by Elle Greco
Sex with Dion had been phenomenal. But the aftermath was messing with my head.
“I am trying to understand why you want to have dinner,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to marry me, Nik,” he said, his voice rising. “I’m asking about dinner.”
“And I’m asking why,” I snapped back at him.
He picked up his T-shirt. At least that was progress. “We should talk—”
My head swung around to the still closed door. There was definitely the sound of beer bottles being stocked at the bar. The bands were going to be here any second, and Dion was still standing there in all his glory. He was holding his T-shirt but made no move to put it on.
“Dion, if you don’t put on your clothes, everyone is going to know,” I hissed out.
“Know what? That we just had the best fuck of our lives?”
My head snapped around so I could glare at him. He had the T-shirt over his head and was snatching his jeans off the floor. Finally.
“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that, Nik?” he said. He slid the denim over his narrow hips, and I could finally breathe. “I’m just trying to help you—”
“No, you’re trying to fuck me—”
“I already did that.”
I staggered back on one foot, as if the force of his cutting words shoved me. I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing came out. Instead, my eyes started watering. I looked away before he could notice.
“And now it’s out of our system,” he said, shoving his sockless feet into his trainers. He stormed to the door then paused, his hand resting on the knob, and looked back at me. I lifted my gaze to meet his, but the fire in his eyes made them too piercing to hold. “See you around.”
I dropped down onto the couch, wishing the cushions would swallow me. I was an idiot, a fool. The room was still thick with the smell of sex, a reminder that I was weak, giving into Dion’s lies and manipulations. I fought back the tears welling up in my eyes, but my body vibrated with shame.
“Never again,” I whispered, dabbing at my eyes with the edge of my T-shirt. “Never again.”
10
“Where the hell is that boy?” Devlin griped.
Rafe plucked at his bass guitar. “He’s never been on time to a sound check in his life.”
“But this late?” Devlin said, glancing at his watch one more time.
“Dion had a late night,” Rafe said, going on the defensive for his brother. The truth was, Dion never made it back to the bus last night. I spent most of it tossing and turning, waiting for him to show up. The only thing that kept us all from outright panicking was that Rafe had gotten a few barely coherent texts from Dion. My anger toward him grew proportionally with the snippets from those texts that Rafe shared.
“It’s three in the afternoon,” Devlin said. “I don’t give a shit what he did last night. You get your ass to sound check on time.”
“We can sound check again,” Presley called from her barstool. She and Jett were chilling on the club’s mezzanine level, which looked down on the stage. “You know, in case the sound guy wants something to do.”
Even though I couldn’t see her eyes from my vantage point, I was certain she winked at the sound guy. And I was grateful at her attempt to diffuse the situation with some mild flirtation. The sound guy did not look happy behind all his monitors. There was a 99.9 percent chance that the band would sound like shit if the sound guy was annoyed.
Just then, Dion staggered into the venue. The front door boomed closed behind him.
“Satan’s Sluts do not get any extra sound checks,” he slurred. He had an open can of beer in one hand, and the remainder of the six-pack dangled from the other. “They don’t get any extra anything.”
Dion stood in the middle of the club, sunglasses still on. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes, except now they were stained and rumpled. He looked like a first-rate asshole. The sound guy didn’t bother to hide his disgust.
Dion shrugged. “What? Am I late?”
Devlin went on the attack. “This is some straight-up bullshit right here. Yes, you are late. Not only that, you are lit. Like a goddamn Christmas tree.”
Dion still didn’t remove his shades. “Long night.”
“Boy, you are done with the partying on this tour,” Devlin laid into him, grabbing the six-pack.
Dion yanked the beer back. Then he got right up in Devlin’s face and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You work for me. You don’t tell me what to do. So sit the fuck down and shut up, old man.”
“Grimm Records cuts my paycheck, and Gary Grimm gave me the authority to whip your ass. So, while this tour is bankrolled by Grimm, you will listen to me,” Devlin said, not backing down.
My drums being my first line of defense against anxiety, I bit my bottom lip and softly tapped out a rhythm. Dion and Devlin at each other’s throats wasn’t a good sign. Under my breath, I hummed Rogue Nation’s song “Ruined” while tapping out the beat.
Dion rounded on me. “Did I say it was time to start sound check?”
“God, Dion, I’m just fiddling,” I said, stilling my sticks. I eyed him warily, and my heart dropped as his angry face turned into a mask of revulsion.
“Fiddling?” he yelled. “It sounds like you were playing ‘Ruined’—my ‘Ruined’—with the wrong goddamn beat.”
I swallowed back my tears, forcing myself to ignore the pain of my heart shattering into a million pieces. “It sounds cool,” I bit out.
“‘Ruined’ off tempo does not sound cool,” he railed. “‘Ruined’ moves at the speed of a meth head getting his first dose. ‘Ruined’ is speed metal. ‘Ruined’ is ruined when you slow it down. Like a fucking girl.”
“What the hell is your problem, Dion?” I channeled my hurt into anger, but dammit my voice cracked anyway. “I was just messing around. You know, like a drummer.”
He stalked to me, only the drum kit between us.
“You don’t mess around with my fucking song!” He yanked his sunglasses off and met my eyes with his own. They sunk into his skull, dark circles wrapped around them, angry red lines cracking through the whites.
I gripped my sticks tight in my fists to keep from punching him. But when my hands squeezed the wood, a sharp pain seared up my arms. I released the sticks, and they landed on the floor in a clatter.
“Nik?” Jett’s loud whisper slipped down from the mezzanine, but I ignored her, opening and closing my hands, trying to work out the muscles of my forearms. My heart slammed against my chest, and my breath quickened as my fear manifested as an ache in both arms.
“Let’s sound check this bitch,” Dion grumbled, picking up his guitar. Then he looked me over. “You’re not wearing that tonight, are you?”
I leaned down and gingerly picked up my sticks from the floor. “There’s nothing wrong with my outfit,” I said when I straightened. The sticks felt foreign in my hands, uncomfortable. Weird.
There was nothing wrong with a pair of black skinny jeans and an old sleeveless Tom Petty concert tee. It was my second favorite drumming outfit. “What’s your problem?”
Dion’s eyes worked me over. “The audience wants to see your tits bounce when you pound.”
“That’s enough out of you,” Devlin barked at him.
I simply closed my eyes and ground my teeth together.
Dion launched into a loud guitar riff in response, leaving Rafe scrambling to catch up. Dion warbled into the microphone, his mouth too close, causing a loop of feedback that the sound guy rushed to correct. I dropped my hands to my sides, the ache intensifying. I didn’t trust my arms to bang out the right rhythm, and I didn’t have any faith in Dion to lead the band. Not when he was being a complete asshole.
Dion’s guitar riffs came to a sudden stop, leaving Rafe to once again play catch up. The bass faded out, and all eyes were back on Dion.
He exploded again, this time at Sound Guy. “Don’t you know how to run a fucking soundboard?”
Sound Guy immedia
tely cut the power to the mics. “Fuck you, you preening cocksucker.”
Then Sound Guy stood up, and I cringed. He was a full six-feet-plus inches and built like a linebacker. Dion took a long pull from his beer. Liquid courage.
“Don’t piss off the sound guy,” I hissed at him.
Dion glared at me. “Or what? You’ll fuck him happy too?”
Now I hoped Sound Guy came down and kicked Dion’s ass.
“That was a line you did not want to cross,” Devlin hollered. He was onstage now, and in Dion’s face. “You watch how you speak to her.”
“Dev, it’s fine,” I lied. “He’s an asshole when he’s drunk.”
“He’s an asshole when he’s sober,” Devlin snapped.
Dion took another swig from his can then tossed it in the general direction of Sound Guy. The toss was so feeble that it didn’t even make it halfway to its intended target. Then Dion gripped the microphone stand to stay upright, and hiccupped. His face went gray.
“Does he need a doctor or something?” Presley asked.
“He gets no doctor,” Devlin raged. “He reaps what he sows.”
I shrank further behind my kit and wrinkled my nose. “But I’d rather he not barf onstage.”
“I’m not going to barf,” Dion said. He swallowed. His pale pallor turned a greenish hue.
Devlin jumped into action and pulled Dion by his shirt away from the stage and the expensive equipment. “Shit. You get your ass into the bathroom. I’ll call the damn doctor. Your father is going to skin you alive when he hears about this. But he’s going to have to wait in line behind me.”
A string of curse words followed the two of them into the bathroom.
“Can they sober him up fast enough for tonight’s gig?” Presley asked, once they stumbled out of earshot.
“I sure as fuck hope so,” Rafe said.
“They’ll probably IV drip him,” Jett said, barely looking up from her book. She used a penlight to read in the dark club, and it illuminated the lower half of her face. “And they’ll probably include an anti-nausea med in it. Since he’s barfing.”
“How do you know all this?” Rafe asked.
Jett’s head went back into her book. “College. Freshmen can’t handle their alcohol.”
“So college is good for something,” Rafe teased. Jett kept her head bowed but raised her hand in a middle finger salute.
I glanced at Studio Seven’s sound guy, arms crossed and eyes glaring at the stage. “Maybe we should just continue sound check without Dion.”
“I’d recommend that,” Sound Guy said.
“Agreed,” Rafe said. “My voice can get his levels close enough.”
“Let’s get this done, then,” Sound Guy ordered. He was cranky, but who could blame him?
“What do you want to check with?” I asked.
Rafe started plucking out the bass chords for “Ruined.” “But do that slow tempo,” he said, flashing me a smile. He had a small gap between his front teeth that made his grin disarmingly sexy. “It sounded cool that way.”
Pride swelled in my chest. I loved arranging music, working with tempo. So someone complementing one of my ideas—particularly another musician, even if it was Rafe—was cool. I smiled and tapped at my drums, the small twinge in my arms subsiding when my hands relaxed around the sticks. Rafe tried to match the new beat, but kept getting tripped up. I jumped in on vocals, although I was risking the ire of the already irritated sound guy.
Ruin me, ruin you
All our bodies want to do
Your caress sets me on fire
Falling prey to base desires
Damning me to love you still
Even while you wreck me
Ruined
Presley and Jett jumped to their feet and burst into applause.
“Bravo!” Presley called from the bar. “It’s like a torch song now.”
“I like it way better than Dion’s speed metal version,” Jett agreed. “And now you can actually make out the lyrics.”
“And those lyrics are almost as good as Jett’s,” Presley said. Jett gave her a sour look. “Come on, I said almost. Did Dion write it?”
Rafe nodded. “Yup, and he’s gonna be pissed about the new tempo.”
“Fuck him,” Presley said. “You should totally play it like that tonight.”
“I agree,” Vince said, stepping out from the dark vestibule. “And where is the prodigal son? I got a text from Devlin asking me to come down right away.”
I played a light rat-a-tat-tat on my cymbal and tried to shrink back into the shadows. “Rafe, you should tell him.” Rafe flashed me a desperate look. Vince was going to go bananas when he heard. No one wanted to be the messenger. “I’m just the hired gun. Remember?”
“I’ve got no problem telling him what Dion’s been up to,” Presley said. She stomped down the stairs from the mezzanine level. With her hands on her hips, she confronted our stepfather with the Presley-level confidence that I envied. “Dion went on a bender last night. Like, major. And Devlin is trying to sober him up in some shitty bathroom in this shitty club.”
“Still here,” Sound Guy shouted. “You know, the guy who runs killer sound for this shitty club.”
“Sorry,” Presley shouted back before turning back to Vince. “What I’m getting at is that Dion is a hot mess, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”
Vince’s words were cold and measured. “What I’m going to do about it?”
“This has nothing to do with you, Presley,” Rafe snapped at her.
It was Jett’s turn to stomp down the stairs. “We want this for Nikki. And you both treat her like a goddamn outsider, so she won’t speak up,” she said. “And I know you feel the exact same way as she does.”
Rafe opened his mouth to say something, but then he and Jett shared a look, and he snapped it closed.
“That’s what I thought,” Presley said with a smirk.
“That’s not fair,” Rafe said to Jett. “Not at all.”
“But it’s true,” Jett said, her hands planted on her hips.
“Presley. Jett,” I said, standing up from behind my drum kit, looking between the two of them.
“No, Nik, I will not shut up,” Jett fumed. “There is nobody in this room who loves music more than you.”
“Well—” Presley started.
“Pres, you are a great singer and an excellent front woman, but you do not love music—music, not fame—more than Nik.”
Presley’s eyes narrowed, but Jett ignored her and turned back to me. “You were the first one to pick up an instrument. Presley and me, we just kind of did it because we were around it all the time. But you, Nik, this is your passion.”
“She’s right,” Devlin said, coming back into the room. He was drying his hand with a paper towel. “Ace loved giving you drum lessons because you were so damn excited about it.”
Vince whirled around to Devlin. “Where’s Dion?”
“He’s not feeling one-hundred-percent.”
Vince’s face turned red with anger. “I am going to rip that kid a new asshole.”
Devlin stepped in front of Vince and touched his arm lightly. “I already did. And I think he got the message loud and clear.”
“I have passion too, you know,” Rafe said to Jett. He plucked at his bass and sulked.
“Everyone in this room has passion,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“But not like you, kid,” Devlin said, shooting me a grin.
I chewed my lower lip. I hated it when Presley and Jett talked up my passion and talked down their own. Jett did her college thing. Presley saw herself as a multinational corporation, and her voice was just one part of it. Music was a means to that end. But it was nice being in the band together. It was our glue. Through all the shit with our dad using and our mom being a mess, the late nights, being dragged out on tour with Mom’s latest mistake, through Vince who became the permanent mistake—making music together was our one
solace.
Dion stumbled into the club, his hue still a bit on the green side. “Hey, Vince, what’s up?” he mumbled, then staggered to the edge of the stage and sat down.
“I get you the deal of a lifetime, and this is how you handle it?” Vince seethed, his fists balled up.
Dion cradled his head in his hands. “Do we have to do this now, Dad?”
“When do you suggest we do it?” Vince asked, raising his voice.
Dion groaned, and I began to feel bad for him. “Maybe when the room isn’t spinning so much.”
“This is an embarrassment,” Vince spat out. “This entire tour is an embarrassment.”
Rafe stopped plucking his bass. He squared his shoulders and faced off with Vince. “What are you talking about? The tour’s been good.”
“When the unsigned opening act creates more buzz than the headliner? That’s an embarrassment.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Dion muttered.
“You want to try me, son?” Vince snapped. “Why was Rogue Nation blown off by KEXP? Alice was working them hard on your behalf, and they came back and booked the opening act. Satan’s Sisters is the only reason why the industry is taking this tour seriously. Don’t think Grimm hasn’t noticed.”
I winced at Vince’s words. Dion’s response was to lay down on the filthy stage and curl into the fetal position. He was in no shape to process what his dad was saying. This wasn’t constructive.
“Come on, Vince. It’s rock and roll,” I said. “You partied pretty hard, had wild times with the groupies.”
“I also had business sense,” Vince said. “Why do you think we had so many groupies? That was the scene. Scenes change.”
Devlin clapped Vince on the arm. “Maybe give the kid a break, Vince. You’re forgetting that touring is a lot of pressure, and this is their first. He’s just blowing some of the steam off.”
Vince shook off Devlin’s arm. “I think he needs to learn how to handle it without turning into Kyle.”
The room went silent. I watched Vince for a flicker of pain or remorse over bringing up his dead son. But his face was carved stone.
“So you’re saying the groupies were for show?” Presley broke the silence, her eyes wide. She treated this revelation like learning Santa wasn’t real.
