She’s a hot mess. Success lives in his back pocket. The stage calls to them, until a twisted fan tries to seal their fate…using nine words.
Five days ago, I couldn’t stand Jett. He’s a world-renowned guitarist in a hit band, and I’m a washed-up sex symbol vocalist in a band that’s seen its glory. Five days ago, something changed. I was given an ultimatum that I’m not sure I can live up to. The world of rock and roll is a cruel place. It’s a world where I can only be sure of one thing, and that one thing is what is ruining me. Jett sees right through me. And as much as I hate him, he keeps coming around. Until he disappears back to the stage. But does he really leave me?
I find Roxy in the back room, kicking my most prized amp. Sure, it’s held together with duct tape, but it plays better than anything else. She sneers and pokes at me, until she realizes that I have the one thing that she’s lost. I’d help her get it back if she’d lose the chip on her shoulder. Then I find out what’s eating her, and I see her in a different light. There’s more to Roxy than meets the eye. Her bandmates see it. That’s why they stick around. But will the world see it…and more important, will they see it before it’s too late?
Rock star romance
Hate to love romance
Drug and alcohol use
Medium heat
Smoking
Swearing
Cliffhanger ending
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Jett
If this guy clears his throat one more time, I’m going to punch him in the throat. Tom, I think his name is. The dude interviewing us is clearly way out of his element, practically shitting in his pants as he asks us questions that he’s been spoon fed from some network executive. The paper he holds between his legs with questions scrawled on it, is quivering with his nerves, and I want so badly to take him out of his misery and just start spewing shit on camera, but our manager, Dick, told us to take it easy on him. He’s someone’s nephew and as green as he seems.
The Flock of Seagulls haircut is annoying as hell, too. There’s a pair of clippers in Slick’s room, he’s our lead singer, and I’d love nothing more than to go grab them, pin this shithead down, and shave his locks off. Don’t get me started on the fluorescent shoes. “What made you decide to take part in this music festival?” he asks. Besides the million dollars an hour we’re being paid? Is what I want to say, but I refrain.
“It’s perfect timing.” Slick says. “We couldn’t say no with us going out on tour in the next few months.”
I’m bored and dying for a smoke. Crush, our drummer, is exchanging looks with me, like he’s thinking the same thing.
“Are you singing any of your new songs?” the dipshit asks.
“We might squeeze in a few, but we’ll save them for the tour.” I interject.
Slick adds to my thought. “We can’t play too much new stuff on account of the songs not being released yet.”
“Yeah, if we get any radio play in, even in the next day, we might, but otherwise we’ll stick to the older stuff.” I add.
We’re here in Oklahoma, getting ready to perform in what has been dubbed one of the biggest concert events of this decade, Rock Jam Nineteen Eighty-Five. What’s more is that our newest album, our third, is scheduled to be released this month, so the timing couldn’t be better. We credit our record company for acting fast on this one, getting a heads-up from concert promoters, and pushing the deadline up for our tracks to be recorded in time to ride the promotional waves. Terry, our producer, and Roy, our engineer, have been pulling all-nighters with us for weeks, getting this album complete.
The sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes, and I have bandages on every one of my fingers from strumming my axe so much. But I love it. I want to die playing my guitar. If I get a choice, that is. I’m sitting in this trailer, which is kind of like one of them portables we had in high school, all lined up at the back parking lot, to handle overflow. This place smells of mildew, like a cheap motel that I’ve grown to be so accustomed to over the years. The chairs are those school grade ones with a wooden seat and a metal frame, and the backdrop is the wooden panelling that you see in my parent’s basement.
“Jett, you care to comment on the headline in the paper about you and the groupie?” shithead asks, and he looks twice, as if he can’t believe he asked that, and if he could, he’d take it back. His look is apologetic, and I decide to let him off the hook.
“Alleged groupie, I believe it said.” I correct. “And it was a rag, not a paper, so no, I don’t care to comment.”
The article said I’d been caught fucking some groupie in the backseat of a limousine while attending a private screening of some dumb shit movie that Dick made us go to because they used a piece of one of our hit songs off our first album in it. The movie sucked. The chick I was with sucked pretty good, though, but I didn’t get caught doing anything. There wasn’t even incriminating evidence in the picture. They used a still from earlier in the evening. It was someone with a big mouth and nothing better to rag about. It could have even been the chick who blew me for all I know. Chicks do shit like that.
Dipshit looks at his notes, and I feel like he’s starting to get comfortable in his shoes, because the paper isn’t trembling anymore. “You got tickets?” I ask, gesturing at him with my chin.
“Err…no, sir.” He says, shaking his head.
“You mean you don’t get free ones for doing this interview?” Zane asks, teasing.
Dipshit smiles. “No, sir.”
“Dick, give the man tickets.” I say to our manager. “Jesus, the poor kid should at least get that.”
Dipshit seems to calm more. “Jett, how many hours a day do you practice?” he asks, without even looking at his paper.
I frown. “Mmm…it’s more like how many hours don’t I practice, man.”
“Yeah, Jett’s got his guitar on him all the time. The only reason why he hasn’t got one on him right now is because he couldn’t talk your camera guy into putting the chairs further apart. He’d have me holding his guitar for him if he had his way about it.” Zane is thumbing at me as he sits next to me.
“The man sleeps with his guitar. When he sleeps.” Crush adds.
“And what about you, Slick?” Dipshit asks. “How many hours a day do you practice singing?”
“Singing or writing songs, man…I’m always doing one or the other.” Slick answers honestly.
“And what do you do in your spare time for fun?”
“Music is our fun, man.” I answer honestly. “If it was like work, we wouldn’t do it.”
Dipshit seems genuinely impressed. I’m starting to like him. “What sort of feel would you say that this new album has? Is it the same good-time party vibe as the others, or is it a little bit different?” Nice. I tilt my head, impressed. Dipshit may have class after all.
“I heard someone give a perfect description of our music the other day. I wish like hell that I could think of who it was, but I can’t.” I say. “The dude said that when he listens to our music, it’s like a dog hanging his head out the car window wearing sunglasses. It’s just…cool.”
“Yeah, the kind you raise a thumb for when you hear the guy in the car next to you listening to the same tune, man.” Slick adds.
I lift my hand, giving Slick credit. “Exactly.”
Dipshit smiles. He’s starting to loosen up and have some fun. I haven’t heard him clear his throat in the last five minutes.
“Are you guys nervous at all? Are you used to performing with so many other artists?”
“Naw, man, we get along great with everybody.” I lie. Well, we try to get along, but let’s face it, God created assholes, and most of them are in the music industry. Like the band that we first toured with. The lead singer is some hotshot with a dick bigger than his brain. I was carrying my prized amp that I don’t let any other motherfucker carry, into the venue we were performing at. The motherfucker was ahead of me and I asked him if he could hold the door open for me. He turned around to glance at me. Here I’m thinking that he’ll hold it open, no problem. The door slams in my fucking face five seconds later, so I almost drop my fucking amp on my goddamn foot. I get inside the place and ask what the fuck is up his ass. You know what he says to me? “You open for me, you hold the fucking door for me, asshole.” You see what I’m saying?
“You guys do seem pretty cool.” Dipshit laughs, and I swear to God I hear his voice crack with pubescence. I bet he can’t even grow a beard yet, but he’s cool, so I like him.
“Thanks, man. You’re pretty cool, too. You got a girl, man?” I ask, nodding, holding an unlit cigarette in my mouth, hoping to hell someone will light it for me. And then I see the crooked ‘no smoking’ sign on the wall and take the cancer stick out of my fucking mouth, rolling my eyes.
“No. Not yet.” He chuckles shyly. Smart kid. Stay away from the chicks, unless it’s for a blow job or something. They’re nothing but fucking trouble, unless they’re fans, of course. I had me a girl or two back at home, but they either give you a fucking ultimatum, you know? Like it’s them or my music, or else they’re after you for your money. I have yet to meet a straight up girl, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking, either.
“Want me to fix you up, dude?” Slick teases.
Dipshit just chuckles again. I’m starting to like him. We can hear the soundchecks going on from the field next to us, where the stage is. It’s this huge football field where they have an outdoor stadium. Even bigger than the biggest venue that we’ve played in. Performances start tonight. We go on about halfway through, and then we’re on again tomorrow during the day, and on the third day, too, but at night again. We did our soundchecks just before this interview, so I’m guessing that the band doing their soundchecks is doing their interview next.
“Will you play ‘Fuss’?” he asks. And then I get it. He’s a fan. How cool is that?
“Sure, we’ll play it.” Slick says with enthusiasm. We already know that we’ll have to change our set list after each performance, to keep it fresh, but ‘Fuss’ gets the most radio play, so we want to play that. Plus, it’s the tune that has the freshest sound because of this wicked lick that I use during my solo. There is zero overdubbing in the recording of that tune, so it sounds live the same way it sounds on the record. Fans love it that way, so we try for that each time.
Dipshit is about to ask us another question, when we hear some scuffle going on outside. Some chick is screaming at the top of her lungs for somebody to help her.
“Yo, dude, cut the tape, man.” I say, rising.
The cameraman lifts his head from behind the lens, and the little red light goes off.
“What the fuck’s going on out there?” I ask, and Zane is poking his face out the tiny trailer window. Next thing we know this chick comes barrelling into the room, screaming bloody murder, with Chris, one of our security dudes trying to grab her.
“Whoa! Whoa! Lady! What the hell are you doing!” Chris shouts, finally getting her arm.
She’s tall and lank, with a baggy white t-shirt that has ‘Relax’ in bold pink letters on the front and pink leggings to match. Her neon pink hair sash is gauze and loosened, so it sits even more askew than intended. “Some shithead attacked me outside!” she squeals.
“There’s nobody outside, freak!” Chris scoffs.
“How the hell did she get in here, man?” Zane asks.
“I was radioed by the stage crew. Got distracted. She barrelled in here like a bat out of hell. She must have hopped the fence or something, or she fucking blew one of the other security guys, so he’d let her in.”
She pulls her arm free from him, giving him a look like he’s manhandled her, which he kind of has. “I’m your biggest fan, you guys. I love ‘Fuss’. I play it so often I’ve nearly worn my record out.” She says.
“Let’s go, freak.” Chris says, taking her arm again.
I lift my hand. “Hey, dude. Let her stay. If it meant that much to her to come meet us, why not?”
“Are you fucking out of your mind, Jett? The woman’s a lunatic!” Chris argues.
“She’s just a fan, man. Just let her stay for a minute.”
“Yeah, man. We’ll get her a picture and an autograph. It’ll be fine.” Slick says.
Chris is pissed off. “Fine. But I’m not leaving her in here with you alone, and then she’s getting escorted out.”
“Take it easy.” Zane scoffs. “Look, we didn’t get here from turning fans away, man. She’s not going to hurt us.”
The girl is smiling brightly. “You guys are the best. And I’m sorry for lying, but you…you have no idea.” She starts to sob. “Your music…it touches me.” Slick puts his arm around her. “That’s what we do, man. We reach out and touch people. You saying that just means that we’re doing a good job.”
“You’re doing a fabulous job. I’ve had the worst year of my life, and if it hadn’t been for your music, I don’t know where I’d be. I just…I wanted you to know that.”
“Well, we appreciate that, kid.” I say. “Hey, you got a camera on you?”
“No, because I know that they’ll confiscate it at the gate.”
“Did you get tickets?” Crush asks.
“Not yet. I’m not proud of how I got in here.” she admits.
Crush looks up at Chris, who is none too pleased. “Hey, man, call up and put her name on the V.I.P. list.”
“What’s your name, seniorita?” Slick asks.
“Taylor. Taylor Crane.”
Chris smirks snidely but he calls in the request. When he’s finished, he points at us. “You guys get attacked, it’s your ass.”
“We pay you to protect us, not to judge our fans, man.” I say.
“What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do, asshole? You think I was fucking knitting out there?” he points outside. If he weren’t related to my favorite roadie, Jim, I’d fire his ass right now. He’s so angry that spittle is flying out of his mouth as he shouts. He’s got the perfect temperament for what he does, I’ll give him that.
“Never mind him.” Slick says to Taylor. “You got something we can sign for you, babe?”
She looks down at her shirt. “Can you all sign this?”
“Sure.” Slick shrugs.
There is a cup full of pens on a small metal table by the door. Slick fishes out one of them fancy permanent marker deals, and we all take turns signing her shirt. We even nickname her ‘jailbreak’, since she would technically be arrested for breaking and entering if it were under any other circumstance. There are ‘private property’ and ‘no trespassing’ signs all over the place here.
“Okay, lady, let’s get you out of here.” Chris says, wasting no time, the moment that we’re done signing her shirt, front and back.
“Take it easy on her, okay, man?” I say to him. We give her a hug each, and she’s so overcome with emotion, that she’s crying.
“I love you guys.” She sobs.
“We love you, too.” I say.
“Yeah, man. Thanks for busting in on us.” Slick teases. “That was fun.”
“I’m so sorry for the interruption.” She says to Tom, who is taking it all in.
“Come on.” Chris says. “Looks like we’ve got company.” He radios in while taking Taylor out. She waves, blowing us all kisses. We wave back.
“Should I continue?” Tom asks.
“I think we’re done, man.” Slick says. “We should get outta here.”
“Not so fast.” I say, watching an exchange outside. Taylor is being escorted out of the stadium by another security guard, while Chris appears to be fighting with someone that none of us recognizes. Chris’s arms start to flail about, and we stand there, wondering if we should intervene, but decide against it. I look at Tom, who looks worried and forlorn, instead of dying to get outside to get the story. I doubt he’s going to get very far in his line of work, but then again, what do I know. “Never a dull fucking moment in our world, man.” I say, clapping him on the back.
We watch Chris leave the guy outside and stomp into the trailer.
“Yo, what the fuck’s going on?” Slick says.
“We’ve got problems, man. The chick and dudes from ‘Buying Time’ are going on after you, and they’re bitching about our set up.”
“What the fuck’s the problem?” Slick asks casually, but with a ‘v’ between his brows.
“There’s clearly a pecking order to this whole shindig, and they feel like they’ve been given the shitty end of the stick as far as room, man. They don’t want our drum kit so close behind theirs, for one. And the list goes on and on, man.”
“Isn’t the stage crew out there haggling for us?” Crush asks. “I’ve got my kit as far back as it will go.”
“That’s not the only thing.” Chris explains. “The wires aren’t tied back far enough, and they don’t like a whole bunch of other shit. The guys are doing their best, but the lead singer, Roxy, she’s all but tearing our shit down. The woman is a fucking lunatic.” I start to wonder if Chris calls every chick a lunatic.
“So, we’ll go smooth it over, man. It’s no big deal.” I say, shrugging.
“Chicks fight dirty.” Chris says nodding. “Especially this one. You guys haven’t met Roxy.”
“What…does she bite, man?” Slick scoffs, chuckling. “I’m not afraid of no chick. We can deal.”
“Fine. Let’s get you guys out of here before any more crazed fans bust in.” Chris says. There are golf carts waiting outside to take us back to the stadium. When we’re delivered to the stage area, we see that Chris was right, that the other band is tearing our shit down. Including our banner, that they could have easily put theirs over top of. It’s pure bullshit. Our guys are doing what they can, but they’re clearly outnumbered by Roxy’s crew. I know the band ‘Buying Time’ has been around a lot longer than we have, so technically, we’re the new kids on the block here, with only two albums out, versus their half dozen or so, from what I can remember.
I see who I think is Roxy, which surprises me. I figured with her caliber, that she wouldn’t be out there fighting her battles, that she’d have plenty of crew to do it for her. She’s losing her shit, tearing at our stuff, and then she goes to touch my amp, and I cut in front of her. “Hey! I don’t think so, lady. Nobody touches that except me.”
“Yeah, well this pile of shit is blocking my amp, so it goes.” She sneers. “It looks like it’s going to burst into fucking flames, anyway. It’s a goddamn fire hazard. I’m surprised the health and safety team didn’t boot it out of here, straight into the goddamn garbage bins out the back.”
“Ay, fuck you!” I say. “I spent my life savings rigging this thing up to get the sound I want. Sure, it’s MacGyvered here and there, but this thing works like magic. You touch this thing and I’ll fucking kill you or anyone else around you.”
“You don’t scare me you son of a bitch! You come around here, acting like you own the fucking place, leaving your incompetent prick crew to do your dirty work, while you’re off having a pansy-ass little interview! That’s what you get, man! My shit trumps your shit, so get it off the stage!”
I feel my blood boiling. I’ve never been spoken to like this before, especially by a chick. If she were a dude, I would have knocked her out by now. I don’t put up with this kind of bullshit from anybody. I grab her amp and start walking off the stage.
“Hey! Where the fuck do you think you’re going with my amp, you son of a bitch!” she shouts, running after me, which is exactly the result I was hoping for. I run to the green room, and she follows me. When she’s inside, I shut the door and set her amp on the floor. Both of our chests are heaving. “Just what the fuck are you trying to pull, Jett…is it? What the fuck kind of name is that, anyway?”
She’s wearing a leopard print tank top, with a neon yellow sash tied around her neck. Her gold leafed tights look wet from their odd texture, and her black patten leather stilettos give her a deceptive height, almost matching my own. Her straight black hair pools in equal amounts on both of her breasts. With ocean blue eyes and black liquid eyeliner framing them, Roxy requires no introduction. Her pert lips are full and covered in a light pink translucent gloss. I look at her and see something strange in her eyes. I’m too pissed off to care, so I retort. “I don’t know, Roxy…what kind of a name is that?”
Her lips purse and her hand lifts. She’s about to cuff me one….
…but then I do something equally stupid.
