“You sure you want this?” he asked me, his dark eyes locked steady on mine. “Now?”
“You once said you’d have my back, when the time came.”
“I say a lot of shit,” he admitted. “Not all of it smart.”
“Then we have that in common.”
He grunted again. “Tell you what. You play Metallica for me, you’ve got your audition.”
“Great,” I said.
Not great. The only Metallica song I knew well enough to impress anyone—maybe—was “Master of Puppets,” and that did not feel like the way to go with a Dirty audition. Dirty was not a metal band.
Clearly, that wasn’t Jude’s problem. He turned his back on me, a non-verbal dismissal, and headed back toward the bar.
I blew out a breath; kinda felt like I’d been holding it all fucking week.
I stuffed my acoustic into its case and picked it up, along with the other case, the one that held my electric guitar—my favorite Gibson. Then I fell in behind Jude.
And just like that… the door had cracked open.
CHAPTER TWO
Seth
Metallica?
What the fuck was I gonna do?
As I followed Jude through the red door, I tried to work it out. I’d planned to play “Voodoo Child,” a song that not just any fool with a guitar could pull off, because I knew I could kill it. And because I knew Zane would be impressed with the ego it took to kill it, Jesse would be impressed with the guitar work, Dylan would be cool with pretty much anything Zane and Jesse were cool with, and Elle fucking worshipped Jimi Hendrix.
So much for that fucking plan.
But I didn’t have much time to put together another one. The mood of backstage hit me immediately, familiar and unsettling, as I shadowed Jude. The backside of the building was a network of hallways, offices, and storage rooms that snaked behind the main room of the bar. Between the auditions and the filming of the auditions there were a lot people, security, crew, and others who worked for the band or the bar, all bouncing around in a very tight space, kinda like pinballs. Hurried but unhurried.
I found myself looking for familiar faces. Wondering who I’d run into first—and how pissed they’d be at me.
Though not everyone in the Dirty universe was pissed at me.
Jude wasn’t the only one who might have my back, when it came down to it. I knew that, and yet, as I looked around… I had to wonder. The truth was, I really had no idea who might be cool with me and who might tear me a new one. In part, this was because, as far as I knew, most people didn’t really know why I was fired from the band this last time. It wasn’t exactly made public.
But mostly it was because I had trouble remembering, even on the best of days, how things had ended the first time I was fired, with most of the people I’d once loved like family.
It was embarrassing—fucking shameful, actually—to have to admit that to myself, but right now, I couldn’t hide from it.
I’d been clean and sober for almost four-and-a-half years now, since finally getting rehab to stick, but my recovery was definitely ongoing. My feet were on the ground, but my head still wasn’t right. Most of my memories from the years when I’d been using were not wholly intact or clear; the ones that had gone and later come back to me were often in disparate, discordant fragments. There were memories that had taken years to come back, and I knew there were some that would never come back at all. And I had to live with that, every day.
It was incredibly off-putting, this feeling… The sketchiness of my own memories, the lack of reliability of my own mind. My confused emotional associations to my old crew, my old family.
I knew I’d disappointed a lot of people with everything that had gone down. Hurt people. People who’d once cared about me.
Even if I couldn’t remember it.
But as I passed through the halls, my chest tight, meeting the eyes of anyone who glanced my way, my aviators still on… I didn’t recognize a single face.
And somehow that made me even more uncomfortable.
I could face up to my mistakes. I could look people in the eye and take the accusations or the disappointment or the anger, no matter how hard it would be. I was ready for that.
As ready as I could be.
But seeing all these people—strangers to me—working around the band… It just reminded me how much time had passed between us, how much things had changed. Not just for me, but for them.
And for the first time since setting out for this audition, I doubted myself.
Would I really fit in with them again, even if they gave me the chance, like I’d convinced myself I would?
Jude led me directly toward an office, and it was at the threshold, just as I was about to step inside, that I glimpsed the first familiar face in the hallway outside.
Katie.
Jesse’s wife.
I’d met her, briefly, at the reunion show in Vancouver. Sweet girl. Big blue-green eyes that were staring at me now. Which meant she recognized me, too.
I paused and slipped my sunglasses onto my head. She snapped her mouth shut, like she’d just realized it was hanging open. She was standing by a table of food with a few other girls I didn’t recognize; none of them were looking at me. Just Katie.
I nodded at her.
She crossed her arms and looked unsure. Then she nodded back.
Then she turned away, her dark hair falling over her face, and I followed Jude into the office.
He was arguing with someone as I set my guitar cases down. A woman. Petite and pretty, she had long, sleek dark hair, and I knew who she was.
Maggie Omura, Dirty’s assistant manager.
I’d never worked with Maggie. She’d come to work with Dirty after I was fired, but she’d been with the band a long time. Longer than I ever was.
“It’s just one more, Maggie,” Jude was saying.
“Who?” she said. “What’s his name?” She was on an iPad, and hadn’t even noticed me yet.
I just stood there next to Jude, and when he said, “Todd Becker,” Maggie glanced up, her face blank.
Then she saw me.
And her pretty face frosted over.
“Oh, hell no. How did he get in here?” Her striking, gray-eyed gaze stabbed at Jude. “You let him in here?”
“Have I ever asked you for a favor, Maggie May?” Jude replied calmly.
“Oh, don’t Maggie May me, Jude. You never Maggie May me.”
“So you can see how important this is,” he said.
“Brody will fire me,” she hissed. “And you.” She didn’t even look at me as she said it, as if doing so might speed up the firing process. Instead she stared Jude down—not easy to do, since Jude was huge and she was tiny, but somehow she managed to do it. The two of them reminded me of that Looney Tunes cartoon with the bulldog and the kitten.
“Never gonna happen, darlin’,” Jude drawled. “And all I’m asking you to do is look the other way.”
“Don’t darlin’ me either,” she said. “What you’re asking me to do is tell Liv and Brody and the band that we need to keep filming, which is not my call. We’ve already wrapped for the day.”
Liv.
Someone else I knew, from way back. Liv Malone was a crazy-talented director who’d directed Dirty’s first video, and I knew she’d worked with the band on a lot of projects over the years. She’d also directed the video for Jesse’s solo album version of “Dirty Like Me”—one of the most popular rock videos ever. If she was directing this shoot, that could work in my favor, maybe. Liv and I had always been cool. That was back then, though; I hadn’t seen her in years.
“Let me see Liv?” I asked. “Please.”
Maggie looked at me, finally. The full force of her sharp gray eyes bore into me. Then she glared at Jude again. “This is on you,” she said, but kind of sighed as she turned and strode from the room, like she knew it really wasn’t.
“Don’t worry,” Jude told me. “She’s a kitten.” Then he gr
inned halfway, and as he followed her out the door, he added, “Stay the fuck here.”
Not a problem. I wasn’t going anywhere.
I waited, alone. The door was still open, and I could see up a short hall. A few people passed by, but no one noticed me.
I looked around the office; it was a typical bar office. Cheap office furniture and a safe. A bunch of tattered band posters wallpapered the walls. I stared at one of them. It was a picture of Elle, the cover of her solo album from a few years back. ELLE it said, in big gold letters. Then the title of the album in black underneath: BOLD.
She was standing against a white wall, wearing skin-tight white jeans and a white tank top. Her hair was smoothed down over one shoulder and her lips were cherry-red. She was staring out at me, all sass and confidence.
I stared back at her for a moment, the way I always did when I saw her picture.
Then I turned away.
I took my Gibson from its case and strapped it on, and I started to play, practicing a bit. I kept it quiet, not wanting to draw attention.
When I looked up again, Elle was there—in the flesh.
She was standing in the hallway, talking with Ashley Player, lead singer of the Penny Pushers. Clearly, neither of them had seen me.
The Pushers often toured with Dirty, and I could only guess that Ash was here because of Dylan; I knew the two of them were best friends. But it wasn’t Dylan he was talking with now, in low, hushed tones—and standing really fucking close to.
I watched as Ash put his hands on Elle’s slim waist. As his fingers curled into her. I couldn’t read the exact mood of the conversation, but it seemed… intimate.
Intense.
I looked away, a feeling like heartburn rising up in my throat. I swallowed. My hands were starting to sweat and I had to stop playing to rub them off on my jeans.
It was a challenging song. Especially when I hadn’t played it in years and my hands were wet.
Jesus, maybe this was a mistake…
Visions of my failure, of fucking up this audition and making a total fucking fool of myself, flashed through my head… But I’d asked Jude to bring me this far, and now Maggie was involved. Liv was about to be.
So fuck it. I was committed now.
I owed Jude that much.
He was right about what he’d said when he fired me—the second time—on the band’s behalf. It was never about money, or even about the music. For the band, and for me, it was about far more than that.
It was about loyalty. Bandmates. Family.
And I could not walk away from that without a fight.
I’d sworn to myself I’d never do that again.
But… I was getting nervous as fuck about seeing the band. About them seeing me.
I hadn’t been face-to-face with any of the members of Dirty since they fired me over six months ago. Since the blowout with Dirty’s manager, Brody Mason, at the old church where the band wrote music and rehearsed; when he’d punched me in the face onstage—several times.
I’d spoken with Zane a few times over the phone, briefly, and though he didn’t sound happy about it, his stance had been along the lines of: Not much I can do, brother. This is Brody and Jesse’s deal.
Spoke with Dylan once over text, and he’d said pretty much the same thing.
Neither Jesse or Brody would talk to me.
Elle hadn’t returned my calls to her assistant. That hurt the most, actually. Elle; knowing what she must’ve thought of me after what happened. Brody, attacking me in front of the band. Breaking my nose.
Accusing me of raping Jessa Mayes.
That memory made my guts churn now, just like it always did. But that, too, I had to face down. That was part of the deal in coming back here.
Because I could not let an accusation like that lie forever.
I looked at Elle and Ash in the hallway again… and I could see how she’d changed over the years. Still gorgeous. More so, maybe. More… polished. Glamorous, in her strapless white top, gold suspenders and low, tight jeans, stylishly ripped to shreds. Her long, platinum-blonde hair was straight and smoothed over one shoulder, a single, thick braid weaving the top of it back from her face. But despite the sun-kissed glow to her skin, her glossy lips, her fresh, flawlessly made-up face… she looked weary, underneath it all.
Or maybe it was just the conversation she was weary of.
As Ash spoke quietly to her, close in her pretty face, she just nodded, her mouth tight. And it struck me, like a sharp blow deep inside, that I hadn’t been there to see her through all the bullshit that came along with the success, the insanity of the fame.
I’d let her down.
I’d let them all down.
I watched her turn and walk away, my gaze falling to her tight, perfect ass in her fitted jeans. Then she disappeared through a door.
Ash stood there for a moment after Elle left, staring at the wall. Then he turned.
He looked straight at me.
I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be practicing my song, and our eyes met. Recognition crashed over his features and he started toward the open door.
“This what I think it is?” he asked, stepping into the room with me. He looked around into every corner, like he was expecting someone else to be here.
My heart was beating a little too hard, so I took a breath. I had no idea where I stood with Ash. Hopefully not the same place I stood with Brody.
“If you think I’m here to audition, then yes.”
He stopped dead. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.”
He absorbed that, looking me over from head to foot. I did the same with him. Jet-black surfer-dude hair, piercings, tattoos that seemed to multiply every time I saw him. A serious, pensive look in his blue eyes.
I had no idea what he was thinking. I didn’t know Ash all that well, though I’d met him a few times over the years. He’d told me at the reunion show that he looked up to me, musically. Called himself “a fan.” Pretty humble that way, because the guy could play guitar, he could write, and he could definitely sing way the hell better than me.
“You here with Dylan?”
“I’m here with the band,” he said. “House band. All-star lineup.” A smirk crossed his lips. “We’ve got Raf out there. My man Pepper. We play with the kids auditioning, try to make them sound good. Or bad.” The smirk turned devious. “Gotta tell ya, a lot of shit out there.” He looked me over again, like he was still having trouble processing my presence.
“Today?”
“All fucking week.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You serious? You’re here to audition?”
“Yes.”
“You pick a song?”
Yeah, I’d picked a song. Wasn’t easy to do, since it had to somehow showcase what I could do, impress Dirty, and satisfy Jude’s bullshit request for Metallica. But I’d learned, from experience, how to slay even the most ridiculous of Jude’s challenges.
“You guys know ‘Stone Cold Crazy’?” I answered.
Jude never specified it had to be a song written by Metallica.
Ash looked impressed, so at least I was on the right track. “Fucking right,” he said, glancing at my guitar, like he was making sure I was ready for this. “You want Queen, or Metallica?”
“I want Ashley Fucking Player,” I said.
At that, the smile blazed across Ash’s face. He shook his head. “Alright.” Then he took a step toward me, clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Be careful what you ask for.”
“You’re shitting me.”
The female voice came over Ash’s shoulder. He turned, revealing Jude and Maggie in the doorway… and a small, pixie-like woman with short brown hair and glasses, wearing a grandma sweater with skinny jeans and combat boots.
Ash grinned. “That’s what I said.”
“Hey, Liv,” I greeted her.
Liv just stared at me, but I could see her shrewd mind going a mile a minute behind her little glasses.
“We filming this or what?” Ash looked from Liv to me. He was starting to get pumped up; I could feel his lead singer’s ego blooming with the challenge of the song I’d chosen.
“Uh, yeah. We’re filming this,” Liv said. “Get your asses out there.” And then she was on her cell, Ash was barreling down the hall, and Jude was beckoning for me to follow.
Maggie sighed and muttered, “Oh, dear God,” then disappeared through a door along the hallway.
Ash went through another door, which had been spray-painted with a single word: STAGE. I was at the threshold, about to follow, when Jude’s big hand clamped down on my shoulder and I paused.
“Do me a favor,” he said, looking me in the eye. “Don’t shit the bed.” Then he released me.
I nodded, swallowed, then stepped through the stage door, alone. The door was heavy, sound-proofed, and it slammed shut behind me with a resounding bang.
I walked out onto the black stage, the overhead lights in my eyes. The stage was literally black; painted black and equipment-battered. It was a rock bar that had been converted to a dance bar and the stage served both functions: sometimes bands still played here, sometimes a DJ held court over the crowd. Right now, I was the main attraction.
Though no one could see me.
I heard voices, indistinct beyond the mellow classic rock music playing over the bar’s sound system. It was The Guess Who’s “Undun.” Which made sense if you knew that Burton Cummings was one of Zane’s all-time vocal heroes. And that Zane liked to play DJ whenever he could, even in Dylan’s bar, apparently.
I could envision Zane out there, with his long blond fauxhawk, lounged back in a chair, arguing with Jesse over virtually every guitarist they’d auditioned. Zane and Jesse could rarely agree on anything; I wondered if that had changed over the years.
With every step I took onto the stage, this shit was getting more real. The members of my former band were in this room. Right now.
The heartburn feeling was creeping up in my throat again and I tried to clear it—softly, as if anyone could hear me. At least this wasn’t a vocal audition; I probably couldn’t handle that.
But no matter how nervous I felt, my hands would know what to do.
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