PLAYED - A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE (27 page)

Chapter
10

Angel

The driver, a
friendly backup tech for the bad, pulled behind the private area behind the
main venue. We came to a stop beside a group of other private vehicles. On the
other side of a tall wall, I could barely make out the roofs of what were
likely the band buses.

“By the way, you’re
gonna need this to hang around backstage,” the tech told me.

He tossed me a
special, tagged lanyard, which I quickly studied before promptly sliding it
into place around my neck.

VIP – Platinum

Trent Masters and the Whiplash, Guest

A tall, beefy
stagehand peered through the door after we knocked. Checking my tag, he nodded
promptly and let us through. With him in the lead, we navigated a few
unorganized corridors and turns, eventually winding up close to the stage
itself.

“This is the VIP
area,” he pointed out. “Here’s where the after-party usually goes down. Band
buses are over that way, just outside.”

It was a reasonably
sized dark room, with several other areas behind curtains or separated out from
the main floor. Some couches, chairs, and assorted seating were placed
seemingly without rhyme or reason. A large bar stood proud along the main wall,
with a few servers scurrying around and checking on the details.

“This is where Trent
and company decompress after a show,” the tech told me. “Along with the other
bands, of course.”

“Other bands?”

I’d actually
forgotten all about that.

The tech looked at me
funnily. “Yeah, the other performers.
Whiplash
is one of seven bands playing this venue. There’re one or two smaller
outfits, but most of them are household names. Couple of veterans from the
Eighties…”

While he droned on, I
glanced around. It was easy to imagine several dozen rockers, splitting into
their own little cliques, and surrounded by VIPs and groupies.

I wondered where
Trent sat.

“…And if you’ll
follow me,” the stagehand continued impatiently, “I’d like to take you to where
you’ll be situated for the concert.”

“When are the guys
playing?” I asked.

“
Trent Masters and the Whiplash
are the final performers tonight.
You’ll be present for the entire concert, front to back.”

“Oh yeah?”

I hadn’t really
signed up for all of that, but I guess it made sense to watch the other rockers
too…even if I was really only there for his band.

“Right. So, if you’ll follow me…”

The tech waved
goodbye and ducked out of sight, and I followed the stagehand down to the
backstage area.

Well, more
accurately, the
side
stage area.

He left me with a
small group of other fans, each featuring the same sort of lanyard – but with
different colors. Each one seemed to correspond to other bands – four for a
group called
Thunderspear
, another
called
The Scoundrels
, and so on.

I’d heard a few of
these.
The Scoundrels
, in particular.
They were these rock legends from the late Sixties, which only made it more
impressive that Trent and his band were going to be on this stage.

As luck would have
it, my arrival was timed to coincide with the opening band.

Not five minutes
after I joined the group, the performers came out from the other side of the
stage: four guys in their upper twenties, dressed less like powerful rockers
and more like surf bums with surprisingly decent fashion sense.

The crowd went wild,
and so did most of the people with me.

The lanky singer
approached the mike, flashing a quick grin of acknowledgement and a thumbs-up
our way before addressing the huge venue.

“
Good evening, Alabama! We are The DeVitos! How are y’all doing
tonight?”

The crowd surged with
pleasure.

“Fan-fucking-tastic! The boys and I were thinking about maybe playing a
few ditties for you now, is that alright?”

Cue the same
reaction.

“Awesome! Jack, hit it!”

“ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!”

Guitars began riffing
rapidly, each one waiting a few bars to add upon the building melody, while the
drums chaotically blasted in the back. The singer was already head banging and
hopping around stage, finally jumping back to the mike and bellowing out
indecipherable punk lyrics.

I couldn’t remember
the last time I’d heard music like this.

It sounded insane.

It sounded wild.

It sounded fucking
amazing.

And it was all thanks
to Trent.

Chapter 11

Trent

I’d spent the entire
afternoon resting my voice, occasionally poking my head out to watch the
musicians before us play. We were usually too busy to enjoy the other
performers, but since this was a repeat concert, I could spare some time for
each set.

To my pleasure, Angel
was standing over with the other backstage guests, higher up in the food chain
than even the VIPs in the front.

She looked happy.

No, more than that.

She looked completely
fucking thrilled.

I found myself
wanting to walk over to her, to spend some time chatting with her. Maybe I
could get her attention or send someone to pull her back here.

Maybe I could seduce
her out of those pretty little clothes before the show even started. She sure
looked pumped up.

I briefly imagined
slamming her up against a wall in the bus, behind a locked door, and taking
what was mine. Her nice, round lips would polish off my cock while she perched
on her knees in front, worshipping me. At the moment of sweet release, I’d
drain my heavy balls down the back of her throat.

Maybe instead, my
fingers would clench into the sweet flesh of her ass-cheeks, slamming her down
hard
on my thick, steely erection. I’d
make her yelp with pain but moan with satisfaction, craving every last inch of
my rigid cock.

I shook my head.

Not yet.

I didn’t need the
distraction.

Nor did I need the
other fans swarming me.

I was supposed to be
relaxing, chilling out with the band before our set while they idly strummed
and drummed on their practice instruments, not stalking my own guest and
undressing her with my eyes from over here.

But goddamn, did she
look hot.

The clothes she
picked were amusing punk threads – a tight band shirt, a ratty jumper over it,
a miniskirt frayed along the edges, long striped socks, and a that pair of
Converse again. It was an interesting ensemble – probably improvised at the
last second – but it demonstrated that she cared enough to try and look the part.

The only way she
could look any more punk to me was if she’d dyed her hair green and added a
spiked choker.

But this?

I liked this.

I liked it a
lot
.

My twitching cock
agreed.

Enough distractions,
I thought to myself as I
pulled my eyes away from her. Within the moment, I’d slipped back out of sight.
Retreating towards the group, I walked in on Waylon and Terence, ribbing each
other over their playing.

They loved taking the
piss at each other.

Dylan, on the other
hand, was practicing a few rolls and clashes against a drum kit. He ended each
one with a symbol crash, quickly grabbing the edge to silence the ringing
sound.

“Hey, how’s your
little pet doin’?” Waylon sneered, a sly grin on his face. “She alright in the
sidelines, yeah?”

“Told you to not call
her that,” I retorted.

Waylon and Dylan
shared a look.

Terence simply
shrugged.

“Yeah, well, it’s not
often that the big guy hands out a free pass to a nice piece of ass,” Waylon
smiled, his eyes curious. “It’s just nice to see you with your head back in the
game.”

“How do you figure?”

“
Maaan,
you have been
moping
hardcore
these last few weeks. Turnin’ down ‘tang in a dozen cities. Good
to have the
fearless leader
back is
all I’m sayin’.”

I grunted, taking a
step towards him. I wanted to smack that shit-eating grin straight off of his
face…but I stopped myself.

Last thing I needed
to do?

Smack around my
guitarist before a show.

And I owed the fans,
anyway.
RipFest
had been sold out for
three months. Sure, the other bands were a major draw too, but I wasn’t about
to cripple the end-game of the venue lineup because my asshole guitarist was
talking shit about my girl.

My girl?

I stepped back
outside to clear my head.
Where the fuck
did THAT come from?
Because that wasn’t a possessive thought – it was a
surprisingly
tender
one.

For a brief moment, I
considered the idea of waking up beside her, reaching over and kissing her
shoulder, and listening for her slight, sleepy murmurs. The picture was so
vivid in my head that it made my chest slightly swell.

I bit down angrily,
punching one hand into the other palm. I took a couple of deep breaths, and let
the tension slip away.

No. I don’t need this right now.

She’s just a nice piece of ass that got yanked out from my grasp at the
last second. That’s all she is – a gorgeous little scrap to pull into my bed.

My shoulders relaxed.

That’s right.

A small smile crossed
my lips again. The last thing I needed to do was fall for some chick in the
middle of fucking nowhere, even if she
was
really cute…

Had to admit,
thought.

That shotgun thing
had been pretty awesome.

I turned my attention
towards more important things. Specifically, I noticed that the night was
winding down. Those old windbags from the olden days were rocking out – and
goddamn if I didn’t respect them – but that just meant that we were following
up veritable rock legends.

By the time I walked
back into our private practice room, my convictions were clear. We were going
to rock our goddamn hearts out tonight.

 
“Alright, fuckers…we’re on in an hour and
a half. Let’s make some fucking music happen.”

Chapter
12

Angel

Just like with every
other set change, the stage dimmed, technicians for the band quietly dismantled
and retrieved instruments, and the next band’s crew came out to mirror the
process in reverse.

With the entire stage
cloaked in darkness, an impressive drum kit was assembled rapidly in the back
while techs brought out amps, connected wires, and tuned guitars.

The crew adjusted the
instruments, strummed basic chords, and paused to play with the amp settings.
Meanwhile, the drum guy repeatedly ran drumrolls, clashing the symbols and
tweaking everything to perfection.

They were silent, focused
professionals.

As usual, it took
about thirty minutes for the entire process to unfold. These guys worked
fast
, both the ones for the previous
band doing the breakdown, and the ones for the next one doing the reassembly.

But I knew who was
last.

Trent Masters and the Whiplash.

The entire crowd
awaited with hushed breath as the crew worked in silence, barely acknowledging
one another. They simply did their jobs and retreated when the time was right.

Finally, the stage
was empty for a few minutes…

And then out they
came.

I could barely make
out Trent in the semi-darkness, sauntering towards the microphone as the rest
of his band assumed their positions. When everyone was in place, the lights
flickered back on, and the crowd went wild.

“Well, would you look
at that?” Trent called out, addressing his band. “Looks like a hell of a crowd.
Think we can bless them with some serious rock?”

The mob roared with
excitement.

 
“I dunno, bruh,” the dreadlocked
guitarist chuckled into his own microphone stand. “They don’t look all that
pleased to see us…”

“Maybe we should just
pack back up, eh?” The drummer laughed.

“You hear that,
folks?” Trent told the audience smugly. “What a bunch of dicks, right? I
believe in you, though…but I need some hands. Help me show these assholes that
you give a shit!”

The crowd exploded
with cheering.

“Fuck yeah! Now
that’s
what drags our tired asses out on
stage!” Trent laughed. “Alright boys, looks like these fuckers aren’t exhausted
yet. Ready to give ‘em a show?”

The band immediately
launched into song.

The guitarist and
bassist began rapidly strumming out a furious tune as the drummer beat his kit
with a rhythmic fury. Trent, meanwhile, stood tall at the microphone, throwing
his hand out towards the band.

“
Helloooo, Alabama! I am Trent Masters, and THIS is the Whiplash!
”

Even this late, well
past midnight, the crowd remained as energetic as ever. I could see them
seriously getting into the music as the melody kicked into gear and the band
performed their hearts out.

As Trent began
singing his lyrics, he dominated the stage with presence that none of the
previous singers had.

While some of them
stood at the mike and let their belting vocals do the work, and others bounced
around or paraded across the stage, Trent
owned
that space. His sheer charisma and personality overwhelmed the crowd, and
every movement – every little swagger of his step or twirl of the microphone –
came from a place of improvised purpose.

It was clear how he
was so popular.

He was handsome.

His voice was
incredible.

And with every cocky
ounce
that he had in him, he was
perfectly
in his element in front of a
major crowd.

When he sang for me
the previous night, he sang tenderly but purposefully. Those same traits were
here now, although he was more forceful, belting out the rich baritones and
swapping octaves at the right times to take a scowling line of fury to a quiet,
sincere one.

And the choruses of
his songs were powerful. The other musicians worked well together,
complementing each other against the soundscape of his lyrics.

“You try to run or try to hide / From all this emptiness inside / It’s
all so clear when out of sight / But your darkness defines your light…”

The rest of my little
group of side-stage spectators were clearly getting into the music. Every once
in a while, Trent would turn to flash a quick, powerful smile our way…

But I knew it was
always for me.

And I could feel my
cold exterior melting away under the heat of that grin.

His cockiness
translated well onstage. His effortless strutting and natural arrogance only
fueled his performance, even when he opened up briefly to belt out a strikingly
powerful lyric.

The entire set was
over far too quickly. They had performed the same length of time as the others
– somewhere around the forty-five minute to hour mark – but they blazed through
the songs with a tenacity that wrapped up out of nowhere.

Oddly, they didn’t
perform their main single.

With a swift bow, the
band descended backstage amid the constant screams of
Encore! Encore! Encore!

The lights dimmed,
and nobody returned.

Undaunted, the mob continued to chant…

Until they all
returned, picking up their instruments. This close, I could see that they were
going through the motions – there was no improvisation here.

But they also looked
a little tired.

They really
did
want to stop for the night.

“Wow, these Alabama
fuckers are plenty greedy, aren’t they?” Trent joked over the mike to his band.
“What do you guys think? Think we should cut ‘em off here, or give ‘em what
they want?”

What they want!
The crowd bellowed.
What they want! What they want!

“You don’t get a
fucking vote!” Trent shouted out over the sound system to them. “But props to
that organization, that shit happened fast! What, did you guys form a
union
while we were hydrating back
there?”

The crowd continued
to chant, and the band pretended to deliberate together over the microphones.

“
I dunno, dude, I just put a pizza
on…”

“They seem like a good bunch of folks…”

“I’m gonna miss my Jeopardy! re-runs, man…”

Trent finally turned
back to the crowd.

“Alright!
ONE
more song!
IF
you’re good! That means,
you
take the goddamn song and you like it!
Is that clear? We good?”

The crowd was
ecstatic.

“Fantastic. Alright,
you might have heard this one a couple of times. Maybe not out here, I hear you
fuckers have shit radio reception. Anyway, it’s a little piece we like to call
Wicked Wilds…
”

Predictably, the
entire mob went ballistic, and the entire band shared a satisfied grin amongst
themselves as they began to perform.

Their sheer stage
performance – particularly that of their arrogant, mighty front-man – took a
fantastic song and only made it better.

“
My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin’ /
Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I’ve lost the feelin’…
”

Trent continued along
the refrain, choosing to skip the chorus the first time to let the guitarists
show off. Meanwhile, he head-banged in place along to the tune of their riffs.
Eventually, he jumped over to
dreadlock
guy
to mimic his furious strumming for several moments, clearly enjoying
himself.

I couldn’t believe
that someone this commanding, this indisputably famous, had even given me the
time of day – let alone fought four bikers to a standstill to protect me.

It filled my head
with strange feelings.

Feelings I couldn’t
ignore, let alone control.

After a major guitar
solo, he finally took his place back in front of the microphone – and belted
out the chorus that everyone had been waiting for.

“
Reeee-yee-yee-ead my bones… broken, laid, and / Heeee-yee-yee-eed my
moans… whispered, taken / Seee-yee-yee-eee my frown… buried, bathed in /
Feee-yee-yee-eel my crown… dust and vapor…”

After another
refrain, one clearly just for live shows, and another powerful iteration of the
chorus, Trent stepped down and let his band have their moment to close out the
set.

The electric guitar
wailed.

The backup guitar
sang.

The deep bass guitar
droned.

The drums exploded.

And all the while,
Trent simply stood there, hands on the microphone and head bowed, listening to
the unrestrained power of his musicians.

That’s when it struck
me.

I realized, in that
blinding moment, that Trent Masters was more than just some arrogant, cocky
asshole. Underneath all his pride and self-importance, under his swagger and
his gesturing, there was a depth to him – a deep, dark depth visible even now.

He was a proper
leader to his people.

He let them all have
their turn in the light.

After the improvised
detonation of instrumentation descended into a wicked, thirty-second drumroll
against the ending drones of the guitars, everyone clashed together into one
final, definite note. Right afterwards, Trent ascended to the microphone one
last time.

“
WE ARE TRENT MASTERS AND THE WHIPLASH! GET DRUNK, BREAK SHIT, AND HAVE
A GOOD FUCKING NIGHT! UNTIL NEXT TIME, YOU BEAUTIFUL SONS OF BITCHES!”

The lights drowned
the stage in darkness, and everyone slipped from their spots. This time, there
would be no fake-out return to the stage, no matter how much the crowd
screamed.

But instead of
heading back with the band, Trent strolled straight towards us. Our little
group was stunned as he latched onto my arm with a powerful, sweaty hand and
half-dragged me backstage.