Dead Serious (22 page)

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Authors: C. M. Stunich

Tags: #Rock Star

BOOK: Dead Serious
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By the time we stumble down the street and find a venue that's shaking with a killer bass beat and the growl of dying demons yanked screaming from guitar strings, I'm feeling pretty fucking good. I don't give a crap about America or her supposed kid or anything having to do with that mess.
I have a gun, and I'm taking it onstage.
That's it. Might not save my life, but it could come in handy. The second – and I mean the
second –
I see Stephen Hammergren, I'm going to kill him. It could be in the middle of a set with several thousand onlookers. I don't even care anymore. So that's my plan thus far. Never mind that I, personally, haven't gotten to actually see this man. I Googled his ass though. That, and I'll get a feeling for that piece of shit.
And that's the coke talking right there.
It's highly likely that I'm going to drug myself up before I go onstage. This kind of stupid confidence could come in handy.

Turner digs out the ten dollar cover charge for each of us and approaches the door. The man at the entrance recognizes him right away. Almost makes me want to go back to that weird ass celebrity club. Almost. A few more bills added to the pile, and the man is more than willing to head inside and grab us a couple of hoodies from the headlining band.

“Enjoy the show, man,” the dude says, handing over a pair of gray sweatshirts and some wristbands that'll tell the bartender we're over twenty-one. I shake my hoodie out and take a look at the logo. There's a white skyscraper silhouetted crookedly against the background. “
Tipped by Tyrants
is playing tonight. They're pretty good.” He pauses, licking at his lips nervously. The guy's cute, blonde, pierced, but he doesn't hold a flame to Turner Campbell. “Not as good as you guys, of course, you know.” I smile at the awkward stutter in the bouncer's voice and slip the sweater over my head. Turner follows suite, making sure the hood is pulled up around his halo of ebony hair.

“Of course.” He smirks and pushes through, turning around abruptly as the bouncer pulls his phone from his pocket. I stand there with my leather jacket draped over my arm and lift my face to the sky. It's impossible to see the stars from here, but at least I know they're out there, somewhere, smiling down on us. Or frowning. Doesn't matter either way. Fuck 'em.

“Make you a deal, buddy. If you can keep your mouth shut about what you've seen here, I will hook you up with whatever you want. Tickets to tomorrow's show, a backstage pass, cold hard cash.” He holds out his palm and gestures with a nod of his chin. “Gimme your phone.”

“I, uh, you don't have to do that,” the bouncer whispers, but he hands the phone over anyway. If I've learned anything from touring with Turner Campbell, it's that ninety-nine percent of the world doesn't say no to him. Except for me. Maybe that's why he likes me?

“There. My manager's number's plugged in there. Give him a call if you want, make sure I'm not bullshitting you.” With that, Turner spins away and starts for the doors. More flies with honey. I guess that's his motto, or at least what he starts out with. Me, I just go straight to bitch mode.

“Or how about if you fuck this shit up for me tonight, I collect your head.” I slide a thumb across my throat. I hope he can see that I'm serious. I
need
this break. I won't let anybody fuck it up for me. I point my finger at him as I start to turn away. “And don't you dare call that number until
after
we leave. If Turner's manager shows up here tonight to get him, it's your ass on the line.”

Turner holds the big, black door open for me, letting out a roar of rage that explodes from the speakers near the stage, turning my bones to jelly, drawing my breath from my lungs in a frantic rush.
God, I love this life – the music parts of it anyway.

“Holy shit,” I say as I watch a girl with pink and blonde hair take center stage. This genre's dominated by cock, so I'm always surprised and thrilled when I see a woman onstage. Usually, the only chicks we get are ones like Hayden, so sexed up that they're practically caricatures of an actual human woman. Raw, beautiful, feminine. My lashes flutter, eyelids suddenly heavy, as the drummer pounds out a beat that makes my skull throb painfully.


Don't make me tell you TWICE.
” The rhythm slams down on my head like a hammer and the small crowd near the front of the room starts to spin, limbs flailing as our leading lady turns her finger in a circle and squats low near the front of the stage. She's got on a pair of white shorts, splattered with red paint, and a black leather vest. Hot. If I were into chicks, I'd be into someone like her. Damn heterosexual tendencies. Still waitin' on that cure, folks. “MOVE YOUR ASSES, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

A thrill climbs up my spine as I toss my jacket onto an empty chair in the back. If somebody steals it, good for them. Have fun with the condoms and the free blow. I don't even give a shit.

I move over to the bar.

“Give me something that'll fuck up my head,” I yell, leaning forward, so the man can hear me. If he recognizes me inside the hoodie, he doesn't say anything. I watch him make up a bright green drink and wait for Turner to toss some cash on the bar. As soon as he does, he's moving up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist.

“Mmm.” I close my eyes and sway with the ragged ass fucking beat draining the air of oxygen and replacing it with violence and mayhem. I want to sing so bad right now, I can feel notes bubbling in my throat. Despite the recent tragedies, I'm suddenly
excited
for our show. At the very least, if I die up there, I'll die doing the thing I love most in this world. Whether that's singing or playing guitar, I'm not sure, but I'll be damned if I don't fucking kill both. Hayden might've stuck me with this responsibility sooner than I was ready for it, but it's too late now. You can't go back. You can't change the past. If you spend your time trying, you'll only waste the future. “It feels good to get back to basics.”

“It feels fucking great.” Turner leans against me for a moment, his erection firm and insistent against my back. It's tempting, but right now, I have other needs. I drain the last of my beverage and drop the glass on the counter. Turner lets me go, and I can feel his eyes on the back of my head as I move forward and weave my way between the people in the back of the crowd. They're raising their arms up, saluting the goddess of the stage tonight, worshipping her, promising sacrifice. It's not a very packed show, but the people that are here are fucking dedicated.

I pause just outside the realm of the mosh pit, an invisible circle of complete and utter chaos. Inside that vortex, people let the music move them, trust the guitars and the bass and the drums to guide them to the absolute precipice of insanity.

I decide to join them.

I take a deep breath and dive in, just managing to avoid getting punched in the face. Not intentionally, not yet. Maybe later when the over twenty-one are all drunk and the teenagers are feeling pissy. That's when the real fun starts. Just a side note, the over twenty-one always win.

I let myself get swept up in the fray, drop completely free of my bullshit and my hang-ups and flip the fuck out in front of that stage.

I have no idea what the singer is saying, but I don't care. Her screams reach somewhere deep down inside of me, until I'm not even sure who I am anymore. The only thing in my blood is the music, promising pain, delivering it in heavy riffs and a guitar solo that makes me bite down so hard, I nick my tongue and make it bleed. Somewhere in the crowd, Turner's watching me. Or hell, maybe he's even in the mosh pit with me? I can't see anything, just a room covered in band posters, some shitty fluorescent lights, nameless faces. My heart's being ripped right from my chest, and I'm offering it freely.

Remember this fucking band for the next time you need a headliner. Ice and Glass isn't really going to be an option in the future.

The music slows and I stumble, crashing into the other lost souls around me. Nobody starts a fight which is a fucking miracle. Sweat is pouring down my face, obscuring my vision, sticking my hoodie to my arms. It feels like a thousand pounds right now. I want nothing more than to strip it off and toss it to the floor, let everybody see my face and know that I am fucking
here.

“Okay, folks,” the woman onstage says, pacing back and forth, breath coming in harsh gasps. Her blonde and pink hair is stuck to her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. She's a violently beautiful mess. I respect the fuck out of that. “What's next?” She gestures at the crowd and they go nuts, screaming and shouting out the names of songs, pushing into one another until we're all smashed together. I hit the person in front of me as our bodies collide with the wood. Some of the people in the front reach up and brush their hands across the lead singer's black combat boots.

I take the quiet space between songs to look for Turner and find him three fanboys away from me, watching, smiling, sweaty and perfect. His eyeliner is smeared and glistening, his full lips ripe and wet, just
waiting
for me to eat them off his face. I reach out and he takes my hand. Somehow, even with the crush of the crowd, we manage to maneuver so that we're pressed chest to chest in the small mob.

“I feel alive.”

“You look good enough to eat.”

I smile.

“Then eat me, bitch.” Turner and I lean in, mouths clashing as the band finally decides on a song. The drummer pummels his kit, sending the vibrations through the floor and up the heels of my shoes, making me weak at the knees. Or maybe that's Turner's kiss.

I would never admit it if it was.

Turner and I kiss hard and deep, letting the crowd jostle us, knocking our teeth together, forcing our tongues into one another's mouth. His hands fight to climb under my sweater, fingers splaying open against the bandage on my belly. The small bite of pain from the pressure of his hands is nothing compared to the surge of pleasure when his bare skin touches mine. I clench my thighs together, squeezing as tight as I can, praying that I don't have an orgasm while I'm standing here. Praying that I do.

“Let's give it up for the assholes front and center!” the lead singer calls out, and I feel a sudden emptiness around me as the heated bodies move away, leaving us open and exposed. I pull my lips back from Turner's but only a fraction of an inch. “Here's to love,” she shouts, lifting up her water bottle with one hand while she holds the mic to her sweaty lips with the other. “Here's to sex.” Cheers abrupt twice as loudly for this one. “And here's to happily ever fucking afters!”

I hear the cry of the guitars before I turn my face to watch the band seize like a group possessed. The bassist sinks back, shaking his head back and forth while the two guitarists bend at the waist, thrashing the shit out of that stage. The lead singer crouches again, letting out an animalistic scream that puts the crowd back into a frenzy. Turner and I are shoved violently back together, forced to split apart and accept the rush of the crowd. We bounce up and down with the wave of people, caught on a sea of broken dreams and whispered secrets. When the bitch leaps off stage, we catch her and let her crowd surf above us, a shadow of beauty layered atop the ugly howling beasts that we've all become.

Music. It's transformative like nothing else. It knows how to grab hold of your soul and shake it. It can put you to sleep. It can wake you up. It can shut your eyes. It can fucking open them.

Right now, mine are wide-eyed and staring life straight in the face.

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