Tough Luck (Hard Rock Roots) (26 page)

“I spoke with America this morning, and she said it's up to you guys to decide. If he can't play, Ronnie can do it.” Milo looks down at me with a question on his face. The question is: can you? I don't know that I'm an expert on all of Amatory Riot's songs, but I don't see why I shouldn't be able to jump in and make something work.

I shrug.

“I'll do what I can,” I say and Milo nods, rubbing his hands together and taking a deep breath. He's nervous, not unusual for him, but it leaves this feeling in the room, this pressure for us to do the best we can, to rock the fuck out of that crowd, lay 'em flat and leave nothing but bodies. Today, I'm feeling good. I've got a sense about this show. This is going to be a turning point for us. And after this, Lola will get a chance to see her sister. That's the important part, getting her out of there. Until then, retaliation is pretty much out of the question.

“If you would all please get up and get dressed in a timely manner. It's about a five hour drive from here to Little Rock, and we're going to be dealing with the largest crowd yet. The venue estimates there are already several hundred people waiting outside the doors. We're going to be facing issues with security we've never had to deal with before.”

There's a moment of silence that follows, and I know what we're all thinking.
This could be it. This could be the show that changes everything. After this, nothing will ever be the same again.
Whatever Tyler Rutledge's master plan really is, he's succeeded in making us more popular than we could've ever been with music alone. It might not have been worth Marta's or Chelsea's or Shannon's lives, but the sacrifices have been made and the dice have already been rolled.

I reach up and tuck some of Lola's hair behind her ear.

I'm used to being worshipped but forgotten.

Now, I think I'm ready to be seen.

You know how there are some moments that you just feel are going to change your life, even without knowing why? Tonight is one of those. The feeling in my chest is that big things are on the horizon. I can't tell you how I've come to that conclusion, it's just there. I guess by telling Ronnie, Naomi, and Turner what I know, I was embarking on a new path in life. The road I was on before is closed and ahead of me is a path littered with pot holes and detours, ditches, and fucking car wrecks, all aflame. Getting out of Tyler Rutledge's hold is not going to be easy. But now that I've made the decision I feel more like the real Lola Saints, like I'm finally becoming who I was always meant to be.

I'm going to get Poppet away from him, and I'm going to figure how to stop all of this without anyone else getting hurt. That's what I want to do. That is my redemption.

I stare out at the crowd, unflinching, unafraid. There are thousands of people in front of me, crowding the stage, swarming the edges of the arena. If we lose the tentative control we have on them, they'll explode, like a dam breaking, water cascading everywhere. We could drown. We could die.

I hold my chin up and command their attention as the lights brighten up overhead, revealing me in all my glory to the gaping maws and burning eyes. There's no hiding up here, not really. As soon as my stick makes contact with the skin on the drum, I am open and out there to be judged. I don't have to like what they say. What other people think about me is none of my fucking business anyway, but I'll know they know. I'll know, and I won't give two damns or a fuck about it. I told Ronnie that his problem was not loving himself enough. And that's true. It all starts from within. I thought I had that, but it was just a shield of smart ass bitchiness that I was surrounding myself with. Now, I'm ready to take the next step and be strong. I'm sitting here tonight to prove it.

Somewhere to my left, Ronnie is watching me. He promised he would. I can't see him, but I know he's there. I want to use tonight to show him how that I meant what I said, that I'm sorry for what I did, and that I'm ready to make things right. I take a deep breath and wait as the audience quiets down.

Cohen is standing center stage, wearing a leather vest and cowboy boots, tight pants and way too much gel in his hair. He looks cute, but not good enough to make me forget what KK said. If I ever do find out he touched my little sister, his head will end up so far up his asshole that he can chew his food again on the way down.

“Hey there Little Rock,” he says, his voice getting deeper, more gravelly, like rocks rolling down a driveway. Just before every performance, he pulls a 180 like this. His voice changes, his mannerisms, even the way he carries himself. His introductions aren't very good, but he pulls off a decent show. It'll never be at Turner Campbell's level, but that's okay. For right now, this will do. One day though I'd like to play for someone who really feels it, who puts their heart and soul into the sound. “Hope you're enjoying the show so far. We're Ice and Glass, and we're going to rock your fucking faces off.” He lifts a hand and Chris and Joel start off the song, strumming their guitars like professionals who haven't figured out that their careers are stagnant. This is the best they will ever get. Yes, they're good, but there will be Gods out there who will not only beat them but crush them to bloody pulps.

I start tapping my sticks together, keeping time.

“WHY?!” Cohen screams, voice echoing around the massive auditorium. The audience shouts it with him, jumping up and down, waving their arms, begging for a blessing from angels. But there are no angels here, only devils. I decide to play my drums that night as a warning to them.

And … two … three … four.

I smash into my kit, lay on like I'm having a bad day, shaking my head back and forth, hair flying, sticking to my already sweaty forehead. My shirt's all silver sparkles and glitter, glowing and flashing as I move in time with the music. This song, it's one of our originals, one of the few I actually got to write myself. I don't know why we're playing it. Mr. Rutledge makes up our set lists for every show, and not once has he ever selected one of our original songs. I hope it's not a bad omen, but as I feel the beat stirring my blood, bringing it to a boil, I can't see how it possibly could be. Nothing that feels this good could be bad.

“
Aren't you sick of knowing you,
” Cohen sings, his body turning to shadows as the lights move above us.

“
Knowing you,
” I sing along with the rest of the band, pushing my voice through the mic at my right, leaning forward on my seat, letting myself pour into and through it.

“
Could never be me. Aren't you sick of knowing you have never let yourself be free. So, why? Aren't you tired of being the only who can't believe the stars can be grabbed straight from the sky?
”

The other instruments around me slow and the spotlight moves, casting golden light down on my head like I've been sent from fucking heaven or something. I raise my arms up, feeling the muscles in my forearms, the coordination in my wrists, the grip of my fingers around the sticks. This is my favorite part of the song, where everything else fades away and I'm left here to show the transition from the old to the new, where the lyrics switch from feeling sorry about themselves to being proud. I wrote this song so long ago. At the time, I had no idea what it meant. I'm not saying I do now, that I've become a different person in a single day, but I'm now realizing that this is what I need to learn. This is what I've got to work on.

And I get to start by playing a triple ratamacue on my fucking killer kit with the purple glitter and the black bats. I close my eyes and let my heart take over. It sounds lame until you get there, until you feel it so deep down you have no idea where it's coming from. Sometimes, it takes one to know one.

Right hand drag, right hand drag, right hand drag,
left, right, left. Left hand drag, left hand drag, left hand drag, right, left, right.

Chris and Joel cut the crowd down with their axes, jumping back in with Honesty hot on their asses.

“
And aren't you sick of staying here, ready to spread your wings and fly? Why wait for tomorrow when we have today? Why stay here when there's other places we could be?
”

Cohen spins in a circle, stomping the stage with his cowboy boots, swinging his hair down like the rockers who gave birth to us, the first people to climb on the stage and hold their fingers to the sky in a holy hell fuck you all.

I check the crowd, watch them closely and make sure they're obeying my every move. When I say jump, I want them to ask how high. When I tell them to close their eyes and move with me, I want them to obey without question. I'm up here to guide them to a destination they could never find on their own. It's like being the only parent in a room full of children. It's my job to use these sticks, this foot, this soul to direct their energy, keep it up high and dangerous but not allow it to explode.

I pummel my drums hard, so hard. I beat the ever living fuck out of them, leaning up on my seat to scream the lyrics into the microphone. I get so loud that Cohen actually turns and looks at me, my voice crossing through the speakers and clashing against his. I don't think I'm a good vocalist, but I know that he's not right either. When this shit is over and flushed down the fucking toilet, I'm going to start a new band, and I'm going to find someone that I can't stop listening to, whose voice is so perfect that I could never compete.

I close my eyes and imagine Ronnie sitting behind me, guiding my arms with his strong hands, pressing his body close enough to scald. I imagine fucking him with a beat playing out in front us, regulating the rhythm of our bodies. I get so into it that when the song ends, I keep going, slamming out something completely new and different from anything we've done before.

At first, the movement in the audience slows when they see the rest of the band just standing there. But after awhile, the spotlight moves back over me and they start to stir, persuaded into motion by a beat that crashes into the brain and won't let go, the best kind of parasite. I invade their skulls and bring their bodies to motion, melting the pot of people into a roiling boil that doesn't let up, not even when Cohen tries to get the rest of Ice and Glass to play one of our assigned songs. It's not a bad tune, written just right, softened up and toned down for the masses. But Lola Saints doesn't play for the masses. She can't be censored or watered down or edited for public consumption. She plays for the fringes, for the nitty, for the gritty, for the ones that bleed black tears from their eyes.

And I'm just now getting to meet her. Tragedy and strife can breed beauty and change. It can because it's so stark, there has to be something to hold up against it, to say this isn't the way I want my life to be. So nice to fuckin' meet ya, Miss Lola. Nice to shake your fucking hand.

Ice and Glass stops playing; they don't know what to do. We might've been friends before, but I've made the change, and if they can't come along with me, then we're done. I keep playing, and I don't let up, not even when Cohen moves towards me and KK appears from behind the curtain.

When I see them, I falter for a moment, losing my momentum, sudden fear gripping me hard by the throat. And then Ronnie's coming out, combat boots slamming against the stage, climbing the steps to my throne and pausing there, breathing hard, face flushed. He smiles at me and then bends down, pressing his lips hard against my face. My hands start to move again, pulled like marionettes on a string. The song I start playing next belongs to Indecency. Ronnie doesn't know it, but I've always practiced to their music. Something about it is so right it's fucking wrong.

“Hey!” It's Turner Campbell sliding onto the stage. The audience can't hear him yet, but they can see him.
Amatory Riot + Indecency = Perfection
signs are everywhere. I guess all that mixing and matching they've been doing is paying off.

Cohen pauses, confused as fuck in the middle of the stage looking as lost in this moment as I think he is in life. Turner walks right up to him, pats his cheek and extracts his microphone. “Yo, hey, Little Rock.” He wets his lips and scratches at his belly, glancing over this shoulder at me and Ronnie. Like an asshole, I'm still sitting up here playing. Nothing but drums filling the air, shaking the auditorium. “So, um, yeah. Listen up.” He smiles wicked wide and deathly beautiful. I glance up at Ronnie who has a weird look on his face, halfway between ecstasy and blind terror. Not sure what that's about. “First off, fuck Wichita. I like you guys much better.” I can't even tell there are human beings in the audience anymore. They're so excited to see Turner that they've morphed into ghosts, haunting the auditorium with deathly cries and wails of agony. They need him; they must have him; he is their everything. Campbell is the quintessential rock God. He's got so much charisma, it's scary.

“He better not,” I hear Ronnie say, his voice somehow cutting across all the bullshit and making it to my battered brain.
Fuck a nun's dry cunt, what are you doing Lola?
I just keep playing. I can't stop. My whole body is shaking and my arms are on fire, but I just can't pull myself away. It's too much. I'm too wired in now.
Please don't let anything bad happen to Poppet because of this.