by Elle Greco
But when I made it back to the bus, Vince was oblivious to what my mother was up to. He had his hands full with Presley.
“Presley, please,” he pleaded. “It’s just for a few months. Then Grimm will cover a week at Canyon Ranch. It’ll restore you, you’ll see. Presley, come on. Please don’t… no crying.”
True to form, Presley burst into sobs. Vince looked at me as I walked past, his eyes begging for an intervention. I just shrugged. If he was managing this tour, he’d have to manage Presley as well.
I boarded the bus and found Jett curled up in a bunk.
“Top?” I asked her, noting which one she’d claimed.
“After what Presley told us, I’d rather not have anyone above me,” she said, eyes not moving from the page.
I took her point but settled in the bunk just under her, leaving the one at the very bottom unoccupied. Jett was already moaning about all the work she had to do to keep up with the one UCLA class she could take online. She was too driven for a sex life, and between school, gigs, and whatever else we had to do to support the tour, abstinence was a safe bet for her.
Presley, on the other hand, was a walking sex bomb, and she reveled in it. I definitely did not want to be under her bunk. There were still plenty of bunks for her to choose from, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
“Yo, rookies,” Rafe said, jumping up the stairs, making the bus’s suspension bounce. “You’re in my bed, Jett.”
“Fuck off, Rafe,” she said, turning a page.
“No, I had dibs. I called it.”
“Fuck off, Rafe,” she repeated.
Rafe climbed into the bunk beside her, giving her a hard shove on his way in. She returned the shove and sent him flying out of the bunk. He landed on the floor, hard, just as Presley boarded.
“Oh, great,” she said. “The jackassery’s already begun.”
6
The ride up to San Francisco was uneventful. Since Dion and Rafe had partied until the wee hours the night before, they crashed hard on the drive. Jett typed away on her laptop, her lip raised in a snarl as she tried to do school assignments with spotty internet. Presley worked her social media accounts, photoshopping a bunch of tour bus selfies for Instagram posts.
The Outside Lands Festival was the first stop. Since it was a multiple-day music festival with a ton of bands on the bill, and we were a late addition, there wasn’t really room for an opener. Much to my disappointment, Satan’s Sisters had to sit this one out.
Traffic was a nightmare. The six-hour drive became ten, so the roadies had to rush to get the gear unloaded. A perky intern, who looked potentially even younger than me, took Dion, Rafe, and me “backstage,” which was really a tricked-out tent beside the stage, both of which were raised up on scaffolding.
The boys stared at Jailbait’s ass while she strutted just ahead of us, something she was keenly aware of, since her walk carried an extra sway that hadn’t been there when I met her. She tossed her stick-straight blonde hair and laughed too loud at something Dion said, eyelashes batting like crazy. She tugged her V-neck T-shirt down, showing off cleavage not quite as ample as mine. I may not be as pulled together as other girls, but I had great boobs. I gave a self-conscious tug at my own top. Pointless, since it was a crew neck.
While I was trying to emulate something more than grubby-from-a-long-ass-ride, the toe of my Doc Martens got caught in a rock and I tripped. I splayed out on the dirt path, but Dion and Rafe didn’t even notice. Laser-focused on the tight butt in front of them, they just kept on walking. I pulled myself to a sitting position and pressed my palm against my bloody knee.
A roadie broke off from his work and came over. “Hey, Nik, you okay?”
“I think so,” I said, pressing my hand harder over the cut. “I’m just a klutz.”
“Here, let me see,” he said, kneeling in the grass. He caught my uneasy glance. “It’s okay. I’m a volunteer EMT when I’m not on the road. I won’t give you cooties.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, wincing when he pulled my hand away. Blood cascaded down my calf from a good-sized gash on my knee.
“This needs stitches,” he said. “I’ll help you to the medical tent.”
“No way,” I said, biting back the urge to faint at the sight of all that blood. “I need to get to sound check.”
He pursed his lips and looked at me. “Sit tight. Be right back.”
I watched him sprint into the backstage tent, willing myself not to peek at my knee. After an afternoon of still air, the wind had picked up off the bay and the breeze hit my cut, burning the open wound. I sucked in my breath and clamped my bloody palm back over the gash.
So far, touring sucked.
Roadie dude came jogging back toward me, backpack bouncing in one hand, red-and-white first aid kit in the other. He came to a stop and sat on the ground beside me.
“Gotta move your hand, Nik,” he said. “I need to see it.”
I nodded and sucked in my breath as I peeled my palm away from the coagulating blood.
“I’m Jordan,” he said as he assembled the first aid supplies.
“Nice to meet you, but I might not remember that later,” I replied through gritted teeth.
“I won’t hold it against you,” he said, blowing his overlong hair away from his eyes. Normally, redheads weren’t my thing, but he was kind of cute. Plus, he had that whole roadie rescuer thing going on. That helped.
“Shit, I don’t have much time,” I mumbled as he pulled on latex gloves. My eyes followed Rafe and Dion as they made their way from the backstage tent to the stage.
“Sound check,” he said, ripping open an alcohol wipe. “No worries, I’m still setting out the gear.”
“Dion’s going to give you hell,” I said.
“I’m more worried about Devlin,” he responded with a smirk. “So, you’re drumming now, huh?”
“Yeah… owwwwwwww,” I yelped. “God, that burns.” My bloody hand squeezed my T-shirt, as if that would stop the searing pain of alcohol meeting my open wound.
“Sorry. Should have warned you,” he said with a wink. “So, I’m psyched to hear you drum live. Devlin said you were fierce.”
“Thanks.” I winced as he continued to clean the cut. “But I don’t feel so fierce at the moment.” My eyes shifted to Dion, who was now openly flirting with the intern. The clean, nicely coiffed intern. After my tumble, I was dusty as hell, and my lower leg was covered in rapidly drying blood. I was beginning to regret my electric-blue hair too.
I crossed my eyes, annoyed with myself. My self-esteem was taking a nosedive, and that was unlike me.
“I dunno, you seem fierce to me,” Jordan said, eyes lifting to meet mine, a shy smile on his face. “Definitely match the drum line.”
“Thanks,” I said, returning his grin with a weak one of my own. Fuck Dion, right? “So, you work for Grimm too?”
“Five years,” he said, smearing my cut with ointment. “Rock ’n’ roll, right? My first tour was with Anthem.”
“Which one was that? Their third farewell tour?”
My mom worked hard to keep Vince from touring, but every few years he hit the road to hit pay dirt. Mega-bands like Anthem were still selling out stadiums to nostalgic fans who now had money to burn. Between the astronomical ticket prices and the merch they moved at each venue, not even Pamela could argue with the numbers his tours raked in.
“Yup,” he said, still grinning. “Hearing rumors that number four is in the works.”
“That’s cool, I guess.” Touring with Vince had to be the furthest thing from cool.
“It is. Those dudes pack arenas, some twenty years on.”
He was gushing. A Vince fan. Whoa, boy.
“So, how do you think Rogue will do on this tour?” I asked.
“Solid venues lined up, for sure,” he said. “Hell, invited to play Outside Lands? That’s a pretty big deal.” He pulled out a small bottle. “The good news is I think I can patch you up with skin glue. I mean, if you
don’t care about scarring.”
“Do I look like someone who cares about scarring?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You’re pretty, you might.”
“I don’t care about scarring,” I said, while a blush creeped up my neck. Not too many guys called me pretty. Bruiser, maybe. But rarely pretty.
“Life’s wounds make us more interesting, don’t they?” He jerked his chin to the intern, who was now whispering in Rafe’s ear. “She’s cute, but not a blemish on her. She’s got no character.”
I smiled at his dis while he patched me up with the glue and then covered the wound with an extra-large Band-Aid.
“That was messier than I thought, so it’ll most definitely scar,” he said, peeling off his gloves. “It’s not ideal, but you’ll get onstage. Though your leg is covered in blood.”
“Eh,” I said with a shrug and a smile. “It’s kind of punk rock, don’t you think?”
“Definitely,” he said with a chuckle.
“So, thanks for this,” I said. “Really, it was nice of you to help me.”
“It was nothing,” he said. “Just glad you can play. I’m looking forward to your show.” He helped me up to my feet, then started digging around in his backpack. “You may want something for the pain.”
I bent my knee. “It’s stiff, but it doesn’t really hurt.”
“It could later though,” he said, pulling out a pill bottle. He popped open the top.
“Is that aspirin?”
“A little stronger,” he said, shaking out a few pills.
“Don’t you need a prescription for something stronger than aspirin?”
He shrugged. “I’m the go-to medic on tour, so I try to keep stocked with all sorts of stuff.”
“I’m good, thanks anyway.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I’ll ask for Jordan,” I finished.
“Nice one,” he said, putting the pills back in the bottle. He contemplated me. “You know, Kyle was always going off about his wicked stepsisters.”
I shoved my hands in my back pocket, unsure of where this was headed. “Yeah, he didn’t dig the blended family thing.”
“For the record, he was wrong.” He smiled and shook the pill bottle. “If you need ’em, I got ’em.”
“Well, thanks again, Jordan,” I said, edging away from him and feeling awkward. “Appreciate the patch. Good as new.”
I limped toward the tent as fast as my injured leg would take me. By the time I met up with my stepbrothers, Dion was whispering in Jailbait’s ear, sending her into a fit of giggles.
“What the hell happened to you?” Rafe asked, nodding at my bandaged leg. Sticky blood and dirt covered my calf.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” I muttered, pushing past the two of them to get to the backstage greenroom where I surveyed the damage in the full-length mirror. Dirt and dried blood were smeared on my forehead, and my cutoff shorts and T-shirt were covered with both as well.
Dion smirked at me in the mirror. “Want to quit the tour yet?”
“Nope,” I said, yanking at my shorts.
“Then get your ass in gear and get out onstage,” he barked. “You’re holding up the show.”
“But what happened to sound check?” I asked.
“Between our late arrival and your time flirting with the roadie, we missed it.”
“I fell,” I said, motioning to the carnage from my knee down. “I wasn’t flirting with the roadie.”
His eyebrow cocked up. “No? Sure looked like it.”
“You didn’t see shit,” I snapped. “You were too busy keeping your eyes on Jailbait’s ass.”
The minute I said it, I regretted it. I sounded like a jealous girlfriend, of which I was neither. In the race to get tour-ready, I’d made it to the gym only once, and my self-confidence took the brunt of the absence.
He stared down at me, his eyes traveling from the bandage on my knee up to my eyes, lingering on my boobs for a second too long. “The roadies are off-limits, Nik. Makes for an awkward tour.”
He turned and climbed the scaffold stairs onto the stage. I made a mental note to see if I could work a gym visit into the schedule. Then there was nothing I could do but follow him onto the stage.
I tugged up my shorts and joined Dion and Rafe, who were already halfway across the stage. The crowd exploded in screams when the guys strapped their guitars around their bodies. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest, and butterflies dropped straight into my stomach. My hands shook so bad, I could barely get my cotton sweatbands around my wrists. I chalked my dirt-smeared hands and settled onto my stool. Back in familiar territory behind my drum kit, I breathed deep, and my nerves eased a little.
Dion worked the crowd, priming them for the show. Rafe gave me a nod, and I picked up my sticks and gave the four count. Then we launched into the first song.
“Speed up,” Rafe mouthed at me, but I shook my head. Son of a bitch. He was about half a beat too fast for the song, and he refused to follow the drum line. I scowled. The drummer carried the beat, not the other way around.
Rafe stalked across the stage toward me, exaggerating his plucks on the stings of his bass. His rhythm was still off, but I held my beat steady.
Abandoning the microphone, Dion spun around and glared at the two of us. “Slow. It. Down,” he mouthed.
“Follow my beat,” I shouted at Rafe over the instruments.
Dion jumped into an extended improvised guitar solo and crossed to Rafe. He shouted something in his ear. Whatever he said caused Rafe to stop playing. That left it up to Dion and me to finish out the solo, while Rafe pulled himself together.
Being behind my kit felt like home, and there my beaten-down confidence started to repair itself. Dion stepped in front of me, his nimble fingers stroking the fretboard and his facial expression intense. He held my eyes, and I lost myself in the beat. He licked his lips and nodded his head, egging on the intensity of my playing. With Dion’s muscular guitar riffs and the pulsing drive of my drums, my breath quickened. I shifted forward on my stool, and the vibration of the music traveled up to the seat, sending delicious quivers into me.
God, I loved playing.
I closed my eyes and picked up the beat, with Dion following my lead. The crowd went wild with the increase in speed. Their cheers were intoxicating. The sound of five hundred screaming Rogue Nation fans was better than sex. I slammed the sticks down harder and my adrenaline surged in a delicious spike that wound itself through my body, pooling in my center.
Rafe’s bass kicked in then, and he brought the tempo back down. The duet was over. I hit the last beats of the song, dropping my sticks as Dion’s guitar screamed out the final riffs.
“How do you like our new drummer?” Dion called out to the crowd. They went bananas again, screaming and chanting “Rogue Nation” over and over again. I’d barely caught my breath when we jumped right into the next song.
After a fifty-minute set plus three encores, we finally exited the stage. Devlin tossed me a towel, and I wiped my sweat-drenched face.
“Kick-ass set, guys,” he shouted, before dropping his voice to talk to me. “Way to work that crowd, kid. You had them at the first song. You’re going to hate me for saying this, but you and Dion play damn good together. Musically, at least.”
I gulped water from a bottle one of the roadies handed to me. Devlin ruffled my hair and then disappeared.
“Not bad, rookie,” Rafe said, bumping my shoulder with his own.
“Next time, Rafe controls the beat,” Dion growled as he stormed past me.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I yelled after him. “His beat was off, even you knew that.”
“But Rafe’s the one who controls it.”
“The drummer carries the beat,” I argued.
“We don’t follow the fill-in,” Dion said, ignoring me. “I don’t give a shit if he’s off, you follow him.”
“Dude,” Rafe started, “I was
too fast out of the gate. I misread the crowd. You saw their reaction.”
“You call the rhythm out there, not her,” Dion barked, his finger hitting Rafe’s chest before he jerked his thumb toward me. “That one-upmanship out there was bullshit. Rafe calls the beats, I control the crowd. You keep your goddamn head down and follow our lead.”
“Like a good girl?” I snapped.
“Exactly.”
Jett and Presley pushed through the backstage crowd while Dion disappeared into it.
“Oh my God, your playing kicked ass,” Presley cried, pulling me in for a hug. Her extraction was speedy, though, as soon as my sweat-covered skin and filthy clothes rubbed against her. “Maybe shower first, then hug.”
Jett opted for a no-less-enthusiastic fist bump. “You rocked it, kid! And pulled Rafe out of the shitter. What the hell was up with his rhythm on that first song?”
“You even made Dion’s guitar playing sound good,” Presley added with a snort.
“It was hot,” Jett agreed. “The crowd ate that shit up.”
Presley pulled me by the hand toward the exit. “You’ve got to hurry up and shower, Nik.”
“Can I get something to eat first?” I asked, eyeing the catering set up. Drumming was a workout, and I was starving.
“We’re invited to some fancy tech party,” Presley said.
“Tech party?” I asked.
“Silicon Valley types. There’s a bunch of them that have their own VIP tent,” Presley explained. “So you’ve got to look smokin’!”
“Who’s hosting?” I ask, ignoring her comment. She wanted me to put on makeup, and that totally was not going to happen.
“Something something dot com?” Presley said, rolling her eyes. “Does it matter? We’re in San Francisco. Tech parties are the best parties.”
“There’ll be food,” Jett said. “Tech nerds are all about the snacks.”
With the promise of food in my belly, along with hopefully a decent beer, we headed to the tour bus so I could clean up. Along the way, we were approached by fans. Not swarms of them—that would have sent Presley’s jealousy into orbit—but enough that she was impressed. It helped that some recognized her too. So we both stopped for fan selfies while Jett looked on, smiling indulgently at us.
