BACKLASH
Bianca Sommerland
Backlash © January 2016 by Bianca Sommerland
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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 permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Also by Bianca Sommerland
Winter’s Wrath Series
Backlash
The Dartmouth Cobras
Blind Pass
Game Misconduct
Defensive Zone
Breakaway
Offside
Delayed Penalty
Iron Cross
Goal Line
Line Brawl – Coming 2016
Also
Deadly Captive
Collateral Damage
The End – Coming 2016
Solid Education
Rosemary Entwined
Forbidden Steps
The Trip
Subsist
(Whispered) Red gifts, teeth, and candy. So many innocent lies. Let me believe. Let me always believe.
(Growl)Crushed little bodies,
Caved to reality.
(Scream)Hold back until they stand,
Rise despite your bitter truths.
(Background Singer)Ordered perfection,
Ugly as sin.
Paint the world in dull hues.
Leave the monster under my bed.
Chorus-
Upon quivering wings.
Iced and shattered ‘til they fall,
Again and again and again.
Smother the laughter.
Cut away the smiles.
Again and again and again.
(Growl) Forbidden High,
cut the strings.
(Scream) Drop down and get in line,
I will the price I pay.
(Background Singer) Take your honesty,
I’ve inked my reality,
On my flesh, in my skull,
Blood rain and Frost’s games.
(War Cry)
Upon quivering wings.
Iced and shattered ‘til they fall,
Again and again and again.
Smother the laughter.
Cut away the smiles.
Again and again and again.
(Solo)
I’ll be good, I promise,
Don’t tell me this anymore.
The demons are with me,
I love it when they smile.
Again and again and again. Again and again and again.
Acknowledgements
When I started writing this book, I knew it was going to be different. I’ve said a few times that I haven’t been this excited about a book since I stepped into the world of the Cobras. But with the excitement came a lot of fear, and I have so many I need to thank for helping me get past that, I’m not even sure where to begin.
Stacey, you’re my rock and my voice of reason. If I thank you every time we speak, and in every book I ever write, it still won’t be enough. Jennifer, you’re an amazing friend, but you deserve a medal for putting up with all my crazy and managing to talk me down when I was ready to toss it all in the fire and go back to writing what was safe. Stella, your grit, your attitude, and your advice has me willing to take chances and knowing I’ll survive in this industry.
To my crit partner, Cherise, thank you for always pushing me to reach a bit deeper. To Lisa, thank you for letting me pick your brain and for telling me all about the experiences you had with bands, not all that long ago. ;)
To Digital Tour Bus for sharing insights into the lives of all the bands I love. And Brian Stars, for showing the fun side of the musicians.
And as always, most importantly, to my daughters. As you’re getting older, you’ve shown me, despite all the bumps in the road, you’re both growing to be amazing young women. Our time together is so precious, and every time you laugh and smile, tell me about your day while snuggling, or dance and sing with me in the kitchen while we’re acting nuts, I’m glad to know I’ve taught you the most important thing. Those moments are what holds us together and makes us strong enough to face anything.
Always.
Dedication
For Dimebag, The Rev, and Lemmy.
Chapter One
Fucking Poe. Again. His brother was going to ruin the band before they ever got to headline a goddamn venue. Not that Edgar Allen’s poetry wasn’t great and all, but how much inspiration could the lead singer of a metalcore band get from the ratty old book he’d read a thousand times?
Back braced on the wall at the head of his top bunk on the tour bus, Alder Trousseau continued polishing the dark wood of his guitar, breathing in the rich aroma of maple and the sweet scent of carnauba wax. Holding his metal pick between his lips, he began humming the melody he’d been toying with for a few days now. Between practice and travel and appearances, he hadn’t gotten a chance to pull out the sheet and jot down the notes. But as soon as they got back on the road, he was getting the guys together and writing this shit down. If it was still in his head after this long, it would stick with the fans.
Which covered the guitar, and the bass and the drums were easy enough to pull into a mind-blowing harmony, but without the lyrics, they had nothing. Braver “Brave” Trousseau, lead singer of Winter’s Wrath and Alder’s brother, was the lyrics guy. And he was a fucking god at whipping together terrifyingly beautiful phrases out of nowhere.
Only, considering how much time Brave had spent staring at that book during this tour, their next album was gonna be all ‘Ravens’ and ‘Nevermore’.
“Stop staring at me, asshole.” Brave pushed off the opposite bottom bunk and tossed the book at Alder’s head. His long, wavy black hair covered half of his face as he glared at Alder. “You’re not the only one working his ass off for this band.”
Alder picked up the book, pitching it back to his brother. “Is this work?”
Rolling his broad, heavily tattooed shoulders, Brave nodded. “Yeah. Poe was a master at using words to freak people out.”
Great. I was right. Alder sighed. “So we’re singing about the birds?”
“That’s Alfred Hitchcock, dumbass.” Brave rested his forearms on the side of Alder’s bunk, amusement slanting his lips. “We’re singing about Santa Claus.”
Shit. Alder scowled and dropped his gaze to his guitar. No use in asking Brave if he was joking. If he was, he’d make Alder feel stupid for believing him. If he wasn’t…well, that was a scary thought.
Horror poetry and Old Saint Nick. Wouldn’t Krampus make more sense?
Smacking the mattress, probably just to make Alder jump, Brave let out a gruff laugh. “Pussy. You just stay there, stroking your wood. I’m gonna go fuck your boyfriend.”
Yeah, and I’m the asshol
e? Not even blinking, Alder waited until Brave was about halfway across the bus before he spoke. “Daphne Du Maurier wrote The Birds. Evan Hunter did the adaption for Hitchcock’s film. Jesse isn’t my boyfriend, but if you wanna get him fired from the crew, go for it.”
“He’s not getting fired for letting me fuck him.”
“No, he’ll get fired for not getting the van loaded. Damn it, Brave, go get a groupie to suck your dick. You’re a real bitch when you haven’t gotten laid in awhile.” Alder had to fight to keep his hands from shaking as the rage he’d suppressed bubbled to the surface. They’d been on the road, on this fucking bus, for way too long. They were usually on their way home from a gig before he and Brave started on each other, but they’d had twice as many shows booked this time. Their manager was pushing them to another level, which made tolerating his dick of an older brother more than worth it.
Their hard work would pay off. If they didn’t kill one another first.
Thing was, Brave would probably be easier to deal with after he fucked Jesse, but even though Jesse was one of their best roadies, their manager, Zach Cole, wouldn’t hesitate to fire him for slacking off. No matter whose fault it was. A roadie like Jesse was a lot easier to replace than a vocalist.
Right, and wanting him around has nothing to do with the fact that you’re in love with the man.
The narrowed eyed look Brave gave him meant one of two things. Either he was gonna have a cold comeback, or he’d figure out his comment about fucking Jesse had actually gotten to Alder. Either way, Brave was gearing up for a fight.
The front door of the bus slid open, cutting through the tension. Alder grinned when he saw the band’s lanky young drummer, Tate Maddox, bounce onto the bus with his usual wild energy. The long part of his golden brown, semi-mohawk fell over the close shaved side of his head as he gave them a sideways look.
“Are you guys at each other again? Three more shows before we’re in Vegas, baby! I’m putting all my savings on the tables. Need you guys to keep Cole off my ass so I can win enough money for us to make our first epic music video! No more cheesy lyric shit.” Tate made devil horns with one hand and brought it to his lips to wiggle his tongue between his fingers. “I’ll put on black lipstick or whatever he wants, but I need my pretty mug all over MTV!”
“MTV hardly ever shows music vids anymore, Tate. Not sure you were even born when they did.” Brave rolled his eyes, sidling past the drummer to make his way off the bus.
Nice. Alder slid off the top bunk to sit on the one Tate had claimed beneath it. Of the five guys in the band, Tate was the only one who still had his head in the clouds after years of hard work and little reward. The band was doing well, taking where they’d started into consideration. They opened for huge names and none of the guys needed steady jobs to make a living. So what if they didn’t have mansions and guitars that cost more than most cars? They were living the dream.
The dirty, endless days and sleepless nights dream.
Reality as a metalcore band wasn’t what they’d all imagined as kids, but they had fans. People who bought their shirts and screamed their names. Who knew all the words to the songs on their debut album.
Granted, Winter’s Wrath had a few chart toppers, but they’d only reached the top 10 on iTunes. Very few radio stations would play their music, because it was too intense. Brave had gotten an interview in the Metal Spade magazine, but nothing they’d done so far was very mainstream.
But they’d made enough money to upgrade from a makeshift sleeper van to a bus for the last two tours. They all had new guitars and Tate had the drum set he’d been drooling over for years. The poor kid had been using a second hand set he’d gotten in high school for the first three years the band was together. He kept it in the best shape he could, but in an interview for their debut album, a journalist had asked about it. Tate’s face had gone red and he’d talked about his drum instructor, the man who’d given it to him. Said he wouldn’t have gotten this far without him and having the kit on stage was like dragging a comfy blanket on tour.
He had one of those, too. Said blanket was draped over the small couch in the front lounge of the bus. A quilt his grandma made for him the first time he joined them on the road when he was just seventeen. The thing was fucking cool, with photos of all his favorite bands and their albums for the squares. Everything from Slayer to Motionless, surrounded with a drum pattern border.
Tate’s grandma was one of the coolest ladies Alder had ever met. She’d had the whole band over for dinner the last time they were in Detroit and had taken four requests for quilts. They had her business cards on their merchandise table at every show and she had plenty of orders to keep her busy, but she’d insisted on doing blankets for the members first.
One of the many reasons Tate was a great addition to the band.
Resting his elbow on his knee, Alder grinned as Tate pulled a box of cookies from the side of his mattress. Cookies were Tate’s go-to when he was having a good day. On bad days, he’d be chugging vodka or smoking some rank shit.
First tour, when Alder wasn’t much older than Tate’s twenty-one, he’d have been toking right along with him. After a couple years on the road, it was rare he even touched a beer outside of the after parties.
Crumbs sprinkled all over the bed as Tate yanked out the plastic cookie tray. The drummer groaned when he found only one inside. “Shit. Do you think I have time to run and grab a few boxes?”
Alder frowned. “Send one of the roadies.”
“Why?” Tate looked over, then rolled his eyes. “We’re in Ohio. Last night was a fluke. I’ll be fine.”
Maybe, but Alder wasn’t willing to risk it. They’d opened for Horizon at a new venue whose owners had the ambition to pull off big shows, but didn’t know the first thing about preparing for one. Metal and hard rock could mix quite well in most cases, and the majority of fans had seemed to enjoy themselves. But there wasn’t enough security, and dozens of fans had crashed the stage. One nut had slammed into Brave and grinned in his face, wrapping one hand around Brave’s neck as he’d whispered ‘You’d be immortal if you died today.’
The cops had been called in, and after ejecting the crazies in the crowd, the show had been allowed to go on. But Brave had been shaken and Cole had told them all to stick close to the bus. Smart move.
Tate was the youngest member of the band. The restriction was gonna mess with him, but too bad. Either a roadie went for cookies, or Alder would go with him. Not getting cookies wasn’t an option. During the band’s first tour, Tate had been offered hard drugs by several fans and only intervention from Alder and the bass guitarist, Malakai Noble, had kept him from falling down that particular black hole. His sugar addiction had Alder wondering what exactly was in the joints Tate used to smoke, but since Jesse handled all the weed the band used now, he wasn’t too worried. Jesse looked out for them better than any of the venue security they dealt with on the road.
Clearly, since no one would have gotten that close to Brave if Jesse had been backstage. Unfortunately, he’d been stuck in the roadies van when Cole found out he wasn’t feeling well. Probably just bad takeout, but Cole was paranoid about any member of the band getting sick. Threats didn’t really register with him, which was probably why he hadn’t commented until the clip ended up on YouTube around midnight.
And even then, he’d just stood in front of them all, arms crossed, a sneer on his lips. “Let the media have their fun with this. We all know there are morons looking for their fifteen minutes of fame at every show. You good, Brave?”
Brave had nodded and let out a hoarse laugh. “Always.”
There were bruises on Brave’s neck today. Alder felt like an asshole for thinking shit about his brother reading Poe. Whatever, Brave would tell him to fuck off if he showed any sympathy.
Tate, however, wouldn’t recover from this shit as quickly, and he’d be an easy target. He had his ‘pretty mug’ up on all the magazine covers the band hit. With their long hair covering
their faces in most pictures, Alder and Brave might have a few seconds when a fan might not be sure if it was really them. With his golden brown hair shaved on the sides and a spiked semi-Mohawk on top, Tate was easily recognizable. Never mind those fucking eyes of his, which were such a pale blue-grey they didn’t seem real.
Wrinkling his slightly crooked nose—the only thing on his face that wasn’t model perfect—Tate waved his hand in front of Alder’s face. “Dude, why you looking at me like that?”
Alder shrugged and stood. “Just thinking of you getting jumped on the way to the store. You’re too cute for me to not give a fuck. Come on, we can ask Jesse to make a run. I need some shit anyway.”
Tate licked his bottom lip, cocking his head slightly. “You think I’m cute?”
“Everyone thinks you’re cute.” Alder ruffled Tate’s spiky hair to shift the mood before the kid got the wrong impression. “Kinda like having a puppy on the bus.”
“Gee, thanks.” Tate knocked his hand away and popped off the bunk. “I get it. Shit, I’m gonna have to pay to get a guy to fuck me, aren’t I?”
Not this again. Alder sighed as he followed Tate out to the parking lot. Brave wasn’t the only one suffering from blue balls. Malakai and Connor Phelan, their rhythm guitarist, had both hooked up with chicks at the after party last night. Bathroom stall and back alley quickies just weren’t Alder’s thing, so he’d checked out early, a little surprised when both Brave and Tate joined him on the bus.
Brave seemed to have gotten sick of being pawed by barely legal groupies, and he’d been pissed off about the crazy fucker at the show, but Tate usually had no trouble finding a nice, older woman to teach him a thing or two. He was going through a weird phase lately, hitting on guys and getting in trouble with Cole. Cole was pretty cool about most things. Yeah, he didn’t want them getting plastered and acting like assholes in public, but when they slipped up, he usually just reminded them that they were supposed to be professionals. This wasn’t the fucking 70s.
Backlash (Winter's Wrath #1) Page 1