Rev: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Marauders MC)

by Nicole Fox

  I’d been single ever since I’d dumped Calvin, the latest in a long string of musicians who I’d found myself involved with ever since I’d begun to date. However, when I said “musician” with Calvin, I was being very, very generous. Between his pot-smoking and cartoon-watching, I’d be surprised if he’d even bothered spending more than an hour a week with his guitar.

  That didn’t stop him from yakking to anyone around town about how passionate he was about his music, how close he was to making it big, however. Hell, it had gotten me interested. But it had taken me moving in with him to see what a lazy loser he was. So, deciding not to waste anymore of my time with men who were all talk and no action, I had moved onto one of my bandmate’s couches, hoping that this would be the motivation I needed to start making things happen for myself.

  Well, it had. But as I sat in front of Amped, anxiety building in my stomach by the moment, I knew it was now or never. I killed the engine, the low rumble of music from the inside of the club replacing the rumble of the car. I reached into the manila folder that held my résumé and prepared to get out, but as I took a glance at it I realized to my horror that it had been splashed with coffee just like the list.

  “Dammit!” I called out, tossing the résumé aside and leafing through the stack to find another one.

  But each one had been stained. Each résumé had been mostly soaked through with my lukewarm, cheap bodega coffee. Sitting back in the driver’s seat, I considered my options. I could go back home, sure, if you could even call the dingy couch at my bassist’s place a “home.” But I’d be going back with no success, nothing but a string of rejections under my belt. Or, I could take my chances with the coffee résumés.

  I knew that now was the perfect time to do a little visualization. That was a little strategy I’d picked up from Screamin’ Julie Mayer, the lead singer of the Urchins, one of my favorite bands. How did I meet her, you might be wondering? Well, I might or might not have pretended to have backstage passes to their show when they came into town, and I might or might not have snuck into her green room and done my best to get whatever tips I could out of her for making it big as a musician.

  Surprisingly, she was pretty chill about the whole thing—for the most part. But she passed along a little trick for making it big, one that she said was instrumental in her success. And that was visualization. She told me that whenever you were feeling like success was out of reach, like it was all some stupid dream that would never come true, the best thing to do was to find a quiet space, close your eyes, and picture just what you wanted.

  In a car, pulled over on one of the main roads in town, wasn’t exactly the quietest place, but it would do. So, taking a long, slow breath, I sat back, closed my eyes, and pictured just what it was that I wanted. Pulling a big breath into my lungs, I let all of my anxieties wash out of my mind as I replaced my thoughts with those of making it big.

  It might sound crazy, but it worked like a dream. Just close your eyes and imagine the future you want. Well, at least, that’s what Screamin’ Julie had to say.

  So that was what I did. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was on stage at Madison Square Garden or some other massive stadium, the crowd packed full of thousands of screaming fans. I called out the name of the city, thanking them all for being the kick-ass fans they were. Then, I grabbed my coal-black Stratocaster, slung it over my shoulders, took one look back at the rest of the band to make sure they were ready, and then I slammed the opening chord for one of our top-ten hits.

  When I finally opened my eyes, I didn’t even mind that I was still in my junky car on the side of the road, ready to walk right into what would likely be yet another rejection. I was ready to stroll right up to the world and take what was mine.

  Chapter 3

  Roxy

  “You, uh, got another one of these?”

  The bartender had to yell over the booming rock music coming from the stage. He held my résumé in his hand gingerly, almost as though I’d just given him a dirty paper towel or something. His eyes were narrowed at the coffee stain.

  “Sorry,” I said. “They all look like that.”

  I held onto the bar for dear life as I spoke, the throngs of patrons I was packed in the middle of elbowing me as they jockeyed for position closer to the bar and yelled out their drink orders.

  “Come ’ere,” he said, nodding his shaved head towards the end of the bar.

  I eagerly followed him down towards where he led me, which was a little spot near the backend of the bar that seemed less chaotic.

  “You don’t have much experience doing this, do you?” he asked.

  “Why?” I responded. “I mean, I know I don’t have that much experience, but is it that bad?”

  “I mean, you walked into a bar on a Friday night during the busiest time. Not bothering the staff now would be something you’d learn, like, your first night.”

  I felt my face go hot with a blush. He was right—I’d been so caught up in how nervous I was applying here that I’d totally forgotten about what time it was. I had made myself look like a total newbie.

  “I’m sorry!” I shot out. “I must’ve lost track of time or something.”

  He waved his hand away dismissively.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “I just don’t have time to deal with you right now. And the owner’s a little busy. Let me get you a drink. You can watch the show, and I’ll see if I can get someone to go over your information after.”

  “That would be so awesome,” I said. “Anything with some vodka and fruit juice would be great.”

  See? Visualization worked like a charm.

  The bartender gave me a gruff nod and headed off, returning a few moments later with a small glass of red liquid. I thanked him and took a sip—vodka cranberry, my favorite.

  I was so nervous that I almost downed the entire drink in one eager sip. But man, did it hit the spot. By the time I’d sidled through the crowd close enough to get a good look at the band, I already had a nice little buzz swimming through my head.

  “Who is this?” I asked one of the members of the crowd nearby, a tall girl with full arm sleeves and a bull-ring piercing.

  She looked at me like I’d just asked what city I was in.

  “Are you serious?” she asked, a droning chord and banging drum solo from stage signaling the end of another song. “It’s fucking Revv.”

  My eyes went wide. I’d had no idea that this was Revv. They were one of the hottest rock bands on the scene right now, all the guys in it part of some local motorcycle club. I felt a little tingle just thinking about it—a biker or a musician by himself was hot enough, but both combined into one man was about the sexiest thing I could imagine.

  “Thanks, y’all!” shouted the lead singer and guitarist, a tattoo-covered, rough-looking guy. “We’re Revv!”

  My eyes jumped from band member to band member. There were three guys on stage: the singer-guitarist, the bassist, and the drummer. The first two guys were pretty hot, sure, but the drummer was who I couldn’t stop staring at. The band launched into another song and my eyes locked right away onto the drummer.

  He was about the hottest guy I’d ever seen in my life. He had close-cropped blond hair that sat on top of a gorgeous face angled by killer cheekbones. His eyes were stunning ice-blue that were bright and dramatic even from where I stood. His nose was slim yet strong, and his lips were sly and sensual. He wore a leather vest and a white T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, which gave me a lovely little view of his thick, ropey, tattoo-covered arms.

  He was so freaking sexy that I had to check to make sure I wasn’t drooling as I watched him slam on the skins. I didn’t want to look like an idiot, but I had to know who he was. I turned to the same girl from before once the song ended and posed her another question.

  “Who’s the drummer?”

  Her eyes somehow managed to go even wider than they’d gone before.

  “Now you have to be screwing with me or something,” s
he said. “The drummer’s Z—”

  That single letter was all I managed to make out before another chord blasted through the air and marked the beginning of another song. The girl turned back to the stage and let out wild cheers, and I didn’t want to risk bothering her again. So I decided to just watch this sexy-beyond-belief drummer do his thing.

  And shit, he wasn’t just hot—he was talented as hell. He waled on the drums, keeping a driving rhythm that was at once manic and tightly controlled. He kept perfect time and effortlessly switched between complex time signatures, giving the songs a backbone that made the overall sound way more interesting than just your average rock band. And every now and then he’d spice up the song with a perfect, pounding drum fill.

  The drummer for my crew was solid—don’t get me wrong—but this guy was something else. A person would need to have been playing the drums since he was a damn toddler to even hope to have the skill that he effortlessly displayed.

  I downed another cocktail as the band finished up. Once they were done, the lead singer thanked the crowd and the three of them headed off stage. Of course, it wasn’t much time before they were all brought back by the wild crowd for an encore.

  And as I watched them start up again, the most insane thing happened. The drummer slid into his stool with catlike grace that was a little surprising to see from a beefy guy like him. And, of course, my eyes locked onto him and the eye-fucking started right back up. This time, however, he must’ve spotted me shamelessly devouring him with my eyes. Because as my gaze lingered on him, he locked eyes with me and flashed a cocky, knowing wink.

  I gasped, that same blush from before returning to my face. The gig was up—he was onto me. I normally wasn’t the type of girl to freak out from having a hot guy’s attention on me. But this guy was different. He was so hot and so talented and so … everything else that I felt like a high schooler getting the attention of the best-looking guy on campus.

  The wink lasted for a split-second, but the time it took felt like it’d stretched into forever. Only the thundering blast of the intro of another song managed to bring me back into reality. Revv went through another couple of songs, both of them just as good, if not better, than anything else they’d played so far. And when they were done, that was it—the three men headed off-stage, taking in the last bit of attention from the adoring crowd.

  There was only one thing on my mind: I had to meet that drummer. There was something to him, some sort of strange pull between him and I that went beyond just a physical attraction. I had a gut instinct that he was somehow very, very important in my quest to become a rock legend. And I was the kind of girl who always trusted her gut.

  Chapter 4

  Zane

  By the time I was done with my set my heart was beating as fast as the pounding I’d just given my drums. I was worn-out and keyed-up in the same way that I always was when I finished a set. It didn’t matter how many times I played—there was nothing like being on stage.

  “Fucking nice!” shouted out Rex as we headed back to the green room. “Fucking nice goddamn show, boys!”

  “Hell, yeah!” chimed in Motor, slapping both me and Rex on the back. “We fucking killed it!”

  I let out a snort of approval. Both of the guys were right—I’d had a good feeling from the first chord that’d carried throughout the show. And now that we were done, I was sure we’d just put on one of our best shows.

  “Now for some whiskey and pussy,” said Rex as he opened the door to the green room.

  “You got a one-track mind, Rex,” I said, stepping into the room and plopping down on one of the big black leather couches.

  “You get a look at some of that ass out there in the crowd?” he asked, pointing back in the direction of the stage. “I had a fucking half-hard-on the entire time we were playing!”

  “No shit,” said Motor. “I felt like I was about to lose my goddamn mind out there.”

  “You see that brunette from before? The one with the big tits?”

  “You mean the one who whipped those bad boys out right in the middle of ‘Carnage’? No, didn’t see her.”

  I let out a laugh at Motor’s smart-assed comment. I would say that I was right there with the boys, but I wasn’t thinking about pussy in general—my thoughts were preoccupied with one girl in particular: that fucking hot-as-hell blonde who had stared at me the whole goddamn show. She was such a damned knockout that I could barely keep time. And she had that same hungry look that every girl seemed to get while I played, that look like I was a piece of meat and she was a very, very hungry little wild animal.

  “Shit,” I said, wincing after tossing back a shot of whiskey.

  “What?” asked Motor, bottle in hand.

  “Just remembered I left my sticks on stage.”

  “What?” asked Rex. “Who gives a shit? The crew’ll get ’em for you.”

  “Nah,” I said. “Those aren’t just any sticks—they’re my lucky pair.”

  Motor snorted. “Lucky sticks,” he said, shaking his head good-naturedly. “You’re one superstitious motherfucker, Zane.”

  “Hey, did we not just play one of the best shows of our life?” I asked.

  He tossed back a shot as he considered the statement.

  “Hey, whatever gets us to kick ass out there is good in my book,” he said.

  I downed another shot and headed out of the green room, back towards the stage. As soon as I stepped back out onto it the crowd went wild again. I shook my head at them, making it clear that this wasn’t encore number two. Some disappointed sounds rose up from the crowd before they all went back to their drinks.

  I scanned the area near my kit and spotted my sticks on the ground near my stool. It might have been stupid as shit, but I really did like my lucky sticks. Never played a bad show with them. In fact, I was pretty sure the shows got better with each gig with those bad boys in my hands. And there was more to them than just that.

  I scooped them up and looked them over, maybe being paranoid, but making sure that they were the right ones. The oak was chipped just how it was before, and two thick stripes of black electrical tape covered where my hands gripped them. I nodded and slipped them into my back pocket.

  “You seem pretty attached to those.”

  A girl’s voice snapped me back into reality. I glanced around, laying eyes on her—the girl from the show.

  She was just as hot in person. Slim, curvy figure packed into a pair of coal-black skinny jeans, a fashionably-ripped V-neck gray T-shirt under a leather jacket, the cut of the shirt showing off a tantalizing hint of what were clearly killer tits. Her face was angelic—there was no other word for it. Big gray-green eyes, small pert nose, a full, pouting mouth done up with come-hither red lipstick, and all of it framed by shoulder-length blonde hair dyed with pink tips.

  I was getting a halfie just being near her.

  I put my hands onto my sticks, remembering what she’d been talking about.

  “A man’s not allowed to be protective of his gear?” I asked in a cocky tone.

  “I dunno, just seemed like you seemed pretty keen on making sure they were safe. You did disappoint the entire crowd by coming out and letting them think you were going for round three.”

  I could think of a “round three” I wouldn’t mind going with this girl. And a round four, and maybe a five, depending.

  “Sentimental reasons,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Wasn’t worried,” she said, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. “Just … curious.”

  She stuck out her hand towards me, an eager smile on her face.

  “Name’s Roxy Sinclair,” she said. “You might’ve heard of me; I’m the lead singer and guitarist for Vampire Hideaway.”

  “Vampire who?” I asked, not sure at all what the hell she was talking about.

  The color drained out of her already fair skin instantly.

  “Oh,” she said, her hand still stuck out. “Um, that’s just my band.�
�

  The girl looked so crestfallen I just had to lie.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, taking her hand and giving it a pump. “I’ve heard of you guys. Out of Brooklyn, right?”

  “No, we’re in the city,” she said. “Lower East Side.”

  I couldn’t tell if she knew I was bullshitting or not. Maybe she was letting herself think I was telling the truth just so she wouldn’t have to feel bad that I’d totally just whiffed on the name of her band kicking around in my head anywhere.

  “And we’re fucking awesome,” she said, hopping up onto the stage and plopping herself right down on top of my drum stool. “If I do say some myself. Kind of a blend between Siouxsie and the Banshees and the Clash, with a little dark metal a la Opeth thrown in for good measure.”