by Shey Stahl
“Girl, I’m so freaking pumped!” Bella pumps her fist in the air. “I have an outfit for every city! And Greece, girl. Goddamn Greece! I’m gonna find me a nice Spanish man to woo my panties off.”
I fight back laughter at her enthusiasm. “Don’t you mean Greek?”
“Yeah, that. A Greek god would be nice.”
Bella is by far the craziest person I know, and I love every ounce of her tiny nutball spirit. I can’t imagine doing this without her. I can’t imagine going anywhere without her. Ever since I left Baton Rouge three years ago for LA, she’s been by my side. I can’t say the same for the one behind her.
Offering a smile, I wink at Bella. “Can’t wait.” My tone is sarcastic, isn’t it? I’m such a jerk. I drop my head and stare at my perfectly manicured toes. I adore Bella. She’s my best friend and she’s my family, and if anyone is there for me at all hours of the night and day, it’s this girl.
That one behind her, I can’t even look at him these days. I don’t know the truth about my dad’s supposed affair, and he swears it’s all paparazzi rumors, but I don’t know if I can trust him any longer and that’s not a good feeling to have when your dad’s your record label. He approaches, smiling at Bella, then directing his gaze to mine. “Are you ready?”
Trying to act normal, I shrug and pick up my cell phone off the coffee table in front of me. “I think so.”
With his eyes on her ridiculous overalls that I’m sure have more holes in them than fabric, Dad hands Bella an envelope. “Details are in here. Road manager and A-team already have copies and itineraries. Your flight leaves tonight at seven. Kandace will join you in Portland.”
Kandace is my manager, and I adore her because when it seems no one is looking out for me, she is.
You might be wondering what A-team is. It’s not that totally funny movie with Bradley Cooper, unfortunately. Every tour we go on has three teams to it. A-team is the artist group. It consists of personal security, assistants, manager, hair, makeup… those guys.
B-team. It’s the band’s tour manager, road manager, guitarist, drummer, dancers, tour accountant.
C-team. The sound, lighting, video, catering, and merchandise.
Ya’ll, I know what you’re thinking. That’s a lot of people. Welcome to tour life. And if you think that’s bad, just imagine what this tour is going to be like with six other bands and their entourages.
Breckin shuffles to his feet again. I hadn’t even realized he’d moved from his place beside me. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Jory?” I can take a wild guess as to why Breckin thinks this is a bad idea. Look at him, still thinking we have a chance at our relationship. That won’t happen. Between you and me, he was never very good boyfriend material. He’s much better in the friend-zone.
“If Tay wants to break free from the image she’s so adamant is holding her back, then I guess she knows what’s good for her.” Do you sense the sarcasm in my dad’s voice? I certainly do, but it’s a reminder that this was, in fact, my idea, believe it or not.
Sighing, Breckin sits back down next to me. “I don’t think it is. These bands… it’s not her scene. They’re….” He sounds concerned, every word holding a weight to my chest.
“Why are you trying to talk me out of the tour?” Staring down at my toes, I wiggle them into the rug as a distraction. It takes everything in me to keep my cool. I don’t know why but his words piss me off because he’s acting like everyone else and saying I don’t belong. “It’s almost like you don’t want me on it.”
Breckin’s jaw tightens, his eyes hard and accusing. “No, that’s not it.”
Drawing in a slow, steady breath, I let it out slowly. “Who else is on the tour?” I ask my dad again, hoping the list of names wasn’t quite right. Maybe in the time since the tour was announced and every single show had sold out, maybe he backed out? One could totally hope for that, right?
He looks to me, then Breckin. “You, Breckin, Beau Ryland, The Ruins, Revved, Hensley….” And then I stop listening.
There’s only one that matters.
Only one that threatens to destroy my resolve completely.
Only.
One.
And he’s the worst—the charm, the sideways smile he offers, the wink, the words; they always destroy. No doubt the hundreds of women who’ve been subjected to it agree with me. He’s… Lucifer.
I first met Revel Slade when I was fourteen and he was a dirty-mouthed eighteen-year-old world-famous rock star. His band, Revved, was at the top of every chart worldwide and his ego matched it. I met him backstage at a concert he was headlining, and he asked me, his eminent sideways smirk directed my way and tortured blue eyes twinkling with mischief, “Does the carpet match the drapes?” as he twirled a strand of my red curls around his finger.
I never did answer him because I thought he was talking about my tour bus or maybe my parents’ house. I had no idea it was a sexual reference about my red hair.
At sixteen, more accustomed to the ginger jokes, I met him again at the VMA’s after-party, and he got in a fight with my boyfriend at the time, Breckin Thomas, and told me, while spitting blood at my feet, “Come find me when you want me to make your cunt bleed, princess.”
Naïve as I was, okay, still am, it took me most of the night to understand what he meant by that. And then I was mortified that he talked to me that way. Assuming I was still a virgin, that is. He assumed correctly.
When I was nineteen and we presented at the MTV Music Awards together, he licked the side of my face on television in front of millions and said into the microphone, “Tastes like sweet cherry pie.” Everyone thought it was funny, but I didn’t get the reference until later… much later.
A month later, we were at the same restaurant in New York City. I was quietly having a meal with Breckin and our friends and he sent a cherry in a shot glass to me. I still don’t know for sure what that meant, but by the smirk across the bar, I’m guessing it was a sexual reference. That same night, he and Breckin got in a fight outside a nightclub. I wasn’t there, but I had a feeling it had to do with the cherry incident.
Then, about a year ago, we met at the Grammys where I had won four awards. He claimed he didn’t know who I was, let alone what I won, then said he’d fuck me and some other junk I didn’t care to hear.
From then on out, I steered clear of Revel and the members of Revved. We came from two entirely different worlds. I couldn’t believe how mean and cold he was. For someone of his popularity, I wondered what people saw in him. Probably his insanely hot body and ruggedly handsome good looks, but whatever. He’s an asshole.
Think I’m exaggerating? Let me give you a little background on the bad boy rock icon. DUIs, drug addictions, hookers, alcohol, assault… it’s all part of his rap sheet. I’m surprised the guy doesn’t need an organ transplant at this point, or at the very least, not be serving out some prison sentence. Which, don’t misunderstand, he’s done time here and there, but nothing substantial.
“Tay, you really should think about dropping from the tour,” Breckin whispers, sitting beside me, our knees bumping. “It’d be a nightmare with him on tour, not to mention, you’re not rock.”
Heat licks my face. “Seriously, Breckin? Neither are you! It’s not just rock on the tour. There’s pop, country, metal. It’s seven bands from different genres coming together. You should know, you’re on it too, and the last time I looked at the charts, you’re classified as pop so I could say the same about you.”
With her phone in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other, Bella kicks Breckin’s shin. “I can’t believe you’re trying to talk her out of it. This is a chance of a lifetime for her.”
“You’re only saying that because you want to go to Greece and drool over Revved.”
There’s no way she can deny it. Bella’s had eyes for their drummer for years, but she won’t say anything, just like I won’t admit I secretly think Revel is the hottest man on the face of the planet. I just can’t stand his arrogant
ass.
Fighting the urge to strangle Breckin, I grab his face and look into his warm hazel eyes. Check out B’s face. Cute, huh? He’s available if you’re looking for someone. We met in the industry, both musicians, both signed with Ash Music Group, and while he’s a skilled tenor, his music is heavily edited relying on his breathy tone. It’s difficult to say what his unfiltered singing voice sounds like compared to his studio voice. He’s your typical early-twenties pop star with blond hair, pretty eyes, and flirty smile. He’s what I like to call a boy. He’s not a man as far as I’m concerned and to be completely honest, I knew when I was dating him that we weren’t destined for the altar. The public likes a cute pop love story, and for a while, we happily gave them what they wanted. Then reality kicked in and our happily ever after went poof.
I check the time on my cell and then glance over at Breckin. “We broke up, B. You no longer have a say in anything I do. I’m doing the tour. Tickets are already sold out. Again, you already know this.”
Breckin glances over his shoulder at Bella before returning his gaze to mine. Forcing a smile, he whispers, “You’ll always be my girl and I’ll always care about you.”
My throat bobs, my fake smile threatening to crumble. He should have thought about that before he cheated on me.
Straightening my posture, I clear my throat. “When do we leave?”
Breckin sighs in clear frustration and gets up to leave, Bella busies herself with her phone, and it’s just me and my dad in the den. He’s looking at me like he’s going to warn me. You know, the look parents get when they’re about to give you the “I told you so” talk or the “this is for your own good.”
It’s something similar to both those looks. “Your mom’s worried this will be too much for you with Revel on the tour.”
Yeah, well maybe you should pay more attention to Mom and stop cheating on her. Then again, what if Mom knows and she’s okay with it? It’s not like my mom and I have that kind of open relationship where I’d flat out ask her if she knows.
And then I focus on what Dad’s referring to. Revel. Sadly, because of our past interactions, his popularity over the last five years, and the Grammy incident, Revel has become a household name and one I can’t stand. Even the mere mention of him sends me into an anxiety attack, like it did earlier. His Grammy remarks still haunt me, and it’s been a year since that day.
“I’d f*** her,” Revved’s front man Revel Slade said of Taylan Ash at the Grammy Awards, “but her lyrics say absolutely nothing other than she clearly hasn’t had her cherry popped.”
Dad reaches for my shoulder, squeezing it. “I’m warning you now, T. Don’t fall for him.”
My eyes widen. “Why would you say that? He’s a monster. . . I’d never.”
Dad shrugs. “I’m just. . . .” He pauses, clearing his throat and straightening his tie. “I don’t want you to get hurt, and if Breckin means anything to you, you won’t give Revel Slade the time of day.”
If Breckin means anything to me? Obviously, my dad doesn’t know Breckin like I do, and he’s not up to date on the things he’s done recently. I settle with, “It’s going to be fine.”
It’s when I’m alone with Bella in the car on the way to the airport, our entourage of SUVs behind us that it hits me what this could mean. I’m not sure I belong on the same tour with Revved, let alone Revel. While I’ve certainly earned this right to perform, and expand my abilities as a performer, we are in fact completely different performers. You’d never see my fans at one of their concerts, or at the very least, admitting to going to them. They’re like Motley Crew and Nine Inch Nails had a baby with Prince and out came Revved.
I’m more like Taylor Swift and Mariah Carey bred a redheaded freckled-faced pop princess. I write songs about young love and my dream world that’s nowhere close to reality. They write about death, sex, drugs, women, and suicide. A world I’m completely unfamiliar with.
Cradling my face in my hands, I let out a shaky breath. “What have I agreed to?”
Bella’s pretty brown eyes light up. “Only the best party of our lives!”
PRINCESS IS LOOKING FOR A KING
REVEL
Standing next to a car, I hide my bloodshot eyes behind my signature black lenses, my leather jacket pulled up at the collar protecting my too-sensitive skin from the cool breeze. Do you notice the tight set of my jaw and the impatience in my stance? The way every muscle in my body is tensed and rigid?
It all leads you to one theory on me, doesn’t it?
What is it? I’m curious.
Okay, I’m actually not. Just know, it’s somewhere between an arrogant indifference I’ve perfected and vulnerability.
We’re set to leave this morning, first night of the One Vibe tour starting tonight in Portland, Oregon, and though I still have no interest in doing this tour, or seeing Hensley today, here I am fucking standing, waiting, and she’s here, hanging on my arm like nothing happened between us over the last three months.
Everything happened. I can’t stand this bitch, and the idea of her clinging to my arm in an attempt to act like the past doesn’t exist, bury her mistakes, triggers my barely controlled tendency to cause some serious mayhem. Despite what everyone says, I don’t lose my temper just to lose it. There’s always been a legitimate fucking reason for it.
I fight the urge to grab her by the neck and slam her head into the side of the car. Brutal, I know, but if you knew the ways she took everything I had to give and destroyed it, you’d understand why that is.
“Why are you so tense today?” she asks, tightening her arm around mine, her brown eyes as tortured as the day she crashed into my life.
Letting my sunglasses slide down my nose, I stare at her above the frames, blowing smoke in her face. “You’re a cunt.” I could go on here. I could air her dirty fucking laundry around the world, but I don’t because that means letting people into my world, feeding the gossip mongers who are always waiting by the side for any juicy slip of my private life. No, at this point I give her what she deserves and what she deserves is my fucking cold shoulder.
Hensley rolls her eyes, pushing away from me with a shove. “You’re such an asshole sometimes.”
“Honey, you haven’t seen me being an asshole yet.”
Having spent most of her life in and out of foster care, I met Hensley when she was sixteen and a runaway on the streets looking for someone to take her in. Incredibly talented, she wrote a few songs for Revved and then eventually, she and I started, and it was hard to break free, even though our relationship was toxic.
Lost in a memory I want to burn from my brain, the one of her telling me she’d gotten pregnant with someone else, the band converses around me. It’s like a cloud of words, by who, I’m not sure, but I hear things like:
“Why do we have to do this?”
“Diversity.”
“That’s bullshit. Nobody wants diversity.”
“Thank you, Cruz.”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“You can’t stop me from talking.”
“I can shove a fucking drumstick down your goddamn throat. Then what?”
“How ’bout I shove one up your ass?”
Liz separates the two of them from killing one another. “Knock it off.”
It’s me who groans and rolls my eyes, voicing my discontent for the situation again. “Why do we have to do this shit?”
“Because after all the trouble you four pulled in Vegas, you need another tour to pay back the lawsuit the promoter handed you.”
It’s a good thing I have a damn good lawyer because I have more lawsuits than I can keep track of, and most of them have to do with two things. Drinking and my temper. And when they’re combined, it’s a side you don’t ever want to see. It’s like gravity. All it takes is a little push and me versus me is my greatest enemy.
Aside from my issues, here’s an industry truth for you that might explain why we’re set to go on tour again. Bands, artists… if you’re in t
he business of performing, touring is where you make your money. You usually bank more off that tour than you do off album sales. It’s around 70 to 80 percent.
And when you’re a bunch of crazy sadistic fuckers like us, you struggle to make money touring because of the life you live on the road. I don’t recall what happened in Vegas. It’s a blank spot in my memory so don’t ask what happened. For the most part, touring is lawless. I was seventeen on our first tour. Cruz and I started the band, and then came Deacon and Hardin soon after. By the time we had our first record out and a number one single, we were on tour. I can’t even accurately tell you the crazy shit we did, but I can tell you it landed all four of us in jail a time or two, and a long-lasting alcohol and cocaine addiction we all battle with. Our lives are lived out of a suitcase and most days, we’re too wasted to open it. Every night you’re at a different show, different city; all we know is we rock the shit out of it without order.
Whether it’s a tour bus, private plane, the gig, or the after-party, when you’re at our level, it’s like you’re an animal at the zoo and you’re trapped in a cage. You can see out, but nobody can touch you, and you don’t want them to anyway because you’re so paranoid that you don’t know who you can trust and who you can’t. Worship at that level, it changes you. I don’t care who you are, it fucking changes you, and not always for the better. For us, it happened in a matter of months. We skyrocketed to the top of the charts. Revved had everything we could ever dream of and no supervision. Our lives went from zero to sixty, and none of us were even eighteen at the time. Drunk most of the time, we did cocaine and even at times, heroin backstage—short-lived addiction. We didn’t care if we died the next day; we were the greatest rock band in the world and honestly, the biggest fucking train wreck at the same time.
But this band, these guys around me now, we are in fact a bunch of anarchistic fucks. Revved is about pushing limits, redlining. Rebelling. No laws. A brotherhood. It’s us against the world, and though we don’t make the rules, we break them and love every fucking minute of it. We might fight, tear each other down, and threaten to quit daily, but we’re brothers. Four delinquents who find sanctuary in music.