Don't Read in the Closet volume one

by Various Authors

  Ash’s annoyance burst to life again. “I sure as fuck won’t take fashion advice from a guy who wears shit-kicker cowboy boots and Wranglers. And who the hell is he to criticize my hair when he hides his under that big ass cowboy hat all the time?”

  Jeremy rubbed a cloth over his guitar, polishing the body of it so the black finish, painted with gray ghost flames, had a liquid shine. “Is that what he was doing in the mag interview? Ripping on your hair again?”

  Ash snatched a bottle of water off a table and dropped down on the couch beside Jeremy. “No. He was saying how I’m not a good role model for young people. Well no shit. What part of rock star doesn’t he get? I’m a performer, not a babysitter.”

  Chad walked across the room and picked up the magazine. “That was probably his response to you saying last month that when his music career falls flat, he can always sell himself to the highest bidding mother to marry her daughter since everyone in Mayberry wants him for a son-in-law.”

  Twirling a drumstick between his fingers, Devin snorted out a laugh. “Now that was funny.”

  Ash tossed an arm across the back of the couch. “I don’t know why the hell he has to keep coming at me. And through the goddamn media! If he’s got things he wants to say to me, he needs to do it to my face.”

  Jeremy plucked the guitar strings to double check the tuning. “It’s not like he’d get many chances to do that. You’re a rock star. He’s a country music star. We kinda run in separate circles, you know.”

  “We’ve been to some of the same award shows,” Ash said.

  “So what, you want him to start a pissing match with you on the red carpet? The most bad boy he’ll ever taint his image with is what he does now, taunting you from a distance, and even that isn’t much since he always manages to spin it so he looks good and you look like the ass.”

  Devin jumped back into the conversation. “Not that he has to spin it real hard with how you let shit just fly out your mouth. But weren’t you the one who started this whole thing to begin with?”

  Ash let out a low grumble of agreement. It was true, he was the one who started the “feud” with Jackson Abrams. But not intentionally. Sort of. Three years ago, they both hit the scene in their respect music genres. He and his band, From Ashes, kicking ass in the rock world, and Jackson…well, Jackson doing whatever the hell country stars did. Jackson must’ve done it pretty well, though, since his music extended beyond the country charts to crossover into popular music.

  When the Grammy Awards came around, From Ashes and Jackson were both up for Best New Artist. And the Grammy went to…Jackson.

  Not that he was really pissed off at losing the award to him. Even he had to admit, to himself, never to anyone else, that Jackson’s music was damn good. He wasn’t so stubborn he couldn’t appreciate Jackson’s talent, and there was something else about the country singer…

  Ash stopped the last thought before it went too far and veered it back toward music. Still, even though he could admit Jackson was a hell of a musician, he couldn’t say Jackson was better than him and his boys. When he was interviewed after the Grammys about his band’s loss to Jackson and asked how he felt about it, he replied, “Well, it is what it is. And it could be the better man won, but not the better musician.”

  It seemed Mr. Good Boy Country Star didn’t like that comment real well and fired back in an interview with, “Sounds like Ash Ivers…that’s his name, right? Well, it sounds like he’s a bit of a sore loser. And that’s too bad. I hope someday he learns how a man accepts his loses is what can really make him a winner.”

  And it was that kind of down-home-wholesome bullshit that pissed him off. Jackson always came back at him with comments like that. When he heard Jackson’s remark, he hit him back in his next interview with, “I don’t know how to accept my losses, huh? Let’s get something straight. Not getting an award for being America’s sweetheart doesn’t make me a loser. But what makes me a winner is my record sales kicking his in the ass all the way to the bank.”

  Jackson retorted with, “If I could ever have the honor to be America’s sweetheart, nothing would make me prouder because I love this country. But it sounds like Ash Ivers loves money, and I feel sorry for him for that. I make my music for my fans, not for a bigger bank account.”

  Always! Every freakin’ time Jackson twisted his words to make himself look like the good guy. The man even wore a white damn cowboy hat! Well, beige, but close enough.

  The media ate up their animosity, doing their best to fuel their feud with interviewers making sure each of them knew the latest comment from the other and goading them to make more. He supposed it was good publicity, if nothing else. There were fans on Jackson’s side who loved him for his always gentlemanly responses. There were fans on his side who loved his “shove it” attitude.

  Ash grinned to himself. Actually, they made a pretty good team without even knowing it. They each had both sides covered of what people liked.

  Chad’s voice called him back to the moment.

  “Hey, Ash. Did you read the rest of this interview with him?”

  “Why the hell would I?”

  Chad walked slowly toward him, his gaze on the open magazine in his hands. “Because right after he says you’re not a good role model, he says, ‘I’m not sure the behavior Ash is known for is the best kind of image for the Songs for a Cure Benefit, but I do give him a lot of credit doing this for charity. It gives me hope knowing that as different as me and him are, we can put all that aside for a greater good in helping to raise awareness and funds for HIV/AIDS research. Because of that, it’ll be an honor for me to walk on the same stage as him’.”

  Silence fell over the dressing room. Ash stared at his bass player, as if he disbelieved what Chad had said.

  Jeremy looked toward Ash. “Wow. That was, like…nice.”

  Ash ignored Jeremy, his gaze still fixed on Chad. “Are you fucking with me?”

  “No, dude. It looks like he’s playing Songs for a Cure, too.”

  Devin pointed his drumstick at Ash. “You didn’t know that? Didn’t any of you guys read the list of performers Kent gave us a couple weeks ago?”

  Ash shook his head, still trying to come to terms with playing at the charity concert with Jackson. He vaguely remembered their manager, Kent, giving him the list of everyone else would be performing, but he’d only looked to see when From Ashes was taking the stage, and since they were right after the openers, he didn’t bother checking to see who else would be there. He didn’t even know where the list was now. Probably in some stadium, cities away since they were wrapping up their second tour and it was supposed to end at the Songs for a Cure event in two weeks.

  Jeremy knocked Ash on the arm with the back of his hand. “Hey, at least now you’ll have your chance to get in his face and put an end to all this crap. It won’t be like at an award show. I think Kent said we were getting in a couple days before the concert and there’s gonna be a lot of down time. And you won’t be getting stalked by cameras in the artists’ area, so you can tell him to knock it off without making an ass of yourself in front of the paparazzi.”

  “Yeah,” Ash said softly.

  Devin twisted around in his chair to glare at Chad. “Way to go. You just totally shot his mood with that little announcement and we need to hit the stage in less than ten.”

  Chad held up his hands in a helpless gesture, still holding the magazine in one. “I was just letting him know.”

  Ash took a breath to snap himself back to the moment. “It’s cool. Like it matters if Jackson’s there. But if he thinks I’m not a good image for the concert, then what’s he?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “He’s popular as hell, though, and that’s what the promoters and organizers were looking for. They dipped into every scene, rock, rap, pop, country, to try to pull out the hottest performers.”

  “I guess, but it still seems like something he’d be more likely to turn down than accept.”

  “Either way, you’ll
get your chance to talk to him face to face,” Jeremy said.

  Ash nodded. He exhaled a sigh and slapped Jeremy on the knee, pushing off it as he stood. “I’ll worry about it later. You guys want to give me a couple minutes alone? I’m thinking of changing again. These jeans are pinching my balls.”

  Devin got to his feet, snickering on his way to the door. “They probably wouldn’t if you tried putting on some damn underwear.”

  Following Devin, Jeremy pointed at Ash. “Are you kidding? Look at how low those frickin’ things are. No way he could wear underwear with them.”

  Chad winked at Ash as he passed by him. “You just need to get you a man thong.”

  “I have a few of those, actually.”

  As his band members headed out of the dressing room, Ash walked to the full length mirror. He looked down at his designer jeans, slung so low off his hips it was no secret he shaved his pubic hair, and they fit so tight even the most unimaginative of minds wouldn’t have trouble envisioning how he was hung. His lean torso, lined and grooved with muscle, was framed by his open black shirt. He glanced up, meeting his own blue eyes.

  He’d finally get to meet Jackson in person. What should he say to him when he did? Should he tell him to cut his crap? Or apologize for starting the whole screwed up situation to begin with? And what would it be like when he talked to him, listening to that Texas drawl in Jackson’s low baritone voice?

  Ash wet his lips, a slow smirk spreading over them. He didn’t know what the hell he’d say, but he knew one thing; he was going to try his damnedest to piss him off. Just once, he wanted Jackson to drop his good boy mask.

  And there was one other thing he knew. Ash flicked his gaze up to his mohawk’s reflection in the mirror. Before meeting Jackson, he definitely needed to do something about his hair.

  CHAPTER 2

  Jackson strolled through the outdoor stadium, empty except for the crew working on building the massive stage at one end of the football field. He’d been to Chicago on his last two tours, but the closest he’d gotten to Soldier Field both times was when his tour bus went by it. It was a nice. Of course, being a Cowboys fan, nothing could beat their stadium.

  He turned from the field and headed down a tunnel into the stadium interior. He’d arrived late that morning and decided to walk off the plane trip from Dallas by exploring the venue. There wasn’t much else to do. The next two days were for rehearsals and working out technical glitches, with the concert following the day after. He was sure he’d find plenty to occupy his time. A couple fellow country artists and other friends and acquaintances he’d made in music were coming in, so he wouldn’t lack for company.

  Though, there was one person he wanted to talk to more than any other.

  Jackson left the stadium to the parking lot, where a section was roped off for performers’ tour buses and trailers. It looked like a mini community of musicians. If artists flew in rather than arrive in their own tour bus, the organizers had set up trailers for them, which was nice to have a place for privacy at the actual venue rather than just at his hotel, since there certainly wasn’t enough dressing rooms for everyone. Now he just had to remember where his trailer was. He knew a rap artist’s tour bus had parked next to it, and that made a pretty distinct landmark since it had the guy’s face painted on the side.

  He worked his way between the closely parked trailers and buses, wondering if the rock band, From Ashes, was there yet. One thing he wanted to accomplish at this concert was talking to their lead singer, Ash Ivers.

  Jackson lowered his gaze to the ground, his cowboy hat shadowing his face. Three years of bickering with a man he’d never talked to in person. How ridiculous of a thing was that? And how completely stupid of him, too. He knew he’d gotten suckered by the press more than once in responding to Ash’s comments. Instead of always coming back at Ash, he should’ve just replied with a smile and, “No comment.”

  But the ego Ash carried himself with, that man just asked to be challenged. He swore Ash got enjoyment out of antagonizing him. The only thing he didn’t understand was, why? It might’ve started out with just a smart-mouthed comment from Ash, but to keep things going, there was no point to it. That’s why he needed to talk to him. He wanted it to stop. It wasn’t doing either of them any good.

  From the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered another reason why he wanted to see Ash in person. There was no denying for all Ash’s attitude, he was also intriguing. If for no other reason than what his next hair style would be. He really hoped Ash had ditched the yellow and red mohawk. He had looked like a damn hotdog stand with it.

  Jackson glanced up. His strides slowed to a halt. A silver tour bus was parked a little ways ahead. In front of each bus and trailer, the event organizers had signs placed with the artists’ names to make it easy to deliver messages to them and also so everyone could find each other. In front of the silver tour bus, the small white sign read, From Ashes.

  Jackson stared at the sign. This was it. All he had to do was walk up to the door, knock, and Ash would be on the other side. Maybe. Just because his band’s bus was here didn’t mean Ash was. He could be at his hotel, or any other place in the stadium. Or anywhere in Chicago, for that matter. It was probably pointless to even try the bus. He should just head back to his trailer and wait to run into Ash.

  He started to turn, stopping as he heard a loud voice shouting, “That’s fucking bullshit!”

  Jackson faced the bus again. He might never have talked to Ash in person, but he knew his voice well enough from listening to Ash sing to recognize the bellow came from him. Curiosity got the better of him and pushed his feet to walk toward the bus, his ears picking up more voices floating out the open windows as he stopped near the door. He recognized Ash speaking again.

  “Kent, this is crap and you know it. On the original set list, we were marked in to take the stage after the openers. Now we’re getting pushed back to the middle of the goddamn show! That’s bullshit!”

  Another male voice replied, “Ash, just settle down. You’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is and this shouldn’t be such a surprise. I gave you the new re-organized list almost two weeks ago. Didn’t you look at it?”

  Silence. Jackson made a mental note that when he talked to Ash, to not bring up he’d been moved up to From Ashes’s spot in the show.

  “Of course you didn’t,” the other male voice continued. “You never look at any documents I give you.”

  “That’s why you’re our manager,” Ash said. “To look at that stuff for me. And when you looked at the new list, you should’ve known I would’ve been pissed at us getting bumped back!”

  “I don’t understand why. I think you’ve really got the whole idea wrong.”

  “Oh I do, do I? Well with my idea, us getting stuck in the middle is nothing but us getting lost in the crowd. I want us at the front of the show, or at the end. With a concert this huge and this long, the middle always drags. That’s when people go off to get something to eat, or drink, or fuck. I’m not going to be standing on stage playing to a half filled stadium. This is a slap in the face from the event organizers and promoters!”

  “I knew that’s what you were thinking, and you’re wrong. Yeah, a show like this can drag in the middle and that’s why From Ashes got moved there. Because they wanted to put in a heavy hitter guaranteed to keep the crowd’s interest. There are a lot of great artists playing this gig, but let’s face it. There are some more than others that people want to see, and From Ashes is one of them. The organizers and promoters know that, and that’s why they’re moving you to where you are.”

  A third male voice said, “Makes sense to me.”

  Ash spoke again. “Jeremy, don’t side with him.”

  “Well it makes sense to me, too.”

  “Chad!” Ash yelled.

  One more male voice added, “I gotta go with them on this, too. Sorry, man.”

  “Thanks, Dev. Like I didn’t already know you would,” Ash said, sar
casm thick in his voice. “Fine. Put us in the middle. It doesn’t matter, anyway. We’ll still blow everyone away.”

  “Awesome. Then I’m off to talk to the organizers.”

  Jackson heard quick footsteps nearing the door and knew he didn’t have time to duck away. The best he could do was to take a few steps back to not look like a complete eavesdropper. At least he learned Ash didn’t throw attitude just at him. Seemed he did it with everyone. But it also seemed he came down from it pretty quick and could be reasoned with. That gave him a little burst of hope he could talk things out with Ash.

  The door opened. Jackson met the gaze of the man standing in the open doorway, who looked to be in his late thirties and from his sharp dress, he guessed the guy was From Ashes’s manager.

  The guy blinked and cleared his throat. “Well, this is a surprise.”

  Jackson took a step forward. “I apologize for showing up out of the blue. But I was hoping to have a few words with Ash Ivers. Are you his manager?”

  “Yeah, I’m Kent Baumann. And don’t you think you’ve already had a few words with Ash?

  “Yeah, but they haven’t been the best of words, and that’s why I wanted to have some more with him.”

  Ash’s voice sounded from inside, “Kent, who are you talking to?”

  Kent turned his head slightly to call back to him, his gaze staying on Jackson. “Jackson Abrams. He says he wants to talk to you.”

  Silence.

  “Should I let him on?” Kent asked.

  Another pause came before Ash answered, “If he feels he can handle walking into this den of sin, then by all means, step aside and let him in.”

  Jackson clamped his teeth together. This might’ve been a bad idea.

  Kent stepped out from the bus and stood to the side of the door, motioning the way in for Jackson with a sweep of his arm. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks,” Jackson grumbled. He let out a heavy breath and climbed up the first step, doing his best to call up a pleasant expression before he reached the top of the stairs. He turned inside the bus. The first thing to hit his vision, Ash, reclined on a black leather couch running along one side of the bus.