by Max Henry
“Thanks for calling, John.” Guess I can hang up the corset again. “I’ll ring you tomorrow to go over what we do from here.”
“I’m sorry. If there was something I could do, you know I would.”
“It’s not your fault. I appreciate you letting me know.” I end the call and slide my phone across the counter.
“Tell me what the hell is going on,” Kendall demands. “Why do you have to cancel?”
“Because Dark Tide have taken over the venue,” I say in a daze.
She tops up my glass with what’s left of our coveted last bottle. “What do you do now?”
I take a sip, still focused on the wall behind her. “Make their life hell.”
THREE
Rey
“Headstrong” - Trapt
“Will that rig stay up there?” Toby squints at the pipe steel that’s mangled into what resembles a lighting bar over the auditorium. “It doesn’t look certified.”
“Not our problem,” Emery states as he takes long strides down the aisle, hands trailing over the top of the red velvet chairs.
Arms folded, I stand at the double door entrance and frown at Rick. “This place is kind of posh, ain’t it?”
“You mean, it’s not a stadium with plastic fold-away chairs?”
“Yeah. That too.”
Emery launches himself with a hop and a step onto the seats, balancing like an acrobat on the high wire as he steps across the backs to head for the stage.
“Get the fuck off,” Kris grumbles, trying and failing to push him face-first into the seating.
“They usually hold theater productions, small classical concerts, that kind of thing here.” Rick unwraps a stick of gum, popping it in his mouth as I walk a little further into the place to check out the balcony above us. “But like I said, it’s an intimate performance, so this suits the vibe.”
“The vibe?” I snarl my lip as I mimic the moron. “What exactly is our vibe, Rick?”
“The tickets were invite only to the Ultimate Fans. An email went out, and a text alert for those who’d signed up to let them know about it.”
“Why the fuck would they want to come here when they can watch us at a fucking stadium with all the pyro and shit?” I drop a sigh as Toby steps between Kris and Emery, attempting to split them up before fists are thrown.
He shouldn’t bother—Emery couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn while he’s sober. Give the fucker an hour or two, and we’ve got cause for concern, but it’s barely after breakfast—he hasn’t finished his first bottle yet.
I turn to scowl at Rick when he doesn’t answer my question. Asshole has his phone in hand, scrolling what looks like one hell of a skin-orientated Instagram feed. Must remember to check out what accounts he follows, later.
“Ahem.”
His head snaps up, the screen black in a flash. “What?”
“You were telling me why our diehards would waste their time on this museum-smelling dump.”
“They get first access to the album when it drops.”
“They what?” Toby joins in our cryptic conversation.
“Yeah.” Rick eyes the two of us as though we’re the crazy ones. “They get a code to download it for free.”
“Fuck off.” I feel around for my smokes. “And what’s stopping them sharing it with friends?”
“Each one is specific to the fan, and only works once.” Kid looks proud of himself.
Toby lifts an eyebrow. “That’s pretty smart, really.”
“If it works.” I rip my pack out and stuff a stick between my lips.
Yeah, it is smart. Any asshole decides to hock off our album free, or pirate it, and the file gets traced back to them. Still—I’m not about to rub Rick’s ego and let him know he’s done well in a hurry.
Especially when it was probably his old man who thought up the clause.
“Do we get to choose the set list?” I locate the lighter I picked up from the airport souvenir shop.
“I think so.” Rick frowns, lifting a finger to Toby. “Be right back.”
I roll my eyes as he ducks to a quiet corner to phone Daddy. Seriously. Some days I wonder if he shits on his father’s schedule, too.
Totally never having kids if that’s how rich brats turn out.
“Can we help you?” Toby squints behind me.
I spin to find a distinctively feminine form silhouetted against the blinding morning sun that fills the foyer. Great. A fucking groupie who’s sniffed out an opportunity to get close.
“Where the hell is our security, Rick?” I holler across the auditorium.
Kris and Emery quit their bellyaching on-stage and turn their attention to the newcomer.
Rick hustles between the seats as he pockets his phone. “You can’t be in here, love. I’m sorry.”
He reaches for the shadow of a girl, presumably to guide her out the way she came in. Yet the sassy little thing whips her arm away and marches her pert little butt down the aisle, right past Toby and me as though we don’t exist.
Who the fuck even does that? Acts as though we don’t exist, I mean.
“I’ll only be a minute,” she throws out to nobody in particular.
“Lady, this is a closed rehearsal.” I track the woman down the aisle, ignoring the fact she has one hell of a set of legs on her, and try to get the bitch to stop walking.
“Rehearsal?” She shoots a pouty-lipped smirk over her shoulder, and then promptly launches herself onto the stage. “Where are your instruments?”
“Coming,” I lamely protest. Losing your touch, boy.
Kris and Emery split, backing up a step each as she plows a path between them to a small road case shoved in the dark recesses of the stage.
“You can’t just walk in and take what you want.” I jab a hand at the trunk as she lifts the lid. “Woman, just stop fuckin’ messing with other people’s shit for a second would you?”
She snaps the locks closed again, and then hefts its bulk into her arms.
“You want a hand with that?” Kris murmurs. Ever the fucking gentleman.
“I’m fine.” She forces a smile for him. “Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t be helping her steal shit, you douche,” Toby teases from beside me.
“Can’t steal it if it’s mine, right?” Her slightly raised eyebrows dare any of us to challenge her.
“What the fuck is your shit doing in here?” I ask. “And how do I know it’s yours anyway?”
The svelte little thing dumps the case down on the stage between Kris and Emery with a loud thud. The metal corner brackets scratch on the painted surface as she spins it around to show a name etched into the panel above the lock.
Tabitha Reeves
“Am I supposed to know that’s you, let alone who the fuck you are?” I cross my arms, ignoring the elbow from Toby.
Small and petite Tabitha reaches into her back pocket and produces a wallet. What chick stashes her wallet in her back pocket like a guy? Weirdo. She flicks it open and then throws it down on the edge of the stage.
Like I’m playing into her game. Pfft. I turn my head to the side, refusing to look at the ID.
Toby does instead. He retrieves the wallet, nodding as he holds it out for me to see. “Legit.”
Like the petulant fuckhead I am, I lift my chin to avoid making eye contact with it. “Take your word for it.”
Toby hands the closed wallet back to our mystery chick, and then steps back from the stage as she shunts it back in her pocket. I eyeball her as she bends to retrieve the road case. If she hadn’t barreled in here like a snowball starting an avalanche, I might have been more interested at the start. But it’s only now when she’s distracted that I let myself steal a good fucking look.
She’s small—I noticed that much already. But she’s also tidy as fuck. Short, bobbed hair that frames her sharp jaw, slim waist and hips that hold more cushion than most of the stick-thin groupies we see backstage. A man has to appreciate a woman who can rock a lit
tle meat on her bones. She wears a plain enough outfit: black skinny jeans and a dark gray tank, but what makes her stand out are the boots loosely laced around her ankles: they have lilac music notes literally stitched into the leather. Cool.
“Why was your shit here, anyway?” I ask again.
Tabitha hesitates halfway to the side of the stage and levels me with a cool glare that could fucking freeze the balls off an Eskimo. “I was playing here.” Her gaze drifts over my head, her focus scary as she eyes what I can only assume to be Rick. I half expect her to drop the road case and whip a semi-automatic out of it. “You don’t look like one of the band.”
Rick steps forward, hand wringing his phone. “I’m their manager.”
“You set this concert up for them?”
“I might have,” he murmurs.
All eyes switch to me when I bark a laugh. “You lost your balls there, Rick?”
“What’s your cut of it then?” Tabitha asks, unfazed by my remark.
“Oh, I don’t get a share of profit,” Rick splutters. “My fee is fixed.”
“No bonus then?” she presses. “No incentive to add more shows into the tour?”
He shakes his head while I rest my ass against the edge of the chair behind me.
“Interesting.” Her lips curl down at the corners.
“Wh-why do you ask?” Rick frowns a little at her.
Kris motions for the smokes. I pull the pack out and toss it to him. Tabitha watches the interaction before answering.
“Just wondered what it took to buy out your conscience is all.”
Kris drops off the edge of the stage as she makes her way down the steps on the other side, and then hands me the pack while he watches her leave.
I shove it in my pocket and follow the fiery little thing as she heads out of the auditorium. “What do you mean by that?”
“Ask Rick.” She spits his name, refusing to look at me as I catch up.
“Rick?” I holler back to where he still stands by the stage. “Why is she pissed at you?”
“Because I doubled what she paid to take the venue.”
That’s cold. Even I wouldn’t be that much of a cunt. At least, I don’t think I would. “Fuck, man.”
I turn to go after Tabitha and dig a little deeper, find out a bit more about this ballsy fucking woman, but as quickly as she appeared, she’s vanished.
“Sucks to be her,” Kris mumbles.
I shunt the fucker in the back of the shoulder with a flat palm. “No shit. Now come on. I need something to go with this smoke.”
FOUR
Tabitha
“Zero” – The Smashing Pumpkins
“You did what?” Kendall slides a latte in front of me, and then promptly drops into the seat on the opposite side of the table.
“What the hell are you sitting down for? You’re working, buddy.”
She rests her chin on the back of one hand. “Yeah, and you have gossip. So make it quick before I’m busted.”
I take a sip of the caffeine goodness, and then lick the foam off my lip before I explain. “I figured if they want to jerk my dreams out from under me, then they may as well see the very real, very human face behind the name they fucked over.”
“So you stormed in the venue to play the guilt card?”
“I retrieved my equipment,” I say primly.
Kendall hooks an eyebrow. “You didn’t have anything there.”
“Yeah I did.” I pat the box at my feet. “This trusty old case here. Gave me reason to walk in when they arrived.”
Kendall leans back in her seat, eyes narrow. “Is this why you left the apartment early?”
I nod.
“You stalked them?”
“I studied them.”
“You’re a nutter, you know that?” She smiles. “So, what did they do?”
“Kendall!”
“Fuck.” She jolts from the seat, standing at my side as though she takes my order. “Give the rundown to me in ten seconds or less, otherwise I’ll be sharing your noodles.”
“What do you think the guys did?” I scoff. “They acted like the stuck-up assholes they are.”
“Jesus, baby.” I freeze at the husky voice behind me. “That’s a bit harsh.”
Kendall stands with her notepad in hand, eyes wide. The nib draws a squiggly line across the paper as her arm drops, along with her jaw.
I extend my leg under the table to kick her shin. “He’s behind me, isn’t he?”
“You’re on your own with this one, babe; I have to get back to work.” She pulls her jaw back, lips tight with an “oh shit” grimace, and then darts across the shop to serve an old couple in the back corner.
“You started without us.” The dark-haired cocky bastard from before makes a show of moving my road case so he can sit in the seat adjacent to mine.
The quiet guy who offered to help me carry it heads for the counter, and is immediately assailed by some desperate woman with a napkin.
“You’re really something, huh?” I muse as I lift my coffee to take a sip.
“I like to think so.” His gaze bores into mine despite the fact the horn bag with the napkin is lining him up in her sights. “What kind of music do you play?”
“What do you care?”
We enter what appears to be a staring contest while he formulates his answer; piercing eyes fix firmly on me as I hold my coffee to my chest. His black hair is spiked haphazardly, yet a few loose tendrils across his face give him the mysterious edge that I imagine his groupies love. The T-shirt he wears is torn, fashionably so, and just enough that I can get a glimpse as the ink he hides below.
I sip my coffee with a smirk.
He leans forward, the studded cuff on his left wrist making a soft clink as it hits the timber surface.
“Ohmygod,” the horn bag breathes in one rushed syllable as she arrives at my table. “I can’t believe you’re in here.”
The cocky asshole drags his gaze from me and smiles at her, laying on the charm. “Good place to get a coffee, right?”
“The best,” she gushes, oblivious to the intense standoff she interrupted.
I sit back and sip my latte, sizing up the woman. She seems to be in her late twenties, early thirties at most. What surprises me is that she’s dressed like a soccer mom. Not exactly what I’d expect a fan of a man kitted out in denim, leather, and enough chains to rival a prison warden to look like.
“Can you sign this?”
“Kris leave me any room?” He takes the napkin from her, brushing his fingers over hers.
The woman damn near comes on the spot. Slick move, asshole.
“I think there’s a space up here.” And in one swift move, Soccer Mom transforms to Desperate Housewife with the tilt of her hips. The blouse that mere seconds ago demurely hid her assets now hangs like a slack sail in the Dead Sea, giving the cocky asshole to my left the perfect view of her ample tits.
Shoot me if I ever turn into one of those.
“Thanks.” He takes the pen she offers and then scratches a quick message for her like he probably has a million times before.
She leaves with her smile a little wider, and her panties more than likely a darn sight wetter.
“Excuse me.” I pull my phone out, amused to find him frowning at me in my periphery.
“What are you doing?” He leans closer to see my screen, wafting what has to be pure pheromones under my nostrils. How the fuck do they make men’s cologne so addictive?
“I’m googling your name, since you won’t introduce yourself properly.”
He laughs, the rich sound traveling throughout the shop as his bandmate, Kris, returns with a table number.
“Shouldn’t you have like a private coffee shop, or something?” I sass. “Don’t celebrities like you get places shut down so they can drink in peace?” The result comes up on my screen, along with an assortment of very hot performance shots. Damn, this man can rock studs.
“She’s kidding right?” Kris
mumbles to the cocky asshole.
“I don’t think so.” He smiles at me, leaning back casually in his seat. “I can’t believe you don’t know my name.” The jerk spreads his legs wide, a denim-clad knee perilously close to my thigh.
“Do you know every stranger you meet’s name?” I lift an eyebrow at him. “Rey?”
“Babe, I’m not a stranger.” Fucker still smiles. “I haven’t had to introduce myself for the past four and half years.”
“Since we first made Billboard,” Kris adds quietly.
I like him. He’s not in-your-face like this jackass to my left. He’s quiet, humble even. He actually makes me want to hold a conversation with him.
Rey, on the other hand…. “You’re a little full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Kris smiles behind his linked hands, elbows on the table.
“Would you prefer to be full of me?” Rey wiggles a pierced eyebrow.
“You have to be shitting me,” I mumble, looking away.
“You never answered my question, Tabitha,” Rey taunts. “Or can I call you Tabby, since you’re like a wild cat, all claws and snarl?”
I almost smile at his comment… almost.
“Tabitha.” I look back at the guy, pissed at myself for recognizing that he is in fact pretty damn good-looking. Bastard. “And I play classical. A little bit of crossover.”
“Classical.” Rey looks like he’s fit to burst. “People still listen to that?”
“They do.” I give him a hard stare, and then shift focus to Kris. “In all honesty, I am surprised you two don’t have security or some kind of protection if you’re that shit hot.”
He lifts an inked finger and points to a burly guy outside the shop. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the man was Joe Public. He’s big, sure, but he’s dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. No earpiece, no Secret Service-style shades. He just looks… normal.
“I think his name’s Pete,” Kris mumbles. “He turned up late. Hence why you got in.”
“You think his name is Pete?” I snort a laugh.
“He’s not our normal crew,” Rey fills in. “Hired while we’re in town.”
