by KC Enders
Table of Contents
Off Bass
Dedication
About the Book
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Epilogue
More Books by KC Enders
Playlist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Off Bass
Copyright © 2021 by KC Enders
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.kcenderswrites.com
Cover Designer & Formatter: Alyssa Garcia, Uplifting Designs
Cover Model: Cole Monahan
Photographer: Scott Teitler
Proofreader: Judy Zweifel
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For everyone with a dream.
Keep reaching for the stars …
They are right there!
About the Book
Rock star. Rich. Famous.
I’m Nate Calloway, bassist for The UnBroken. I’m living the dream. Only it’s not my dream. Mine was bigger and classier with the love of my life at my side. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for everything the band has done for me. I just want… more.
The cost of having it all means choosing fame, money, and screaming fans over my passion for playing. After a hand injury forces me to take some time away from touring, I just might find out that having it all is still within my grasp. As long as I don’t fall in love with her all over again.
Ballerina. Stardom. Prestige.
I’m Alexis Thompson, ballerina for the New York City ballet. I worked my whole life—sacrificed my heart and soul—to get here. Especially my heart. When I say I gave up everything to dance, I mean…everything.
Maybe my torn Achilles tendon is karma for breaking his heart. I can’t let that sacrifice be in vain. When an old friend offers me the chance to rehab with a similarly injured musician, I’m all in. My new partner will help me get back en pointe. If only I can make him fall in love with me all over again.
Spending time together—so close to our dreams yet so far from where we used to be—has us completely Off Bass.
1
BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS
NATE
Pain accompanies the sickening crunch of bone, and my eyes tear up immediately. There’s a perfect moment of silence that hangs like a breath.
Anticipation.
Dread.
Disbelief is more like it.
After years of dealing with his shit attitude and fucked-up comments, I have finally—finally—come to trading blows with Kane Newton.
It was only a matter of time. Not a single one of us in the band had any delusions that this wasn’t going to be a thing. That, at some point, the constant simmer of tension wouldn’t boil the fuck over. So, here we are. Backstage. Between the end of our final set of the tour and the encore.
I wait until Kane is contained behind a wall of our security guys before I reach up to gauge just how far off center my nose is.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t—”
A loud crack follows the quick flick of my wrist, cutting off whatever Rand, the manager of our band, was about to say.
“Jesus Christ,” Rand mutters, shaking his head. He pales, practically retching at the blood spray as I pinch one nostril and then the other, blowing hard into the garbage can each time.
“You feel better?” I plant my hands on my hips and eye Kane through the screen of black t-shirts sporting Security above the logo for The UnBroken. “You done with today’s tantrum, or do you have more shit you want to work through?”
“He’s done. You’re both done.” Rand steps between us with his hands out to each side.
He’s generally a good guy, but it’s laughable if he thinks he can physically keep us from tearing into each other.
My throbbing hand, however …
“I’ll have the other guys cover until you … you … gentlemen need to get your faces cleaned up and get back onstage and close this tour out.” He points a finger at each of the security guards. “Don’t leave them alone.”
Kane stomps toward the greenroom. He doesn’t utter a single word until he’s well past me, but ever the fucking diva, he makes sure to spout off just loud enough for me to know that he got the last word. Granted, I don’t actually hear what he said because he’s way too chickenshit to face the music.
“Here.” A wad of damp black cloth is dropped in my uninjured hand. “Use this to clean up your face and get back out there. We can fuck around and extend the intro to the next song. Buy the pretty boy some time.” Ian Scott, our drummer, pulls his beanie low over his ears before pushing it back in place. He shifts, looking over his shoulder toward the door Kane disappeared behind, and shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “What happened?”
“Nothing new. I just hit my limit, I guess.”
I present my face, turning and tilting my head to give Ian a good look. He points to a spot just under my nose, and I give it another swipe to get the last of the blood cleared.
“Thanks for this,” I say, chucking the rag in the trash.
An ice pack or two would’ve done me a hell of a lot more good, but that’ll have to wait.
We walk back onstage, joining Gavin Keller, our lead guitarist, who’s giving the crowd what might be the best part of tonight’s show. At least as far as music is concerned because the people on the far side of the front section probably saw Kane throw fists. Probably saw him grab my junk because that’s where things went when he didn’t manage to rile me up with his leering and words.
While the band has been touring for almost eight years in some capacity or another, the four of us have known each other forever. Grew up together. Went to school together. And when Gavin had the idea to take spring semester our freshman year of college to try and make something of our band—play in bars, dives, and shitholes along the Gulf Coast—we did that together too.
Of course, I was the only one of us with something to lose. And no matter how successful we are, how many gold and platinum records we earn, or how well known we’ve become, I’m still fighting that battle. The stress is real.
Onstage, I’m able to calm myself, getting lost in the music. It’s the only thing that has never failed me. It’s changed its colors, morphed in its form, but never left me completely.
I close my eyes and roll my head back, drinking in the warmth of the stage lights. My rapidly swelling fingers slide along the thick strings of my bass, plucking out and expanding the beat with what Ian pounds out on his drum kit. Despite my pain, this is what makes me happy. This is what gives me joy. The fact that we’re making bank helps because God knows I wouldn’t put up with the constant goading, salacious looks, the
touches—all of it—from Kane without that little benefit.
Gavin layers in with his guitar, and the magic rolls over the crowd, making a statement. Reeling them in. Making them ours.
I wonder if even one fan out there tonight knows that they’re essentially sitting in on a jam session for The UnBroken. None of what we’re putting out has been practiced, not even discussed. Though from the grin pulling at Gavin’s face, it’ll be revisited in the studio next week—maybe after that, if my guess about my hand is right. Hell, he’s probably spinning up lyrics to go with it as his fingers fly over his strings.
This is the dream. This is how it’s supposed to work. Jamming. Playing around until something sparks and then watching that spark smolder and burn until a new song is branded. It’s so easy in its simplest form.
Heart feeds the music.
Music feeds the heart.
The roar of the crowd pulls us from the cocoon of the intimate session we were all enjoying. And there’s only one thing that can make them break out in this kind of frenzy.
I open my eyes and scan the crowd. It’s best to keep my focus on them. They’re the ones who matter, the ones who make this all a reality. My reality.
Unfortunately, Kane fucking Newton is the lead singer, and he is nothing if not the ringmaster of this three-ring shitshow. The diva. The one who makes panties and boxer briefs melt without discretion.
Reluctantly, I glance toward the center of the stage. I would love to be able to look past him, take my cues from Gavin or Ian, but once the spotlight hits Kane, there is no way to avoid him. It’s a power Kane thrives on. One that he uses to his full advantage. He throws a quick sneer in my direction and then dismisses me entirely. Another favorite tactic when he doesn’t get his way or feels at all slighted or dismissed.
“New fucking York, are you ready for the … climax?” Kane purrs into his mic as he slides a hand down his inked torso. And true to form, when he’s feeling at all uncertain, the man embraces anything provocative and sexual, ignoring everything else.
Our fans love him. They salivate for him, drink him up. But they don’t know him like I do. They don’t have to deal with his shit day in and day out. There is no such thing as professional decorum in this business.
After Kane winds down the rest of the show, Rand pulls me to the side.
“So, the after-party tonight, can we maybe brainstorm real quick on what that’s going to look like? I mean, press is press—hell, bad press is still usually a good thing—but …” He rolls his lips between his teeth and avoids meeting my eye.
“But Kane’s the face of the band.” To my credit, what I don’t tack on is that I’m just the bassist and thus expendable.
I don’t think for a minute that Gavin or Ian would push me out of the band, but the label might. Especially if the diva demands it.
“Right, right. So, we’re going to keep you on separate sides of the room while you’re there, but since you don’t really like these things anyway …” Again with floating his thought out there without actually having the balls to say it.
Everyone has their thing. Kane sexualizes everything when he’s stressed. Gavin writes songs. Ian? Nothing seems to bother him; he just rolls with whatever comes his way. Rand stops finishing sentences.
And I go back to my musical roots.
“Yeah. No worries. I’ll take off.” I wince slightly as I hand my bass off to a roadie and ask him, “Can you pack this up for me to take home tonight? Thanks, man.” I don’t give a shit about my clothes or the rest of my crap, but my instruments are entirely different.
Rand slaps my shoulder and guides me past the greenroom and straight to the reception area, where VIP fans will get to mingle with us. Where the industry people will show up just to say they did. And where Kane will hold court.
“I’ll have one of the girls bring you a clean shirt,” Rand mumbles, looking at the blood spray spattered across my left shoulder and sleeve. “And then, you know, an hour—maybe just thirty minutes—and you can slip out. Head home. I’ll make sure there’s a car ready for you.”
Jesus, he can’t wait for me to get out of here.
“Hold up,” Gavin says as he pushes down the hallway, pulling his hair back and securing it in a purple band. “You’re taking off? Why? Because of Kane’s shit? Don’t leave because of him, man. You’re better than that.”
He’s right. I am better than letting any of this get to me. But I need to do me and find myself again. It’s nothing new. After every tour, we all go our separate ways for a while and get some space. And then, little by little, step by step, we all slink back to the studio. Not a single one of us can live without the music, so we always find our way back to it.
“Yeah, it’s good we ended this tour at home. This is the longest one yet, right?”
Gavin nods thoughtfully.
“Right. So, I’ll do my time here and then take off. Take advantage of being so close to home. Crawl into my own bed and crash out.” I stop just shy of telling him he’s a dumbass if he doesn’t do the same.
After all, he’s the one with the girlfriend. If anyone has a good reason to cut out of here and head home, it’s Gavin.
Forty-five minutes later, I slide into the backseat of a town car, my bass tucked into the seat beside me. Instead of pouring myself a drink, I reach for the loaded ice bucket and shove my aching hand inside.
The lights of New York City streak by me in an abstract art show, the rain drawing the beams out in ribbons of color.
With each block that passes, the tension that has been building up inside me throughout the tour begins to seep away. Enough that I know I need to do some serious work. In my gym at home. Maybe yoga or a massage. But the best therapy, the thing calling the loudest to my soul, is to play.
The love of music started with the classical form for me, and while there’s tons of baggage to unpack with that, it’s where I go when I don’t know what else to do.
I go back to the beginning.
Back to my roots.
Back to basics.
2
HINDER
ALEXIS
There’s nothing quite like having your dream within your grasp and watching it shatter. The pieces scattering in front of your eyes as you slump to the floor, unable to reach out for even the tiniest shard.
“Miss Thompson, how are we doing today?” Dr. Manky asks before running his frigid hands down my calf and pushing unapologetically on my foot.
It’s a damn good thing his skill as a top orthopedic surgeon outweighs his lack of personality as a human being.
I wince as he flexes my foot, testing its range of motion.
“Hmm. Still stiff. Limitations beyond where they should be at this point.” He lets my leg fall to the exam table and types furiously on his tablet for a moment. “Are you doing your physical therapy?”
“I am.”
Short answers to his questions tend to get me out of here quicker. In the weeks since my Achilles tendon tore and the subsequent fix, I’ve learned Dr. Manky is not a chatty doc. He cuts, stitches, staples, and repairs in ways I really don’t want to spend time pondering, but there’s not a kind or personable bone in his body.
A derisive scoff is followed up by, “You must not really want to get back onstage.” He turns, meeting my eye for what might well be the first time.
“I do. It’s all I want. I’ve—”
His mouth screws up dismissively. “Evidently not. You’re behind in recovery. You should have full range by now and be back onstage even if only in the troupe.”
I don’t know what to say, and yet words spill from my lips anyway. “You have no idea how hard I’ve been working. The hours I’ve put into getting better.” I throw my hand toward my blaring failure.
“I’m the one who fixed it, Ms. Thompson, and you’ve allowed it to atrophy. If you weren’t serious about getting back en pointe, any surgeon could have slapped you back together.” He shakes his head—a cold, tight movement. “You’re rele
ased from my care. There’s nothing more I can do for you. I’ll let the artistic director know the change in your status. Good day.” And with that, he pushes out of the exam room.
Tears threaten, stinging my eyes and making my nose tingle. I hate this feeling. I have wanted to dance as principal with the New York City Ballet for as long as I can remember. It’s all I’ve worked for, trained for. I’ve put everything I have into this dream. Given up even more for it. And this is where I’ve landed. Flat on my ass, scared to death.
I shove off the table and gather my things. The nurse meets me at the door, her eyes soft and smile bright. Such a contrast to the coldhearted genius she works with.
“So, this is it?” she says, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Let me know when your first performance is. I want to be there.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Thanks. Don’t hold your breath. Manky didn’t sound at all sure that it’s going to happen.”
“Of course it will.” She laughs, walking me to the checkout desk. “He wouldn’t have taken you on as a patient if you weren’t a sure thing. Dr. Manky doesn’t fail, don’t you know that?” Her wink is accompanied by a sly smile.
“He may have mentioned that. But he’s done with me. Released me and—”
“And now, it’s up to you. Dig deep, Alexis. You’ll get back on that stage and dance your ass off. I believe in you.” She turns, addressing the woman behind the desk, “No follow-up appointments. This one is ready to fly.”
With a final pat on my back, I’m done and out the door.
• • •
The mid-afternoon train was delightfully empty. I stretched and flexed my muscles, using the time to run through some of the exercises my physical therapist had prescribed.
I can do them seated without a problem. Standing? Bearing my full weight? Combining movements? That’s the stuff of nightmares. At least, it is right now.
With deliberate steps, I climb the stairs to my third-floor walk-up in Brooklyn. Instead of relishing the empty apartment, I fall into the oversize chair next to the window and call my dad.