by Nora Flite
Lola looked one step from the edge of panic. “Wait. Wait, holy hell. Does this mean what I think it does?”
“Brenda will get the papers and shit squared away. Get ready for two days of exhausting band practice,” Porter chuckled.
Rounding the table, I extended my hand, giving the girl a sideways smile. “You do want to be in the band, right?”
“Of course!” Her astonishment was... pure. Even the way she shook my hand, muscles jittering, was genuine.
The heat in her skin sent a quick thrill up my spine. Gripping Lola hard, catching the flash of confusion in her eyes, I released her. I didn't know if I liked how fast she was making my heart dance.
It wasn't normal for anyone to throw me for such a loop. I made myself speak flatly, fighting for indifference. “Good. It'll be hard work, but if you don't mind that, you'll be fine.”
“Of course I don't mind!” Her exuberance stunned us both. Scrubbing the nape of her neck, she darted shy eyes away. “This is crazy. I never... just holy crap. Wait till Sean hears.”
A funny thing wormed in me. I didn't know what it was, but it was hot and burned caustically. “Who's Sean?” And why do I fucking care?
Lola bent down, fiddling with her guitar, packing it away. “My brother, he was the one pushing me to come do this.”
Brother, oh. Huh. That was comforting. Wait, why is that... fuck. Get a grip. Clearing my throat, I went to ask more.
The door slammed open. Brenda shoved inside on her deathly sharp heels, angry voices thrumming outside.
She gave me a smile full of poison and vinegar. It didn't reach her eyes. “Okay, you win. You said you'd get someone to replace Johnny, and you did. I owe you a drink, but you still owe me an apology.”
My fingers went in search of the cigarette pack, touching, not freeing it. “Not now. Just give the kid the papers, I want to get going.”
Rolling her eyes, my manager approached Lola with her sparkling porcelain teeth. She'd scrubbed on gloss, always the image of professionalism. It never really fit with the vibe of the bands, of the tour, but Brenda didn't care. She was like me, she did things her way.
It was why we always clashed.
“First, congratulations,” she said, her manicured nails pressing on the girl's shoulder, leading her to the cheap plastic table.
Grinning politely (or was she just excited still from the news?) Lola went with her. She had one hand buried in her jean pocket, the other digging into her thick hair. Was Brenda making her nervous? Was Lola just shy?
It doesn't fucking matter, who cares? Inhaling sharply when I caught Brenda tracing Lola's forearm, commenting on her tattoo, I wrenched my gaze away. I loved ink on a woman. Especially someone as innocent looking as Lola. What would put a girl like her on a path like this, to the grime of a tour—to the dark corners of this part of life? I'm curious. Fuck. Stop it. Don't get wrapped up in a new face just because it belongs to a skilled body.
A gorgeous, hot body.
Shit.
“Sign here,” Brenda instructed, pointing down at the stack of papers.
“Shouldn't I read it first?” she asked, the unease in her tone drawing my eyes back. She was squinting, flipping the pages over.
Brenda folded her arms, impatience turning her comments into a thin razor. “It's all standard. I know this can't be the first time you've seen a contract.”
What the hell does that mean?
Her blush was like champagne, tantalizing. I needed a cigarette badly.
Bending low, Lola laughed nervously. The sound of the pen scribbling over the paperwork sent my blood flying in my veins. It was done, she would be part of my band.
It was done.
“Well,” the kid said, meeting Brenda's eyes and offering her the contract, “to be fair, Sean never really shared that side of things with me.”
Sean... her brother Sean. Wait, hold up.
My manager reached out, winding elegant fingers on Lola's and giving her a firm handshake. “Not everyone is so open, I guess. It doesn't matter. You can show him yours after.” That made Lola grin, her eyes flicking to mine over Brenda's shoulder. “Welcome to Four and a Half Headstones, Lola Cooper.”
Lola Cooper. Adrenaline and cold anxiety flooded my guts. Cooper. Holy fuck, she's Sean Cooper's little sister.
Like a slap to the face, it made sense. She was the sibling of Sean Cooper, the guitarist of Barbed Fire. Had I just done something incredibly stupid, letting in the sister of a man who'd once auditioned for me in the past and been denied?
Did Lola know about that? She had to, certainly she had to. Instantly I was suspicious.
Lola watched me with such genuine delight that it set my heart on a drum roll.
She was in my band now. Mine. Turning back would solve nothing. I need her, there's no one else. She'd signed the papers. As far as I should have been concerned...
It was done.
Chapter Three.
Lola
I couldn't believe it. I could not fucking believe it.
I was the new guitarist for Four and a Half Headstones. Holy shit. How could I be so lucky?
The look on Sean's face when I held the papers up to him was proof, but my dopey smile gave it all away long before that.
“Son of a bitch,” he breathed out, snagging the contract. Squinting at it, then me, he waved the papers like they were a flag. “Lola! Oh my fucking god! You actually did it!”
Together we laughed, and for the first time in... forever? Sean grabbed me in a rib crushing hug. We were standing just inside the tour bus, the engines rumbling. Everyone was about to take off, we needed to hurry to get on the road.
Rubbing my nose, I folded the contract up and shoved it in my back pocket. “Impressed?”
“Hell yes,” he said, muscles flexing over folded arms. “How was it? How was Drezden and the rest?”
The reminder of the tall singer, his piercing green eyes, warmed my cheeks. How was it? I could never explain. The sensations and emotions in both mind and body had been too much turmoil.
Drezden had both scared me and intrigued me. Being near him was like daring a tornado to roll closer. “He was—it was fine. They asked me to play one of their songs, and they apparently thought I was good.” I tried to shrug casually, but I was glowing too much for it. I was too fucking proud of myself. “Sean, I'm in their band. I'm in the tour!”
“I know, I know.” Chuckling, he looked towards the front of the bus. “You should grab your stuff and hurry over there. They'll leave without you.”
The memory of Brenda telling me I'd be traveling with them, to help prepare, was sobering. “I... yeah. Jeez. I'm really doing this.”
Sean nodded deeply, eyes glittering with something I couldn't identify. “You are. Make them proud, but more importantly, make me proud. Don't slack, and when we stop next, I want you to tell me everything about practice. Okay?”
The request didn't feel weird, just the intensity in how he asked me. “Uh, yeah. No problem.”
His hug, the second one, was lighter. “Okay, get the fuck out of here, rockstar.” He was teasing, but it sounded like an insult.
Burning with strange trepidation, I clasped his shoulder, hoisted my bag and guitar, and jumped down the steps. Was something going on with him? I couldn't explain it. The thing was, I'd known Sean my whole life.
I knew when he was being strange.
I'll worry about it later, I decided. The bounce in my step was too pronounced, it stole my paranoia. I had more to think about than my brother.
I was in a real fucking band.
Some people stared at me as I strolled towards the giant, black behemoth that was the Four and a Half Headstone's tour bus. Word that I, unimpressive Lola Cooper, was the new guitarist for the headlining band had traveled. It was hard not to grin at the adoring looks.
Even the angry ones made me swell.
The stairwell opened before me, glass doors sliding. The driver was an older man, his body struggling to fit into the seat. He
offered me an impatient glare, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “Hurry up, lady, we need to move.”
“Sorry, I had to get my stuff.” My mood deflated some, kicked hard by sourness. That soon faded, too, once I climbed inside. It was my first introduction to the true benefits of being part of the headlining band.
Velvet, leather, and no doubt some silk, too... the inside of the bus was a treasure trove. Every seat was huge, made to sink into and never bother climbing from. I spotted a mini bar, bottles stacked high.
Unlike how hot the Barbed Fire bus got when the air conditioning failed, this vehicle was chilled. The burning sun outside couldn't hope to break in.
Hot damn, I thought in wonder, staring without blinking. This is the perk of being a real rockstar. Sean would be so jealous if he saw. It occurred to me that he might actually know already. That made me unsettled, thinking of him knowing what I was walking into, how amazing it was.
Way better than what they have.
My guilt was shoved down when I heard a familiar voice. It was high pitched, matching the skinny pale guy that rounded the curtain hanging across the aisle in the back.
Colt, the drummer.
He spotted me, a smile warming his gaunt features. “Hey! Lola! Thank god, we were waiting on you.” The driver heard the words, the bus began to move.
I was jostled, setting my stuff on a seat and grabbing it to steady myself. “Sorry about that, just needed my things. Should I put them somewhere?”
Shrugging, he jerked his head back where he'd come from. “Probably back here, come pick a bunk.”
A bunk? My chest thrummed at the idea. Do they have real beds here? No sleeping with my neck crushed at an angle on a window? Balancing myself with the rolling bus, I brushed around the black curtain.
The rear of the vehicle was just as startling as the rest. There were alcoves along the aisle, most covered by curtains. Small rooms, but certainly grand when compared to what I'd been sleeping on. Each one had a bed just big enough for one person.
“Drop your bag there, but keep your guitar,” he said. Nodding, I settled my stuff on the mattress. Colt motioned, so I followed him deeper.
What I found blew my mind.
The entire back of the bus was set up like a studio. It wasn't very big, about the same size as the tiny gas station room had been.
The rest of the band was strewn about, toying with their gear. At my arrival, all eyes flipped up. Feeling lame, I waved at them. “Uh, hey.”
Porter strummed his base, blonde fauxhawk glowing from the sunlight streaming in above. “Welcome to the party,” he grunted.
Drezden said nothing, twisting a bottle of water in his palms. Across his knee I saw a wire, the microphone dangling like a ripe piece of fruit. The intensity around him, even with the others so near, made my throat tight.
He has eyes like a killer, I realized. It called to mind the talk about Johnny Muse, how beaten up the guy had been. Stop it, brain. I never saw it, don't give me creepy images. Even so, red blood filled my mind's eye.
“You want something to drink?” Colt asked, sliding around me towards a cooler. At my nod, he tossed me a bottle. I fumbled, clutching it to my chest. He dropped down by his drums, expert hands going for the smooth sticks. “We should be frank with you, Lola.”
They were quiet, waiting for my response. Blinking, I sat down on a bench against the wall, furthest from Drez as I could get. “Sure. Okay, go ahead.”
Colt parted his lips, but it was Drezden who spoke first. He was soft, brisk; an autumn breeze. “We've got barely two days till the next tour stop. We need you ready, or we're going to look like assholes up on stage. Get me?”
“Yeah,” I squeaked, then tried again. “Yeah. I get it, don't worry. I'm ready to do whatever it takes to be ready.”
The drummer rolled his neck, the giant gauges in his ears rattling. “You say that now. Wait till you deal with the practice, then we'll see how eager you are.”
That pissed me off. “I'll be fine,” I said, breaking out my guitar to tune it. I squeezed the pegs too hard, my skin aching. Do they think I'm some pathetic newbie?
Rustling noises made me look up. Drezden was there, standing over me so I was level with his waist. He bent low, offering me a some papers, washing me with the scent of tobacco and oranges.
Holy fuck he smelled good.
“Here,” he said, waving the pages. For the first time I noticed the bandage over his knuckles. “Music notes for our songs. You'll want to follow along, even if you think you know them already. We'll start with Black Grit.”
I was blushing, why was I blushing? He had a vibe that was overwhelming. It suffocated me, dared me to inhale more or to let myself pass out in a daze. Holy shit, focus, take the papers.
My fingers shook when I did.
Calm the fuck down! I screamed in my head, fighting with warring emotions. I was acting like a fan girl, but why? Because he's Drezden, is why. You've listened to his music, danced to it, cried to it, fallen asleep to it. You know how talented he is, how powerful.
That had to be it.
That had to be all it was.
He moved away, languid on long legs. Not sitting that time, he scooped up the microphone. “The volume will be lower in here, or our ears would kill us. Keep that in mind.”
Nodding, I adjusted on the bench, music sheets on my knees. The papers moved slightly from my trembles; I forced my feet flat to stop them.
Colt tapped his sticks, Porter strummed briefly, and Drez took a swig of water.
Then they began. It was my own private show with Four and a Half Headstones.
A show I was part of.
“You fight me,” Drezden began, his words all wet sand. “Backed into a corner with your hands, and I can't keep my feet beneath me!” He crooned in low vibrations, his voice soaking me from scalp to belly.
I almost forgot to strum my notes.
He's so good, I thought in awe. He was born to sing.
Drezden had closed his eyes, the texture of his voice gliding over my throat, into my ears, like it belonged. “Fight me, hate me, kill me!”
Colt emphasized the cries with his cymbals, my world becoming an ancient war of metal and smoke.
It was all I could do to focus.
“Fight me,” Drezden growled, “one more night until we fall. Fight me with curled nails and wicked teeth.” His eyes opened, fixing on me, their green depths a sea of hot desire. “You fight me, and I can't keep my feet beneath.”
I fumbled, the off chord sickening in my ears. With my face in flames, I ducked my head and kept going. The way he sings, I can't concentrate. If Drezden had put his hands on my shoulders, he couldn't have gotten any closer.
What was wrong with me?
The heat in my stomach warned me this was more than admiration or star-struck nerves. I was feeling a pull towards Drezden that I'd only ever felt while reading about people via the safety of magazines.
The one boyfriend I'd had was brief, and we'd broken up just after graduation. Harold, his name had been. Horny Harold, I'd teased him, because he'd always wanted to fuck me... but I'd always been too scared.
He'd only ever convinced me to go down on him, and that— I shouldn't be thinking like this, I thought desperately. I'm here for a serious reason! I need to make this work, it's a huge opportunity.
Maybe the only one I'll ever get.
There was shame in me, and when merged with my baffling excitement, I was losing ground. I couldn't play like I usually did.
And everyone sensed it.
“Stop!” Drezden's shout made me startle, fingers striking wrong strings again. The brittle screech of music turned my hairs on end. Even worse was how he was glaring at me, eyebrows narrowing low. “Fucking stop, everyone. You,” he snapped at me, “what the fuck was that?”
“I—what—it just—”
“Shut up,” he growled, crushing the microphone till his knuckles lost blood. I imagined he wished it was my throat. “Are you
messing with us?”
“No!”
“Then get your head in place and try again,” he said, swiping his hair back. Porter jumped when Drezden pointed at him. “Play No More Stars.”
The bassist scowled, challenging Drezden with a glare. “Sure man, calm down.”
No one said anything else, the silence punctuated by Colt tapping his sticks together uneasily.
Where before there had been anticipation, now there grew a sticky tension. These guys had been impressed with me when I'd auditioned. Their admiration was melting away.
It galled me to imagine the version I'd presented to them, a crafted piece of myself that had looked like a prodigy. Now, I became a disappointing accident.
I'm not an accident, I know how to play, I reminded myself.
I'll remind them, too.
The stiff pick in my fingers snapped along my guitar strings. No More Stars was a song that began with a warning. Brooding notes, building with foreboding that came faster, louder, spreading to give space for the words that would soar between.
Deep, hollow punches erupted from the drums. The three of us, we were there to herald the birth of Drezden's lyrics.
That time, when he sang, I scrunched my eyes closed. I wouldn't fuck up again. No matter how good his voice was, or how it slipped into my ribs and tickled a piece of me it never should have, I wouldn't falter.
He parted his lips, but I didn't look. “In the black, you walk with me. In the black,” he croaked, “you never see. Walk away and you won't bleed, walk away and I am... I am freed.”
I slammed my hand down, hard chords striking the brief silence. Together, we all crashed in unison.
“No more stars!” Drez screamed, pure power that stabbed at my core. It was a demand, he forced my eyes open. Drezden was an accident I needed to witness, even when I knew it would bring me nothing but horror.
Wild green centers found me, his face flushed, lips proud across bared teeth. The face of a man who wanted to fight, or to flee, or to fuck.
Pure energy.
He didn't even get to the second part of the chorus before I missed my notes. The sharp explosion, so off key, made Porter shout.
Drezden froze, mic hovering in front of his clenched jaw. I wasn't confused by his expression anymore. That face said 'fight' in every crease of furrowed skin.
