by S W Vaughn
“Hell, yeah.” No hesitation. That was encouraging. “You’re still worried? Dude, you kick ass on vocals. They’ll love you.”
She shrugged. Whining about her low self-esteem wasn’t going to win too many friendship points. “I guess it’s the audience I’m worried about,” she said. “I might hurl again. They’re coming for a show, not a shower.”
“So bring a bucket.”
That got her laughing. “I take it panicking and bowing out’s off the table for me.”
“Yup. If you break a leg, I’ll carry your ass back onstage.” Blue grinned, slowed the car and flicked the right blinker on. “We’re here.”
Logan watched as they pulled into a long, narrow parking lot in front of a red brick flat-roofed building that resembled half the structures in the Philly area. Five or six cars already occupied the slots. A hand-painted wooden sign above the door read Musician’s Mania in jagged lettering, white on black. “Sweet,” she said. “You have good taste in stores.”
“The surprise is inside.” Blue parked, shut the engine off and popped the door open. “Come on,” she said. “They’re waiting for us.”
They?
Reluctance made a comeback. But she followed Blue, letting the bassist practically tug her through the door and into a huge, air-cooled room stuffed with music gear. Guitars and basses filled racks and spilled onto wall mounts. A labyrinth of amps and headers occupied one back corner and drums ranging from little African-style hand beaters to full double-bass kits stocked the other. There was a double-sided row of keyboards, some honest-to-god pianos and several aisles containing microphones, cords, effects pedals and stacks of sheet music. About a dozen people milled around, plunking various instruments or browsing the aisles.
Logan whistled. “I like it. Let’s move in.”
“I wish.” Blue steered her toward a long glass case to the right of the entrance, filled with picks, strings, CDs, band stickers and a bunch of random cool stuff. There was a cash register mounted on the end of the case and a rangy, dark-haired, heavily tattooed Tommy Lee lookalike in jeans and a black Tool shirt standing behind it, watching them with an expectant smile.
Blue stopped in front of the cashier. “Did you get it set up?”
“Hey, Blue. How’s it going? I’m great, thanks for asking.” His smile didn’t waver.
She rolled her eyes. “Hi, Kink. So did you?”
“Yes. And I deserve an intro for that.”
“Fine.” Blue smirked and nodded at Logan. “This is Logan Frost. Logan, meet Kink.”
“Kincaid Smith.” He held a hand over the counter, and she shook it. “Just so you know I’m not a total freak. I do possess an actual name.”
“Don’t worry. I like Kink.” What she’d said hit her half a second before Blue started laughing, and a flush singed her cheeks. “Wow. That came out all kinds of wrong.”
“You wouldn’t believe how many people say that.” Kink met her gaze with a slow smile.
She shivered and resisted the urge to say something lame, like is it hot in here?
Blue cleared her throat. “Come on, Kink. We’re waiting.”
“And so patiently too.” He came around to the front of the counter. “Follow me, ladies.”
Logan got her breath back and proceeded after the other two through the central area of the room, a left turn in front of the maze of amps and through an open doorway. The smaller, unoccupied room looked set up for a jam session. An electric-acoustic guitar on a tripod rested next to one folding chair, and a sleek silver cordless mike mounted on a stand in front of another. A beautiful thing. Two more chairs flanked a half-stack in the corner.
Kink crossed to the stack and flipped a few switches. “Okay. You should be good to go,” he said. “I even tuned you up, Blue.”
“Thanks, babe.” Blue turned to Logan with an embarrassed smile. “Um. Well, you know how the number one mic’s getting kind of scratchy. And it’s gonna be your first gig, and that’s a big deal, you know? Momentous, even. So…” She scuffed a foot along the carpet. “I thought I’d, you know. Buy you a new one.”
Her throat clenched tight. Besides Gran, nobody had ever bought her things. Not even so much as a drink at a bar. She hadn’t hung around with the type of people who gave gifts, aside from various sexually transmitted diseases and the occasional free toke. She looked from Blue to the mic stand and tears welled in her eyes. Damn. She was going to bawl and make a fool of herself. “You’re buying me a microphone,” she whispered.
“Yeah.” Blue bit her lip. “Surprise.”
A huge, goofy smile spread on her lips and she threw her arms around the other woman. After a half-second’s hesitation, Blue hugged her back.
Logan squeezed hard and let go. “Thank you,” she said. “I say we skip the temporary tats and move straight to matching unicorns.”
“With rainbows, even.” Blue grinned and went over to the guitar, picked it up and plopped into the chair with it. She plucked a quick succession of strings. The notes poured like silk from the amp. “Perfect,” she said. “You ready?”
“I don’t know. Ready for what?”
“Try before you buy. It’s the musician’s rule.” Blue gestured to the mic. “So let’s try.”
“Now?”
She nodded. “Kink’s a great audience.”
Kink, leaning against the wall near the doorway with arms folded, gave a cheery little wave.
A thread of panic stirred in Logan’s chest and she held back a groan. Come on, Frost. It’s one guy. If she couldn’t handle a single stranger, she’d die facing a room full of them. She moved to the mic stand with as much determination as she could muster. Found the switch on the shaft, slid it to on. A green light flashed to life near the base. She tapped a finger on the grill and heard a satisfying echo from the amps. “Okay,” she said. “What are we doing?”
“That’s more like it.” Blue straightened in the chair and adjusted her grip. “Well, I’ve heard you nail the newer stuff. Let’s see how you handle a classic.”
She raised an eyebrow. “How classic? Are we talking Beatles or Beethoven?”
“Better.” With a wink, Blue fretted a chord and dropped into the opening of the Eagles’ “Hotel California.”
Oh yeah. Definitely better.
She closed her eyes and listened to Blue play the haunting melody almost note-perfect to the original, with tiny variations that made it hers. God, how long had it been since she’d heard this song, actually listened to it? The ballad was practically her personal anthem. She should have it as a ring tone.
When her cue came, she launched the song with utter abandon. She forgot about listening for sound quality before she finished the first verse, gave up on the idea of trying out and just sang. All the horrors of addiction, the false satisfaction and aching sorrow, the shame of knowing it was wrong and not being able to stop.
She hit the last line—you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave—and her hands shook around the microphone. That was one closing line with teeth. It sent chills through her every time.
She opened her eyes while Blue ran out an abbreviated version of the end solo, Hell-Freezes-Over style, and started to compliment the other woman on a kick-ass performance.
Cheers and applause erupted behind her. From more than just Kink.
She turned slowly. Everyone who’d been in the store had crowded around the doorway to the small room and had obviously enjoyed the show. The thrill that raced through her blood chased away the auto-embarrassment of being watched. She faced Blue again and said, “How long have they been there?”
“Since dark desert highway.” Blue beamed at her. “We’re adding that to the set list.”
“And buying the mic?”
“Definitely.”
It didn’t take much to talk her into a brief encore. For the moment, she could handle this.
Chapter Ten
Logan barely noticed the week pass. She blinked and it was Saturday.
The opening band, Ghosted, had wrapped up and cleared out a few minutes ago. They weren’t bad, but the stuff they played tended on the heavier side. Metallica, Godsmack, Slipknot. The audience had been a lot smaller during their set. She’d kind of hoped it stayed that way.
She grabbed a high-hat from the dwindling pile of equipment beside the stage, carried it up the steps and stopped at the edge. Reid, Blue and Tex worked the setup like a choreographed machine. When she’d come up with gear the first few times, she felt completely in the way, even though they were being too nice to say anything. So she’d taken to standing here until one of them darted over and retrieved what she had.
Sure enough, Tex blurred by and snatched the cymbal, calling thanks over his shoulder.
From start to finish, it took twenty minutes to get all the gear in place. Logan stood behind a stack and peered around at the dance floor—which was now almost completely packed with chattering bodies. The pit of her stomach fluttered wildly, and she drew back around to face the wall. It was less intimidating. Shit, how could she do this in front of all those people? That quick little session in the music store had been light years from this mob. And she’d have to keep it up for hours.
“You want that bucket now? I brought one.”
She looked at Blue, smiled and shook her head. “I’m good. Haven’t eaten anything all day, so there’s nothing to bring up.”
“Always plan ahead.” Blue slung an arm around her shoulder and pointed to the back door, still ajar from bringing the equipment through. “You and me are sneaking out that door to grab a smoke before the show.”
“Okay.” She followed the bassist, grateful for the brief distraction.
The noise of the crowd was still audible outside, muffled, but definite. Reid’s SUV and Blue’s rust-finish pickup were parked here behind the building. Tex had parked in a pay lot across the street, since there were only two slots back here and they’d brought all the gear in the trucks.
She lit up and tried to tune out the noise. Maybe if she didn’t think about the crowd, it wouldn’t freak her out.
Coming back into Philly again wasn’t as hard as she’d feared. She didn’t feel the same frantic urgency that she had when she’d checked out—to bolt down the street, hitch a ride to Crystaltown and fry the last six months from her veins with a needle. It might have something to do with the lack of hallucinations since the weirdness at the welfare office and not hearing from Fred since Sunday. Monday, if she counted meeting Sid Vicious.
Now she wished she’d found out his real name. Maybe he’d show up tonight. But if he did, she’d have a hell of a time finding him in the mob. She’d worn the bandanna hoping it’d be a signal that she wanted to talk to him. That, and it looked cool.
“Dollar for your thoughts,” Blue said.
“I thought it was a penny.”
“Inflation.” Grinning, the bassist dragged on her cigarette. An orange glow flashed up her face and faded, casting carnival-show shadows. “Seriously, what’s on your mind? You look kinda dreamy.”
She snorted. “Yeah, that’s the word. Or petrified. Whatever.”
“They’re going to love you.” Blue put a hand on her shoulder. “Say it.”
“They’re going to love me.”
“Wow. My turtle has more enthusiasm.”
A laugh eased out of her. “I didn’t know you had a turtle.”
“Well, I do. His name is Squishy.”
They smoked in silence for a minute. Then Logan said, “Do you guys always draw crowds like this?”
Blue shrugged. “Sure. We’re local big-time, and we cater to the audience. Keep the set list fresh, play what they want to hear. We even have groupies.” She paused for a smirk. “Reid’s banged most of them already.”
“I gotta tell you, that doesn’t surprise me.”
Laughing, Blue pitched her smoke and drew a deep lungful of air. “It’s quarter to go-time. You ready?”
“Not even close.” She dropped her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her boot. “And away we go.”
They walked in to thundering, throbbing chaos. Somehow the crowd seemed thicker than before, animated with anticipation. She followed Blue onto the stage, where Tex adjusted something on his set and Reid perched on a stool, guitar slung around his neck, drinking a draft.
Blue led her to the soundboard and the tall stranger who stood behind it. “Sound Guy, this is Logan. Logan, Sound Guy.”
He stuck a hand out. “Brad,” he shouted over the crowd noise.
“Nice to meet you.” She took it.
“Pleasure. ’Scuse me.” Withdrawing his hand, he bent back to the board.
Blue laughed at her puzzled expression. “Don’t mind him. Sound Guy isn’t very social.”
“Cool,” she said absently. Sound Guy could’ve been a green-skinned, two-headed elephant and she wouldn’t have noticed. It took every bit of concentration she had to not run off the stage, out the back door, in any direction away from here. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the audience. It had been intimidating enough at ground level.
From up here, it looked as if the entire population of Philly had packed into the room.
Hundreds of eyes watched her, waited to hear her and judge her. Was she good enough for this? She could carry a tune, but Amy Lee she wasn’t. She had no signature sound or signature look. She was just Logan Frost, drug-scarred nobody. These people came for Ruined Soul—but not for her. She wasn’t part of what they’d come to expect. And she would disappoint them. How could she not?
Something warm and solid thumped her back. It took a few seconds to realize she’d slumped and almost fainted. Against Tex.
“Easy, Frost,” he murmured in her ear. “Don’t slip out on me now.”
“There’s a million of them,” she said bleakly.
He laughed. The vibration of it moved through her, comforting as a favorite blanket. “Only a few hundred,” he said. “And they’re all just people. Not scary monsters. I promise they won’t eat you.”
“They might throw fruit at me or something, though. I’d rather let them eat me.”
“They won’t.” He squeezed an arm around her and stepped back. “You can do this, Frost. You know your stuff. You’re ready.”
“I hope so,” she whispered.
Reid moved up beside them, sultry smile in place. “We’re green, y’all,” he said. “Let’s kick it to ’em.”
She nodded, more for Tex than the guitarist. They took their places. The house lights dimmed, the stage lights poured over them—and she could barely see the crowd. Now it was just a massive, undulating shadow beyond the brightness.
A cautious smile surfaced on her lips. Maybe she really could do this.
They’d already agreed beforehand that Reid would handle the intro. Now he stepped up, grabbed one of the backup mics and threw his free hand in the air. “Hello, Philly!”
As loud as his amplified greeting had been, the mob cheered louder.
Reid threw a wink and waited for the noise to ebb a few decibels. “In case you didn’t know, we are Ruined Soul.”
The cheers went to deafening. There was a slight drop, and a female voice screamed, “I love you, Reid!”
He leaned forward, grinning. “I love you too, darlin’.”
Laughter rippled through the cries. The sound was intoxicating.
“All right, all right.” He motioned down, and the noise subsided a bit. “We’ve got somethin’ special for y’all tonight. You are the very first fortunate souls to hear our new singer—and she’s gonna knock
you outta your boots.”
There was a definite decline in volume and her stomach dipped along with it. Of course they didn’t want new and different. Especially this different. If she was a guy, they would’ve been happier. She could feel the resistance out there, the downright disbelief.
“We’re proud to introduce the rockin’ powerhouse, the queen of the Philly scene…Logan Frost!”
She’d heard louder crickets.
Reid scowled. “C’mon, y’all. Where’s the love?”
She wanted to tell him to stop, even as the crowd roared. The false appreciation only made her feel worse. She could’ve crawled under Tex’s drum set and died.
“That’s better.” Beaming again, Reid returned the mike to the stand and leaned over to her. “Don’t let ‘em choke you, short stuff,” he said. “You’re goin’ Susie Boyle on them. Just watch.”
She gave a curt nod and grabbed her new mic, mentally dubbing it an official good-luck charm. Resolution kept her head high. She’d give this everything she had, and if she failed, nobody could say she didn’t try. One spectacular flop had to be better than forever waiting on the sidelines.
They were starting with a new song, a popular rock tune the band had never performed before. It made sense—they wanted the crowd to really hear her, instead of comparing her to the absent Jacob.
Drums banged out a rhythm. Guitar and bass jumped in with a hungry melody.
She closed her eyes.
Nothing but the music. She let it bury the crowd, soothe away the bilious ache in her gut. She could sing for anyone. For no one, if she chose. For the sake of music and the incredible high it brought her, sweeter than any drug.
Her voice thundered through the microphone. She poured it out, wringing every drop of emotion she possessed from the words. God, this felt good—with or without the approval of the crowd.
After the first few lines, a thread of worry penetrated her concentration. She could barely hear what she sang. Was there something wrong with the mic? Maybe she should switch to one of the backups. She risked opening her eyes and stepped left, intending to change out at the next pause.
