by Racquel Reck
Is she excited for me, or Adam?
More than likely it’s him. He and his band have been local celebrities for years now. I’m just a no name. That doesn’t stop me from commanding my audience. I look back at the crowd and rock the shit. This is what I was born to do. I’ll spend a lifetime doing it no matter if I get fame or fortune.
I belt out lyrics and reach down to slap some grabbing hands. They’re as wild as the music. One woman flashes me a perfect set of tits. A man grabs her—her boyfriend, probably. He’s mad and looks like he could kick some serious ass. Maybe he already did in the pit. I swing my gaze over to the platform. Is that another mosh pit?
No, not a mosh pit. A chick fight, and the sex angel is caught in the middle of it. She’s bashing some blonde tart’s face into her knee. It’s fucking hot as hell.
Adam bumps me.
I scream louder into the mic. I can’t let what’s going on in the crowd distract me from my performance. Locking my focus on the crowd, a strong urge keeps pulling at me. I fight it, but lose. My gaze swings back to the platform.
A woman and a man usher the sex angel out the back door. The blonde’s face is bloody and someone is handing her a napkin.
We wrap up our song. Thank God—I was only guest starring for his band. I beat feet off stage and hear Adam razzing me to the audience. Something about how I take on the stage like lightening. There in a second and gone in a flash. He jokes about how that should be my stage name. I shake my head. Uh, no. Sounds too much like Slash.
I punch through the back door, hoping to find the woman I struggled to take my eyes off.
The back loading dock has a few clusters of people smoking. Mostly everyone is here for Adam’s band, so there aren’t that many outside. The smell of pot hits my nostrils. I’m too busy to care about taking a hit right now. That woman. God, I have to know her name. I scan the parking lot—no sign of her.
"I’ve never seen you fight like that."
A woman’s voice turns my head.
"Your personal trainer teaching you new things?" A petite blonde with fuchsia hair and a dude with a shaved head are standing on the other side of a dumpster. They’re facing the wall, but from my angle it looks as though her question was directed at the brick and she’s waiting for it to answer.
"Leave her alone, Bebe." The male ducks down as I round the dumpster, trying to stay a safe distance from them.
It’s her. The sex angel from the platform. I have no clue if the guy is with her and I don’t want to start trouble. Not because I’m scared of a fight—I just wouldn’t throw down. If he’s her boyfriend, he’s got the right, and if she were mine I wouldn’t want some dude asking if she was okay.
She’s sitting against the wall on the cold ground. Her knees are bent with her arms hanging over them, one of them completely covered in tatts. Black hair with white streaks is in a messy pile on her head. Wild tendrils out of place bring attention down to her neck, rockin’ sporadic tatts of stars, butterflies, and tiny skulls. The ink makes her hot as hell. They tell me she’s tough and can take pain. The woman has spunk and was clearly kicking the blonde tart’s ass. It’s one hell of a turn on. The stronger the woman, the sexier she is.
"Paula was way out of line." Bebe ignores him and squats down to get on her level.
The sex angel raises her head, but doesn’t look at me. She’s looking at Bebe. Black rivers are streaking down her face. A tough girl that cries?
"She’s a fucking cunt," she snaps. After wiping the tears and makeup from her eyes, she glares at Bebe. "An underdressed, overused, fucking hooker."
Whoa. This chick can throw an insult. Isn't that like the worst thing you can call a woman?
Bebe tries to stifle a giggle and wobbles in her crouched position. "I don’t know what Gary was thinking. She looks like a walking billboard for herpa-gonna-syphil-aids-itis.” She makes a gagging sound and scrunches her face. “Nasty."
The guy laughs. "I wouldn’t touch that rotten crotch with a ten foot condom."
The sex angel laughs.
Bebe shakes her head. "But what’s with the fight? I thought you were over Gary?"
Whoever that Gary guy is, he must be the captain of morons. There is no way in hell that blonde tart was ever hotter than this woman.
"Come on, Shay." Bebe grabs her hand and helps her to her feet. "I’ll take you home."
Shay takes her hand and wobbles a little as she stands. "No. We can stay. I seriously doubt she called the cops. Paula probably has a ton of warrants out for her and only her friends seemed to notice the fight. I need to fix my makeup and I need a shot of JD."
Shay glances in my direction.
I’m drowning in the most beautiful pair of sea green eyes I’ve ever seen. My mind freezes. I have no idea what to say.
She gasps, then darts past me into the sanctuary of the club.
And...Apparently my staring has embarrassed her.
"Go make sure she’s okay," the guy says to Bebe.
Bebe laughs and moves past me, giving me a smile and a wink, then heads back into Harper’s.
“The fuck are you looking at?" The guy glares at me, his tone promising a world of hurt.
Given the conversation I just overheard, this dude isn’t Shay’s boyfriend. He’s more than likely Bebe’s.
"Not Bebe." I take out a blunt from my pocket. "I just came out to smoke. You want a hit?"
Normally my shit is my shit. I don’t share with guys I don’t know, but I want information on Shay. What a beautiful name. Kinda reminds me of a fairy—something that belongs in movies like The Lord of the Rings, Willow, or A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Lighting up, I take a few deep hits and hold the blunt out to him.
He looks at the door, runs a hand over his shaved head, and takes it. "Yeah, might as well. They could be a while."
Bingo. I exhale. "So, what’s wrong with the girl?"
He takes a deep inhale and quickly releases it with a huge coughing fit.
Amateur. The longer you hold it in, the better the high. But that coughing fit will do the job so the hit wasn’t wasted.
"Shay?" He coughs a final time then clears his throat. "You don’t wanna know. She’s full of issues, man." He arches his brows then they pull down tight. "Stay away from her. She’s got a whole lotta problems and an eight year old to worry about."
Whoa. I hold up my hands. I tweaked this guy’s guitar string wrong. "I was just curious. When I see a woman cry, I want know why. It’s a common reaction."
He stares at me like he wants to play the drums on my face, then nods and heads for the door.
If I hadn’t done a show tonight and was in the audience, I probably would have bought the guy a beer and grilled him about Shay. Entering into the crowd now, though? I don’t want to get hounded by horny women and their alcohol-infused boyfriends. Plus, I’ve got equipment to load.
As much as I want to get to know Shay, I’m against it. She must be on the rebound and that’s what that dancing was about. She wanted to prove she still had it. I see it all the time. Boyfriends making their women think that they can’t do any better than their worthless asses. So the second they’re free they feel the need to prove themselves. My dick is telling me to prove it to her. But my mind doesn’t want the hassle of listening to her problems. I got enough of my own with Rictor.
I take another deep inhale off my blunt and think back to when I was on stage with my band. He messed up our performance. His fingers were like heavy weights on his guitar and he kept skipping notes. The audience didn’t seem to notice. I did. And sure as shit Emily Rhines noticed. I watched her leave halfway through our set.
Punching through the doors, I head back stage. Last straw. Rictor’s out.
#####
Walking up to our dressing room, the door crashes open. Bryan and Rictor go flying into the far wall. When I left for Adam’s set it was just Wiley, Lina, and Bryan in there chilling out. Something must have gone down.
"You asshole!" Br
yan screams in Rictor’s face as he bangs him into the brick. "Lina’s mine!"
Oh shit! I look into the dressing room. Lina's crying. She’s sitting on the couch and Wiley’s comforting her.
I get Wiley’s eyes. "What the hell happened?"
"This fucker was hitting on Lina!" Bryan’s face is red and a vein is popping out of his forehead. "I’m gonna break your fucking skull!" Bryan slams Rictor’s head into the brick and he drops. Bryan kicks him.
As much as I want to see Rictor get his ass beat, this has to end. I pull Bryan off of him and it’s like fighting a steel wall full of power. "Chill, man." Damn, Bryan’s strong. He pulls at my hold and I lock my arms up under his. "I want to kill him too, but that’s only going to get us arrested and banned from Harper’s."
Rictor wipes blood out of his right eye and goes to stand. He wobbles and slumps to the cement floor. He glares at Bryan. “Fucking pussy-ass bitch. That all you got?”
Every muscle in Bryan’s body strains against my hold and we shuffle.
A bouncer’s headed our way like his sole mission is to knock some skulls. Shit.
Bryan’s eyes lock on him and all the power in his fight vanishes.
"What’s going on here?" the bouncer asks. His pecs and biceps strain his black security T-shirt like he’s flexing his authority to kick us out.
Where the hell was this guy when there was a fight on the platform? "Nothing. Rictor was leaving." I let go of Bryan and offer Rictor my hand.
He bats it away, stands up, and mean-mugs Bryan. It looks like he wants to continue the fight, but he catches me shaking my head. He staggers toward the back door without saying a word. I have no clue where Rictor is going. He rode in my Hummer with us, but at this moment I couldn’t give a fuck.
The bouncer glances at the busted doorframe and shakes his head.
"I’ll pay for the door." Really, I shouldn’t have to. Rictor or Bryan should pay for it, but Rictor won’t and my web business pays better than Bryan’s job at McDonald’s.
The security guy glares at me. “I want your band gone in twenty minutes.” He mumbles something else then heads off to somewhere backstage—probably the office, to tell the owner we jacked up their shit.
"Rictor’s got to go," Bryan says, and we both step through the busted doorframe into the dressing room that now looks like a pack of gorillas went ape-shit in here. Chairs are overturned, the TV is in a busted mess on the floor, and glass from the long mirror decorates the counter.
Lina sobs.
Wiley nods. “He fucked up our chance at getting signed. He’s out.”
I can tell the decision isn’t an easy one for him. He brought Rictor into the band. There's a pang of guilt in his gray eyes, and he wipes a hand down his face. I'm not oblivious. He's been my friend since we were both in diapers. I know Wiley better than anyone.
Not gonna let my friend carry that burden. I bend down and grab Rictor’s guitar case. "I’ll tell him tomorrow after he cools off."
Wiley grabs Rictor’s amp. "I’ll tell him. It’s better coming from me."
"You sure?"
Wiley nods. "He not only fucked up our one shot, he tried putting the moves on Lina. That shit don’t fly with me. I’m not cool with guys who try something with their buddy’s woman." He storms out of the room.
Bryan pulls Lina up into his arms and rocks her. Red and black streaks stream down Lina’s face.
Clenching my jaw, I fight the urge to find Rictor and finish Bryan’s job. Lina’s not my woman, she’s like the sister I’ve never had, but it’s Rictor that has my rage unfurling. He was our buddy. We thought we all knew him. Guess we didn’t know him enough. "What went down?"
"He—" She sobs into Bryan’s shoulder.
Bryan shushes her and turns to me. "Wiley and I were only gone for a second. We went to White Castle across the street and then the liquor store. When we came back, Rictor had her pinned up against the wall choking the shit out of her, so I flipped his script."
Lina lets out another sob.
"Take her to the van. She needs to calm down. Wiley and I can load up." My heart cringes, and my gut was right. If I hear another woman cry tonight I’m going to go bal-fucking-istic.
Three
Morgan
“Dammit, Lina," I say between lyrics. I’m not sure the soundproof padding in my basement can take any more. My ears sure as hell can’t. She had a rough night with Rictor, so I’ll cut her some slack. "Are you sure you’re up to practicing?"
She nods and adjusts the tune on her keyboard. "I can’t let what happened with Rictor slow us down. Now that we aren’t getting signed, I want to work harder to make that happen."
That’s what I’ve been thinking. Emily Rhines isn’t the only record producer out there, and if we want to get noticed, we have to kick it up a notch. To do that, we need a new guitar player. Last night we hit up the after-party at Adam’s. I put the word out and posted an ad on Craigslist this morning. So far, no calls.
"How about..." She lays down a few notes and Bryan joins in. She stops, scratches her red, pixie-like hair with her pen, scrunches her nose, and writes in the notes on the sheet music in front of her. She’s the only one of us who does this. Bryan and Wiley go by memory, sound, and feeling. She begins another melody and the guys join her.
I let them play it out and get lost in the music. I want to jump in, but can’t this far in. "Cut it. That sounded wicked. Let’s do it again with the lyrics."
We start the song over.
As I wait for the right beat to start singing, my phone vibrates in my pocket. “Hang on, guys. This could be our new guitar player.” Checking the number, my heart drops.
Shooting a glance at my band, I know they can see the excitement in my eyes because it’s zapping through my body. "It’s Emily."
They let out whoops and cheers.
Stepping out of the soundproof room, I answer my phone.
"Morgan Desario?"
Shit. Uh… "Yeah, that’s me."
"Hi. My name is Emily Rhines. I was at your show last night. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk with you backstage. Something urgent came up, and I had to take off."
I park my ass on the couch. "It’s all right." I have no idea what to say. I need a blunt. My words always come freely when I’m high.
"I’d like to hear you play again. I’m not sure if it was nerves or what, but your guitar player’s tempo was off. At one point it sounded like he was playing a completely different song. But you, Mr. Desario, have got amazing stage presence. The crowd was pulled into your energy. And for the most part, your band complemented you well."
I shoot straight up from the couch. She’s seriously considering giving us another shot?
"I could come by this evening, say around seven. Does that work for you?"
What I want to say is, “Hell yeah, it works for me!” But instead, "You can call me Morgan. And, yeah, we’re free. Just in my studio rockin’ out." I slap my forehead. I sound like a moron.
She laughs. "Okay, Morgan. Give me the address, and I’ll see you at seven."
After I recite it to her and we share a pleasant goodbye, I jump into the air, letting my excitement scream free.
Taking a deep breath, I try to erase the emotion off my face. Need to act cool in front of the guys. I enter the sound room.
"What’d she say?" They all bombard me with this question at the same time.
Part of me wants to string this out. Tease them a bit. It's a dick move. I can't help it. I have to fuck with them. I shrug and drag my feet across the room to the couch, falling back into it with a huff. "Sorry, guys. We tried... She said she likes our sound and all, but if we want a record deal we're going to have to start pulling some Miley Cyrus shit."
"What?" Lina shouts, bangs her fist on her keyboard, and off-key notes splinter the room.
"What a bitch," Wiley says. "Why even call then?"
Bryan curses under his breath.
Turning my head so they can’t see my sm
ile, my eyes lock onto my guitar leaning up against the couch. Fuck, I forgot! We need a guitar player. It’s not like I can’t do it, but damn. There would go all my interaction with the audience. Emily liked the way I worked the crowd. Can’t hold a mic, bob across stage, slap hands, and play a guitar all at once. What the hell are we going to do?
Shay
“Did you see this?" Bebe yells from the front desk of my shop.
Her shrill voice bites into my head—it’s been pounding all morning.
With a bright smile, she looks at the computer screen. "Stones of Rage is looking for a new guitar player."
Like I care. Their band was pretty good, but after the look of pity on Morgan's face when he saw me bawling in the alley, I'm off metal bands. God, that was so embarrassing. Face to face with a sexy rocker and I look like The Walking Dead. Awesome.
Tryst looks up from the desk in the corner, where he’s giving Ben an art lesson. With narrowed brows, his brown eyes focus on Bebe. He looks back at my son. "More shading," he points at a spot on the picture, "along this line, so the snake has a shadow." He leaves Ben to finish it, and heads to the computer.
"And we care why?" He leans over Bebe.
She stiffens. "You should try out." She glares up at him. “Then I won’t have to look at your ugly mug all the time.”
Ha ha ha. Bebe doesn’t know what she’s asking. Tryst is really good, but my cousin lacks confidence in his talent. It’d be funny to watch him try out. He won’t do it though.
I make my way across the shop’s black-and-white tiled floor. They had a guitar player last night. Why do they need a new one today?
Bebe’s eyes scan the screen.
Tryst leans in closer and stares at her. My cousin can be very intimidating. The tatts that cover his body and his deep gravel voice are mild in comparison to his death vibe. With his height, the muscles he earned during his time in the marines, and his cold facial features, he screams “badass.”
