Manaconda (Hammered #1)

by Taryn Elliott

  My phone rang again, obliterating the image of me and Hunter. The name on the display snapped me out of my hormonally-induced fugue state.

  Lila Shawcross. Again.

  I dropped the phone into my bag, opened the door and strode out to the sinks. The damn thing kept buzzing, but I didn’t want to force the call to voicemail again. It was better if she thought I just couldn’t get to it because of the show. A pair of women were at the sinks, another three coming in. I didn’t look at them. Didn’t need to. It was silent as a church, and I was definitely the sinner everyone was staring at.

  At least that’s what it felt like.

  I didn’t have the balls to look up until after I washed my hands. I lifted my chin, gave my winning smile and waltzed out. Somehow I didn’t fall, didn’t break an ankle, didn’t walk into a wall. When I got back outside, I forced myself to set a steady pace through the lobby to the theater. People were lined up for the meet and greet, and there was a pulse to the room.

  Obviously the band had arrived.

  I made my way up the stairs to the balcony, nodding at Patrick as he stood sentinel at one end of the ridiculously grand table the band sat behind. It was as ornate as the theater itself, with embellishments and filagreed scrollwork dripping off the corners.

  Indie and one of her minions was herding people through, but I was happy to see she actually gave everyone time to actually spit out stammered hellos. It wasn’t just a factory line. Keys was the most hands on—literally. She leaned forward and listened to every person. Even going so far as holding hands with some that were really upset or too excited.

  Hunter was last in line and Patrick was paying close attention to everyone that moved up to him. Hunter’s smile was wide and friendly for albums, memorabilia, or pictures, but his demeanor changed for the magazine cover. His shoulders stiffened, and the shine left his unusual gray-green eyes.

  I slid behind Patrick and leaned against the wall so I could hear the conversations.

  Two giggling girls came up to him, asking him to sign over the jeans. The taller girl with bleached white hair and lavender roots tapped a nail over the bulge. Challenge lit her heavily-lined, improbably violet eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t stuff a sock down your pants? Or was that photo altered?”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  Everyone went silent. Hunter’s marker stopped. His shoulders hunched forward, and I had the strangest urge to move up behind him and slip my fingers into the short strands. I liked the peach fuzz of the tightly shaved part of his hair, but had to confess that the much longer top made my mouth water. But right at that moment, I wanted to soothe.

  And I wasn’t exactly the soothing type.

  Bats tilted his head and leaned forward. He was sitting right beside Hunter with his hands laced together loosely. “Are you expecting him to whip it out right here, darlin’? Slap it on the table for all to see?”

  The girl’s smile vanished.

  Bats stood and pulled up his shirt, showing off an impressively muscled torso. He drew down his zipper. “Mine’s just as impressive. Maybe a little girthier. Want to suck it right here too?”

  Indie came up behind him and slammed him back down in his seat. “Reed,” she growled between her teeth.

  He shrugged. “What? I was just doing what she asked.”

  Lavender girl stammered and scooped up her magazine. She looked down at it, then to Hunter. He was sitting back in his throne-like chair, fuck-you face in full effect.

  Not good.

  I moved around the table to the girl. I scooped out a pre-signed magazine from the pile and handed it to the girl. “Can’t hold up the line.”

  “We don’t need this shit.” She dragged her friend with her and snatched the magazine away from me. She gave Hunter a scathing look before dropping the other one and twisting her booted heel over Hunter’s face.

  That was so ending up on YouTube. Maybe it would be more exciting than our kiss. Reed “Bats” Mason made almost as many headlines as Hunter. Some of his ended in arrests, but he definitely might take the heat off of our little hallway thing.

  Maybe.

  Please.

  Bats threw an arm around Hunter’s neck and whispered something into his ear. Hunter’s deep roar of laughter hit me low. Instead of taking it out on the next person, he smiled winningly at the next girl. She was clutching a copy of their album to her chest. “Who should I make it out to, sweetheart?”

  Blinded by that smile and his direct look, she just stood there with wide, disbelieving eyes. I know how you feel, girlfriend. I scooped up the magazine and dropped it on the table against the wall with all the extra merchandise.

  “Can I have that?”

  I turned to a male voice.

  “It’s ripped.”

  He nodded, his very obvious Adam’s apple bobbing along his skinny neck. “I only care about page one-oh-eight.”

  I thumbed through to find the picture of Hunter crouched in front of a half dozen antique guitars. Battered cases and an amp that looked like it was from the Beatles era filled the picture. His smile was full-on with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his wide hands were linked loosely. Everything spelled out happiness and relaxation.

  He was even wearing the same jeans from the front cover, so it was obviously the same photoshoot. Instead of a bare chest, he was wearing a faded Foo Fighters shirt.

  “He’s got a vintage Rickenbacker. I’ve been saving up for ten years to get that guitar.”

  Music. Instinctively, I nodded and handed him the folded magazine. “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Show him that page, not the cover.” I winked at the kid that couldn’t be older than seventeen.

  “I’d rip off the freaking cover.”

  I patted his shoulder. “I think the inside page will be enough.” I stepped back into the shadows and watched as the lanky man-boy moved down the row of musicians. He had everyone else sign the inside record sleeve for the album. Finally he got to Hunter and slid the magazine out from under the album.

  Hunter’s face went blank for a moment, before the same smile from the photo bloomed across his face. They talked animatedly about the guitar and the hero worship shining from the kid’s face was perfect. Even Bats jumped into the conversation, explaining why his favorite guitar was far more superior.

  I’d taken great pains to be up to date on the band, and the people who ran Hammered’s operation, but I hadn’t taken the time to actually read the article. I sat down and opened one of the magazines. The interview was actually very thoughtful and well done. There was actually very little sexual spin inside the magazine.

  PR at its finest.

  As the hours bled away and the pictures were taken, I took notes on how the band members reacted to each other. There was only so much research I could do online. Most of the band looked to Hunter for leadership. All save two of the members—Bats and Wyatt.

  The more attention Hunter got, the more ostentatious Bats became. Wyatt was definitely far more watchful and quiet. Each time Wyatt’s eyes tracked me back to Hunter there was a smirk. Not exactly a friendly one, either. It felt far more calculating.

  Finally, the last of the fans were ushered back downstairs. There was another secret door at the back of the balcony and everyone was shuffled down the stairs. Indie and Keys escaped first, so I hung back to return Lila’s call.

  Now that everyone was gone, I dropped into one of the red velvet chairs. I’d learned that Lila preferred a FaceTime chat above anything. Since I’d now dodged three of her calls, I bit the bullet and flipped open my iPad. When the call connected, it wasn’t Lila’s China blue eyes that met mine, but a far different wintery blue under heavy brows.

  “Hello, Donovan.”

  7

  Hunter

  I was the last though the door to the hidden passageway to backstage. I expected Kenny to follow me, but she lowered herself into a seat. Her shoulders were ramrod straight. I was used to her prim poses a
lready. She used them more like a cloak. I preferred the woman that had stolen my dish, and moaned with buttery garlic pasta in her mouth.

  She smoothed her hair over her shoulders before holding up her iPad.

  I caught a glimpse of a suit on her screen. I recognized the angular face that had graced more covers of magazines than my own. His cultured, accented voice carried over to me. Donovan Lewis. Every woman’s wet dream, and the man who gave Hammered a chance at something new and different.

  It was rare for me to be jealous, but that guy could make the President of the United States secondguess his manhood. I’d only met the guy a few times, but he was the definition of successful and charismatic. Kenny’s voice held an undertone I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  Too friendly?

  Intimate.

  I didn’t like it.

  At all.

  A throat was cleared behind me. Loudly.

  “If you’re done spying on the PR chick, we might just be able to get you on stage on time.”

  Indie had her mom voice on. And perhaps I should have felt guilty for watching Kenny. I really needed to warm up. Too much talking had left my voice raw. People were here to see us play—and if we were lucky, they’d want to hear the new stuff.

  Distractions like Kennedy McManus, PR princess, were the last thing I needed, but her scent was living in my head. Orange blossoms and silk sheets with a side of sweet, soft lips. Having her tiptoeing around behind me through the signing had me even more worked up than our little moment in the tunnels.

  Knowing she was right there and that I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t touch her.

  The damage I’d done was already epic. But fuck me, I wanted her. More than I’d wanted anything in a long damn time.

  I backed up and turned to face Indie.

  “Hunter…”

  I held my hand up. No way could I get into it with her. I was a fuckup more than half the time lately. This certainly didn’t help my cause. Kenny’s low laughter chased me down the labyrinth of stairs to the stage waiting for me. I firmly pushed my reactions to her to the back of my mind.

  It was time to become the front man my band needed, not the hormonally-imbalanced walking cock that I’d become the last few hours.

  I strode into the shared dressing room and shucked my shirt, hat, and simple belt in favor of a black tank and a studded belt with a wide buckle that fit squarely above my zipper like a damn homing beacon. What the fans wanted. What the stage needed me to be. The sex symbol, the seducer, the voice.

  I dug my ring out of my pocket. The familiar weight of the heavy platinum setting meant “go-time”.

  Some people had rituals. I had a prop ring from our very first video fourteen years ago. It was black onyx with a bold platinum J in the center. The setting was hefty and withstood all the abuse I gave it on stage. Whacking it against drum kits, microphones and their stands, guitars, the damn ground—it always survived.

  I fisted my hands, and the ring fell into the grooves of my forefinger where I habitually wore it. Like a switch, focus pushed out the disgust from the magazine, as well as my fuckall attitude. Kenny and her distracting mouth was locked in a little box at the back of my mind. A flood of endorphins relaxed my aching shoulders and neck.

  The outer gathering room was empty. Everyone else was on stage.

  Here and now it wasn’t about me. The murmurs of the crowd, the hum of the amps, the pulse of Wyatt’s kick drum drove me from the room and to the ornate stage with its bordello red curtains.

  I nodded to Wyatt. His kick drum was the heartbeat to get the crowd riled up. Owen’s bass was the hum that slid out into the crowd like greedy fingers looking for capitulation.

  No matter how much we bitched at each other, the stage transformed us into one unit. Owen and Wyatt were my lifeline, Keys was the heart, Zach and Bats were the magic. It’s how it always was. The one constant in my life was my band.

  Bats leaned against my shoulder, his Gibson hanging just shy of his knees. “Nice of you to join us.”

  I grabbed my microphone, then hooked my arm around his neck. With just one look, he knew that I was changing up the standard set list. His dark eyes flashed the devil as his fingers climbed up the fret board.

  He knew me.

  Knew what a crowd needed.

  Tonight wasn’t for the tried and true. Tonight was to show our fans what we’d been brewing for the last five months. We’d teased them with snippets of songs via Instagram’s fifteen-second rule. Our album had been released in puzzle pieces to create buzz. Everything had come down to this. The album was a taste, but live was where we shined. “Cathedrals” was our first single.

  Dex hadn’t agreed with our decision. He wanted us to go with one of our more commercial songs, but Donovan Lewis had backed us up. He was the only reason I’d pushed for a move of record company.

  We’d been ready to go indie with all the restrictions we’d found in the business lately. The only real reason we’d wavered about going indie had been the distribution angle, but that wasn’t really a factor anymore. Everyone found their music online these days. What mattered was marketing and shows.

  Ripper Records let us shine. I was determined to show Donovan that his belief in an album that might be too risky in the current climate was worth the effort. That we were worth the effort.

  That all the months of work weren’t going to be derailed because of the outline of my cock on the front of a goddamn magazine.

  Keys repeated the same notes again and again as Zach and his Gibson blended seamlessly with Bats until a hush fell over the crowd. The intro had been practiced until fingers were numb and bleeding. We’d rented out a warehouse to play and play until everything was smooth. Perfect. Lined up and as natural as breathing. Wyatt’s drums went from a heartbeat to a slow build.

  I slipped away from Bats and prowled the stage with my eyes on my feet. Scarred shitkickers with frayed laces, faded wood slats that had seen a million shows, markers for cords and foot pedals blurred in my periphery.

  I followed the track of the song as the guitars soared and I finally landed in the center of the stage. I looked out and curled my fingers tighter around the mic. My voice was strong and the words were true, their meaning echoed in the faces of the fans.

  Not just at a show.

  Not texting and talking amongst themselves because the song was new. They were the deathblows that every musician had to fight against. No, they were with me—with us.

  As Bats ripped over his strings and Zach layered in more grit and passion, my vocals roughened with the sweet bliss of a remembered moment in time. I growled out the lyrics I’d labored over for months.

  Loss of faith. Hate. Love denied.

  The shadows and decay of emotions that had been hidden under the guise of glamour and fame. I’d allowed myself to tap into all of them for “Cathedrals”. The underbelly of loneliness under the smiles.

  I arched back as Wyatt’s drums provided a jackhammer beat to the slashing chords, and I screamed out my need for something more. I landed on my knees as the song spiraled back down to soft chords and the faint keystrokes of the piano.

  When I opened my eyes, she was there.

  She was off to the side with her arms banded over her iPad, her eyes as wide and as wild as the adrenaline racing through my veins. My band knew they were in the zone. They ripped into the next song and I chased the heat.

  This song was just as powerful, though far lighter. Even with the loss-laced lyrics, the guitars and piano crashed out a soaring blend of hope under the heartbreak. I’d co-written half the album with Keys and Zach. Disillusionment had been my best friend for the last year.

  I’d needed Keys to keep me from writing the next Bukowski book of poetry. She added hope to my darker lyrics. Zach was a wordsmith with chords where I belabored lyrics alone before ever adding music to a song. Between the three of us, we wrote the bones of the album and then the band took over as a whole.

  And now it was f
inally going out to the masses. We peppered in older hits, new songs, and a cover song to make the crowd lose their collective shit. By the time we hit the ninety-minute mark I was covered in sweat, Wyatt had lost his shirt, and Owen had raced up and down the aisle three times.

  Even the A-listers in the balcony were on their feet. I spotted a trio of women bumping hips. Purple roots that bled into silvery white hair glinted under the lights. Blue tips flashed as a waterfall of dark hair twirled over bare shoulders.

  More Ripper Records family.

  I took my backup mic with me as I ran backstage, and up the secret passageway to the balcony. No one knew where I’d gone. So when I picked up the lyrics to “Man in the Box” from Alice in Chains at the back of the balcony, everyone screamed.

  I walked up to Jamie DuCaine from Brooklyn Dawn and handed her the extra microphone. She knew every word. Her voice was a husky ode to Joan Jett, mine held backup with the long, slow whines that made Alice in Chains famous.

  It was a mashup that shouldn’t work, and yet it did.

  Lindsey York’s too-beautiful-to-be-real face split into a wide grin as she stole my mic. She pushed me down into her chair and plopped herself on my lap. The crowd went wild, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Now, Hunter, I came here to listen to you, not to work.” Lindsey waved the mic my way.

  I crossed my arms behind my head and kicked my feet out. “You come into my house, you work.”

  She brought it back to her mouth. “Is that so?”

  I nodded.

  Lindsey climbed off of me, holding my microphone hostage. “Do I get to play one of my songs?”

  I leaned forward, off the balcony. “Yo, Bats,” I shouted.

  He held up a hand like a visor. “Yo.”

  I jerked my head toward Lindsey. “You know any Brooklyn Dawn shit?”

  Jamie wrapped an arm around my neck and leaped on my back. “Shit?”