by Elle Greco
“I don’t know how much was for show,” Devlin said, squinting his eyes at Vince. “But I remember pulling your head out of a few toilets back in the day.”
Vince scrubbed his face with his hand. “The point is, Rogue Nation needs to do something.”
“So what do you suggest?” Rafe snapped. “You come in here with all your criticisms. How about giving us a solution?”
Vince turned to Rafe. “Why do you think Satan’s Sisters is getting buzz?”
Rafe shrugged. “Because they’re hot chicks?”
Presley twisted around to look at Jett and me. “Aww, Rafe thinks we’re hot.”
“Because we’re new,” Jett interjected before her eyes launched skyward.
“Because you’re good,” Vince corrected her. “You play like a team, your lyrics are relatable, your melodies are solid. And you can read the audience. You know what they want, and you give it to them. Like trotting out that old war horse ‘Rhiannon,’ but pushing its tempo up to thrash punk. It was exactly what the crowd wanted.”
“Nik’s the one reading the audience,” Jett said, and I tilted my head to her in appreciation for giving me the credit. “The tempo change was her call.”
“So Nik’s got a knack for it, but you and Presley are smart enough to let her ride it. No ego,” Vince said, pointedly looking between Dion and Rafe. I didn’t bother correcting him about Presley and her ego. She did know when to let it go. “Let Nik read Rogue’s audience. She’s part of the band, boys, and she’s good. Use that to your advantage.”
Rafe swore under his breath. “She’s been with the band for, like, five days.”
“I don’t give a shit if she’s been with the band for five minutes,” Vince barked. “She’s actually benefiting the band, while you and your brother are coming up with ways to get her off the tour, like vandalizing your own damn tour bus,” Vince paused, and looked between the two men. Dion’s eyes flickered open and then closed again.
Rafe raised his arms in surrender. “Yo, that shit wasn’t me.”
Vince ignored him and plowed on. “Yeah, I know all about why your tour bus has the opening act’s devil tail logo all over it instead of Rogue’s logo. It’s covering up your temper tantrum.”
Rafe slumped against the back wall of the stage and sulked. While a dressing down was deserved, Vince was laying into them in the middle of the club, in front of me, my sisters, Devlin. Hell, in front of Sound Guy. This didn’t need such a wide audience.
“Vince, that’s enough,” I said, coming out from behind my kit.
Vince ignored me, stalking to the edge of the stage, his wiry body electric. “Rogue is an industry laughingstock at this point. If you two boys don’t pull your shit together, I’ll tell Grimm to cut the tour short.”
Rafe snapped upright, his back stiff. “You can’t do that.”
Vince prowled toward Rafe. “I can do whatever the fuck I want. Don’t you know who I am?” he asked, his voice a roar.
Rafe, to his credit, held Vince’s stare.
“Come on, Vince, this is ludicrous,” I said, planting my hands on my hips.
“Uh, Nik,” Presley called from the mezzanine. I glanced up at her, and she made a cutting motion across her neck before pointing to our stepfather. His hands were balled into fists, and his face was flush with anger.
“No, I will not cut it out,” I snapped. “So we’re having a tough time forming some cohesion. What the hell do you expect? You just tossed us together and sent me on tour with them. The first time we played together was at Outside Lands. What the hell were you label idiots thinking? That’s band suicide right there. You set us up with shitty odds. But both you and Grimm have your heads so far up each other’s asses you can’t possibly have a clue how much Rogue is killing it.”
After a collective intake of breath, silence settled over the club. Vince’s face was splotched purple with rage.
“We do ‘Ruined’ Nik’s way,” Dion croaked from his fetal position on the floor.
I shook my head. “No, Dion, it’s fine. Really—”
He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. “We do ‘Ruined’ your way. Your tempo.”
“Look, I think it sounded cool and all, Nik,” Rafe said before turning to his brother. “But our fans, D? They’re gonna hate it.”
“So let them,” Dion said, inching himself up to a sitting position. “If they hate it, we know Nik’s reading-the-crowd thing is full of shit.”
“What if they love it?” Jett challenged. She met my eyes and gave me an encouraging smile. A line of sweat trickled down my back.
“If they love it, then Nik deserves to be in this band,” Dion said. “Can we go now, Devlin?”
Devlin took Dion by the arm and steadied him while he found his feet. “Vince, let me take the kid to the doc, get an IV of fluids going, get him ready for tonight.”
“Do what you need to do to make sure this band gets onstage tonight,” Vince growled. Then he turned and stalked out of the club.
Devlin held Dion up on one side, and Rafe grabbed him on the other. The three of them staggered after Vince.
Jett let out a low whistle. “Guess the heat’s on, Nik.”
“But did you have to antagonize Vince like that?” Presley quipped. “I mean, Jesus. He was kind of complimenting us.”
“We don’t want that type of compliment, Pres,” Jett said.
“What? He said we had more buzz,” Presley said, maneuvering around the equipment to get backstage.
“That’s truth, not a compliment,” Jett continued, nipping at Presley’s heels.
I went back to my drums, excitement mixed with dread. Here was my shot for the band to accept me. For Dion to accept me. But messing with “Ruined” was a huge gamble. Was it worth the risk?
“So, is it cool if I go?”
I jumped at the voice and looked up. Sound Guy stood and pulled on his jacket. I’d forgotten he was there. So had everyone else.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said, slumping further behind my drum kit. “Sound check’s over.”
“For what it’s worth, I liked the song,” he said. “It sounded fierce at the slower tempo.”
I nodded at him. “Thanks. You think the fans will like it?”
He shrugged. “Fans are weird. Maybe they’ll surprise you.”
He saluted me and then walked out of the venue.
“I hope you’re right,” I whispered.
11
“Dion should go on a preshow bender every day,” I mumbled to myself as we wrapped up our final song. Post intravenous fluid drip and anti-nausea meds, Dion was on point, and we finally seemed to find our rhythm as a band. Maybe the afternoon scream fest was our “Come to Jesus” moment. Our set killed. The crowd practically tossed themselves at Dion’s feet, scantily-clad women taking up the entire front row. Vince stood at the side of the stage, watching Dion with a measure of pride. Dion beamed at his dad. Apparently, they’d had a heart-to-heart at the doctor’s office during the IV procedure.
The crowd was still revved up from the set, and Dion didn’t want to get off the stage. He turned to me and Rafe. “We can’t walk off yet,” he called over the din of the crowd. “One more song.”
“What do you want to play?” Rafe yelled.
Dion looked at me. “‘Ruined.’”
Rafe jerked his head back. “I thought we agreed to keep it off the set list tonight.”
Yeah. So, after my blow up, Vince hadn’t exactly been happy with me. He let it be known by striking the song from the set list. I remained persona non grata, the drummer for hire. Whatever, Pop Art was looking better by the minute.
I shook my head, rolling my wrists to keep my muscles limber, a sliver of discomfort scoring its way from my wrists to my elbows. “This crowd is too amped for ‘Ruined.’” The last thing we needed was to end with “Ruined” played at the slower tempo. The crowd would riot.
“How about a cover?” Rafe asked. “Pull out an old Prince or some shit?”
“We do ‘Ruined’ Nikki’s way,” Dion said, turning back to the crowd and assuming rock god stance. The place erupted.
“Nikki’s way?” Rafe asked Dion’s back. I knew he was thinking about Vince’s reaction.
“Ever hear an old song a new way, and it just feels… right?” Dion’s question to the crowd was dead sexy, and I am pretty sure the wall of women all orgasmed at once. He stripped off his electric guitar, which kept the crowd screaming, and picked up his Brock Model OM acoustic. There was elegance in the guitar’s simplicity, and the sound that came out of it was sublime.
He turned to me, his eyes smoldering. “You lead us in, Nik.”
Rafe released his hold on his bass, and it swung loose in front of him. “Nikki leads in? Really?”
Dion ignored him and met my eyes, and the look he gave me sent all the blood in my body straight to my groin.
“And take it easy on me, Nik. It’s my first time,” Dion said into the mic, but he turned his head and shared a smile so intimate that I nearly came undone in front of the crowd. The crowd picked up on it and erupted into whistles and shouts. The wall of boobs looked slightly deflated.
When my heart caught up to my adrenaline, I launched into the new beat, and Dion picked it up easily on his guitar. The song was stunning, his smooth voice hit all the right notes. Even though it was unlike anything Rogue Nation had ever played, the crowd went right along with us. A few bras found their way onto the stage.
Afterward, I wiped down my face with my hand towel, and after acknowledging the audience with a wave and a short bow, we walked offstage. Rafe followed behind me, with Dion last to leave the screaming fans.
“Good job on ‘Ruined,’” Rafe said as we went, his hand coming up to ruffle my hair, sweat splattering against my back as he tousled it. “The audience ate that shit up.”
I started to say thanks, but he disappeared into a crush of backstage revelers. The greenroom was overrun with people. The smell of hot food wafted from the room, and my stomach growled. Grabbing an ice-cold bottle of beer from a cooler installed outside the door, I considered plunging my arms into the ice, my muscles remaining tight even though I was no longer pounding skins.
Vince sidled up to me and began to wrap his arm around my shoulders, recoiling as soon as his skin touched my sweat-slicked back. “Nicely done, Nik. That was exactly what the crowd needed.” I took in his compliment and smiled, rolling the cold bottle up one forearm and then the other.
I jutted my chin out toward the center of the room. “So, what is all this?”
“Grimm thought that you guys needed a little pick-me-up.”
“Grimm just decided to throw us an impromptu party in Seattle?”
“I’m not going to bullshit you, Nik,” Vince said.
I cracked open the bottle. “I appreciate that.”
“This is really for the Sisters, to keep you three happy while you are on a Grimm tour. He knows that the boys give you a hard time. He’s nervous with Pop Art sniffing around. As he should be.”
“There they are!” Presley’s voice carried over the sounds of the party. She shoved her way through the crowd, pulling Grimm’s A&R guy behind her. Even in jeans and a vintage Anthem concert T-shirt, he still looked constipated.
Vince nodded at the guy. “Eric.”
“‘Ruined’ is all anyone is talking about right now,” Eric said, pulling out his buzzing phone. “I think that song will absolutely chart. I just texted Grimm, and he wants it recorded immediately.”
“But we’re on tour,” I said.
“What’s the next stop?” Vince asked.
“Spokane,” Presley said, wrinkling her nose. She handed me a beer, so I chugged down the one in my hand and took the second on offer.
“That’s good. We can record at Amplified Wax. It’s a good studio,” Vince said. “Which producer does Grimm want on this?”
Eric turned his phone screen to Vince. “You.”
“Me?” Vince asked, squinting at the screen. “I haven’t produced any of Rogue Nation’s music.”
“He wants you,” Eric said, turning the device back and paraphrasing the message. “Says Anthem’s albums were always strongest when you produced them. He thinks you can turn this song into Rogue’s first number one.”
Presley squeezed Vince’s bicep and beamed. “He’s right.”
“I appreciate the confidence, Presley,” he said with a wink. “But I think they’d be better served with one of those hit-factory producers.”
“Stop the faux modesty!” Presley said with a laugh. She leaned into him. “You’ve got this.”
“Dion and I will butt heads the whole time,” he said.
“Not if he’s butting heads with me,” I grumbled.
“I hate to agree with her, but…” Eric said.
I rolled my eyes. “You know, I just want to get out of these sweaty clothes. Please tell me the dressing room is clear.”
“Jett was in there reading,” Presley said. “So you know there’s no partying happening in there.”
Eric and Vince were already plotting the new single’s release, so I headed to the dressing room. I shut the door to the outside party and enjoyed the silence of an empty room, Jett nowhere to be found. I made my way over to my tiny corner and put the unopened beer in an ice bucket filled with even more bottles that took up what little space was mine. Presley’s crap covered most of the makeup table, her products sorted in orderly drugstore groupings. I dug through my duffle bag for a clean top and pair of jeans.
Before I peeled off my soaked-through T-shirt, there was a knock on the door.
“Nik, you decent?”
It was Jordan.
“It’s cool, come in,” I called, flopping into a chair.
“Amazing set,” he said when he opened the door.
“Thanks.” I flexed and released my wrists. “So, what’s up? Is Devlin looking for me?”
“Gonna be honest. I noticed you wincing in pain a few times during the set,” he said, shifting his backpack so he could open it. “Your arms okay?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just need to get used to playing both sets, that’s all.”
While Jordan watched my face to evaluate my honesty, I took a moment to appreciate how cute he was. Sure, it was in kind of a nerdy way. But still.
However, as his gaze lingered, discomfort creeped in. “Honestly, I’m fine.”
He dropped his eyes from me and started digging through his bag. “It’s likely tendinitis.”
“See, nothing to worry about.”
“Right. But it hurts like a bastard. It’s affecting your playing.”
“No, it’s not,” I said quickly. I didn’t think it was anyway.
“Maybe you can’t tell behind the kit, but the drums were off. Not a lot,” he said, adding with a shrug, “but enough for me to notice.”
My hands began to shake, so I shoved them into my back pockets. “Dion and Rafe would definitely tell me if the drums were off.” They didn’t miss a chance to point out my fuckups. Especially in front of Vince.
“Maybe they were trying to protect your feelings or something,” he said.
I bit out a laugh. “Have you ever met my stepbrothers?”
“I mean, maybe they were worried about throwing off the beats even more,” he said. “Look, the drumming in these songs is complicated—”
“Not really,” I said, but Jordan was more focused on digging in his backpack than listening to me.
He reached across me and left two round chalky-looking pills on the dressing room counter. “Here, these will help, like, a million percent.”
I pushed one of the pills with my index finger. “Those don’t look like Advil.”
He laughed. “That’s because they’re prescription.”
I contemplated the pills. “I don’t know. This is weird. You’re not a doctor.”
“No, but I am the Grimm tour medic,” he reminded me. “The label makes sure the tour is stocked with som
ething stronger than over-the-counter stuff. Hard to see a doctor when you’re in a new city every night.”
“I guess,” I said, shaking off my apprehension. The label needed to ensure our health and safety after all.
“Look, if you don’t want them, I’ll call Grimm and tell him to hook us up with a doc in Spokane. It’ll cut into studio time, for sure—”
My eyes snapped up to meet his in the mirror. “We don’t have time to record as it is.”
“He may pull you off the tour—”
“He can’t.”
“I know he’s done it before. He can’t risk your arms being so fucked you’ll never play again. You could sue him or something.”
“Sue him?”
“Sure, for pushing you beyond your physical capabilities.”
My back stiffened. “My physical capabilities are just fine.”
He shrugged. “Okay. So maybe you just need a little something to get you through.”
I looked at the pills. “Maybe.”
“Look, when the tour is over, I’ll connect you with a good physical therapist in LA. Ronda Rousey swears by her. But right now, you need to get through this tour.”
“Right,” I said, waiting for him to leave, but he just leaned against the doorjamb. “So, um, if you don’t mind, I need to change.”
“Right, yeah, good talk, Nik. Glad I could help,” he said, and then he shuffled backward out the door.
“Yup, thanks again,” I said, shutting the door in his face. I turned and leaned my back against it. “Shit.”
I wasn’t a fan of pills. Not because I didn’t believe in the power of modern medicine, but because I had a hard time swallowing them. When homeopathic remedies failed, I opted for chewable tablets. If those weren’t an option, I asked for the smallest dose possible because that meant the smallest pill. While these weren’t elephant pills, they weren’t as small as Presley’s mini birth control pills, which resembled Tiny White Mighty Mints.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the pain in my arms was worrying. Pulling double duty with the Sisters and Rogue meant that I was playing a shit ton more than usual. Ostriching my head in the sand didn’t mean there wasn’t something jacked with my arms. But right now I needed to treat the symptoms. I needed to play. Just get through the tour. Back in LA, I’d address the cause.
