The Devil's Tattoo: A Rock Star Romance

by Amity Cross

  Yeah, I was pretty sure I was just torturing myself.

  The first thing I did when I got home was to hop on The Corner Hotel’s website and buy a ticket to the Stabs gig.

  The second thing I did was swallow my fear and get the tram to Richmond the next day.

  The third thing I did was hand over my ticket and go inside.

  I’d be lying to myself if I said the mysterious Will Strickland didn’t intrigue me. I caught myself thinking about him yet again when I bought the ticket to the gig. It was all wishful thinking on my part. I would never know him. I mean, I would never approach him in the first place, and why would he look twice at me? How could you go up to a guy in a successful band to say hi when they would think you were another groupie looking for a quickie. I don’t think I could ever have a quickie with a stranger no matter how hot they were.

  I stood awkwardly in the semi-dark as people milled around me. No one looked at me, and no one would probably remember me, but I still felt uncomfortable. Alone in a crowd. I busied myself looking around, waiting for the support band to come on.

  The thing I disliked most about this venue was the huge pole right in the middle of the floor. Right behind the mosh pit. Sucked hard if you were stuck behind it, worse than inadvertently positioning yourself behind the only seven-foot-tall bloke in the whole place. What a stupid place to put a pole. What I did like about The Corner were the curtains. It made the whole experience feel like you were at the theater. The red velveteen curtains swung open and closed after each support act like some kind of grand unveiling, making the experience more like a stage production than a gig.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, saving me from staring vacantly at nothing. That’s what I disliked about going to shows on my own. Not knowing anybody and standing around between sets. I mean, what do you look at? I always ended up getting a drink, so I had something to do.

  The text that flashed up on the screen said, Look behind you. It was from Frank.

  Frank was the drummer in a punk band called The Deadshits, and to tell you the truth, he was the least deadshit of the lot.

  I turned around, and there was Frank behind me with four bottles of Bulmer’s apple cider balanced in his arms as he tried to launch himself onto me, laughing like a madman. He had a shaved head, wore an assortment of flannel shirts, and was totally buff—all muscle and then some. Tonight he’d donned a blue shirt with beat-up black jeans. Frank killed me, he really did, but I was glad to see him. He was one of the few souls who seemed to like me despite my anti-social resting bitch face.

  “Thanks for the drinks,” I joked and took two from him before they ended up on the floor. “Why’ve you got so many? I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

  “Zoe, babe! I know this guy in the support, and he put me on the list.” He hugged me, slapped me on the back, and gestured to the bottles in my hands. “Keep ‘em and drink up. On me.”

  That was the thing I loved about Frank. He was hard as nails but over-the-top generous. He made everyone feel included, no matter where they came from. He stood beside me and called out to some guy who was walking past with his girlfriend trailing behind in her stiletto heels and tiny dress. I looked at her, and then I looked at me in my jeans, boots, and cut up band shirt. It was no wonder I got along with guys better if that was what they wanted.

  To be honest, people at gigs kind of annoyed me. There were always groups of girls dressed up like they were going to a mainstream club, high heels and all, and somehow, I always stood behind the people taking the piss out of the support bands—bands that were just starting out and were just good enough to get a great slot. You could tell they were new by how stiff they were on stage. What I hated were people in the crowd trying to be funny about it and not giving them a go. Laughing and not listening. Plenty of times, I would hear these bands, and later on, they’d get headline slots and would become the next big thing, and the same people suddenly thought they were amazing.

  Despite the crowd, I loved to go and see bands. I liked to watch them play. I mean, really watch. How they played their instruments, and how they moved onstage. I liked to see what they did so I could try it when I got home. What I especially didn’t like was if the songs sounded the same as on their record, like they were miming to a backing tape. It was about the moment, wasn’t it? The feeling and emotion of whatever song they were playing, the little variations in the vocals, an added riff or drum fill that made it a unique experience. That’s what I loved. The emotion.

  As the curtains began to close on the support band, someone shoved me from behind. I turned around to glare, but they were whispering in my ear, “Zoe, sweet lips. Gimme a kiss, sugar.”

  I got an eyeful of Dee laughing like he was a fucking comedian, and I slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “What are you doing here, smartass?” I yelled into his ear.

  “Frank got me in.” He winked, taking one of my drinks, and I knew he thought I was here because of Will Strickland. What I didn’t admit was that he was right.

  “Hey!” I protested as he pried one of my bottles from my hand

  “Hey, yourself.” He elbowed me, took a swig, and offered it back.

  “Eww.” I feigned disgust. “I don’t want it now.”

  As much as I kept to myself, it was nice to have someone to talk to between sets and hang out with. Before long, it was time for the main act to come on.

  The Stabs was made up of four guys—two guitar players, a bass player, and a drummer. They played straightforward indie rock, nothing overly complicated, but whoever wrote their lyrics was a genius. Each song played out like a story, and it was hard not to get sucked into them. The crowd was going nuts, and the people crammed into the mosh pit at the front were jumping so much the floor felt like it was shaking.

  What was also hard not to get sucked into was watching Will Strickland. My eyes glued themselves to him, and I couldn’t find it in myself to look away. I watched his fingers slide across the strings of his bass, and my mind wandered, imagining them doing something else. Something below the belt. I was suddenly horrified at the image in my head and forced myself to look away.

  “That guy,” Dee whispered in my ear, “is Will Strickland. He’s bad news, Zo Zo. Wom-an-izer. Takes it and leaves it from what I’ve been told.”

  “I’m just looking,” I told him, because I was. The last thing I needed was an unattainable crush on a known manwhore, but it was already too late for that. A woman could dream a little, right? Right?

  What happened then was Will Strickland, known bed-hopper, turned his gaze on me and caught me staring. A slow, lazy grin spread across his sexy lips, and he held my gaze like superglue while the band went on playing the song. Effortless…and hot as fuck. There was no way in hell he was smiling at me like that.

  The thing about someone staring at you when you regarded yourself as a mutant was you had an overwhelming urge to look around to see if there was someone better looking behind you. In this case, I was jammed between Frank and Dee and a few hundred people. I was pretty sure I was not the target.

  I raised my eyebrows…and he raised his, making my heart stop beating for what felt like a full minute. Then I glanced away, embarrassed. You read about these kinds of things in soppy romance novels or in hipster chick flick movies. The lonesome plain girl in the crowd, and the handsome guy in the popular band chasing her despite all the forces trying to tear them apart. But this was the real world, and it was just a look.

  The show was that good it was over before I knew it. The singer and drummer seemed to milk the encore a little too much, but I mean, who wouldn’t? As people started to mill around and file out the door, Frank shot off into the mass and left Dee and me to our own devices.

  “What did you reckon?” he asked.

  “Pretty good,” I said. “I liked them.”

  “Why’d you come here, Zo?”

  I scowled at his question. “I wanted to see a band.”

  “Plenty of other bands on tonight, you kno
w.”

  “Then why are you here?” I snapped.

  Before we could get into a fight, Frank reappeared with another guy.

  “This is Chris,” Frank clapped the guy on the shoulder. “Bass player extraordinaire.”

  “Hey,” he said and shook my hand. He seemed nice enough. He had sandy blond hair that fell into his eyes and a kind smile.

  “Oh, you were in the support, right?” I asked, suddenly recognizing his face.

  “Yep. Empty Hands.”

  Frank sniggered, and Chris shot him a warning glare.

  I shrugged. “I like it. It’s a cool name.”

  “Thanks, you’ve got a lot more tact than those assholes,” Chris said. “It was nice to meet you, Zoe. I gotta go take care of the gear.” He shoved Frank’s shoulder playfully and disappeared into the band room.

  “Drinks?” Dee asked.

  “Shit, yeah,” Frank declared.

  “I dunno…” I began to complain.

  “C’mon, Zoe! Stick around for at least one more drink.” Dee picked me up around the waist, so I had no other choice but to agree. He seemed to have let go of his earlier outburst, and I was thankful.

  The security guard came in and attempted to push the last few punters out the door as we went into the bar next door.

  I knew staying around would mean a high likelihood of the guys from the band sticking around, as well. I felt a bit on edge about it, especially knowing I was tingly at the thought of a certain guy. The last time I met someone from a band I liked, they turned out to be a real idiot, and then it kinda ruined their music for me. I couldn’t listen to any of their records without thinking about how much of a twat that guy was.

  “That Will Strickland fucker keeps staring at you,” Dee whispered in my ear. “By the bar.”

  I glanced covertly to my left, and there was Will Strickland himself with the wild, curly hair quickly glancing away.

  “If he so much as talks to you, I’m punching him in the face.”

  “Dee, I admire your protectiveness, but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t talk to me in the first place.”

  I could see he was torn between reassuring me of the opposite and his obvious need to keep scumbags away from me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know.”

  “I reckon we could give them a run for their money,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  “What’s that meant to mean?” I turned around.

  “I reckon we could form a band ten times better than The Stabs. Hey, Frank? Wanna play drums?”

  Frank’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. “Do I?”

  “Zoe, you can belt out a tune.” Dee looked at me with his big eyes, the same way he had when we were twelve when he wagged school and wanted me to cover for him.

  “Shit, Dee. There’s a difference to fronting a band and singing like an idiot in the car.” Shit. The last time I’d sung in front of a crowd was never. I was already breaking out in a rash.

  “C’mon, Zoe! Just give it a shot. Just one shot. I’ve got some songs we can work on.” Those eyes again.

  I began to crumble. “You are a manipulative asshole.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Pick you up tomorrow arvo.”

  “Tomorrow?” Somehow, I reckon he already had this planned and was waiting for the right moment to drag me into it.

  “No time like the present.” He slapped me on the back, and I choked on my cider. “Hey, that Chris guy plays bass, right?” He looked around the bar and wandered off when he saw him.

  I’d just been manipulated—Dee style—into joining a band…as the front woman.

  Chapter 2

  Deep down, I almost believed Dee had forgotten to pick me up.

  Deep down, I hoped he had.

  I was draped over my couch, hands over my eyes, silently praying to be left alone. I couldn’t handle this singing thing. I couldn’t handle the thought of standing anywhere else other than in the audience, and we hadn’t even started yet. My guitar sat in its case against the wall, and I swore it was agreeing with me.

  Suddenly, there was thumping on my front door, and Dee was calling out, “Zoe! Rise and shine, baby cakes! I know you’re in there. No use hiding.”

  I flung open the door, and he was standing there with his car keys in his hand.

  “We’re going to Frank’s,” he said, pushing his way inside and grabbing my guitar case before I could argue.

  I had no choice but to follow him out to the car if I wanted my beloved Epiphone back. Truth was I think I was more afraid of the unknown than actually doing this band thing. I didn’t know how to write music, and I wasn’t sure how it all worked together with other instruments. Epic cluelessness.

  Jumping in the car with a second to spare, Dee pulled out into traffic and we headed across town. The sun was shining, and summer was all but over, but the days were still mild. As we drove through suburb after suburb, I couldn’t help playing with the hem of my shirt. Dee glanced over and caught me fidgeting.

  “You’re going to be fine,” he said, patting my leg. “We’re all mates, and the only person we’re gonna laugh at is Frank, and he’s used to it.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” I reassured him. “It’s just the bit after.”

  He knew I meant the whole getting up on stage thing. Melbourne was a big place but small at the same time. Word got around.

  “You’re going to be great,” he said quietly as we started to climb the West Gate Bridge that linked the west of the city to the CBD. “You shouldn’t worry about what anyone else thinks.”

  “It’s not that easy, Dee.”

  “I know it’s been tough the last two years, but it’s time to get out, Zo. I love you. You know that. I hate to see you like this.”

  I felt tears prickle in my eyes, and I was thankful I was wearing my aviator sunnies with the mirrored fronts. “I know,” I whispered.

  “I’m doing this for you. I’m shit scared as well, but there’s a time and a place, you know.”

  That stopped me in my tracks. Dee admitting he was nervous? I couldn’t remember ever hearing him say anything like that before, and the fact he was putting himself out there for me warmed my insides. All this time I thought the world had abandoned me, and I’d had Dee all along. Bloody hell, I was selfish.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Stop it, Zo. If you wanna make it up to me, then just be in my band.”

  “Oh, so now it’s your band?”

  He let out a laugh and turned up the radio. Spiderbait’s cover version of ‘Black Betty’ was playing, which was a fast and heavy rock song perfect for driving.

  When the vocals kicked in, we sang in unison all the way to Frank’s, and I felt my uncertainty slipping away. Funny thing about music was it could make you feel better almost always. I found myself hoping deep down that this band would finally see the start of better things.

  Frank lived in a dilapidated miner’s cottage in Footscray. It backed up to the train line, so every thirty minutes we were overwhelmed with a shaking floor and the sound of a suburban train whooshing by. He was excited to see us when he opened the door and helped bring our gear through the house to a room out back that had been taped up haphazardly with soundproofing. At one end, he had a nice looking drum kit set up. At the other end, there were two old couches where Chris was already sitting, his bass and portable amp leaning against the wall.

  “Hey, Zoe,” he said. “Frank’s been telling me how great you are.” He nodded at my guitar case.

  “Oh?” I asked, giving Frank my best annoyed side-eye glare.

  “So I hear,” he said with a wink, and I knew Dee had been talking me up like I was Da Vinci.

  “Let’s hear, then,” Chris chipped in.

  I opened my case and pulled out my guitar while Frank plugged me into an amp. />
  “Sweet guitar.” Chris was in love.

  “I’m so jealous,” Dee declared. “You should see her effects pedals.”

  “That sounds like a dirty pickup line,” Frank declared, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

  Before I could chicken out, I played the opening bars to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s ‘Ain’t No Easy Way,’ and Chris whistled. “You’re tight, Zoe.”

  “That’s what all the boys say.” I winked, and he blushed.

  “How long you been playin’?”

  “About two years give or take.” I shrugged, putting the guitar down.

  “Yeah, she’s like a prodigy or something.” Dee was up to his old tricks.

  “Just had a lot of time on my hands, and I got into it.” It was the truth.

  “That’s a tough song.” Frank handed me a cider. “I dunno anyone who’d be able to play that after two years.”

  “That’s because you only know people in punk bands, and they only know three chords,” Dee shot at him with a laugh.

  “Let’s look at your songs,” I said to Dee. I’d heard some of his stuff before when he played it on the street, so I knew he could do it.

  He handed me a tattered notebook. “It’s a bit different,” he said. “I wanted to try something more classic rock.”

  “Like what?” Frank asked. “Led Zeppelin classic? Deep Purple? Oh, I know, glam rock like T. Rex.”

  “Led Zeppelin,” Dee and I echoed at the same time, and he grinned at me.

  He picked up his guitar and played through the first song in his book. It was a fast rock song.

  I read his lyrics and whistled. “Nice words, Dee Dee.”

  “Nah, not really. I want you to rewrite them.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “They’re all about love and sex,” I said. “Not exactly my forte.”

  “How is it not your thing, Zo Zo?” Frank exclaimed. “Look at you.”

  I looked at myself and shrugged.

  “She doesn’t see it,” Dee said to the others. “Not yet.”

  I looked down at the song Dee had written so I could hide my blush and played the first few bars the way he’d just hammered them out. Dee’s idea of writing was to illegibly scribble the chord down and demonstrate. I knew it was meant to be fast because he’d scrawled the words fast as fuck at the top of the page followed by letters and numbers that indicated how many notes. Unlike me, he hadn’t bothered to learn how to read or write music.