by Kendall Grey
“So, you hate her because you’re jealous?”
Yes.
“No. I’m not fucking jealous.”
His turn to smack me upside the head with a sarcastic snort. A few seconds breathe between us. My jets cool, bringing an unwanted but honest perspective into focus. “Okay, a little. I guess.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately? The competition goes both ways. And in case you haven’t figured it out, genius, you’re the Queen of Shades’s fucking universe. Pick those sad tits up off the floor, and every time she gets under your skin, remember how much shit he puts up with to stay with you.”
Maybe Rax has a point. Shades has done nothing but try to make and keep me happy these last eleven months. Yeah, things have been harder recently, but every relationship has its peaks and valleys, right? Doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. Just means we gotta regroup and restrategize.
Between Eliza’s reappearance and my run-in with Jillian’s would-be girlfriend, it’s a little too easy to play a wounded animal at the moment. It’s hard to find empathy amidst the drama when I’m a sad sac of cornered instinct and sweaty palms.
I should try harder to understand where Shades is coming from and not let shit outside of my control bug me. Because, really, what will worry and stress get me? Maybe hemorrhoids, if I’m not careful. And God knows, I need my asshole happy and healthy for Eve’s birthday. I mean, in case its services are required.
Rax stands, tugging the towel around his waist. He leans over me, almost close enough to kiss. “You’re Letty Fucking Dillinger. So, go be Letty Fucking Dillinger.”
His scent makes me woozy, and his words stroke my ego in all the right places. I have to admit, Rax knows how to get a cooter juicy. I tilt my head up so I can look at him straight on. “I think I will.” The eye contact lasts two seconds too long. He breaks it off and heads toward Eve, sloshing water behind the glass.
“And Rax?” I call after him.
He faces me. Meandering over a long swath of skin from neck to cock, the scales of his snake tattoo glitter with sweat and unspoken promises.
I hitch my hands to my hips. “I can’t wait to see what Eve has planned for her birthday.”
“Me either.” Rax the viper tracks my movement as I back down the aisle to my bunk trundle to fish out tonight’s clothes. If he had a forked tongue, it surely would’ve flicked. He slips into the shower with Eve.
The wicked spark of desire igniting his eyes right before the door closes sends a wild thrill down my spine and zaps the lightning rod between my legs with enough electricity to power a small town.
“Happy birthday, Eve,” I mutter, squeezing my thighs together.
Get Your Rock Off
Killer Buzz Float has played countless stages for thousands of fans. Every city has its own feel, its own skin, its own heartbeat. Every crowd organically develops ranks of leaders and a mass of followers. Every gig introduces me to a new configuration of emotions that are integrated into my memory banks.
The shifting currents in the air tonight feel not like the evolution of an existing genre of music, but the beginning of a whole new musical era for us. A natural, exciting leap forward, yet far enough outside my comfort zone to be a little threatening.
Tonight is our awakening.
Bigger crowds, higher energy, greater demands of our talent. This is what The Rock is all about.
I suggestively stroke the mic stand and scan the expanse of bodies writhing before the stage. From my vantage point above them, a kaleidoscope effect washes over my vision. Multihued stage lights blend with millions of colorful little shapes banging into each other, creating the illusion of stillness amidst a swell of ever-changing movement. The pungent scent of pot wafts through the crisp November night. Voices high pitched and low, male and female, screaming and chanting, flavor the air.
But the most fulfilling ingredient in this bath of sensory bliss is the stuff hitting my skin. It’s as if every hair on my body is standing up and stretching in preparation for a world championship rock-off.
Wow. Just wow.
“Dallas, Motherfucking Texas! How the hell are ya?” I shout. The answer is deafening and indecipherable, but I’m a pretty good translator. “We’re Killer Buzz Float, and we’ve been given a task by The Almighty Rock.” I lift my hands to the heavens, praise-Jesus style, and get a booming Amen! from the crowd. “Our job tonight is to knock your souls from their perches and deliver you into the arms of some kickass, old school glam rock. That sound like something you can live with?” My goosebumps withstand another 10,000 volts of Rock lightning as the screams of thousands roar their agreement. “Let’s get it on, motherfuckers!”
Jinx counts off one, two, three, four with her sticks, and Shades, Toombs, and Rax simultaneously shatter the sound barrier as their guitars launch into “The Rock.” I tear the mic from its stand and cut loose the lyrics to my new favorite hymn.
Candy, Susie, Jenny, or Sandy
Benjamin, Johnny, Jimmy, or Randy
The Rock don’t care ’bout your hair
The Rock gets off when you take that dare
The Rock don’t see no colors
To The Rock, we’re all sisters and brothers
The Rock don’t hate
So go ahead and masturbate
No matter how you play
The Rock is here to stay
Sing along
Hit that bong
The Rock will always make you strong
Grab your date
Fornicate
Bow to The Rock
You can’t go wrong
Long live The Rock!
The Rock lives on
Ain’t nothin’ gonna bring us down
Lift your hands in the air
Wave your middle finger everywhere
If you believe in The Rock
Grab ahold of your cock
Thrust them hips till you can’t walk
Sing it high, sing it low
All that matters is letting go
Long live The Rock!
Long live The Rock!
Rax’s manic fingers fly along the frets in a partially improvised solo. He must’ve caught the same wave on The Rock as I did. Toombs and Shades and Jinx hold together the rhythm section with perfectly timed syncopations, calls and answers, and funky riffs to match Rax’s runs. Shades harmonizes with me on vocals, echoing the spiritual harmony we share offstage. We bust into the chorus a few more times. The fans are like a human combustion engine of energy bouncing before us.
The song nears its end, and I wind it down with my trademark Letty Fuckin’ Dillinger primal scream, feet apart, bent backward at a near forty-five-degree angle, stomach tight to the brink of pain, vocal cords straining. The music of applause flows over me like rain and fire and sex and love. I swear to God, I channel The Rock like forks of lightning slithering from Shades beside me, Rax and Toombs playing back-to-back to my left, and Jinx decimating her skins in the rear. I’m the rod that absorbs their music—their passion—through the stage, into my feet, up my legs. I funnel it up, up, up, until the power surges so strong, it becomes my very breath and soul.
And I give it all to the people before me.
My sacrifice to them. In honor of The Rock.
The last cymbal crashes, and I shake my head. I’m fucking dizzy as shit, but high as the stars above us—one with them. One with the whole goddamn universe.
It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath. Shades sidles up to me and head butts me gently. “I love you, pussycat,” he mouths.
“I know.” I smile.
Jinx launches us into the next number, and I take off at a sprint. The rest of the gig is a blur of hard-earned rock ’n’ roll, worth every second.
At the end of our set, I bow. “Hey, thanks for coming to see Killer Buzz Float, WitchSMUT, DomMob, and all the other awesome bands on the tour. We appreciate y’all so much. Now, who’s ready to get banged by some hot, sick Betties?” I drag the last word out.
The fans scream even louder. Feet stomp. Chants ensue.
“Well, good, ’cause I think those babes are jonesing for a good-lookin’ crowd like you. Stay tuned. Banging Betties will be out to rock your asses in a few minutes. Thanks again. Good night!” I wield the mic like a beacon over my head and enjoy a few more seconds of the short-lived limelight.
Man, it feels good to be loved.
* * *
We hit the green room after the show for our usual meet-and-greet. The Banging Betties performance airs live on the closed circuit TV in the background. Between signing shit and posing for pictures, I try to sneak some views of what they got. That bitch Lizzie didn’t say a single word when they took the stage. No greeting, no “It’s great to be here.” Nothing but shitty techno metal that probably has their sound engineers working overtime to make them sound decent. She padded up to her mic looking bored and totally disinterested. Like it was an inconvenience for her to take the stage.
“You’ll never see me act ungracious toward our fans,” I mumble to Shades as a trio of groupies bops away.
“Who’s ungracious?” He looks around.
I bite my tongue. “Never mind.”
A woman wearing a flowing blue tunic walks by holding Shades’s living, breathing STD.
“Who’s that?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Gabrielle’s nanny.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. I guess he had to be on a first-name basis with The Little Cum Stain That Could at some point. And a nanny? Wonder who’s footing that bill.
“Where did you guys go today?” I’m trying so hard not to come off as a possessive twat, but I kinda feel like I have a right to know.
“Jealous?” He smiles down at me and nudges my ribs.
I’ve pretty much had it with that fucking word. Even if it is an accurate descriptor.
Instead of blowing up at him, I let my mind drift away from dirty diapers, hipster nannies, and ex-wives. A fleeting image of the hunger in Rax’s eyes earlier on the bus snags me by the front of my brain and puts the jealousy in lockdown.
Eve’s birthday.
A grin sneaks out. This time, it’s a genuine one. “Nope. Not jealous at all.” It’s not like Shades could’ve done much to Eliza with his busted dick anyway.
“Good. You have no reason to be.”
“Good,” I agree.
“When we get to the bus, I’ll tell you everything.”
“If you want,” I say offhandedly.
He gives me a “What are you up to, Letty?” look. I widen my smile and wave the next fangirl over.
I make it my mission to enjoy interacting with the fans—what’s not to love, aside from a little temporary blindness from camera flashes? When things settle down, I wander over and introduce myself to some of the other bands on the tour. It’s important to get to know your coworkers. Never know when you might find a new friend.
Banging Betties are nearing the end of their set. Jinx edges in beside me, red Solo cup in hand—I’m pretty sure it’s full of water. She hardly ever imbibes in actual alcohol. Bringing the drink to her mouth, she says behind the plastic, “Can I talk to you about Eve’s birthday?”
“First rule of Birthday Club is, you don’t talk about Birthday Club,” I semi-tease.
She turns to me, unsure. “I don’t know if I can do it, Letty.”
“Why not? It’s just sex.”
Biting her bottom lip, she studies me for a few seconds, her eyes doe-like. “How do you separate sex and love so easily?”
Until I met Shades, I assumed the two were mutually exclusive. I’d never been in love with anyone before him. Not really. Now I kinda think of sex as a bonus to love. One of those if you act now, you can have a lifetime of love with your best friend at the low, low price of verbal commitment, AND we’ll throw in forty years’ worth of awesome fucking for free! deals.
“Sex and love are not the same. You don’t have to have one to have the other, you know.” I finger a long strand of wet blond hair down her arm. Sure hope Eve gives me a piece of Jinx. Hell, a piece of everyone would be great. And if not, my birthday’s not far behind.
Jinx hesitates. “That philosophy isn’t as easy for me to embrace.”
Ah, the Catholic guilt. I clasp her upper arms. “Listen to me. This isn’t about love. It’s about getting off. They’re two totally different things. You just have to tell your conscience to fuck off for a day. Toombs is gonna do it too. He’s gonna sever the connection,” I snap my fingers between us, “and become someone else.”
She shivers. “But what if he and Rax—”
“What if they do? Who fucking cares? He loves you. Not Rax.”
Her gaze wanders to Toombs, who’s standing silently beside Rax as he entertains a bunch of hopeful groupies who will definitely not be getting a piece of either of them tonight, despite the low-cut shirts, short skirts, and ample breasts. “I guess you and Shades are different.”
I snort and shake my head a little.
She whips her attention back to me. “I’m sorry, I never asked how you were handling the … baby thing.”
“‘Thing’ is a good word for it.” I pull a hearty draft off my vodka and cranberry.
She waits for me to elaborate. I don’t.
“Like you said. Our guys worship us,” she says, as if she’s trying to convince herself and doesn’t believe the lie. Then she glosses over her apprehension with a brush of her hair. “Shades loves you, baby or not.”
A series of whistles, yowls, and hoots erupts near the door to the green room, and the members of Banging Betties stride in, freshly sweaty and glowing from the limelight. The fans who were surrounding the guys, begging for pictures and autographs shift direction and head for the bitches.
Lizzie nonchalantly wipes her face with a towel. An invisible do-not-fuck-with-me force field falls into place around her as she stiffens at the sight of the oncoming rush. Her attitude is gonna be the death of her career.
The other girls in the band seem more inviting. Beth, the spiky, black-haired drummer, poses for pictures. And of course, Eliza is all smiles and signatures too. Like a dutiful mother, she sweeps the crowd for the nanny, makes eye contact, and continues mingling with the fans once she ascertains her precious spawn is happily patting the woman’s shoulder, gurgling nonsense.
Barf.
Jinx shifts her attention that way too. “You have to admit, Gabrielle’s pretty cute.” She beams. A spark of jealousy lights her face, but not the kind of jealousy I feel when I look at the little beast. More like mommy envy.
Double barf. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about babies, Jinx.” I’d die. Just DIE.
She hurriedly shakes her head. “God, no. I mean, not yet.” She pauses. “Toombs and I haven’t discussed it, but I think he would be a good dad. He seems kind of fond of Gabrielle too.”
It’s all I can do not to spit on the carpet. I grunt instead.
“I know it’s none of my business, but if you’d give her a chance … Eliza is really nice, Letty. And if Shades is Gabrielle’s dad, you’re gonna have to get used to the fact that she’s not going away, no matter how much you want her to.”
“Eliza may be nice, but Lizzie is not,” I deflect, curling my lip in the bitchy lead singer’s direction. Just watching her “interact” with her fans makes me itch. An “I’m-better-than-everyone” attitude oozes from her pores like beads of venom from snake fangs. And Jillian—
Oh, look. She’s watching Lizzie from the opposite side of the room like a plotting, hungry shark. I cross my arms and exhale heavily. I might have to do a little detective work tonight since I won’t be getting any from Shades. Got nothing to lose.
“Maybe Lizzie’s shy,” Jinx offers.
I laugh. “Or maybe she’s a cunt.” I don’t bother telling Jinx what happened in the parking lot. I seem to be a minority of one where Banging Betties is concerned. My bandmates think they’re God’s gift. Well, I’m gonna prove they’re the Devil’s curse.
At about 3 a.m. when everyone’s settled in for the night on the bus, I hear someone get up and pad down the aisle. The footsteps are light. The door opens, then closes.
I gently extricate myself from Shades’s heavy arm draped over my waist and tiptoe to the front where I peer out the wide window. Sure enough, Jillian darts across the parking lot toward the Banging Betties bus, looking left and right like she’s up to no good. She climbs the steps and disappears through the door. A couple of lights are on over there. Someone was waiting for her. Wonder who?
I plop down on the couch, pull my feet up to the cushions to lean on my knees, and pout.
Or maybe seethe would be a better word.
My gut’s accusations may be unfounded, but all her sneaking around feels like betrayal. Or at the very least, a major conflict of interest. Something’s going on with her and Lizzie, and the fact that she won’t talk about it really makes me question her loyalty. She saw firsthand how condescending Lizzie was to me in the parking lot, yet she defended her?
During our hardest, darkest moments when we thought the band might break up, Jillian always came through for me. She’s always been on my side, even when I thought she wasn’t.
Until now.
Fuck.
I gotta know where she stands. It’s bad enough I’m not sure I can trust my boyfriend anymore. If I have to add Jillian to the “questionable loyalty” list too …
God, this is what I’m reduced to? I sound like a raving, paranoid nutjob.
Yeah, but I’m a nutjob who needs some answers.
I pull on my shoes and a dark hoodie and slip outside. Sticking close to the shadows of the other buses and trees nearby, I make my way to the bubblegum pink monstrosity and slink around until I hear voices. I park my ass beneath the cracked window and eavesdrop.
I can only make out bits and pieces of conversation, but a few things come across loud and clear.