves with her whole heart.
Obviously, she loves her husband. I’ve had a front row seat to the Leila and Jack love-fest. On the last tour I had the privilege of sharing a wall with them. Every fucking time they fucked, my cardboard thin bunk wall would vibrate just enough to make my cock swell. I wasn’t jealous of their fucking. I was doing very well in that category. I guess I was jealous they got to be together in that bedroom, or maybe it was of their relationship. I try not to think about it too hard. It’s pointless.
These two are soul mates. They have been through a crap load of shit, and they survived it and are stronger than ever. They are one unit. They are a team. Even when that bitch, Jessa, tried to break them up, or when that cocksucker, Danny, tried to kill Leila, they survived it. They breathe the same air. Their hearts pump the same blood. There isn’t a thing on this fucking earth that can damage what they have. If one were to perish, the other would follow. They would kill for and die for the other. And now, they’d do the same for that baby in her belly.
That’s where I failed Taylor. I chose to live. When I was plotting my escape with Taylor, I had what they have. I felt no one could stop us or end us. She was my other half. But they did stop us. They not only ended us as a couple, they ended the one person I needed on this earth. I lost it, and I’ll never, ever get it back. My biggest regret is not dying with her.
So my point is: what’s the point? Everything must end. Why bother getting attached only for it to end?
It’s pointless.
The way I see it, we all have a predetermined amount of time on this earth. I’ll be spending my time living it the way I see fit. A bus could hit me tomorrow.
Shit happens.
A few weeks ago I was walking into the studio and walked into a conversation that stopped me in my tracks. Hunter, Jack and Scott were in a deep debate. Leila sat with her arms folded, annoyed with the discussion.
“I think it would be the shit. Especially, if you choose one wife who specializes in blow jobs, one who likes it rough, and one who’s a great cook. That sounds like heaven on fucking earth. It should be legal in every state,” Hunter said with pure conviction.
“What should be legal?” I asked as I walked further into the room.
“Polygamy. It should be legal everywhere.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He rolled his eyes and spoke slowly, as if I were a two year old. “Some big shot reverend in Utah just died while in jail. I wondered if his wives were free to split up or would they all remarry another dude and stay together. That got us talking about the benefits of having multiple wives.”
The color drained from my face. I pretended to be bored with their conversation and turned my back to them.
“You’re such an idiot,” Scott said.
Hunter said, “Think about it. Multiple wives, each specializing in a different sexual specialty? Dude, it doesn’t get any fucking better than that! Let’s move to Utah.”
Jack shook his head, “Not everyone in Utah is a polygamist, you jackass.”
“Most are,” Hunt argued. “Google it, like ninety percent of the state practice polygamy.”
“That is absolutely false,” Scott corrected.
“Maybe not ninety, but it was high like seventy-five.” Hunter shrugged. “The dudes in Utah are lucky bastards.”
Leila smacked Hunter’s arm and said, “You’re such an ass. Does Mandi know you’re an ass?”
“No,” he pouted like a scolded child. Normally a conversation like that would have made me laugh. It would give me enough ammunition to rag on him for months. That day the crap Hunter was spewing made me sick to my stomach.
“What’s this dude’s name?” I asked as I pulled my bass out of its case.
“Barton something. I forget. I guess all that sex he had eventually killed him, the poor sucker.”
“Are we rehearsing or what? If not, I have things to do,” I asked, having lost my patience.
As we ran through our rehearsal, all I kept hearing in my head was:
Simon Barton is dead?
