Sound Bites: A Rock & Roll Love Story (12 page)

His statement amused me for two reasons, the first being that he was completely immune to the fact that I could’ve cared less if they were the goddamn Rolling Stones, I just wanted them off the stage so I could see if Dylan actually made it out here in one piece, and the second being that he was actually enjoying their sappy music.

As soon as Acetone’s set was finished, Justin, Christian and Jeff all appeared on stage and started setting up their equipment. Dylan, however, was M.I.A. I told myself not to panic until the moment of truth had arrived.

“I need a drink,” I mumbled to Beth. “Do you want to come to the bar with me?”

She nodded and trailed behind me to the bar at the opposite end of the room.

The bartender flashed me a toothy grin as soon as we walked up. His mouth looked like it belonged on a horse instead of a human being. “What can I get you ladies?” he asked.

“Rum and Coke,” I said.

“Stoli and Sprite,” said Beth.

“Coming right up.” 

Mr. Ed returned with our drinks a minute later, which immediately redirected my thoughts back to Dylan, who was still nowhere among the living. I grabbed Beth’s hand and led her back through the crowd. We had almost returned to our spot when I heard Justin’s voice come through the speakers. My heart sank.

“Hey guys, I want to thank you all for coming tonight,” Justin announced into the mic. “We’re Electric Wreck, for those of you who haven’t seen us before. We’re going to start off with one of our originals tonight, my personal favorite. This one’s called ‘
Fall Down
.’”

My eyes remained glued to the stage, hoping that Dylan was going to unexpectedly leap out from behind the curtain. But as Justin stepped up to the mic again and started belting out the first verse, then the second, then the chorus, I realized my hopes were shot.

“
What a
coward,” I hissed. Beth and Eddie both looked at me with mirrored masks of sympathy.

“Are you going to go backstage and talk to him again?” Beth asked. I shook my head. I had already said what I had to say a million times over. There was nothing left.

I politely waited for the first song to end before deciding to head home. I couldn’t stand there all night and watch the show that Dylan was supposed to be a part of. I felt cheated. I grabbed my jacket off the couch and hugged Eddie goodbye.

“You’re
leaving
?” Eddie exclaimed. “Oh come on, why don’t you stay for a while longer?”

I shot him a look that insinuated exactly how I was feeling inside. He nodded as if he understood. Beth was still looking at me like my dog had died.

“Do you want Eddie to go talk to him?” she asked.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t think it will do much good now.”

“This really sucks, Renee,” she whined, like she was telling me something I didn’t already know. “But despite all this crap, I still like him. Don’t be too hard on him.” She winked at me and then leaned in to give me a hug goodbye. I turned around and started to push my way through the crowd again when I heard a familiar voice come through the speakers.

“And just where do you think you’re going, pretty lady? Leaving so soon?”

I spun around towards the stage and came face to face with Dylan, microphone in hand, grinning like the little shit he was. I threw my hands up in the air in disbelief, part of me pissed at the emotional tornado he’d inflicted during the last five minutes, but most of me relieved that he’d actually sucked it up and got his ass on stage. I looked over at Beth, who was laughing hysterically, and she grabbed my hand and dragged me back through the crowd once again.

“Hey, everyone,” Dylan yelled, adjusting the microphone down towards his mouth. “I’m Dylan Cavallari, the new singer of Electric Wreck. I want to thank you all for coming tonight. This is actually my first show with these guys, so instead of joining in on the first song, I decided to stick around backstage and suck back some Jack Daniels to ease my nerves.” The crowd exploded into a wild cheer, which I could tell surprised Dylan by the way his eyes lit up. He looked like a
n amateur stand-up comedian who
just got the audience to laugh at his first joke. “So, anyways, I hope you guys go easy on me. This next song is one of my favorites. Enjoy.”

I could feel my throat swell shut as he struck up the first chords of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over.” Beth’s jaw dropped in excitement but I couldn’t even look at her. I don’t think my eyes moved from the stage throughout the entire set. I stood frozen in place as each song ended and another one began, unable to do anything except listen. And I could tell from all the hopeful faces gathered around the stage that I wasn’t alone.

Chapter 13

Dylan’s debut with Electric Wreck was such a hit that Chaos had booked them on the bill with some of their other weekly Thursday night slots. In honor of the good news, Dylan and I decided to celebrate at his place. I grabbed some booze, a movie and two ice cream cartons at the store, then changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a fitted pink T-shirt and headed upstairs.

Dylan was sitting on the floor when I walked in, guitar in hand, a concentrated look on his face.

“Writing a song?” I asked, twisting off the top of the champagne bottle I’d brought.

Dylan ran his hands through his hair, something he always did when he was stressed out. I had made a point of observing little things about him, like how he bit his bottom lip every time he talked about sex or how he crinkled his eyebrows every time a conversation topic piqued his interest.

“I’m trying to,” he answered. “But you know what sucks? I’ve probably worked harder in these past few weeks than I ever have in my life, and I’ve probably got paid the least amount of money for it.” He removed the guitar from his lap and set it down next to him. “I bust my ass writing these songs and practicing them and you know what I get paid? A hundred bucks. That’s what they pay us: a hundred each. And some places don’t even pay original bands that much. I’d have to play seven nights a week if I ever wanted to be able to make enough to survive.”

He had a point, but I knew all of this already. My father was a big shot musician back in the early eighties, and even though he loved to brag about all the bands he toured with before I was born, he’d also reiterated how hard it was to make a living in the music industry. When I was little, we’d spend every Sunday afternoon running errands together while he told me all about his
rock and roll
days.

“So, why did you quit?” I’d asked him.

“I wasn’t making enough money,” my dad had explained. “It’s really hard to support yourself in that line of business, unless you make it big. If you play as much as we did, it takes up too much of your time to be able to have another job, too. It was all or nothing for me. I was either going to put everything I had into it or give it up altogether. I put everything I had into that band for years but I still wasn’t making enough to survive. So we broke up.”

I could sense the regret in his voice when he spoke about it, like a part of him had died when the band did. It made me realize that sometimes, more often than not, life wasn’t all about the money. It was about doing what you loved.

I shared this story with Dylan and it seemed to piss him off even more. “That’s what I mean,” he said. “Society is so
messed
up. You have these monkeys who sit at a desk all day, programming a computer or totaling up numbers, and they’re making bank. And then you have these talentless morons all over the radio who don’t even write their own music, and they’re millionaires.” He tilted his head forward and trained his eyes on mine, something he did when he was about to stress a serious point. Another habit I’d picked up on. “Did you know that some cover bands make over a grand a night?” He closed his eyes and shook his head, like it was the world’s worst tragedy. “
Cover
bands. They don’t even have to write their own music, and they make all the money, just because of a bunch of middle-aged women like to shake their ass to ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’ and ‘Sweet Home Ala-fucking-Bama.’ And all the while, I’m sitting here pouring my soul into these songs and I’m stuck making a hundred bucks a week. It’s bullshit.”

“The industry’s changed,” I pointed out, reflecting on a conversation I’d had with one of Eddie’s producer friends. I couldn’t remember his name, but I’d met him at a party once and he’d educated me on how different the business was now compared to years ago. “It’s not like it used to be, when bands would hope to get signed by a major label and score a huge advance. To make a career of it now, more bands are signing with indie labels, touring li
ke crazy, and promoting the hell
out of themselves. It’s like a business plan.”

“I hate business plans,” he scowled.

“Yeah, but you have to build up a fan base to be successful. And in order to do that, you have to tour and get your name out there. Otherwise people won’t know who you are.” I grinned. “Or what they’re missing.”

I poured us each a glass of champagne and sat down next to him on the floor. “Hey, we’re supposed to be celebrating remember?” I reminded him. “How ‘bout you ditch the attitude and be thankful that you survived your first night on stage.” I raised my glass to his for a toast, but as soon as he took one sip his face puckered up like he had just sucked on a mothball.

“This
is awful,” he choked, barely able to get the words out of his mouth.

He passed his glass over to my side of the coffee table. “I’m getting a beer.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a Heineken in hand.

“You know what’s great about singing in a band?” he asked, smirking. “All the
girls.
I swear, I’ve never got so much attention in my entire life. It’s like, as soon as you have a microphone in your hand, everyone sees you differently.”

He was biting his lip in that naughty way that he usually did when he talked about women and I glared at him, resisting the urge to tell him how I mentally tried to will the ceiling to cave on any remotely cute girl that pawed at him after a show.

“It’s that whole passionate singer thing,” I explained. “Women think that they’re going home with the emotional, sensitive guy on stage but really, all they’re getting is the horny, sweaty guy after the show.”

In an attempt to stray from this unfavorable topic, I picked up the movie I’d brought over and popped it in the DVD player. Dylan relocated back to his original spot next to me on the couch and tugged at my pajama pants. “Well, since you’re already dressed appropriately, you can feel free to sleep here after the movie if you’re tired.”

I considered. “I just might take you up on that.”

***

“So, let me get this straight, you spent the entire night in his bed with him and he didn’t try
any
thing
? Is he
gay
?”

I had agreed to meet Beth for coffee at Starbucks and made the mistake of filling her in on my night with Dylan, in which the only action that had taken place was on the TV screen. I knew as soon as I told her this, the question quota would double. Whi
ch
it did.

I rolled my eyes. “Beth, he is most certainly not gay. I’ve witnessed two girls that he’s slept with,
both whom are disgusting
, but regardless, I know he slept with them. Not only that, but he talks to me about girls, which I hate. He actually told me the other night that he loves singing in a band because he gets a ton of girls.”