From the final scale, Pete drifted into a tune Max recognized intimately: “Someplace to Hide,” a song Max had written for Purple Method. In fact, he’d composed it in this very room before their tour.
Picking up the drumsticks, Max tapped out the slow-yet-complex rhythm, adding stronger beats leading into the vocals. Putting every effort he could muster into his voice as he sang, he tried to show his mentor he could sing as well as Pete expected after all the free training he’d given him. Pete finally nodded his approval, and Max relaxed with each subsequent breath he took.
With his brother’s effortless talent on drums and the other guys in the band never seeming to work at their craft either, he felt like the dunce of the group—like he had to prove himself and play catch-up. It didn’t help that at twenty he was also the youngest by a couple of years. Tony had even had to get him a fake ID so they could play in bars and clubs. It was mortifying.
“How about some of your pancakes as payment?” Pete asked later as they finished up their session and emerged to grab a well-earned beer.
“Sure, why not.” Max was starving, and performing on an empty stomach was no fun. He gathered the ingredients from Pete’s kitchen cupboards and started on the mixture.
Pete sat at the oak dining table, clearing some of the motorcycle parts to the floor. “I’m impressed. Despite picking up a few bad habits, your voice is getting stronger in the midrange. Have the others noticed?”
“Na, they don’t care so long as I don’t mess up.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t. The change is pretty obvious.” Pete stroked one of his cats as it picked its way through the hunks of metal and sidled along the table toward him.
Max poured the thick batter into the sizzling pan, tilting it to spread the mixture. “Tony was the one who messed up most. He got slaughtered before the Seattle gig and fell off his stool during one of his solos.”
Pete snorted with laughter. “Yeah, I saw the pictures on the internet.”
Max checked the pancake and flipped it in the air, then caught it with expert precision back in the pan.
“He only has a couple of beers before each gig now. Makes up for it afterward, though.” Max waited a minute and then tipped the pancake onto a plate, sliding it in front of Pete, who pulled it from the cat’s reach as it hooked its claw and tried to swipe it from the plate.
“I don’t doubt it,” Pete said. “How’re things going with Zoe and Lisa? I bet they’re glad you’re home.”
The habitual weight in Max’s stomach grew heavier at the reminder. “Same, I guess. It’s a casual thing.” He turned his back to Pete and poured more batter into the pan. Now that he’d returned to Elfinbrook, there was no way he could avoid seeing his girlfriends. He hated having to pretend, but with three of them in the relationship, it was easier than when he’d tried having one girlfriend. The girls weren’t so demanding of him because they also had each other. It meant if he didn’t see them for a while, they didn’t seem to notice as much. It went against everything he believed a relationship should be, but he couldn’t see any other way to hide his sexuality. What had seemed like the perfect facade had become something he dreaded, but he had to continue—everything depended on it.
“Lucky thing. They’re both gorgeous. I’d want to make it a bit less casual if I were you.”
Max winked at Pete. “Maybe I’ll change my mind once I’m old like you. For now an open relationship suits me just fine.”
Out of everyone, Pete had come closest to guessing he was gay, and yet still didn’t seem to have a clue. Pete was like a surrogate dad to them. It was better to live a lie than to risk being disowned by him and Tony—better than facing a future alone.
“Yeah, funny. Forty’s not old.”
“If you say so, old man.” Max grinned at him. “By the way, we’re opening for Vanquished Villains in a couple of weeks. I’ve asked Angelo to put you on the guest list again.”
“Thanks, bud.” Pete shoveled a forkful of pancake into his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’m surprised Villains are still playing. Didn’t their bassist overdose last month?”
“Yeah, he did. As far as I know, they managed to get someone to cover.”
“Sad, isn’t it.” Pete shook his head. “He was only twenty-seven. Have you decided what you’re opening with yet?”
“Don’t you start,” Max groaned. “When I left the house earlier, Tony and Lee were arguing about what we’re opening with tonight, let alone in two weeks. Tony’s trying to coerce him into using one of his songs, but Lee’s not having it, as usual. Me and Kyle still never get a say.”
Max left a pancake cooking in the pan and joined Pete at the table, inhaling the citrus aroma of a fresh lime before squeezing its juice over his pancake and savoring the sweet, sour mouthful. He knew he shouldn’t be eating citrus and batter before a gig, but after his session with Pete, he knew his voice would be fine.
“It doesn’t matter if they never use any of your songs to open,” Pete said. “You can outdo Tony’s drums with your vocals on any of the songs… if you want to, that is?”
Max laughed. Sometimes Pete laid it on thick. Who was he kidding? He’d never be in Tony’s league, not in ten lifetimes.
“I’m serious, you need to quit putting yourself down. You’re as good a musician, if not better, than any of the others; you need a bit more confidence in yourself, that’s all.”
Max finished his pancake and got up to check the one in the pan. “You’re biased, boss.”
“Okay, maybe a little.” He lifted his fork and waved it at him. “But that doesn’t change anything. You’re my star student.”
“Your other students are still in high school. I’d be offended if I wasn’t.”
“Shut up.” Pete smiled and rubbed the cat’s belly. “Hadn’t you better get going? It’s nearly six thirty.”
“Fuck.” How had it gotten so late so fast? Max tried to grab the pancake out of the pan and cursed again when it burned his fingers. “You’re coming along tonight, right?”
“Yeah, in a bit. I’m meeting a friend there at seven thirty. Rick’s new in town, so I thought I’d bring him along and introduce him to everyone. Is it okay if he comes to your party afterward?”
“Yeah, ’course.” Max half saluted as he rushed past, swerving to avoid the corner of the table.
“Max….”
“What?” He paused, wobbling on one foot, and stared at Pete.
“Knock ’em dead like I know you can.”
AS MAX approached the Torrens Club, he noticed that a long line of noisy Purple Method fans waited outside the huge black building on the other side of the road. It still had the painted neon images of dancers with wild tattoos, crazy hair, and outrageous piercings that had been there when Max was a kid.
Panting from his mad dash downtown, Max ducked behind an industrial trash can and crouched out of sight while he caught his breath, wafting the bottom of his T-shirt to cool down and wishing he’d ridden his motorcycle to Pete’s instead of walking.
What was Angelo playing at? Everyone should’ve been inside by now. How was he going to sneak past to the back entrance? He couldn’t be late for this gig; he just couldn’t. Lee really was going to kill him this time.
He peered around the edge of the can. Tonight’s crowd would be the biggest Max had ever played for, even with only half the tickets sold. It was terrifying, and there was no way he could get past without risking being seen. His other option was to go around the block and approach from the opposite direction, but that would take ages. He took out his cell from his pants pocket—6:45. Fuck.
Staring back at the Torrens Club, Max bounced on his toes until Angelo opened the doors and people began to disappear into the venue. If he waited a few minutes, they’d all be inside and he’d have more of a chance of sneaking past unnoticed. It’d be quicker than going all the way around the block. He gazed at the dusty sidewalk and scratched a picture of a treble clef in the dirt with his finger while he wa
ited for the fans’ excited chatter to fade.
Max’s cell vibrated, and he glanced at the screen. It was Kyle, Purple Method’s lead guitarist. Thank God it wasn’t Lee or Tony. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Where the fuck are you?” Kyle hissed.
“I can’t get near the building. There’re too many people outside.”
“Max, seriously, do yourself a favor and get your ass here now.” The faint drone of Lee’s voice in the background grew louder. “I gotta go,” Kyle whispered and hung up.
It became a no-brainer: face the wrath of Tony and Lee or risk getting mobbed by a dwindling number of fans who may or may not recognize him. Taking a deep breath, Max squeezed his eyes shut for a second and then sprinted across the street toward the back of the club. Nobody had been looking his way until he whizzed past, trying to look inconspicuous, but suddenly it felt like all eyes were on him. A few people pointed, and Max swore he heard someone shriek his name, but luckily none of them thought to pursue him.
Rounding the corner of the building, he spied their tour bus, which was a converted ambulance that he’d painted black with Purple Method in huge lilac letters along the sides. The ambulance doors were still open. That was a good sign; it meant his friends hadn’t finished setting up yet. If he grabbed some equipment, perhaps he could convince them he’d been there all along.
“Max!” Kyle came out of the club and rummaged in the back of the ambulance. “Thank fuck for that. Here, grab these, will you?” He threw a coil of leads at Max, who scrabbled to catch them and failed. He managed to retrieve them from the ground before Kyle noticed. “Where have you been? Tony and Lee have been going crazy.”
“They were doing that way before I left, and that had nothing to do with me.”
“I can’t believe how many people are here tonight.”
“Yeah, it’s gonna be great.” Max grinned. A fan shrieking at him had been an instant ego boost. If he’d thought to record it, he could’ve put it on instant playback the next time nerves got the better of him. He felt like he could take on the world right now and kick its ass. “What’re we opening with?”
Kyle grimaced. “‘Bind Me.’”
Surprise, surprise. “Tony won, then. Figures.”
“Yeah, those two need to sort it out. Seriously, they squabble like a couple of kids lately.”
“Why do you think I left them to it,” Max said as they made their way into the stuffy building, along the bright corridor, past an office and their dressing room. The door was wide-open, and the room was already full of Purple Method’s usual chaotic mess.
They turned a corner, and the massive stage was right in front of them. Max gulped. They were really doing this. All his newfound confidence evaporated in an instant.
From the wings, the excited chatter of their most eager fans convening in front of the stage was terrifying, mostly because of the level of noise and therefore the sheer number of people who had to be out there. He pictured them clinging to the steel barriers and glaring at anyone who dared challenge for their spot. He knew the deal, and he always got the best spot, right in the middle—the best place from which to admire and study his favorite singers. It also meant that as soon as the mosh pit fired up, he was there at its core.
There was nothing Max loved more than live music. Thunderous beats reverberating through his body, exhilarating to the extreme, and only released by either throwing himself around in an aggressive mosh pit or by the most mind-blowing sex he could imagine. Max tried not to imagine it as his thoughts teetered on betrayal. His cheeks burned as he dropped the leads in a heap next to a stack of amplifiers.
“What the hell, Max?” his brother’s voice boomed nearby, and Max leaped in the air, cringing, and turned to face him. Tony marched up to him. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
“Worried? Are you kidding? You really think I’m gonna hang around and listen to you and Lee screaming at each other again?”
Tony was about to argue back but seemed to think better of it. He lifted a bottle of beer to his lips and took a long drink. “Just let me know when you go out, yeah?”
“I’m twenty, not ten. I’m not gonna tell you every time I leave the house. You’re being ridiculous.”
Lee rounded the corner and stormed up to them.
Tony winked at Max. “Uh-oh.” He took another sip of beer.
“How many times, Tony?” Lee threw his hands up in the air. “No drinking before gigs, okay? I swear I waste my breath. I thought we agreed after last time—”
“It’s one, Lee. Lighten up.”
“I’ll lighten up the day I can guarantee you’re not going to ruin a gig by falling off your damn stool.”
“Ouch.” Tony gave Max a sidelong grin. “That was below the belt, even for you.”
Lee shook his head and glared at Max. Oh man, so much for Tony distracting Lee from the inevitable lecture he deserved. Max braced himself. “And you. Don’t even get me started. You may be our singer, but that doesn’t mean your lazy ass can’t give the rest of us a hand setting up the equipment. You wander in here, late, expecting the rest of us to take up your slack, again. Despite your delusions, we’re not your servants. Don’t think I won’t replace you if you don’t pull your weight.”
“Whoa, don’t you dare joke about that,” Tony warned, taking a step closer. “My little brother leaves the band, I go too; you got that?”
“You think that’s a deterrent?”
“That’s enough!” Max shouted. If they didn’t pull together, there was no way they’d be able to get up on that stage and nail it the way he knew they could. “Tonight is our chance to show how awesome we’ve become. Don’t risk blowing it for all of us because of some stupid argument. I’m sorry I was late, okay, Lee?”
Tony bear-hugged Max and squeezed the breath from him. “Aw, check out my little brother, all grown-up and wise and stuff. I raised you well, little bro.”
“Jesus.” Lee shook his head. “That’s one dysfunctional family right there.”
“Come on.” Tony waved Lee over and dragged him into a group hug. “Show us the love.”
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
Tony noisily kissed the top of Lee’s head, and Max snickered at the look of disgust on Lee’s face.
“That’s sweet, guys, but we’ve got a gig to do,” Kyle called out.
Max pushed away from them, grabbed Kyle’s guitar from the stand, and tuned it for him while the others finished up sorting out the leads and testing microphones. It was something they should’ve done before their audience arrived, and maybe even left time for a sound check, but judging by the heckling that was going on, it was no bad thing to build up anticipation further by giving fans a glimpse pre-set.
With all the guitars tuned, Max dusted off an old amp and hauled himself onto it, enjoying the bustle of last-minute preparations. The anticipation had been part of the thrill for him since he was a kid, watching his dad onstage. If he’d told their dad about tonight, Max was sure he’d have been excited for them—or at least that’s what he said to himself.
Max shrugged out of his leather jacket and lifted the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe beads of sweat from his brow, grateful that he could blame his current state on the failed air-conditioning and pretend it wasn’t the profuse panic taking over his body. Tonight couldn’t be the night he screwed up—not here. Max gulped as the queasiness worsened, and he tried to concentrate on the soothing rumble of Lee’s bass guitar as he warmed up. How had performing for hundreds of people ever felt like a good idea?
“You okay?” Tony crouched in front of Max, placing a bucket on the ground and flicking his long blond hair over his shoulder as he peered up at him.
Max scowled, and the bucket rattled as he kicked it.
“Just as I thought.” Tony smirked, stood, and called out, “We’re ready to go, guys.”
The words Max despised. Nausea overwhelmed him, and he reached for the bucket, taking an expert aim to a chorus of
jeering. He snatched the tissues and breath mint Tony handed him and scrubbed his mouth.
Lee patted Max on the back. “Let’s make this the best one yet.”
“I hate you all.”
How the hell had his unfortunate habit become their good omen?
CHAPTER TWO
Rick
STARING FOR longer than was probably polite at the immaculate makeup of the goth who walked past him to join the line to get into the Torrens Club, Rick smoothed down his navy T-shirt and hoped he didn’t stand out too much.
He relaxed a little when he spotted Pete approaching and waved.
“Hey, Rick.” Pete smiled a little too wide.
“What?” Rick glanced down at his new stylishly ripped jeans and pristine red sneakers, and back up at Pete. “You knew before you invited me that I’m no metalhead. Don’t act all surprised that I’m not dressed like the living dead.”
“Hey, I didn’t say a word. You look great. Very… um, smart. It’s not obligatory to wear black, you know. I told you that the other day.”
“I know.” Rick grimaced. “But I can feel people staring.”
Pete laughed. “Ignore them.”
They walked past the line and over to the main doors, where Pete got them in on the guest list. It seemed he knew everyone in town. “What time is Purple Method due onstage? How long have we got?”
“Dunno. Depends what time Max got here in the end; he was running late. That guy is incapable of being on time for anything. Doors opened early, though, and they don’t have any openers, so it could be anytime now.”
Rick’s breath hitched at the mention of the guy he’d been crushing on ever since Pete showed him a clip of Max onstage a couple of months back. The guy had the most incredible voice he’d ever heard—smooth and effortless, but with a sexy, gravelly tone when he hit the lowest notes that sent tingles straight to Rick’s balls, guaranteed every time. Add to that the countless pictures of Max on social media, half-naked and clearly sleeping with the majority of Purple Method’s fans, and that made the anticipation of meeting him all the more exciting. The guy was sexy as hell.
Purple Method Page 2