Rock Page 3

  “I think I broke my nose.” My nasally voice and an agony-laden swipe across the rickety bridge confirms it. Feels like my septum has been relocated to the posterior end of my cerebrum.

  A warm hand lands on mine. I startle from my maddening spiral and pry open my lids. Calluses line the tips of Shades’s bass-diddling fingers. Hangnails sprout here and there. Hard, rough edges. Just like the rest of him. But I’ve always been privy to the softness underneath. The sweetness hiding under all the rock star shit. The stand-up dude who never lets me down.

  Or maybe that guy has blinded me. Led me to believe he’s something he’s not.

  I sniffle. Sting.

  “You lied to me, Shades.” If he’s gonna do it again, I dare him to do it to my face.

  He slams his lips together with a hard twitch. “I didn’t lie,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t volunteer the truth.”

  My nostrils wince. Dear-sweet-baby-Jesus-that-fucking-hurts. I gently pinch my way down the slope of my nose to see if it’s out of alignment. Nope, pretty straight. Small miracles. “So, omission of the truth is an acceptable practice for this relationship?”

  “No. It’s not.” He looks away. “I should’ve told you I was married before, but it never came up. We both have our pasts, and since you never talked about yours, I never talked about mine. You said yourself, everything that happened before us doesn’t matter. We are the only thing that matters. Letty. Shades. The band. And The Rock. Nothing’s changed in that respect, pussycat. Not a goddamn thing.”

  Then it hits me. Shades might be as unhappy as I am about these new developments. He didn’t know about the baby. He wouldn’t be so defensive if he did.

  He leans in and cups my cheeks between his palms. “I love you. Not Eliza or anyone else. Just you. Got it?”

  I nod slowly. I want to believe him. “But—”

  “But nothing.” He thumbs my swollen lips. “Let’s see what we can do about your nose, and we’ll talk about the rest later.”

  Jinx appears beside Shades. “You okay, Letty?” She offers me an ice-stuffed plastic baggie. I accept. “Mind if I take a look?” she says.

  Frowning, I wave her closer. She kneels before me and scrutinizes my face from every angle, leaning left, right, up, and down. “My brothers have had their share of broken bones. Lots of busted noses in our house. You’re not pouring blood, and your nose isn’t crooked, so it’s probably not broken. Might have a hard time singing for the next few days, though.” She guides the frozen bag to my face and rests it on the sore spot. “The ice will keep the swelling down. You gotta keep your head up.”

  I nod. So, on top of this out-of-the-blue, shit haboob, I’ve also ruined my voice—the only instrument I’ve got, aside from the bass I play onstage occasionally—for the next few shows. Fucking great.

  Jillian swaggers toward us and stops behind Jinx, arms crossed, Resting Bitch Face settled sternly in place. Did she dye her hair? It looks less gray than it did before. “I hadn’t planned on having this conversation with you until tomorrow, but since we’ve broken everybody in,” she glances over her shoulder to Eliza coolly watching us from the front of the bus, “I guess it’s time for a band meeting.”

  Conversation? What now?

  “If it’s a band meeting, then she,” I hiss the word, “doesn’t need to be here. Tell her to leave.”

  Jillian studies me. “Fine. Pull yourself together while I clean house.” And off she goes, blond bob bobbing, hands clapping their way toward the front, barking instructions, and busting out her best drill sergeant moves. I swear that bitch never sleeps. Probably bleeds motor oil when her Aunt Flo comes to visit.

  Shades meets Eliza’s eyes right before Jillian shoos her off the bus. Something familiar passes between them. My heart misses its scheduled beat, spinning the hands of my internal body clock out of control.

  I’m gonna lose him. I’m gonna lose Shades to his ex-wife and their pukey little lovechild.

  Tightening my grip on the ice bag and pressing it harder into my numb nose, I start down the aisle. Shades grabs my hand, winds his fingers between mine. I pause. Look at his torn face, then down at the knot of his flesh melded to mine.

  I don’t want a baby—adopted or otherwise. I can’t give him a family. I’m Letty Fucking Dillinger. There’s just me, my music, and The Rock living inside this body. No people-shaped leeches allowed within this temple of awesome. Hell, it was hard enough allowing Shades into my heart, let alone making enough room to keep him there. I gave up part of myself to be with him, and I sure as shit ain’t sharing my guy with anyone else. Call me a jealous bitch, but if I can’t have him to myself, maybe I’m better off without him.

  Avoiding his gaze, I let go of his hand and leave him for the empty spot next to Eve on the couch. His footsteps beat a slow cadence along the rubberized floor behind me. Plodding. Pensive.

  Rax lifts his mass of black waves and points at Shades. “What’s with the fuckin’ uniform?”

  Shades rubs his nose and shakes his head slightly as if to ward him off.

  Rax leans around Eve and targets me with a mischievous stare. “You guys playing cops and robbers? And you didn’t invite me?”

  I flick a few droplets of condensation from my ice bag in his face. “You only get to play with me if Eve tells you to. Her birthday’s up first.” I glance at the hot piece of dancer ass sitting next to me. God, I envy her and Rax. They never fight. They fuck all the time. They love each other fiercely. And they’re both vehement defenders of childless relationships.

  “I’ve got a special surprise planned for my birthday.” Eve’s icy blue eyes catch mine, tie me up in some ferocious Shibari of the soul, and leave me to dangle over her threat without a net. Damn. I adjust my ass and cross my legs.

  “All right. Settle down.” Jillian puffs on her electronic cigarette and rests her butt against Shades’s bunk frame. “I’ve got some … news. Just Breathe’s manager Josh informed me the band has to cancel the rest of the tour. They’re packing up and leaving first thing in the morning. You’ll be headlining tomorrow night’s gig. We’ll find a local band to open.”

  A collective “What?” rises from our six mouths like an SOS.

  Shit. Damn. Fuck. Cool we’re headlining, but we didn’t even get to say goodbye to our buddies.

  “Gavin had an emergency back home in Australia. The band can’t go on without their lead singer and guitarist, obviously. I know this is a big disappointment, but the good news is we have some options. Josh pulled some strings. He thinks he can get Lords of Infamy onboard as a replacement for Just Breathe for the rest of the tour. You’d still be opening, but you’d share a stage with a solid, established band with lots of pull. Good potential for growing your fan base.”

  My eyes widen. “Fuck yeah!” Lords of Infamy are easily as big as Just Breathe. Maybe even more popular.

  “Or,” Jillian faces me and then glances to Shades, “we can nix the remaining shows after tomorrow, citing Just Breathe’s cancellation as justification, and you can have second billing on the Get Your Rock Off Tour for the next three months.”

  What? Playing that traveling festival would be a dream come true! It’s the biggest, oldest, most respected winter tour fest in the country.

  “Are you serious?” I jump up, forgetting about my nose. The reminder comes when I reach escape velocity and all the free-floating blood smashes into the mountain of swelled tissue suffocating my good sense. OUCH. I paw at my face.

  “They’ve sold out every show, so they decided to expand their lineup with new acts across two stages. The organizer called me as soon as he heard about Just Breathe. Guess news travels fast.” Jillian’s demeanor flattens to neutral, and the hairs on my nape stiffen.

  Everyone else is smiling, throwing out high fives, congratulating each other. But not me. Jillian’s about to throw a curveball, I know it. “What’s the catch?”

  “Now, I know you and Eliza had a bit of an … abrupt introduction, but—”

&nbs
p; “But?” Steam rises up my neck and heads for my ears. Jillian can’t do this to us. She just can’t.

  Our manager snags another drag off her fake cigarette and straightens. “But, Banging Betties are headlining the stage you’d be playing on.”

  I shut my eyes to stave off the onslaught building behind them. “And the hits keep coming.”

  Seriously? Fuck my life.

  Those Betties Can Go Fuck Themselves

  “No,” Shades says. “Hell no. Killer Buzz Float will not tour with Banging Betties. Not now, not ever.”

  I blink at him. What?

  And, yes! Lawd, yes! Praise Baby Jeebus! I mentally clap.

  “Because it’s your ex and kid? Who fucking cares?” Rax replies. “Those Betties have fans. They’ll bring in new blood for us. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

  “But … they suck,” I say, regaining a smidge of composure. “They’re overproduced, undertalented, incompetent hacks. And their singer is probably keeping Auto-Tune in fucking business. Her vocal chords must be a hot mess to still sound that bad despite all the digital help. Twenty bucks says those Betties can’t even read music.”

  “How do you know it’s Shades’s kid, anyway?” Jinx pipes up.

  All heads turn her way. She shrugs a shoulder as if to scrape off Rax’s you-must-be-joking glare-spatter.

  How, indeed?

  Rax leans back into the couch. “You can’t deny the thing looks like him.”

  Okay, he’s got a point.

  “She’s not a thing,” Jinx says softly. “Her name is Gabrielle. Call her Gabrielle.”

  It’s a girl? Humph. Well, even if the little fucker isn’t his, Shades still withheld a lot of important information from me. He may have slept with Eliza after we got together. If so …

  I smash my lips together to hold back the RAWR!

  My jaw quivers, and a tornado of tingles gathers inside my swollen nose again. It takes every ounce of alcohol left in my body to talk the pain down.

  Shades drops his gaze to the space between his feet while the rest of us cut him shifty glances. Tension thickens the air to the consistency of nearly visible shit steam.

  Sigh. I may be mad at him, but I don’t like everyone ganging up on Shades. I should deflect the attention elsewhere. He and I will have a long discussion about this baby shit later.

  “Okay, enough of that. This isn’t about the kid.” It totally is. “It’s about the band and what’s the best for us. Either way, we’re second billing. Not exactly where we want to be.” I shoot a scowl at Jillian, like it’s her fault Killer Buzz Float can’t seem to break free of the “always a bridesmaid, never a bride” curse.

  But I know as well as anyone, the blame doesn’t lie with her. Or any of us, for that matter. It’s the simplicity of the iAge consumer. The fast-food mentality. The lowest common denominator.

  He who cranks out the music fastest, wins. The bands that grab Joe Sixpack’s attention with flashy outfits, lame clichés, and look-how-awesome-I-am social media commentary are the ones who make it to the top—not those who can actually play an instrument. Musicians who are ruled by passion, years of intense training, and practice no longer have a place in this all-you-can-eat society. We’re the endangered species.

  I’ll admit, Killer Buzz Float played the glam rock card to get some new fans when we first broke out. We even added Eve to our performances for extra titillation. But the difference is, we’re musicians, not talentless, audio shit-slingers who know more about prefabbed GarageBand riffs and Auto-Tune vocals than complex time signatures, key changes, and unique chord progressions.

  We’re artists who’ve perfected our craft over decades. They’re snake-oil salesmen salivating at the promise of fame and programming their do-everything computers to sound like music. Where’s the beauty in taking the easy way out when you could craft something truly moving—something lasting—out of nothing but vocal cords, wooden sticks, and some guitar strings? Where’s the beauty in improvisation? Or hitting a wrong note and figuring out how to cover it? Where’s the art?

  Creators vs. destroyers.

  Guess who wins?

  Again, I say, fuck those Betties.

  Except maybe for Eliza, who seems to be the only one of the lot who has any musical gifts.

  Nah, fuck her too for being Shades’s ex.

  “The only way to get top billing is to pay your dues,” Jillian says pointedly to me.

  “What a crock of shriveled marsupial balls.” I reach up and smack the bulkhead of the bus a little harder than I mean to. Ouch. Again. “If Banging Betties paid any dues to land that gig, I’ll guzzle a vat of battery acid and chase it with a bottle of bleach.” It’d probably go down easier.

  “Jeepers, Letty, you sound a little jealous.” Rax screws up his face. “Wake up and smell the Top 40.”

  I flip him a bird so hard, I nearly dislocate my finger on liftoff. “I won’t sacrifice my integrity as a musician by praying at the altar of some bullshit list propagated by tinny-voiced blowhards who can’t spell the word ‘xylophone,’ let alone play one.”

  He tilts his head. “Does your integrity as a musician pay for the monthly service on your phone?”

  Grrr … I grit my teeth. “Don’t you dare drag my phone into this, asshole.” Nobody fucks with my phone. Nobody.

  “Okay, enough already.” Jillian steps between Rax and me. “Whatever we decide to do, it has to be unanimous.” She pauses and looks at each of us in turn. Tucking her straight, short hair behind an ear, she says, “It’s late. Some of us have had a long day. Sleep on it. We can talk about our options tomorrow. But we have to come to an agreement soon.” She pauses as if to add something, but then seems to think better of it. “I gotta go out for the night, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  Wait, where’s Jillian going? She’s never left us for an entire night while we’re touring.

  “Everything okay?” Jinx says.

  Jillian nods. Her face is inscrutable. Something’s up with her.

  “Behave yourselves while I’m away.” She waggles a finger, grabs her purse, and exits down the stairs.

  The six of us are left staring at each other. No one says anything for half a minute. I grab my hoodie and slip it on. Fuck this shit. I slam the baggie full of ice on the bus floor. “I’m out,” I mumble and head for the steps.

  “Letty, wait,” Shades says behind me.

  Without looking, I flip him off. He can go find his Betty and bang her tonight. I’m done.

  Footsteps follow mine. As I hit the blacktop, Eve’s words dance from the open window and surf my wake. “I’ve never seen her so pissed before.”

  Not sure I’ve ever been this pissed before.

  “She’ll get over it.” Rax’s voice fades.

  I snort. Mr. Sensitive.

  “Go back to the bus, Shades,” I toss over my shoulder. “I’m not in the mood for you.”

  His boots pick up speed, slapping pavement, eating up the ground between us. Acid rises in my gut, clearing the way for the impending explosion I’ll probably regret later. But I’m living in the moment and can’t see enough of the shady future to know what’s good for me. So, I turn up the heat full blast and let the whistle on the kettle scream.

  I spin around. He runs into me, his face pinched with too many emotions to decipher. I shove him. He stumbles. When I realize I just took it up several unnecessary notches, I lift my arms in surrender. Shouldn’t have done that. Yet, I can’t soothe the burning in my cheeks.

  Shades captures my hands in his, folds himself around them, and yanks me against his chest. “What part of ‘I love you’ did you not understand? In the eleven months we’ve been together, have I ever given you a reason to believe I’ve got anything but stupid, hopeless, head-over-ass love for you? That there’s anyone else I’d rather spend my entire fucking life with?” His pupils widen in the dark, and something protective—something threatening—leaks from his skin. But the powerful energy doesn’t threaten
me. It threatens anything or anyone who would dare come between us.

  My muscles unclench. A wave of relief sweeps in like a breeze on a hot day, and I stop struggling against him. My laid-back, easy-go-lucky man has been replaced by a dude who has something to lose.

  He grabs either side of my face and tilts my head up to meet his fierce eyes. His lips invade my personal space without touching. Warm breath, strong arms, passionate loyalty. This is the Shades I want. The one I need.

  “Answer me, Letty.” He lowers the volume, but not the intensity. That amps up higher.

  I’m cornered. Turned on by this show of alpha aggression. And maybe a little acquiescent under the heat of his demanding tone. “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, you haven’t given me reason to doubt you.”

  He nods slowly, trapping my undivided attention under the chokehold of his penetrating stare. The metal loop highlighting his brow sparkles as it arches. “Good. Now, are you gonna let me explain, pussycat? Because I’m not sleeping alone tonight.”

  Who is this new Shades? And does he have a twin? I’d like one three-way with a well-done Letty patty, a squirt spritzer, and a cream pie for dessert, please. Must be the uniform giving him all this confidence. Or maybe it’s fatherhood. Gulp. Either way, the brassy new attitude looks damn fine on him.

  “Okay. I’ll hear you out.” I glance around the parking lot. “But not here. Let’s take a walk.”

  “One stipulation.”

  I nod for him to continue.

  “No judgment passed until I finish. Deal?”

  Why do I get the feeling I’m not gonna like what he has to say?

  Because he knows damn well he fathered that kid, and it’s already driven a huge wedge between us in the short time since we found out. Imagine how the rest of this shit will fall out.

  It’s gonna change the way we live. It’s gonna influence our decisions as a couple. It’s gonna take time away from us.