Rock (Hard Rock Harlots #4) (14 page)

C
leanup
after last night’s festivities on the couch was a pain, but it was worth the mess. The cleanup awaiting me now, however, isn’t remotely as pleasurable.

I’ve been nervous since the moment I woke up. With nothing else for my idle hands to do, I started weaving my hair into thin, dread-like strands around ten o’clock. It took my mind off all the shit flying around, haunting me. Got about a third of my head braided before Jinx noticed what I was doing. Without a word, she sat beside me, grabbed a length, and joined in the ritual plaiting. A few minutes later, Toombs did too.

At first I thought it was a little weird that Toombs knows how to braid and doesn’t have a little sister, but by the time the three of us finished, I was grateful for his mad skills. Three sets of hands worked together, much as our three instruments work together on the stage, and we collectively made something awesome.

The rest of the world may suck, but my hair looks fucking bad
ass
.

Half an hour ago, Jillian marched up the steps and told everyone but me to take a hike. Once the bus was cleared, she sat me down and had a heart-to-heart. Or in her case, a bitch-to-bitch. She told me what to say and how to say it. I said I’d think about it. She was disgusted with my attitude and told me so when she left.

Pretty sure we’re either gonna need to find a new manager, or I’m gonna have to bail on this band. I don’t see us going anywhere if one of those two things doesn’t happen.

Now I sit alone on the bus where my life’s dream became reality over the last year, and my nightmares have come back to bite me on the ass. Lots of stains I’ve left behind. And not just squirt stains.

I wander down the aisle, running my fingers gently over the metal skeleton propping up habitat holes and trundles and memories. On the bottom left side is Shades’s bunk, which I mistakenly thought was Freddie’s the first night I snuck over to meet him for sex. Nobody knew about Shades and me then. We had to keep our contact secret because of another bitch—Cherry Buzz Float’s resident psycho at the time, Kate.

I claimed the last bunk on the right to try to keep Toombs away from my sweet, innocent friend Jinx, who turned out not to be so innocent. I was protecting her. Didn’t want her to get hurt.

That’s what friends do. Protect each other from bad shit.

At the moment, I don’t have any friends to protect me. Jillian shooed them away and left me to deal with swabbing the mess I made by myself.

Guess I’d better get busy.

I head to my bunk and grab my cell, and then return to the front of the bus. Stacking a few video game boxes up to prop the phone, I check myself out in the reversed screen. My eyes are weary. New lines have taken up residence in the skin around them. My cheeks are sunken.

But my braids look awesome. I shake my head to scatter them over my shoulders.

I bought this phone after we signed a deal with a decent record label. I’d been dirt-ass poor up until then. I’m still pretty fuckin’ poor, but at least now I have enough cash to pay for monthly service on this bitch, to buy decent food, pick up a new stage outfit every couple of weeks, and have a little bit left over for savings.

I never imagined I’d have a savings account.

I bite my lip as I readjust the phone’s angle to avoid the incoming spears of sunlight. “You look stupid, Letty. Smile. Pretend like you’re happy as a fuckin’ clam in some sweet-ass chowder. Waiting to be eaten alive. Because you
will
be eaten alive for this.”

Yep.

I hit the record button.

“My name is Letty Dillinger. I’m the lead singer for Killer Buzz Float, currently playing on the Get Your Rock Off Tour.

“Some of you may have seen or heard about a video showing me going off on another band. A lot of people are pissed about what I said. A lot of feelings were hurt. I’ve actually received death threats over this incident. I was advised to keep quiet and wait until the drama blew over, but it hasn’t yet, and there are no signs it will. People are demanding my blood, or at the very least, an apology, for something I didn’t do. It’s time for me to set the record straight.

“The person you saw in the video
was
me, and I did say those things. But someone edited the footage and dubbed it to make it
look
like I was responding to questions no one ever asked me. My manager has requested the raw, unedited video, but Megamusic claims it’s been lost. I’ve filed a formal complaint against the woman who interviewed me. As I understand it, she’s being investigated, but has not been suspended from her job.

“Here’s the thing. The interviewer, the cameraman, and I are the only people who know exactly what happened during filming, and it’s their word against mine. We all stand to lose something. I’m asking you to hear my side of the story before you jump to conclusions. You can plainly see where cuts have been made. Someone with audio experience could have easily dubbed Anna DeVille’s voice over the original questions. It’s not my place to point fingers without evidence, so I’ll leave it at that.

“Regardless of what you think of me or what I
appear
to have said, I want to send a clear message to Killer Buzz Float’s fans.” I lean closer to the phone and fill in the frame with my head and shoulders. “I have always and
will
always believe in The Rock. Music is one of the few forces in the world that brings people together, no matter what they look like, what they do for a living, what they believe, or where they live. Rock ’n’ roll drives my life. I’ve been playing since I was a kid, and I’ll probably be playing until the day I die. Music is everything to me.

“My words may have been taken out of context, but you know what? I stand by them. I
would
rather make art than house payments because I’m
an artist
. I’d rather be poor but real than rich and fake. If only a handful of fans love our next album, at least we made a handful of people happy. And we didn’t sell out.

“If you’ve ever been to a Killer Buzz Float show, you know we give it our all onstage every single fucking night. We do it for you, our fans, because you support our dreams. You
get
us. You challenge us to be the best we can be, and I thank you for it.

“I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said here and take the video floating around with a grain of salt. In this age of Internet bullies, trolls, and haters, it’s easy to accept things at face value and without question. Use the brain the Good Lord gave you, and find out both sides of the story before passing judgment.” I salute the camera. “Long live The Rock.”

The sick feeling returns to my stomach as I end the recording. I drop my chin to the table and clutch my belly. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’ll do.

Shades and Jillian told me not to go on the band’s fan page or Megamusic’s website until things blow over, and I haven’t. But curiosity digs at me.

I sit up. I’m gonna check my personal page. I gotta know what they’re saying about me. With a shaking finger, I login.

The slaughter is about what I expected. Scathing comments, links to sarcastic animated GIFs making fun of me, pictures of people burning Killer Buzz Float merchandise, lots of stills of me screaming at the camera with lame commentary pasted into viral memes.

None of it is surprising, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

There are countless private messages. Girding my loins, I scroll through them, looking at the previews.

Hold on. There are actually a lot of supportive comments here. I click one, and my hopes lift slightly:

“You don’t know me, but I’ve been a fan since you were playing bass for Cherry Buzz Float. I met you once after a show in Charlotte, and you were so nice. I saw the video they posted about you, and I didn’t think it was that bad. I don’t believe they showed the real you. I’ll always love and support you. Long live The Rock!”

Another message simply states, “Here’s to making art, not money!” A picture of a man wearing a KBF shirt and holding up a beer follows.

My eyes widen as I scan through gobs of positive messages. Maybe I’m not as universally hated as I thought. When I flip to my timeline and take a closer look, I realize many of the comments and posts there defend rather than degrade me.

The tightness in my chest loosens. I swear to The Rock, it feels like a horde of masked superheroes untied me from a railroad track and pushed me out of the path of an oncoming train. Relieved, I begin the arduous task of replying to all these messages, my heart plump with love and appreciation.

An hour later, I haven’t even made it through half the messages, but I’m determined to answer every one. Shades, Jinx, and Toombs mount the steps and peek inside the bus. Giddy, I call them over and show them what I’ve been doing.

Shades smiles widely and hugs me. “I knew our true fans would support you. Did you finish your video?”

“Yeah. As soon as Jillian gets back, I’ll let her watch it. She can tell me to redo it if she wants. I don’t care.” I’m so happy not to feel like a trash bag made of human skin anymore, the thought of Jillian making me start over doesn’t even bother me.

“We’ve got some news too,” Jinx says, settling in beside me.

“Like what?”

“The three of us have been sniffing around the Banging Betties camp. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear Lizzie’s a total bitch, and aside from her bandmates and manager, pretty much everyone on the inside hates her.”

“Ha!” I slap the table. “There’s a shocker.”

“We had some enlightening discussions with sound guys, roadies, and techs,” Toombs says. “They say she’s meaner than a cottonmouth. Demanding, yells at people, argues constantly. Total diva. She thinks she deserves royal treatment.”

Shades scoots in on my other side and drapes an arm across my shoulders. “She obviously didn’t get the memo that you gotta
earn
royal treatment.”

“Will any of them stand up to her?” I doubt they will, but I have to ask.

Toombs shakes his head. “They’re too scared to lose their jobs. Nobody’s gonna put their livelihood at risk.”

“That sucks. But you know what? Fuck her. This unexpected deluge of positivity and memories of what Shades’s cock did to me last night,” I grab his bulge to the tune of Jinx’s giggle, “have inspired me. I got a groove in my head that won’t let go, some lyrics dying to dance with y’all’s mad music skills, and a driving need to reclaim my former title of Badass Bitch onstage tonight.”

Shades lifts a brow and swats my rump as I stand. “I’ll get Rax.” He sidles up to me, kisses me hard without touching anywhere but my lips, and presses his forehead into mine. “Phoenix from the fuckin’ flames, pussycat.”

I nod, more in love with him than ever before. “Let’s burn this bitch to the ground.”

T
he vibe
at the venue tonight is very different from what it’s been the last several days. The cloud of gloom and doom hanging over me and the band seems to have dissipated, thanks to the fresh breeze of sanity I saw earlier on the Interwebz.

Jillian watched the video I made. She didn’t smile or pat me on the back. No “Good job, Letty!” or even an “I hate it. It sucks. Do it again.” She said nothing. Her body language told me it was passable, though not necessarily approved of. She simply
harrumphed
at me with her shoulders—not even with the accompanying
sound
of a harrumph, just a visual indication of critical commentary without any real commentary at all.

Since she didn’t tell me not to, I posted the video on my personal fan page and on YouTube a few hours ago. I haven’t had the heart to check and see what kinds of accusations the trolls have drudged up since, and quite frankly, I no longer give a fuck. Shouldn’t have given one in the first place.

Now, backstage as we’re preparing to go on, Jillian follows me with her eyes in the same harrumphy way she did on the bus. Like she has a lot of things to say, but something’s holding her back.

I don’t know why she shut herself off from us, but I plan to confront her. I’ve talked to the rest of the band, and they agree something’s gotta give. Good to know I’m not the only one who’s noticed a distinct change in her behavior, but it doesn’t make tackling the problem any easier.

Eliza appears on my left with Gabrielle. I smile big for the baby, and she smiles back. “How’s it going, Tater Tot?” I ask her with a goofy voice.

She buries her laughing face in her mom’s shoulder. Eliza grins at me with her beautiful white teeth. For the first time, I don’t feel jealous of her. Shades and me, we’re okay. That means I’m okay with Eliza.

“Love the new ’do, Letty.” She picks up a few red plaits and runs her fingers over them.

“Thanks.”

“I saw the video you posted,” she says, cutting a glance toward Lizzie behind us. “I thought it was very brave. And well done.”

I look down at my combat boots and kick my heels together. “Thanks, but I doubt it’ll change anyone’s mind.”

“It already has. Haven’t you read the comments?”

I shake my head. “I was scared to.”

“You? Scared? Pfft.” She blows me off like she doesn’t believe me. “Your fans love you. And the ones who don’t were never your fans to begin with. Screw the haters, and do what you do best. Bomb-ass bitches write bomb-ass music.”

“I appreciate that, Eliza.”

She reaches out to me with her free arm. I stare at her. She wants to hug me?

“Uh …”

She pulls me close, hooking me into her embrace. Eliza, Gabrielle, and me engaged in a massive Kumbaya lovefest. Someone snap a goddamn picture. This will probably never happen again.

“I believe you,” Eliza whispers into my braided hair. “And I believe
in
you.” The baby giggles and squirms, and Eliza breaks her hold on me. Sweet, wide little green eyes surprise attack me from below. Kind, understanding brown eyes tackle me from the front.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

I nod quickly and dart away before I really do cry. Naturally, in my eagerness to get the fuck outta Dodge, I run smack into Lizzie.

“Watch where you’re going, bitch.” She shoves me.

I stop. Stare. Consider.

Okay, where I come from, when a bitch puts her hands on you first, it’s free game to beat the motherfucking shit out of her face. Hair pulling, bitch slapping, and titty punching are all acceptable responses in a situation such as this. My personal fave, however, is a good ol’, straight up right cross.

But given my recent run-in with the law of crowds, I’m gonna be better than that. For once.

My hands fly up in surrender. In my peripheral vision, movement from Jillian catches my attention. Zeroed in on us, she slinks closer but doesn’t say anything.

“If you got such a problem with me, why don’t you tell me about it right here in front of all these nice people,” I glance to Shades and Rax off in the corner chatting to some fans and increase my volume so they can hear, “with camera phones. I’m sure your fans would love to see the
real
Lizzie Smith immortalized on video like they saw me. Except this time, we won’t hire an editor.”

She pushes her chest against mine. Her expression is steeped in gasoline, waiting for me to strike the match and cut it loose.
Bitch, don’t give me the pleasure,
I psychically beam at her.

Lizzie lowers her voice out of earshot of everyone else. “I won’t end you, Letty. I’ll fucking
bury
you.” She pokes me hard in the sternum, right between the tits.

I’ll admit I’ve got a temper. If it were just Lizzie and me here, she wouldn’t be standing. She’d be on the ground with my fists forcibly evicting the breath from her lungs and deleting the smirk right off her cunt-face. But this week has taught me the lesson Jillian claimed I needed. A smidge of restraint can go a long way.

I look over Lizzie’s shoulder. Shades is filming. So is Jinx. I’m guessing other interested parties such as disgruntled roadies and sound guys might be too. If I play it right, our little confrontation could be the perfect opportunity to expose Lizzie’s true colors to the world.

Hey, world. In case you were wondering, her favorite color is green.

“You wanna say it a little louder? I don’t think everyone heard you.” I cup a palm behind my ear.

She looks around, huffs disgustedly, and stomps away. “I want that band off this tour,” she yells to Richard, jabbing her finger in my direction on her way out the door. The hawk fixes his gaze on me. A head shake so slight, I almost don’t perceive it, tells me he’ll see to it Killer Buzz Float is done for.

Camera phones continue to roll.

“Check,” I mouth to him and blow him a kiss as the announcer introduces Killer Buzz Float.

I don’t give Jillian the pleasure of a glance as I prance past her onto the stage. Burning with energy, I grab the mic and yell, “Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”

Behind me, Rax and Toombs bust into a few measures of a hard rock version of “Bad Boys” by Inner Circle, and I bend over laughing as the ravenous crowd picks up the lyrics for me.

“Sorry we’re late, ladies and gents. We were having some fun backstage.”

I chug a few swigs of water while they wind down to a low buzz of frenetic activity. Someone up front screams, “I love you, Letty!”

“I love you too,” I shout and swing my arm in a wide arc. “I love all of y’all!” I wait for the crowd to quiet down again. “You may have heard I got myself into a wee bit of trouble this week.” The screams pick up and whistles tear through the air. “But those who know me, know you can’t keep this bomb-ass bitch down.” I glance to the side stage and grin at Eliza, who shoots me a thumbs up. Then I bend to one knee and smack the hands of a rabid patch of screaming fans bouncing like ball sacs against tight, Friday night pussy.

Resting an elbow on my knee, I tune in, connect with the crowd, making visual contact with as many faces as I can hit. I smile, accepting the positive energy and goodwill they offer. Their Rock. These people give me the strength I need to stand up to my enemies: Lizzie Smith, Anna DeVille, Jillian Frost, and maybe even Letty Dillinger.

I hop to my feet. “Anybody here ever like to go down? I mean, in the good way, of course.”

The atmosphere electrifies, sputtering sparks of fireworks felt but not seen, sizzling over skin, setting hair alight with molecular movement.

I nod. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Ambling across the stage to Shades, I continue amidst roars and whoops. “Well, tonight, I’m gonna show you how to get it up.” I goose Shades’s butt. His exaggerated shiver taunts the fans, and we launch into “Get It Up,” balls out, tits perked, asses shaking.

Below me, feet stomp, hands clap, mouths scream in reply.

The fans eat the shit up.

Stabbing the night with my voice, I leave behind a trail of musical soul carvings for our followers to rediscover later when they head for the parking lot, ears ringing, heartbeats thumping from the rush still swirling in their blood.

Remember me? Fuck yeah, you will. I’m Letty Motherfucking Dillinger. Don’t you ever forget it.

As I run through the chorus one more time, giving it every droplet of sweat blooming on my skin, shredding every pang of sadness and desperation I’ve lived through this week, my gaze settles on a girl in the front row. She’s banging her head to the beat, making devil horns with her hands, swinging and slamming like she just don’t care. Kinda reminds me of myself a few years ago, when I had stars in my eyes and dreams of playing on a stage smaller than the one I’m standing on now.

How many times did I consider giving up? How many times did I cry myself to sleep wondering whether the record execs would ever
see
in me what I
felt
coursing through my veins? How many rejections did I power through in the name of The Rock?

A million and eleven.

On those few occasions when I couldn’t take any more, I inwardly admitted defeat. But in the angry, rebellious moments of reflection following, I knew I was a goddamn liar.

Because I
always
got up again.

Shades’s bass pounds the walls like Thor’s hammer. I point at the girl in the front row. Her face lights up. “Letty!” she screams. And then, I notice her clothes. She’s wearing your standard black T-shirt with white lettering. But the message is anything but ordinary to me:
#MakeArtNotHousePayments.

Fist balled in a show of solidarity, I salute her, spread my arms wide …

… and fucking dive into the writhing crowd. Too many hands to count lift me up. This is much more than support. It feels like flying.

“Get it up! Get it up! And love me on the comedown,” I sing into the mic as the audience carries me away.

I’m safe. I’m appreciated. I’m loved.

Me, my fans, and The Rock.