by Lee Piper
Once done, I make sure to lock the door behind me and drag myself back to my own RV. Exhausted doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling right now. My spine is screaming torture, my feet are yelling obscenities, and my hand is weighing up whether amputation is a viable option.
I eye the two steps leading to my van, seriously questioning if I can make the climb. Never has something so small seemed so damn impossible. “You’ve got this. One foot in front of the other, remember? That’s all you’ve gotta do.”
Giggling followed by the deep murmur of a low baritone wafts over my shoulder. Tiredly, I glance in the direction of the sound. Drake. It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut. No idea why.
He steps out of his tour bus, hair mussed, sans shirt and with the top button of his jeans undone. Yep, the guy is well and truly fucked, and not in the way I am. A tall, leggy blonde scampers behind, her hand clasped in his.
My gaze skims the length of Drake’s lean torso. It flits over the corded muscles of his pecs and abs and then caresses the sprinkling of dark hair until it disappears beneath his jeans. I take in the breadth of his shoulders, the cut of his jaw, and the flash of blue eyes. Even from this distance I can make them out. Then I realize what I’m doing and stop.
It’s all kinds of messed up.
Band members are all the same. They want admiration, a quick fuck, and no strings. While I’m all for no strings, over the past few years, I’ve learned one-night stands are overrated. There’s only so many times you can do the walk of shame before realizing it’s not always worth the trip.
The girl wraps her arms around Drake’s neck, arches her back, and then squeals as he nuzzles behind her ear. The breeze picks up, forcing me to push my hair back. The movement must catch Drake’s attention, because he glances up from the blonde and searches the parking lot until his gaze lands on me.
Our eyes collide. The clouds part. The moon beams.
“Drake?” the blonde asks, noticing his attention is elsewhere. “What is it?”
With a decided shake of his head, he refocuses on the woman wrapped around him like an octopus with separation anxiety. The break in contact has me all kinds of confused. Mostly by my body’s reaction to his prolonged stare.
Drake murmurs against the girl’s smooth skin, and she giggles. Whatever. He sucks on a spot beneath her ear, and she squeals. It’s piercing.
I wonder if she’s the groupie who tried to fall in his lap earlier? If it is, then Drake’s spiel about guys not wanting easy women was total crap. It also means everything else he said can’t be trusted.
Narrowing my gaze, I vow to keep my distance from the man whose eyes promise truth yet actions scream lies. Never trust rock stars.
Drake and the blonde straighten. He slaps her on the ass, and she smiles, waving over her shoulder as she saunters past security into a waiting taxi. Once she’s gone, he hangs his head, listlessly kicking a small rock. Sucking in a large breath, he turns to me.
I tip my chin and glare.
Silence.
Drake’s expression is his signature combination of warring emotions. To be honest, I don’t have the time or energy to decipher them. There are too many and they flicker across his face too quickly for me to define and catalogue them all.
The stillness stretches between us, a taut string on the verge of snapping. He reaches behind his head, clasping his neck with both hands. His biceps shift with the movement, and those worn jeans slip even lower on his hips. Part of me wants to admire the contours of his body. It wants to trace the long lines of his impeccable form. But I won’t. Not now.
He opens his mouth as though to speak.
I shake my head. “Don’t.” My whisper might as well be a scream. It shatters the cool air. “Just don’t.”
With a sigh, he drops his hands to his sides. Drake nods once before blinking at me through thick lashes. The stare is heavy, expectant. However, I’m steadfast in my opinion of him. So, turning my back, I trudge up the stairs, promising not to give the blue-eyed singer another thought.
With aching limbs, I go through the motions of preparing for bed. I shower, wash my face, brush my teeth. Slipping into an oversized T-shirt and panties feels like heaven, but nothing prepares me for the nirvana of bed. “Thank you, baby Jesus.”
I swear, I close my eyes for a minute. Five minutes, max. However, the sun streaming through the split in the tattered curtains wakes me, heralding the morning. With a groan, I roll onto my side, trying to chase the darkness.
No luck. The light is determined to infiltrate my RV and illuminate every surface. With a ragged huff, I give in to the inevitable and roll onto my back again. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”
Gingerly, I descend the steps, being careful of my hand, and step into the small living quarters I’ve inhabited for the past six years. With a tiny kitchenette, sofa, table, and a bathroom off to one side, it’s not the Palazzo Versace, but it’s home.
It takes longer than usual to eat breakfast, brush my teeth, and change. My hand, though puffy, isn’t as swollen as last night. I can almost move my fingers, which is a definite win. At least it’s not broken.
I go to check the time on my phone before realizing I have no idea where it is. I groan and make a mental note to scour the perimeter of the fence in the hopes of finding it. On a positive note, if I don’t manage to, The Collector has no way of contacting me. So, there’s that.
I pour another coffee into my chipped mug and mentally go over the list of things to do today. Finish up here, double-check I’ve packed everything, drive to the next stop on tour, unpack the equipment, set up for sound check, stay in the wings in case I’m needed during the show, and then pack it all away again afterward.
Right, then.
Better get started.
Deciding I’m going to carpe diem the fuck out of this day, I step outside. The moment my combat boots hit the first step, sunshine warms my skin, melting the coldest parts of me. Heat seeps into my pores, relaxing aching muscles and stiff joints. I take a moment to bask in its healing qualities.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head back, loving how my eyelids turn an orangey-yellow from the light. After inhaling a deep breath, I open my eyes again and look about me. The parking lot is still and empty.
Apart from security dozing near the entrance, it’s just me and this glorious morning.
I cast my gaze skyward. The sky is a clear sapphire with the occasional fluffy cloud decorating an otherwise endless expanse. The air is already warm, promising a hot day ahead, and there’s the slightest breeze teasing loose tendrils of hair against my ears. “Perfect.”
There’s something about the peacefulness of early morning. It’s like the world is full of possibilities; this very second could be the start of something new, an exciting adventure if I’m brave enough to grasp it.
Am I brave enough?
Yes. Yes, I am.
It’s when my feet crunch on the gravel that Uncle Ray’s door slams open. “Fuck, it’s bright out here.” He stumbles back inside, only to return moments later with sunglasses and a scowl.
He stumbles over to me, hand outstretched. Gritting my teeth, I pass him his customary coffee, wondering when he’s going to learn to make it himself. It’s not neuroscience. I can’t exactly afford a fancy machine, so it’s simply granules in hot water. After a stir, try not to burn your mouth on a swallow. Simple.
Ray grunts his thanks, taking the mug with a shaking hand. I pretend I don’t notice the tremor, and he pretends he doesn’t have it. This isn’t our first rodeo. I tried talking to him about it once, even suggested he go to rehab or something. But he didn’t appreciate the idea. In fact, he yelled, “Over my fuckin’ dead body,” before up and leaving for three days. It took a barman from Phoenix asking me to pick him up for me to discover where he was. Thank God I’m saved in Ray’s phone as an emergency contact.
It’s pointless initiating a conversation until Uncle Ray is well and truly caffeinated, and I’m likely to lash out at h
im over what happened last night if I speak first. So I wait, good fist clenched, until he’s downed his drink and hands the empty mug back to me. I return to my RV, cursing under my breath as I wash and rinse the cup.
When I meet him outside again, he’s downright chipper. It pisses me off.
“How was the show?” he asks, referring to last night’s performance.
“It was good. Got the band set up in time.” No thanks to you, I want to add but don’t. Instead, I flex the fingers of my good hand, relax them somewhat. Can’t punch with an open palm. “They had a smallish crowd, but word will spread and they’ll be packing out venues by the end of the tour.”
“And the mix?”
I narrow my gaze. Ray barks out a laugh. It’s raspy, like he hasn’t done it in a while. Truth be told, he hasn’t.
“Benji’s a dick.” I cross my arms with a scowl. “Wouldn’t know quality sound levels if they bit him in the ass.”
“Not wrong there. Guy’s too set in his ways. Needs to be open to change.”
“Needs a damn hearing aid,” I grumble.
My uncle grins.
As annoyed as I am, a part of me likes that I can make him smile in the mornings; it gives me hope for the rest of the day. “There’s something wrong with one of the speakers.”
“The foldback?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s fine now. I replaced the voice coil and it’s as good as new. It’s the quad box I’m talking about.”
He strokes his beard, callused fingers scratching the coarse hair as he considers me. “Well, if anyone can fix sound equipment, it’s you, Har.”
Pride warms my cheeks. From the moment I first heard a tune crackling through Aunt Rose’s ancient car stereo, I’ve been fixated on the mechanics of music. I love learning about individual components fitting together to create amplified sound. The process combines science and art, logic and creativity, want and need. It’s fascinating.
It reminds me of when I was younger. As a kid, one of the best parts of being on tour was traveling from place to place. Ray, Rose, and I would rattle along in their RV, the stereo cranked as loud as it would go. With windows down, we’d sing at the top of our lungs to old-school rock music. Even had the harmonies down and everything. It’s moments like that I miss the most. When family stood for something and music brought us together.
I shake my head. “Reckon there’ll be enough time for me to look at the quad box before tonight’s show?”
“Should be.” Ray looks up at the sky, winces, and looks away again. “Everything packed and ready?”
“Yeah. It’s all in the undercarriage. I’m going to do a final check inside to make sure nothing’s been overlooked, then find my phone.” He raises a questioning eyebrow, but I shake my head. “Don’t ask. Anyway, after that, we’re good to go.”
“We’ll make a head start on the others. Haven’t done a show at End of the World in a while. It’s under new management; I want to see what they’ve done to the place.”
“Okay.”
He pauses, then shifts his weight from one foot to the other. I wait, nibbling my bottom lip. I hate this part.
A heavy hand clasps my shoulder, pinning me in place. “You’re a good kid. Want you to know that.”
Clearing my throat, I look away. “Ah, thanks.”
“Know I haven’t been around much lately, but you’ve stepped up in my place and got shit done. I’m proud of ya.”
My throat tightens; it’s hard to swallow.
“Want you to know that startin’ today, I’m gonna be a new man. No more drinkin’, no more disappearin’. I’m gonna be the kind of family you deserve.”
Blinking, I will the tears back. Even though I’ve heard this speech countless times, fragile fronds of optimism reach out, desperate to grasp at the truth in his words. Who knows? Maybe this time will be different? Maybe work will be enough? Maybe I’ll be enough to distract him from his grief?
As I sift through convoluted thoughts, Uncle Ray’s hand squeezes before releasing me. He strokes his beard. “I’m gonna take a piss. Meet you inside.”
His tactlessness snaps me from my reverie, and I grimace. After playfully swatting him upside the head, I push him away with a smile. “Get gone already. We’ve got a busy day, and I’m not going to wait around for half of it so you can empty your damn bladder.”
With a chuckle, he heads back to his RV.
I watch him. My heart hesitant, my mind contemplative, and both filled with a single word—hope.
Chapter Five
True to his word, Ray and I drive ahead of the others. The tour journeys up the entire west coast from Bayside in the south to Seattle in the north. The venues themselves start off small, gradually increasing in size and capacity along the way. Which is why, when we pull into End of the World, I’m not surprised to learn it only holds a couple hundred people.
We both park our RVs around the back and stride the length of the building toward the front entrance.
“What do you think?” I ask, stretching my back to get the kinks out.
Uncle Ray scratches his bristly cheek, his eyes taking in the old strip joint that’s been remodeled into a music venue. “Jury’s still out. Let’s see the inside.”
With a nod, we make our way through the front door. We pass an empty ticket booth, round a sharp corner, and pause. The place is completely barren save for the raised stage at the other end that’s flanked either side by dark velvet curtains. The backdrop is an old black cloth, and above, the overhead rigging hangs precariously from rusted chains. The flooring is sticky from gallons of spilled drinks over the years. It’s obvious no amount of mopping has managed to clean it; my boots make a tearing sound every time I take a step.
Ignoring it, I glance over one shoulder. There’s a fully stocked bar, and to the left of it is a stairwell leading to the balcony on the second story. Probably seating for those who want to see bands without risking their lives in the mosh pit.
“Gonna be a bitch getting the instruments on stage.” I turn in the direction of Uncle Ray’s voice. He’s indicating through the open greenroom door.
Craning my head, I look to where he’s pointing. There’s a narrow staircase leading to the wings side stage. I curse under my breath as images of me wrangling Reid’s traps case with only one hand flashes through my mind. It’s closely followed by me being crushed to death maneuvering it back down again. “They really need a ramp.”
Ray grunts. “Thought new management was supposed to improve the place. Shithole looks even worse than when I was here last.” He scowls at the speakers mounted on the walls. “They’re as old as I am.”
“Ancient.” Something hard hits the back of my head. “Ouch!”
“Quit your sass.” He flexes his hand. “Damn, kid. Your head made of bricks or somethin’?” But there’s a sparkle in his eyes I haven’t seen in a long time.
It makes me smile. “Nope. Knowledge.”
A massive arm envelops me, pulling me close. For a split second, I swear he kisses my blonde waves, but it’s hard to tell because he then pins me in a headlock.
Knuckles ruffle my hair really freaking hard. “Hey! Get off me!”
Ray’s low chuckle is evil. “Not a chance.”
For the next little while, he attacks my head while I wiggle and squirm, trying to get out of his iron grasp. Our combined laughter echoes through the venue. It feels good to joke around again.
Finally, I manage to slip from his hold. It’s almost impossible to smooth my wayward hair, so I leave it and focus on straightening my shirt instead. With a narrow gaze, I point to my uncle. “You’re gonna pay for that, old man. You can bet your ass there’s going to be a laxative in your coffee tomorrow.”
For the first time in forever, he looks happy. “Sure, kid. Whatever you say.” His gaze scans the room. “Now, where were we? Ah, the speaker.” We both glance at the dodgy equipment. “Bet the wiring is shot to pieces. Good thing we brought our own gear.”
; “Yep. Speaking of which, I need to get started on that quad box I brought with me. We’ve still got time, right?”
My uncle checks his watch and nods. “Bus won’t be here for another hour or so, and Benji—the lazy fuck—is nowhere to be seen. Figure we’ve got a couple hours before he notices it’s missing.”
“Good.” I take in the black walls and ceiling. “The light will be better outside. I saw a nice patch of grass next to the lot, might head over there.”
“Go for it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna find the new owners. Have a chat.”
“If that’s code for busting their balls over the state of this place, think again. We can’t afford to make enemies, so keep that temper of yours in check.”
“Ain’t doin’ shit except havin’ a talk.”
I poke him in the chest with my good finger. “I’ve seen your ‘talks,’ and they always end up with busted lips or broken bones.”
“Theirs, not mine.”
“Doesn’t matter. Word travels fast in this industry. We can’t afford to screw ourselves over by getting a bad rep.” After giving Uncle Ray a final warning look, to which he good-naturedly flips me the bird, I return to my RV with my fingers crossed that he keeps his cool.
The next few minutes are spent scrounging up an old rug and some tools from the cabin of my van. Soon, a rug is spread on the lawn, equipment is placed on top, and I’m sitting cross-legged in the sunshine with the speaker in front of me.
“Right.” I rub my hands together, excitement tickling my insides. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
I carefully unscrew the speaker box and pull apart the wooden paneling. Placing each component on top of the other, I shift them to the side and focus on the loudspeaker itself. The cone diaphragm looks okay; there are no dents or marks that could spoil the sound distribution. I lean in closer, casting an expert eye over the dust cap in the center. It covers the voice coil opening and is crucial in protecting the internal mechanics. “Hmm. Everything seems fine so far.”