Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Ben caught Danny’s eyes and they simultaneously shook their heads. A moment later, there was a loud groan, and he glanced back to see Blake’s skinny cheeks clenching, his back bowing as he came. Bending to offload the cart, Ben told Danny, “Get him to help you load the cases in the van when he pulls his pants up. I’ll get the rest of the gear out here. We still need to work merch.” Same shit, different day.

  Three hours later, they were sitting in the van behind a twenty-four-hour diner, watching as Benita counted their take. “Four-thirty,” she said with a grimace.

  Benny shook his head. “Shit. That’s two hundred less than last time here. It was a good crowd, what gives?”

  Mouth drawn to one side, she twisted to glance in Blake’s direction. “We had to pay three hundred in union fees.”

  Danny broke in. “You mean in shut-up fees.” Benita shrugged, folding the money and putting it into her wallet. She’d hold it until they needed gas or food, then she’d dole it out, bill-by-bill, making them all work for it a second time. “Jesus, Blake. When will you learn to keep your fucking mouth shut?”

  “Fuck you.” Blake’s talents didn’t lie in his oratory skills. “Those guys are assholes.”

  “Assholes or not,” Ben shifted uncomfortably on the floor, back to the pile of gear cases, “the manager said he won’t book us again if you keep this shit up. As it is, he doesn’t want you in the building during load-in or teardown. Which means we’ll carry your ass a-fucking-gain.” He reached beside him, picking up a plastic jar with a hand-printed sign taped to it. “I saw a good tip hit the gas money jar.” Ben unscrewed the lid, reached inside and pulled out a small handful of money mixed with scraps of paper. Dumping the mess in his lap, he quickly picked through to separate out the bills, finding what he was looking for.

  While he was counting the money in his hand, Blake reached over and sifted through the remaining contents, picking out the pieces with writing on them. Some people used the jar as a trashcan, but a lot of girls dropped their numbers in, hoping for a call the next time OY hit the venue.

  Ben muttered as he counted, “She was a fan, had a shirt on and everything.” The first time they ordered cheap CDs from an online store, paying almost as much for the packaging as the CD itself, they’d also printed celebratory shirts which cost more to make than they could sell them for. It had turned into a victory every time someone bought one. “She told me if we’d post our schedule on the website,”—he stared pointedly at Benita as updating the website was part of her job—“it’d make it easier for our fans to find us.” Stacking the bills neatly, he ordered them by denomination, then quickly counted again, verifying the pleasant surprise.

  Looking up with a grin, he caught Danny’s eyes, watching them widen as he laughed and said, “Three sixty-three. She put in three Benjamins.” With a laugh, Benny twisted to face the windshield, relaxing into the gear cases. “What can I say?” Laughter in the van broke the tension from before, as well as the knowledge they had more than enough money to tide them until their next gig Tuesday night. “She’s a fan of the Benny.”

  ***

  Tuesday saw them with a light load-in since the venue lent itself to acoustic. Benny and Danny would both play guitars while Blake sat on a box drum. Benita would work the limited merchandise table, a repurposed four-top from the diner side of the bar. Benny was leaning against the bar, waiting for the bottles of water he’d requested when an elbow hit the edge of the counter next to him. Twisting his neck, Benny turned to see the woman from the previous show standing there. “Hey,” he said with surprise. “You came.”

  She nodded, saying with a smile, “You updated the website. How could I stay away when you took my advice?”

  He shifted and stuck out his hand, giving her a wide grin. “I’m Ben Jones.”

  “I know,” she laughed as she responded. “I’m Katherine.” She looked over his shoulder, telling the bartender, “I’m opening a tab. Put whatever the band wants on it for me, please.” Reaching into her purse, she extracted a credit card from her wallet. “Thank you.” The bartender took the card as he placed the six bottles of water on the counter. “May I have a menu, please?”

  Benny was mesmerized. Older, but still attractive, Katherine had an innate air of command which might make it difficult to tell her no. He shook himself mentally, breaking free from his contemplation of what it took to develop that kind of manner. Gesturing to her chest, he said, “You wore your shirt.” Yeah, I officially sound stupid. “I mean, shit. Sorry. You wore the band’s shirt. Again.” Jesus, stutter much? He took a breath, telling her the truth. “Means more than you know, Katherine. Thank you.” He reached and picked up the water bottles. “And, thanks for this too.” Hefting them in two hands, he gestured first towards the clock behind the bar, then the stage. “It’s time for us to start, so I have to get up there, but we’ll take a break in about an hour. I’d love to chat with you then if you can stick around that long.”

  “I look forward to it,” she said, hiking her shapely ass up onto a stool. He stood watching her for a moment longer, seeing her ready smile at the bartender, her casual glance around the bar. Confident and assured, she was there to watch them play. Listen to him sing. Mind blown.

  ***

  Shirt soaked through, he shivered as he settled into the booth opposite Katherine. Wordlessly, she used a fingertip to slide an expensive bottle of sparkling water towards him, and he grinned his thanks. Making quick work of opening it, he drank and lowered the bottle to find her staring at him with a considering expression. Lifting the water again, he held the bottle against his lips as he asked, “What’d you think?” Turning the container up, he kept his eyes on her as he drained it dry.

  “I think you’re far too talented to be playing in bars like this, or places like the Fillet.” Her blunt words caused his gaze to scatter around the bar, ensuring the manager was nowhere close to their table. Thank Christ, he was far out of overhearing range, which meant future bookings were still on the list of possibilities for this place. “Benny, you play and sing beautifully, and when I say play, I don’t only mean the guitar. You have charisma and hold the crowd in the palm of your hand. I haven’t seen talent like yours in a while, and I’ve been around the block more than once.” Her hand slid across the table and then withdrew, leaving a card in its wake.

  He read the name on the card. “Katherine Cutright.” He looked up at her and then sighed, glancing back down at the card. Well, this explains a lot. “Talent acquisition for some record label I’ve never heard of. Engel Dari Records.” He flipped the card back to the center of the table, tipping his head to one side, watching her. “We aren’t interested in signing.” Her lips thinned; she’d expected him to at least be willing to discuss the idea. He decided to let her in on a not-so-secret secret. “We’ve been down this garden path before. Sweet words and promises of money and support turned into a chokehold on our music and a requirement to self-promote in a way none of Occupy Yourself was comfortable with. Thanks for the water.” With a stiffened finger, he toppled the empty bottle sideways, the clatter of glass hitting the tabletop drawing a few stares their direction. “But we’ll pass on the representation.”

  “That is, of course, your decision to make, Ben.” He noticed he’d been demoted from the friendlier Benny back to Ben. She leaned forwards, placing one elbow on the table, chin in her hand, creating a sense of intimacy with her actions. “I’d rather you hear me out before you reject things out of hand.” Palm to the table, she drew the card back with the tips of her fingers. “But, if you’d like me to leave, I’ll go.” Head dipping to the table, she began gathering her things. “Thank you for the pleasure of hearing you again.” Eyes angled his way under her brows. “And, for updating your website.” A pointed reminder her recommendation was a smart one. He’d heard more than one patron tonight telling Benita they’d found out about this show from the site.

  He leaned back in the booth, elbows hooked over the top of the bench. Head tippe
d up, he stared at the stained ceiling for a moment. There was a soft clink from the table, and he looked to see another bottle of water in front of him. Katherine still waited in the opposite seat. He sat and stared at her, carefully considering what she’d said so far—none of which he disagreed with—and where he wanted the band to be. It wasn’t to keep playing places like this or the Fillet; she was right. He wanted so much more, and it always seemed just out of reach. She didn’t seem discomfited by his attention, her gaze swinging back and forth between him and the crowd.

  He glanced around. Blake was holding court by the bar, surrounded by full-bodied girls looking young enough to make Ben hope their fake IDs were as good as his had been. Danny wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and Benita was seated behind the merchandise table, the sour look on her face promising harsh words later. Normally he’d go and sit with her, sign things, take selfies with fans, urge people to buy CDs, and talk about where they’d be playing next.

  Right now, he had other things to do. Things to figure out, leaving the bickering sure to come from Benita for later in the evening. There was a puzzle sitting across the table from him. People like Katherine had a currency they used, and he knew exactly what she wanted from him. Ben let his eyes roam what he could see of her, tits straining the thin tee, hair and makeup carefully calculated to be classy, but not over the top. While this was likely a business deal, still, he’d put money on the fact she was looking to slum a bit. He tilted his head to one side, staring into her eyes. Waiting.

  Katherine smiled, full lips shining in the muted light of the bar and Ben’s dick woke in his pants as he imagined her mouth on him. Older, powerful, attractive, and into him. Yeah, there’s a lot here I could work with.

  “Spiel me.”

  Four days later, sitting in another bar on the north side of Denver, Katherine pressed close to her side, Benita signed.

  Seven

  25 years old

  “Fuck!” Blake shouted, flinging his bottle of beer sidearm into the wall. Foam and glass exploded everywhere as liquid lashed across the dirty alley. “What do you mean, they’ve cut us loose?”

  Paper rustling in her shaking grip, Benita raised her hands so she could read the letter again. Delivered by courier during their set, she had waited to open it until the band was together. Ben had wondered several times over the past six months if things were souring between the record company and them, but couldn’t put his finger on what he was feeling. Nothing specific, just royalties paid more slowly than they had been, less help with the promotion side, not that the label had been much help there, anyway. Then last week they received notification the single from their upcoming CD wouldn’t be the original tune the band wanted, but a regurgitation of an at best B-side 70s song to which the label owned rights.

  Ben called Katherine when Benita hadn’t gotten anywhere with the band’s handler at the label, but Katherine said her hands were tied. Scouring the contract revealed the clause giving the label the right to make those decisions. In fact, a thorough evaluation revealed a number of terms they hadn’t paid a lot of attention to at first, all seeming so out of reach nearly three years ago that their inclusion in the obviously canned contract language was laughable.

  Now, however, Occupy Yourself had worked their asses off and was gaining traction fast. They had been touring steadily during the last eighteen months, and not just the I-70 corridor. Their van had seen miles in more than thirty states, only the far northeast and western states not yet visited. They had opened for more than twenty-five different bands, blending their sounds with whatever options were available, sometimes going from rockabilly one night to metal the next, and landing into acoustic the following. All bands called it the grind, and Ben understood exactly what they meant. It could wear you down if you didn’t have something you were working towards.

  The label organized studio time whenever they decided it made sense, seldom giving the band more than a week’s notice. The studio usually wound up being booked in the middle of a string of shows, which meant Ben had to hustle to find stolen moments in which to write. Something that had seemed effortless since he started jotting lines and words in a notebook rapidly became a chore. No less fulfilling when it flowed, but that roll became harder and harder to initiate. Oblivious to what was around him, Benny wrote in diners, in the back of the van, sitting on the floor behind stages in a hundred different venues with bands and staff strolling past, his head in the lyrics, fingers fixed to the frets and strings. He learned to capitalize on those golden times when the words came easy, writing as fast as the pen would move across the page. Between times was enough to go back and polish, tweak, change word order, find other words, develop the pacing, and find the music.

  Sometimes the music came first, and he’d pick out a tune on his six-string, an instrument of torture that, these days, seemed surgically attached. Chance phrases, half-heard conversations, hell, sometimes even road noise—these things would set up residence in his head, and the only way to get it out was to write it. When it was good, when the sound was tight and right, that was when Danny would join him, heads down, eyes closed, picking out and following the tune. A chorus of “What did you just do?” and “Rock it, do that again” would surround them. Listening to the music, feeling it in his gut, Benny loved those moments when you held the crystal of a newborn tune in your hands.

  The label organized their online presence, getting them hooked up into all the various platforms by which music consumers found their tunes, something Benita then took over and managed. Made easier by their process, but still something that fell to the band to keep going.

  One thing, the only thing the label had done that he knew the band would have never accomplished, was get airtime. Radio stations across North America were adding Occupy Yourself songs into their rotation, and those songs—Benny’s songs—were winning fan-voted contests. There were three online fan groups that he knew of, and Benita engaged with the members regularly, usually posing as him or Danny.

  Their career was starting to gain traction, finally. It felt good to see the hours and days and weeks of work coming to fruition.

  And now the label was dropping them. Fuck.

  “Why?” At his question, eyes all around their little circle swung to him. Blake, Danny, and Benita. “Why are they cutting us loose, Benita?” Her gaze went to Blake. Fuck.

  “What does that mean? That look.” Blake’s face twisted in anger and Ben shifted. “You sayin’ it’s my fault? Always Blake’s fault. Blake’s always fucking up.” No, that’s my job. Ben shook his head. “No, Benny, she looked at me. You saw it.”

  “Let’s hear what the letter says.” She shoved the paper towards him, and he took it grudgingly as if it were a viper ready to strike. Fan-fucking-tastic. Now Blake would associate bad news—and they already knew it was bad news because of Blake—with him instead of Benita. Fuck. Scanning the paragraphs, he focused in on one section, reading it again and again, feeling the rage build inside him. “Fuck.” That one escaped into the air, surprising him.

  Eyes to Blake, he took a step forwards, fist clenching around the papers. “Paternity suit. Lawsuit. Drunk and disorderly. Venue cancelation. They have all kinds of shit here, Blake.” His bandmate had the wisdom to look contrite instead of angry, thank God. Ben didn’t know if he could have controlled himself if the man—boy—tried to pass this off as not his fault. “Looks like you’ve been keeping secrets.”

  Blake had never graduated from the initial rush of recognition. Every show was a chance for him to get his nut off. Every girl a conquest to bury the pain of high school rejections.

  “Fuck it.” Ben shoved the papers back at Benita. He stared at the van, seeing the peeling paint of their logo, the sweeping lines of OY falling in pieces to the pavement at every venue. It’s all shit. “I’m not feelin’ it tonight. Isn’t it what you usually say, Blake? Not feelin’ it, meaning you’re so fucked-up you can’t play. Well,” he leaned far into Blake, his voice a barely-restrained hiss, �
��I’m not feelin’ it tonight. Y’all go on without me.”

  “What the fuck?” Danny said in a guarded tone, knowing the band could pull off a drummerless show. They’d done it often enough, having to swap over to acoustic about once a week because Blake “wasn’t feelin’ it,” which pissed them off, but they made it work. A show without a lead singer, however? Not as possible.

  “No, he’s been drunk or stoned for three years, fucking his way through whichever state we’re in. It’s time for Benny to have some fun.” Benita drew an audible breath, and he twisted to look at her, denying her the chance to interrupt and soothe things over. “No. It’s my time to fuck off since we’re—”—he swung back to Blake, this time unable to control his shout—“fucked straight up the ass.”

  “Dude.” Blake shook his head. “We can’t play without you.”

  “Oh, but we can play without you?”

  “Fuck, man. Chill. Y’all do fine without me.” Death knell but Blake didn’t know it yet.

  “You’re right. We do fine without you.” He grabbed the papers again, shaking them in Blake’s face. “We’d do better without you, evidently.” Moving deliberately, he took a disciplined step back, breaking their circle. “I’m done with you.” Another step, distancing himself from them. “My band.” Danny’s head lifted at those words, but it was the truth. They’d signed papers detailing Ben’s portion as 53 percent. Majority stakeholder starting this year, since he’d fronted the money for equipment, vehicles, union fees. Stolen money. He winced, remembering the lies he’d told GeeMa, then focused and hissed, “And I say you’re out.”

  Now the uproar bursting from all three mouths was guaranteed to bring security running. Not my gig. Ben turned on his heel and walked away from the only good thing in his life. The music.

  ***

  I want to forget. He heard the words in his head, knew how to form the sounds, but activating his voice seemed like an impossibility. His own muscles foreign, unknown. “Jus wana feget.” He tried to swallow, succeeding only in choking himself, his tongue seeming far too large to exist inside his mouth. “Wan feget.”