A Shit Storm: Runaway Rock Star (Silver Strings Series E Book 1)

by Lisa Gillis

  “I bet. Anyone would be.” Finally! I can speak although I want to kick myself for the trite response.

  She invades my space, catching my arms in a straightforward manner as if we’re literal friends instead of virtual.

  I slide my arms back enough until I catch her hands in mine and lightly squeeze. “You’re going to be fine.”

  In a few hours, her band, Splynter, will be on stage playing for a few thousand here at this outdoor festival, instead of a few hundred in her town’s local clubs.

  “So, you need to come around to the other side.” She tightens her grip on my hands before releasing. “You can bring the bike.”

  “Cool.” I nod and contain my surprise when she bends, picks up the guitar case, and slings it over her shoulder. Once it’s settled, she straddles the seat, leaving room for me to ride in front of her.

  And so I do after passing her the helmet to wear. I don the backpack, regretting that its bulk is between her and me. The bike roars to life, and her breath feathers my neck.

  “Exit out that drive, and go left.”

  I don’t want the ride to end, but it does soon after her last direction caresses my ear. As instructed, I roll to a stop near a few more motorcycles and a truck. These vehicles are parked beside a luxury RV as nice as the ones my dad once toured in.

  “Come on.” She has my hand again, and still wearing my guitar, she struts toward a large tent.

  I hesitate long enough to let the backpack drop to the ground beside the front wheel, feeling sure it will be fine. Who would want to steal it? There is evidence of money everywhere I look.

  My guitar is another thing though. There’s no way I will leave it even for a minute, but I do offer to relieve her of it.

  “Here, let me take that.”

  “I got it. Let’s just go.”

  “No, really just—”

  “Worried about your girl?”

  “Huh?”

  “Cali, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Deductive reasoning.” As she talks, we walk, and the tent looms closer. Random people mill around, going in, coming out. “I thought ‘which axe would Trey bring all the way from Florida? ‘Twelve,’ or ‘Cali?’ Hands down, ‘Cali’.”

  ‘Cali’ is a vintage Gibson named for her home state. My grandfather bought her in California before he became a renowned guitar god. My dad moved her back to Cali with him when he was signed to a label there. And I took her back to visit Cali… and pawned her. Thankfully, my dad got her back. It wasn’t my finest moment.

  Sometimes it’s weird to think how much Sash knows about me. How much I know about her.

  Music is much louder, drifting from the closest stage—a mountain of scaffolds in the distance. But my eyes are fixed on her ass as we reach the door. Shaking myself, I reach around her to open it for her, and she does a confused dance, clearly not expecting the gentlemanly move.

  Recovering, she shoots me a dazzling smile and steps through. I’m surprised when I step onto a wood floor and also by the quality of the furnishings and a tended bar. It’s nothing I haven’t seen when tagging along on tour with my dad. But he was always the main act. I’ve seen the setup for supporting bands and they were never this elaborate.

  “Look who I found!” The pipes on this woman are amazing even off stage. There are a dozen guys, and they all stop what they’re doing at her voice. The females outnumber the males, and they are divided in their attention. Half turn interested eyes our way, and others carry on with their vices.

  Two guys close in and Sash lights up even more. “Trey, meet Sladen and Mark.”

  The one I know as Sladen, because he peeked into the camera a few times during Sash and my Skype sessions, grins as he puts his hand out. “You look taller in real life.”

  “Yeah, you too,” I return the joke.

  Sladen is the bassist for Splynter. Mark, the drummer, shakes my hand next. “Dude! So glad you came. Sash has not shut up about you today.”

  Sladen affirms. “She jumped around like a maniac when she got your text this morning and has pretty much been a spaz since.”

  I send a look her way, and she smiles with no embarrassment. “It’s true.”

  Several others gather around during this exchange—all male—and she makes a broad introduction.

  “Everybody, this is Trey Duplei.” Her arm curves familiarly around my waist. “Trey, this is everybody.”

  They close in, shaking my hand, and Sash eventually drifts off during the onslaught. Near the wall, well away from any groups gathered, she bends, letting my guitar slip to the floor, and then twisting, she shoots me a knowing smile before carrying on to her destination.

  A knowing smile, because as one musician to another, she knows I’m protective of my gear? Or because she caught my eyes on her fine ass?

  “So, about time you got here.”

  I swivel my attention back to the group.

  “I’m joking, man. I’m Trip.”

  “I’m Bill.”

  “Introduce yourself, dude.” Bill nudges his buddy, who is so far silent.

  “I’m Wesley.”

  I will never remember all of the names. They continue identifying themselves and give each other a hard time. I’m playing a name association game learned in speech class, and probably that’s why I’m slow to the snap.

  Wesley, Bill, Trip. I’m in the company of one of the largest indie band success stories of the decade. What is ‘Trixie Too’ doing at some college town music festival?

  Looking around at the elaborate tented abode, I concluded it’s their setup.

  Just when I am about to verbally recognize them, Wesley Tricks turns the tables. “Trey Duplei, did you say?”

  The rest of them snicker, and it’s funny—like a Dr. Seuss rhyme. But I’m too freaked at what I’m seeing in his eyes to laugh.

  “You’re with a band right?” His gaze flicks momentarily to my guitar case and then speculatively back to my face. “Yeah, I know you. Give me a minute.”

  Holy shit, no! My vacation from myself can’t end less than three days into it.

  Shaking my head, I hope to deflect his thoughts before he remembers where he’s seen me—aka my dad. Before he figures out Jack Storm or Jack Loren is who he’s thinking of.

  “No, I’m not in a band. I just play.”

  “No?” He appears confused, but I see a relinquishment of his previous thoughts. “You seem awfully familiar, bro…” He clasps me on the shoulder. “Sash says you road tripped from Florida?”

  “Yeah. I got a bike. Not much. But it got me here.”

  “As in motorcycle, I hope?”

  “Honda Shadow.”

  “You rode all the way here?” One of the others chime in as we close the distance to the bar setup. “Respect, dude.”

  “Seriously.” Another agrees.

  I’m not really a drinker, but when we drift to the corner, I order a rum and Coke, stopping myself right before I say Jack and Coke.

  Scanning the room, I find Sash perched on a futon sofa, and she waves me over. Acknowledging with an upward sweep of my chin, I sip at the beverage and wait for a break in the chat going on around me, which is also occasionally directed toward me. The talk revolves around road trips and gigs. Trixie Too’s earlier days with vans and a motorcycle caravan.

  I break away and drift to Sash. My wayward gaze falls to her neckline and the stretch of her shirt molding what might be the hottest rack I’ve ever seen. Embarrassed, I try to recover, and before returning my focus to her face, I let it slide to the ice melting in her glass.

  “Want another?” Finally, I look at her face.

  Instead of answering, she straightens from the couch. “Yeah. But I need to move. Seriously, I’m freaking.”

  She walks as she talks, and I follow, back to the bar. A path opens for her. Even at the bar, bodies make way respectfully.

  As the next couple of hours pass, I see Sash is respected and loved among her peers. And becaus
e of this, I’m receiving the same royal treatment.

  Late afternoon, I’m standing with Sash, her band, and various members of their entourage. The stage is set, and time has ticked to her set.

  As the MC speaks about the charities supported by the festival, Sash slips her freezing hand into mine. The air has cooled some, but not enough for her body temperature to drop to what almost feels like shock levels. Her other hand is clasping her bass player’s wrist.

  Splynter is a trio. Mark rests a hand on her shoulder.

  A steady tremor shoots through her limbs, and she twists enough to look up at me. “Seriously, thanks for being here.”

  Automatically, my fingers squeeze hers. I want to wrap her in my arms, infuse some warmth into her, but I don’t give in to this protective instinct.

  I wonder if she’s as weirded as I am about our relationship. We’ve confided feelings and secrets online. The virtual intimacy doesn’t go away face to face. Yet, there’s a social protocol. It doesn’t feel right to hug her even after dozens of virtual hugs.

  “Please welcome Splynter!”

  She goes stiff. I press her fingers again and feel a slight push rock her body. It was Mark, and he prods her again. At the same time, Sladen tugs her arm as she moves forward. I realize I’m gripping her hand as tightly as she’s gripping back, and I extract my fingers.

  Mark, still resting his hand on her back, takes the hand I release. Hand in hand, the trio moves to center stage, and the audience begins to clap and shout.

  The guys drop her hands, and she immediately grabs the mic stand as they take their places.

  “Are you ready to rock, South Bend?” Her voice squeaks.

  “Shit, she’s going to choke!”

  I glare at Wesley, the source of that comment, but he doesn’t break his stare. “Don’t choke, baby girl…” His words are a quiet chant, and I reassess him, wondering again, why his band is here.

  Her hands drop to her strat, and as if that motion is a cue, the drumbeat begins. Her first chords blare from the speakers, and the bass kicks in. She closes her eyes and begins the song.

  I’ve never heard anything so sweet. Once again, a sweet sunshiny glow blankets my mind and warms my soul. Sure, I’ve watched the Splynter videos she linked me to. But now I know. Seeing her in a video is nothing compared to the energy she exudes in person.

  She’s darkness and color. Cobalt wisps begin to curl and slick to her sweaty cheeks and neck. The yellow flower petals covering both arms are a beautiful contrast to lightly tanned skin. She’s fiery and sweet.

  In the heat of an angry lick and lyric, she turns her head, bestowing a smile my way. I grin back and then surreptitiously glance around to see if anyone—like Wesley Tricks—is behind me.

  When I see no one, my chest tightens, knowing the sunshiny smile was for me.

  She’s in her element. She’s owning it. She was born to be on that stage with not only a few thousand at her feet, but tens of thousands.

  “Fuck, I thought I was going to hurl!” Sash recaps those moments on stage. “Chick from Splynter pukes on front row.”

  Mark and Sladen chuckle, and I feel a smile curve my lips. I’ve known her less than a day, but it’s long enough to know she loves to headline speak.

  “You killed it!” Wesley passes her a smoke, and I don’t miss the infatuation in his eyes.

  “Killed it?” Something territorial in me takes over. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever competed for a girl’s attention, but here I am ready to make an idiot of myself. “Sash, you murdered it. Stabbed it sixty times and left it to bleed out on the floor!”

  Wesley turns to eye me dead on, giving me a look like I’m an imbecile, and I sure feel like one. Sladen and Mark do a double take. I don’t blame them. Who mouths off that sort of shit? Hell, they probably think I’m a serial killer now. Bodies on the side of the highway from Florida to here.

  Sash’s eyes whip to mine and hold my stare. But unlike the others, they’re sparkling with humor. One corner of her lips lift, and she passes me the smoke. “Here, Killer. I didn’t mean to bogart.”

  We’re standing around our cramped room in the motel where several of the bands are staying. A few dozen had been at the impromptu party around the pool after the shows, but the crowd dwindled after the night manager threatened to call the local law. The rest of Wesley’s band had gone up to their rooms, but he hadn’t followed. He’d trailed us instead to our room.

  I have a feeling he’s hoping to get lucky with Sash. I pass the smoke to Sladen and consider getting out of here, taking a ride or something so I don’t have to watch this thing between him and Sash play out, just in case it all goes wrong.

  I don’t realize I’m studying her until she turns her attention quizzically to me again.

  “You know what we need to do?” Her fingers curve just over my elbow and she drags me purposefully to the other side of the room. “We need to hear this guy play.”

  “No.” I shake my head and dig in with my heels when she reveals what’s she’s up to. “No, we don’t. Not tonight.”

  Wesley is the one who picks up his expensive guitar that’s been changing hands all night, and he invades my space. “Play.”

  It’s a clear challenge, and I wonder if he thinks I’ve never touched a twelve string.

  Hell, my grandfather practically invented twelve-string.

  Grabbing the guitar, I break eye contact and caress the twin sets of strings. The possibilities run through my mind before I flick a defiant gaze to the Trixie Too lead guitarist. His locked gaze wavers as if he knows what I’m about to do and what will come of it.

  I smile. A slayer’s leer. I know his work. And I know my capabilities.

  This is one of those times when genetics is about to rock.

  I felt the magic in my fingers the first day I ever picked up a guitar—in the store with my dad. They are meant to dance on strings and they have been for more than a decade.

  Effortlessly I coax one of Trixie Too’s songs from the instrument.

  I have everyone’s attention, and it’s not even powered on yet. Continuing to play with one hand, I kneel and flick on the amp.

  Immediately it becomes the power anthem it’s known for—only better because I’m manipulating twice the strings, turning the song into something it never was.

  Sometimes I wonder if inherited traits grow stronger, generation to generation. Sometimes I feel I’m already playing at my dad and grandfather’s level. And I’m not even twenty.

  Obviously, if I said anything like that to my dad, he’d reach for one of his favorite axes and teach me a thing or two. I grin at the thought. My dad is a guitar guru, and I’m being overly cocky to think I’m near his equal yet. I can’t help it though. I’m caught up in the moment.

  And at this moment, I know I’m playing better than Wesley Tricks.

  “See!” Sash is beaming, and she cuts her eyes away for a split second to Sladen and Mark. “Told you!”

  “Dude knows his way around a guitar.” Mark nods. At least that’s what I imagine he says because the chords are so loud I can’t hear his reply.

  Maybe my ears know what’s important because they pick up every little thing Sash says, or maybe it’s the higher pitch of her voice. I have no trouble understanding her.

  Bobbing her head to the beat, she shouts and encourages “You rock it, Trey!”

  Suddenly the amp goes dead.

  Looking around, I find the culprit.

  Wesley’s arms are crossed over his chest, but he’s standing right next to the box. His chin lifts a notch. “Who said you could play our song?”

  Every ion hanging in the air is supercharged. Sash, Sladen, Mark, and the couple of others in the room still their motions. I’ve been in this moment before. If I make one wrong movement or say one wrong thing, Wesley Tricks from Trixie Too is going to stomp my ass.

  Speaking of hereditary, have I ever mentioned my dad takes no shit from anyone ever? He’s the king of smart-ass comme
nts—and I’m the prince.

  Carefully, with all the respect due the instrument, I let the guitar swing from its strap while ramming my fingers into my left hip pocket. Extracting a fistful of change, I toss it in the direction of Tricks.

  “Residuals.” I look him dead in the eye and reposition my fingers on the guitar. “Keep the change. I may play another later.”

  I begin playing even though the amp is no longer on. I’m not totally stupid. I’m using his guitar as a shield on the pretext of ripping out the Hendrix song every twelve string is created to play.

  It’s a good plan—the guitar protects me for all of three seconds.

  Wesley ducks his head, coming at me like a bull. I get a few hits in, but take more than a few more before the guys in the room pull us apart.

  “Are you okay?” Sash materializes in front of me while I stand to the side, wary and watching, hoping Wesley will take his leave. “C’mon. You need some ice.”

  Automatically I move to follow her, and I catch Wesley’s furious look as he takes in the two of us. Steeling my muscles so that the giddy smile I’m feeling won’t break loose, I walk around him, dogging her tracks. At this point, I’m kind of surprised he lets me out the door without jumping me again.

  The ice machine is at the other end of the long hallway. It takes almost the entire walk before I break the silence. “I’m sorry. That’s not me. I swear. Not really.”

  “What are you saying? You’re a lover and not a fighter?”

  I don’t dare answer that question with the first flirtatious crack popping into my head. I’ve no doubt Wesley Tricks would answer Sash with a sexual innuendo, but for the most part, I treat the opposite sex with respect.

  I can’t stop my grin though, and sobering, I pause in front of the machine when we reach it. “It’s just that it’s your day. And it’s so cool I got to share it with you. And then I do something stupid like fight your friend. I’m not saying I’m never an ass. But I’m usually not an inconsiderate one.”

  She’s filling a bag and she stops to assess me. “I thought it was funny—the money thing. Not you getting hit. He was being a jerk. And he’s not my friend. I just met him today.”