Slipping a towel around his middle, he unlocked the door and stepped out. The other three were standing around, nibbling on the snacks the hotel had provided for them as special guests of the event. They all turned to stare at him when he joined them.
“You okay?” Cooly asked. He wore the same worried expression he’d had while they were on the plane.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why? Do I look that bad?” Brett countered, putting Cooly on the spot, then instantly regretting the adversarial attitude. He softened his expression, slapping his buddy on the back and reiterating, “Really. I’m fine.”
“Okay, if you say so,” his friend responded with an arched brow that indicated he didn’t believe him. Turning to the other band members, Cooly said, “Who wants the shower next?”
“Should we maybe take a minute to talk about stuff?” Harry asked. “We kind of left things up in the air and I just . . . Well, I wondered if we needed to maybe talk about where we are before we go on stage tonight?”
Brett shook his head, holding a palm out to stop the conversation in its tracks. “Can we wait until after the show tonight? We have enough stress as it is. Why add to it?”
They glanced at each other, looking relieved. He could tell by the way they nodded their heads so readily that they were dreading this conversation as much as he was. It could wait. Anything earth-shattering needed to be said when they could all give it their full attention, not when they were rushing out to a performance.
Heading toward his room off the center suite, Brett closed the door and dressed as quickly as he could. He still laid his clothes out like he used to when he was a schoolboy, and today was no different.
Boots, black with white lacing, size ten; socks, dark with his favorite skull pattern on them in a bright white, a gift last Christmas from Cooly; pants—designer black skinny jeans that hugged his body, but were stretchy enough to allow him to do his gyrations without fear of splitting them; underwear, nothing fancy there, just plain white; the shirt was one he’d agonized over for quite a while before finally packing a soft black denim shirt with a long black fringe on the inside of the sleeves that looked like dark angel wings when he lifted his arms; and finally, the bandana. He looked at the bandana—a dark navy with white skulls on it—and decided he wouldn’t wear it tonight. He would let his hair float freely on stage, but he tucked it in his pocket in case he changed his mind. He decided to forgo the black leather vest he usually wore, so nothing would interfere with the winged effect of the fringe.
Brett took an extra minute to check his appearance in the mirror. He ran his hand over his unshaven jaw that was dusted with dark stubble, hesitating. Stubble was sexy, at least that’s what the women all said. Besides, it leant him an air of mysteriousness that suited his dark mood.
Stepping out of the room, he found his bandmates waiting for him by the door.
“Ready?” asked Cooly.
“Ready, able, and willing,” said Sticks, and with a grand gesture like Vanna turning a letter, he bowed, motioning for them all to exit the room ahead of him.
Brett turned to look at the suite before he closed the door behind them, and sighed. They were about to step out onto a stage they’d been dreaming of their whole lives, and it might be their first and last time ever doing it as a band. Staring at his friends with speculation, he realized he would miss them all if that were the case. They may not be of the same blood, but they were brothers all the same.
He wasn’t sure he was ready to close this chapter of his life, not with so many others already closing or closed, but he wasn’t sure what other option he had. The band had been formed by them as a group, so the decision to end it would have to be a group decision as well. At least they were giving him that courtesy.
They walked through the lobby downstairs and out to their waiting limo without stopping for interviews or autographs, each of them dealing with fame and the upcoming performance in their own way.
Brett’s game face consisted of a stern expression, focused eyes, and a muscle that twitched in his jaw every few minutes. Beside him, he felt Cooly’s breathing relax as they settled into the limo, away from the chaos of fame. Their guitars and other instruments had already been sent to the venue, and Brett felt oddly naked without his guitar bag in his hand.
“Anyone else here forgotten the words to all the songs?” Harry’s comment got them all talking again in a rush of noise and laughter, and Brett thought, There’s no place I would rather be right at this moment.
Falling
(Brett Rhys-Falwyck solo album: Oceans)
Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck
I stand atop the world,
my arms open wide
A titanic range of emotions
take me on a wild ride
Nothing can hold me back
more than the arms that hold me close
Don’t drop me
I’m falling . . .
. . . falling
. . . falling
My heart beats a frantic rhythm
holding onto the emotion
that throws me overboard
in a sea of constant motion
Nothing can hold me back
more than the arms that hold me close
Don’t drop me
I’m falling . . .
. . . falling
. . . falling
Winged, I soar battered and bruised
into a storm of crows
They beat me back with black knives
and cry out, we know, we know
Nothing can hold me back
more than the arms that hold me close
Don’t drop me
I’m falling . . .
. . . falling
. . . falling
Chapter 5
In spite of Harry’s fears, nobody forgot all the words. The sound check went well. Quite a few of the crew working behind the scenes, and the other celebrities passing by, stopped to listen and watch them perform.
Brett ignored them all as he struggled to get the words to sound right. He felt like he was walking in molasses every time he tried to take a step. The energy was draining out of him. Maybe he was tired from the flight? Or maybe the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. Whatever the problem was, he knew he had to shake it off before their performance. Straightening his shoulders, he slid his fingers down the guitar for emphasis and began again, letting the music swell inside him like it always did.
Brett had a rule, and he was glad to see that the bright lights of fame hadn’t made his bandmates forget that every performance was the performance. So even if they were doing a sound check or just playing for a few friends, they did every show as if it was the show people were paying for. They all played and sang their hearts out, leaving everything on the stage for the crew to mop up after them.
When the last chord had twanged into silence, the people watching and listening gave them a standing ovation and slaps on the back as they walked off stage.
“That was awesome, man,” said an old rocker Brett remembered his mom saying she listened to as a kid. This old man still had an ear for good music, and Brett perked up like a peacock on hearing the man’s praise.
A few hours later, Brett and the other members of the band, nervously pacing around the venue as it filled with audience members and other musicians, went backstage to check on their equipment and confirm the time of their appearance. They were actually moved up to first to perform, right before the presentation of the first award they were nominated for, and Brett was stoked about the order.
Originally, they’d been scheduled to perform in the third spot, but maybe their sound check performance had impressed the organizers enough that they decided to put Pink Melon in the coveted first performance time slot.
Brett could see the first presenters taking their places in the wings on the other side of the stage. The house lights dimmed. The emcee, an actor of some note, stepped up to the front of the stage and began his mono
logue. The audience laughed, but Brett barely heard. He ran through the words to the song as he tried to keep from giving in to his nerves. Stretching his fingers, imagining the chords and their positioning on the guitar, he relaxed. He slowed his breathing, letting the atmosphere weave around him, feeding his desire to be in front of his peers, playing a song he loved. His mother’s image, clouded with a dusty gold hue, rose up in his mind.
She was smiling, nodding to him, her eyes full of love. Then her form disappeared.
He saw the mountain, and the younger woman appeared in view. Her slight form was shrouded in a silvery light that highlighted her perfectly muscled arms. This time she was wearing a long white gown that lightly brushed across the top of the grass, her steps so light she appeared to be floating, and he realized her wings were in full view even if her face wasn’t. She turned, head lowered so her golden hair curtained her face, and he couldn’t see more than a soft cheek and sharp jaw before the image faded into memory as reality interrupted the vision.
Opening his eyes, he looked out from the curtained area backstage where he stood with the crew. Next to him, a man held a clipboard and talked softly into a small microphone running along his jawline.
Brett nodded to him, shrugging his shoulders in apology. He’d missed his chance to take his assigned seat and was stuck here for a bit. Intrigued by what was happening out on the stage, Brett watched the show unfolding. From this vantage point, he could see just how the show was put together, and it was a marvel of logistics and coordination that defied reason. How did everyone know where to go, and how to get there, without bumping into each other? He silently applauded their efficiency as all the bits and pieces of the show moved together with seamless precision.
The emcee on stage introduced the presenters, who confidently strode across the stage from the side opposite Brett’s position. The girl floated to her assigned spot in a beautiful red ball gown, which she navigated with grace and no trips. He had to give her a lot of credit for that, because to him, that dress looked like a nightmare to walk in. She was on the arm of a very tall, thin actor whom he remembered seeing in a couple films, but his nervousness made his mind blank on the name.
Brett took a deep breath, wishing it would quiet his nerves, but not holding out much hope. Nervousness was the least of his problems. Worry over his performance had him closing his eyes just as a photographer standing backstage came up to where he stood, snapping some candid shots. Brett waited for the cue to walk on stage.
Brett opened his eyes just as the photographer moved past in the semi-darkness. They nodded to each other, and Brett heard the click of the man’s camera but thought nothing of it. After a while, the activity that went on around them just became noise without meaning.
On stage, the emcee cracked a few jokes about the category that had everyone laughing. The cameras panned over the audience, lingering on a few of the more famous celebrities.
Pink Melon’s instruments and equipment were being moved closer to the stage, ready to be placed on the small raised dais just out of sight of the audience, as it was concealed behind the curtains. Out of the way, but close to the stage, Brett could see their guitars and drums twinkling a bit in the dim light, and he breathed deeply to still his pounding heart. It was nearly time. They were about to catapult to the fame they’d always wanted. Why, then, did he feel like he was drowning?
Pacing in the darkness backstage, Brett nearly bumped into his manager, Graham Locke, whom he hadn’t seen in months.
“Hey, Brett, my man, may I have a few words with you?” Graham appeared nervous, and his left eye was twitching, a sure sign he was about to deliver bad news.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Lucky Locke, our manager,” said Cooly, coming up between Brett and their manager. “Where have you been hiding?”
“Hiding?” The effect of Lucky’s indignant tone was spoiled by his slurred words as he focused on the one part of Cooly’s comments he could answer. Nothing is more pitiful than a whiny drunk, and Lucky was all of that and more. Especially tonight, thought Brett with a bit of worry starting a headache between his eyes.
Brett and Cooly exchanged a glance. On a night as important as this, they didn’t need their manager making a scene.
Locke licked his lips, avoiding Cooly’s gaze with practiced ease. “Just here to chat with Brett, that’s all. I just need a word . . .”
Brett could smell the alcohol on the older man’s breath as he turned his back to Cooly and faced Brett. Locke looked like he needed a quick shower and some sobering up. Now was not the time to be dealing with this. Brett looked to Cooly for help.
This wasn’t the first time their manager had shown up before a performance in this condition. Brett wanted Locke gone. The emcee was about to introduce them.
Lucky Locke was an undeserved nickname, one that the man had earned for exactly the opposite reason than what one would think his name implied. The name fit him like “Tiny” did a Sumo wrestler in his prime.
Pink Melon had signed with Lucky when the band first got together. Lucky was some kind of relation to a former girlfriend of one of the band members, and he caught them when they were pretty green and hungry for success. He talked a good game, convincing them he knew what he was doing and would take them to the pinnacles of success. Since then, the band had had to bail him out of jail more times than any of them could count, and any attempts to remove him from their management team had been unsuccessful. As good as he might be at losing money, he was a pro at creating iron-clad contracts, and theirs was no exception. They couldn’t let him go unless he wanted to go. And with the gravy train they turned out to be, his leaving them appeared to be an impossibility.
Brett and Cooly had tried to get the contract voided due to Lucky’s financial woes, but all the outside bookkeepers they hired could find nothing wrong with the books. Other than busting up the band and everyone disappearing for a couple of years, there was no way to get out of the contract. They were stuck with him.
“What do you need, Lucky?” Brett said, stepping out of the other man’s embrace. “We’re about to go on stage. If you have something to say, then say it.”
“Yesh, I know that,” Lucky said, his words slurring more and more as he talked. Brett wondered how much he’d already imbibed, and prayed the old man wouldn’t vomit on him. That had happened before, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Lost it . . . all. I losht it . . . all . . . ,” said Lucky with a blubbering wail at the end of his almost undecipherable statement.
“Lost all what?” asked Brett, not fully understanding what the manager was trying to tell him. Lucky kept trying to get Brett in a death hold, but Brett easily stepped away from him, waving a hand between them to keep from gagging on Lucky’s alcohol-sodden breath.
Brett pushed Lucky away, but the manager wasn’t so easily distracted. Clinging to Brett’s arm, he refused to let go. Brett looked back into the wings and was relieved to see one of the security guards move closer and pull Lucky away.
“Ready?” The guy with the clipboard and the headphones looked at them with a bored expression. Holding the headphones tight against his ear for a moment as the stage went dark, he whispered into the mouthpiece for the crew to move the instruments to the stage. Nodding to Brett and the band, he gestured them forward.
Brett looked at his bandmates and smiled. “No matter what happens in the future, tonight is the night we shine, got it?”
His voice was confident, his steps more so. He could only hope the butterflies inside his stomach were also aware he was in control.
As they took their positions, Brett lifted his guitar over his head, flashing toned abs as he did so, causing a few squeals of appreciation from the female members of the audience in front of them who could just see the band in the dim light.
When the spotlight hit him, it was a bit of a shock, and Brett took a deep breath before breaking into song. Once his fingers hit the opening chords, Brett felt transformed into the song, with a deep connect
ion to the words. He played like his life depended on it, the darkness slipping away in the bright lights and hopeful words.
Moving forward, his mouth so close to the microphone every woman in the audience wished she were the amplifier, he sang. Breathing out the words, his fingers striking the chords and holding them for full effect, he played without even realizing the other members of the band were there with him.
The audience rose to their feet as the song’s last chord echoed. Shouts and whistles—the kind you gave to a team that just won an important sporting event—rang out, and the emcee had a hard time getting the audience to quiet down.
Taking a quick bow, each member blew a kiss to the audience in gratitude before stepping into the darkness backstage. The crew was on the stage to set up the next band almost before the last Pink Melon band member entered the curtains offstage. Brett held his guitar loosely in his hand as he made his way toward the room they were using for storage.
“May I take that for you, sir?” asked one of the crew. He gestured toward the guitar, and Brett handed it over without a second thought.
“If you’ll follow the fellow in the red jacket, he’ll take you to your seats in time for the announcement of the winners of the category you are nominated in. You will need to hurry.”
Brett and the others followed the usher. He held out the small penlight toward the stairs that led to the main floor. Once they reached the stairs another usher led them to their assigned seats. They were in the middle of the row, of course, so had to apologize several times as they made their way past their idols before settling in their seats. The house lights returned to normal as the commercial break ended.
The emcee made a comment about the band, and Brett grinned widely. Turning, he saw the same expression on the faces of Cooly, Harry, and Sticks. They all wiped their foreheads like they’d just survived something momentous, which they had, of course. Later, when they saw the video replay of their gestures, they would groan at the cheesiness of that decision, but not apologize for it. The emcee introduced the two singers who would announce the nominees for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance.
Rock Me Gently_Havenwood Falls Novel Page 5
