by Jesse Jordan
“Guys, you gotta be on stage!” the concert director says, interrupting Ian. “Now! We start live streaming in one minute!”
I wave the guy off but look at Ian. “Listen, after the concert, tell me. If you believe her, we can talk.”
Ian nods, looking over at Martha when she approaches. Her suit looks jacked up like she's been fighting with someone, and her hair's a mess, but she's smiling. “Come on guys, let's have a good concert.”
“And Cora?” Ian asks, but Cora shakes her head. “You were there.”
“She's not here anymore. After the concert, guys. She and I talked some. Come on, go out there and rock. That's the end of the rainbow out there!” she says, smiling broadly as she points toward the stage. “Go kick ass!”
I'm confused, looking from Ian to Joey to Martha, and my mind is whirling with questions about Cora, but the director's in our ear again, tugging on my jacket, and I throw my hands up. “Fine, fuck it. I want a full explanation of this shit when this is all done. Let's go.”
The crowd isn't the biggest we've performed in front of, even with the standing room crowd area there are only six thousand people. These six thousand though, they're here to see us, not some main act... and in the wings checking some of the faces I see before the lights go down, I think the net worth of the six thousand people outstrips the thirty thousand we played warm up.
“Holy shit,” Joey mutters, glancing over at me. “Was that Emilia Clarke?”
“You should try to get her number after this,” I joke, taking a deep breath. “Come on guys, this is just like any other concert.”
“Ladies and gentlemen...” the public-address system booms, in a voice that sounds like it's making the trailer for an epic movie or something. In a land without hope, a woman with no chance meets a man with no fear... “Rocky Blake, Joey Rivera, and Ian Ivory... the Fragments!”
The applause is loud, but with an open-air amphitheater, it's not too bad. It helps us to keep our wits about us as I run out on stage, the spotlight following me before Joey follows, and Ian stalks behind, heading for his drums. When we're all in place, the lights drop for a moment, and Ian smacks out on his drumsticks. “One-two-three-four!”
Joey rips off the opening riffs to Gimme Danger, and the spotlights and stage lights flash on as Ian tears into his drums. I'm momentarily blinded, the crowd reduced to nothing more than a faceless, single mob blob, shadows against a bright light that I can read by sound and instinct more than anything else.
Step into the arena
Double knot your shoes
Whatcha worried 'bout boy?
Ain't nothin you got to lose...
The crowd's cheering, and I can even hear some of the fans in the standing room only section along the edge of the stage singing along as Joey and I start singing the chorus.
Gimme danger, gimme pain,
Gimme a hard knock life,
Gimme sweat, gimme tears,
Gimme victory through strife
You might knock me down
You might drive me to a knee
But keep giving me that danger
It makes me strong, you see
Joey nails his guitar solo, nearly tearing the stars down from the heavens with the scream of his guitar, and we launch into the second half of the song. We're having a great time, and at least more importantly for my peace of mind at the moment, I'm having a great time. When the song wraps, the roar of applause is larger than when we came out, and as my eyes adjust to being able to see the crowd, I can see that even some of the celebrities who came more for the chance to get their picture in People or Variety or maybe The LA Times are cheering.
“Thank you, thank you,” I say into my microphone, taking a deep breath and calming down. “How'd you all like that?”
“YOU GUYS KICK ASS!” someone in the crowd calls, which is followed by a roar of approval from the crowd.
“I'd say you guys kick ass for coming out here for us, so thank you!” I call back, getting another roar. “Okay, we're going to play a long time favorite of ours, this song was first done back in nineteen eighty-seven, and by the way, our manager has already promised to kick my butt if we play it... but what they hell, this song rocks!”
Joey hits the opening riffs with me playing backup, and the crowd, which has a lot of older celebrities in it in their thirties and forties, is clapping along almost instantly as we launch into a cover of Pour Some Sugar on Me, a classic that again has everyone singing their asses off with us. In fact, the crowd is so loud at times that I don't even need to sing, and I hold the mic out to the crowd during the last chorus, letting them sing their own version, bringing a party atmosphere to the concert. When it wraps, Joey, Ian and, I are already sweating, and I'm grinning ear to ear. Ten minutes in, and we've got them in the palm of our hands already.
I go over to Ian's drum set, grabbing the towel off the little stand we've set up and mop my forehead, giving Ian a thumb’s up. He returns it, taking a quick swig of water while we've got a moment to breathe in between songs. “Water?”
“Yeah,” I answer, taking a swig from the squirt bottle, capping it and turning back around. I grab the mic from the stand and play to the crowd a little, letting the mood mellow out. “You know, maybe it's just a rumor, but I heard somewhere that the whole reason Steven Tyler started that whole long scarf thing on his mic stands was because he wanted a quick way to wipe his forehead. Who knows, after this, we might be famous enough to get the truth straight from his mouth. Hey, anyone know if Steven or Liv is in the crowd tonight?”
“Yeah man!” a distinctive voice from the crowd calls, and I shade my eyes, seeing a dark figure stand up. “You're rocking baby!”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, the mic picking it up and causing a ripple of laughter. “I've met an honest rock god. Thank you for coming, Steven. Uh... go easy on us when we play Sweet Emotion in about twenty minutes. And... mind if I get your autograph later?”
Another ripple of laughter rolls through the crowd, and I grin before letting the smile fade. “Our next song, well, it's our lead single off our new album. Sitting around the studio one day with our producer, we were trying to figure out...” I start, getting ready to go into the story of how Four Letters was written, but I shake my head. I can't, thinking about Cora and what she did hurts too much right now. “Maybe that story can be another time. But let's slow it down now... Four Letters.”
The lights dim, our lighting crew is professional as all hell, and I put the mic back on its stand. This time I play the opening notes on my guitar before letting it slump to the side and Joey takes over while I start singing. The pain in my heart is real, thinking of what Cora did to me, and I falter for a moment. Joey and Ian cover it, and I swallow, remembering Ian's advice. Sing to the girl who wrote this, sing to the girl who has my heart, not the woman who hurt me.
How can they break my heart?
It's only four little letters
How can four letters hurt me so?
When they're put together this way
When I want you to say love,
And what you say is friend.
Tears slip from my eyes as I sing, and when the final note slips away into the night, there's silence, just like when we demonstrated it to the record execs. The first applause starts somewhere in the back, rolling forward in a quiet, mixed way as people wipe their eyes and come back from wherever the song took them in their minds and hearts, until it swells, grows, and rolls over us in a tsunami of hands clapping. There are few cheers, no roar of approving voices, most people are still too raw to trust opening up, and I step back into the darkness that's outside the spotlight that's shining on me, crying a little before wiping my eyes and gathering myself for the rest of the concert.
The final applause is massive, and looking out over the crowd with Joey on my left and Ian on my right, we bow, thanking them one more time for coming out. The video feed for Vevo cut off about two minutes ago according to the motions from the director in the wi
ngs of the stage, and I turn to Joey and Ian, grabbing them in a hug. “Thank you,” I say quietly, my microphone discarded for now. “Thank you.”
“Rocky... if I live to a thousand years old, I'll never forget that performance of Four Letters,” Joey rasps. “I love you, bro.”
“I love you too, Joey,” I reply, hugging my brother tightly before hugging Ian, both of us with similar words. I'm an only child from Simi Valley, but my two brothers are a Puerto Rican kid and a guy from Huntington Beach, that's all there is to it. The three of us leave the stage while the public-address announcer takes over, thanking everyone for coming to the Starlight Bowl, and giving advice on how to get their cars or other means to leave. Little of it means shit to the celebrities, they're invited to the after party at the country club that's next to the Bowl.
“Rocky...” Ian says, and I can see in his eyes that he wants to talk about Cora and her being here, but before he can continue, Larry is there, grinning and clapping us all on the shoulders.
“My God, guys, you three did it! I don't quite understand it all, I guess I'm getting old, but apparently, you guys are the number one trending topic on Twitter, and the live stream had at one point over a million viewers! The video for Four Letters has only been out for ten minutes, and you've already got a hundred thousand views. Guys... the media analysts are saying this could be in Hello territory,” Larry gushes, still grinning. “Biggest major debut ever!”
“That's great Larry,” I reply, shaking hands with him. My throat is harsh though, and I need water, breaking into a slight cough. Larry notices and grabs a bottle from a nearby table and hands it to me, letting me take a big swig. “Seriously, thank you for all your support on this.”
“And to think, I wanted Eternal Flame!” Larry says with a laugh, clapping me on the back. “Listen, I had a request from Martha, some media folks want to talk to Ian and Joey. Since you guys aren't scheduled to go to the after party for another forty-five minutes, I'm gonna pull them away. Rocky, get yourself a drink and relax a little before you have to change.”
Ian's eyes flare at Larry's words, and he holds up a hand when Larry goes to lead him away. He leans in, whispering in my ear. “Cora said Martha's lying. She didn't sell you out. After that comment in the wings, I believe her. Find Martha.”
I nod, and Ian walks away, Joey next to him. I finish off my bottle of water, but the next thing I need to do is pee like a madman. After a long set like this, I always have to whiz like a racehorse, and I rush to the bathroom, making it in time. As I shake off, I think about what Ian said. Cora didn't sell us out? Martha's lying? I have to know.
I shake my cock off and zip up, rinsing my hands before I leave the bathroom, looking for Martha. She's nowhere to be found, so I grab one of the roadies. “Hey, you seen Martha Mellors?”
“Who?” the guy asks, in that typical bored roadie voice. I understand, they've worked with guys a lot more famous than me, but I suspect that it's a point of professional pride. They'd sound that bored if John Lennon somehow came back from the dead and asked for directions to the nearest McDonald's.
“Our manager. Black hair, black pantsuit?” I ask, holding my hand up at about Martha's height. “Usually carrying a tablet?”
“Oh yeah, Vampirella,” the roadie says, pointing off to his left. “Just saw her going into one of the dressing rooms, she was on her phone.”
“Thanks,” I tell the guy, walking off while he pushes another crate of gear towards the front of the house. The hallway with the dressing rooms is one of the only carpeted ones in the back, and my footfalls go quiet as I approach the cracked open door. I slow down as I approach, listening as I hear Martha on the phone.
“Yeah... yeah... yeah, I'll try and get you the security feed, but it's gotta be edited. Why? You don't fucking need to know why. But yeah, I got her arrested,” Martha says, and I stop just outside the door, listening. Martha's walking back and forth, I can hear her boots on the thin carpet, and her voice is fading in and out.
“Of course, it's a setup! What, you think Miss Goody Two Shoes is actually stupid enough to try and do that? Come on, I had to prod her like a motherfucker to get her to snap enough to get the security guards involved. After I did that double check on her, you know I had to set her up.”
Martha stops, listening to the person on the other side of the phone call. I quickly reach into my pocket, pulling out my cell phone from my jacket pocket and turn on the voice recorder as Martha continues. “Her kid? Honestly, I don't give a fuck. I assume the little shit's at her grandparents' house, maybe she's with a babysitter, who the fuck do you think I am? No, no, no. It's not his, but if you wanna drop some innuendo, you probably can get away with it. Who the fuck cares? I'm sure you know how to phrase it. No... come on Joanne! You're getting good hits and feeds from this, and I know you watched that video enough times to get yourself off at least twice. And I'm not even asking you for money, I just want her destroyed and him...”
“Him what?” I ask, shoving the door open hard enough to make it bounce off the far wall and close behind me as I step in. “Him what?”
“Uhh... I'll call you back,” Martha says, hanging up her call and turning to me. “Rocky... great concert, and you really kicked...”
“Shut up,” I hiss, slamming my fist against the wall. “I heard it all, Martha. Or at least enough. You set up Cora. You're the leak, aren't you? You've been the leak all along.”
Martha goes to shake her head, then shrugs when she sees that I'm not going to buy any bullshit job, her game's up. “I was doing my job, Rocky, that's all. Come on, I tried to tell you. This is a new era, baby. Nobody gives a damn about a guy who can sing well! Nobody gives two shits about good music! The public, they want to eat you alive, they want to want to suck you dry and if you're not on drugs, fucking someone famous, or getting into trouble, nobody gives two fucks about you!”
“So, you manufactured scandals,” I growl, keeping my phone hidden in my hand. I hope this is being picked up. “The fights, the groupies, all of it... you fed the scandals to the scandal sheets.”
“Of course, I did!” Martha yells, throwing up her hands. She's pacing again, looking at me wild-eyed. “I had to! Rocky, your image is that you're the guy every motherfucker in the world wants to be, and every woman wants to fuck, but in real life, you're boring as fuck to the general public. Nobody cares about the amount of weight you can bench press, or that you like long walks on the beach or riding your mountain bike up in the canyons to gain inspiration for writing music! You're a boring ass white boy from Simi Valley, and the general public doesn't give a shit about the fact that you're a great guy! They'd rather that you be an asshole, so the guys can reassure themselves that they aren't totally shamed by you, and all the girls can fantasize about rehabbing the bad boy.”
“How long?” I ask, trying to control my anger. I might be a 'boring ass white boy from Simi Valley,' but I've had to throw down more than once, and not all the scars on my body are from riding my bike. Still, I won't hit a woman, as much as Martha deserves it right now.
“Who do you think engineered all those meetings with the girlfriends? I made sure you'd meet girls who were not into long term things. Hell, I'd have hooked you up with Taylor Swift if I'd had the chance, with all the good that would have done to your public profile,” Martha says, chuckling. “Rocky, the public wants you sexy and single, it's my job to keep you both.”
“And Cora? Why did you lie about her, try to destroy her?” I ask. “And what's this about a kid?”
Martha shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “It doesn't matter, Rock. She's done, gone, kaput in this town.”
“Then so are you. You betrayed me, you betrayed the band!” I yell, angry and hurt. “Why? Why are you trying to wreck my life?”
“Because you rejected me!” Martha yells back. She sees that I don't know what she's talking about, then laughs harshly. “Oh, you don't even remember, do you?”
I think and remember. It was m
y twenty-first birthday, two and a half years ago. I'd just turned twenty-one, and Martha took me out to celebrate. Ian and Joey were both tied up for the weekend she said, so we went out and got blitzed at a club, dancing on the floor where she got a little grabby, grinding on me. The next day I'd woken up with a splitting headache and fuzzy memories, not quite sure how I got home, but I'd woken up alone. “My birthday?”
Martha nods, an ironic half-smile on her face. “Yeah... I'd liked you for six months Rocky, but you did the same thing to me you did to Cora back in high school. You friend zoned me, not even realizing that I was into you. So, I got you drunk, hoping that I could get past that good guy side of you. You... you said yes, you stupid fuck. Actually, you called me Cora, saying that you were so sorry you'd overlooked me for so long. It broke my heart, you calling me that, and I walked away. How do you think I remembered that name so well when I first heard you call her that in the booth?”
I stare at her, stunned. “You... Martha... you... that's it. You're fired.”
“You can't fire me, I work for the label,” Martha says, smirking. “And I've got plenty to back up my version of things.”
“Maybe, but I've got two things on my side,” I reply, smiling a predator's smile, nothing at all like the smile that I give friends, or the flirty smirk that I use on stage. There's no warmth in it, and I understand now, for the first time in my life, what real hatred is. “First, I'm the superstar, remember? I'm the guy fronting the band that's trending on Twitter. And second...”
I pull my phone from my pocket, showing her the voice recorder still going. “I've got you admitting to so many things, I'm sure at least some of this is criminal. You're done. Have a good life, Martha.”
I turn on my heel and leave the dressing room, walking down the hallway and across the backstage area towards the exit to the Bowl. I half expect Martha to try to follow me, but she doesn't, and I get outside without anyone stopping me. I see Larry, who's still talking with some magazine media, I think that's the reporter from Rolling Stone that introduced himself before the concert. “Hey, Rocky!” Larry calls, waving me over. “Jimmy would like a quote.”