by Bill Myers
Half an hour later they were having ice-cream sundaes at an outdoor shop in the Century City mall. The big office building towered over them. The mall was crowded with busy executives.
“See that guy over there?” Mike nodded to the right.
Becka turned to see a short man dressed in an expensive business suit, Italian sunglasses perched on his nose, walking hurriedly through the mall. Three taller men wearing similar suits and sunglasses tried their best to keep up with him.
“That’s Jason Unger, the agent,” Mike said. “Some people think he’s the most powerful guy in the entertainment business.”
“Who are the other three guys?”
“Dunno. Underlings probably. He’s got a zillion of them, or so they say.”
“Do they all try to dress like he does?”
“Sure,” Mike said. “And walk and talk like he does too.”
Becka laughed. “That’s crazy.”
“You got that right,” Mike said with a grin. “Now, what do you want to do next?”
“Watch the sunset from the ocean,” Becka said before she could catch herself.
Mike smiled. “All right — one sunset coming up. But after that, I need to get you back to the hotel. I told your mom we wouldn’t be out too late.”
It wasn’t until they were back in the limo, heading toward Zuma Beach, that Becka finally worked up the courage to talk about the band. “Mike . . . can I ask you something?”
Mike nodded. “Shoot.”
“What are you going to do about the band?”
He looked puzzled. “Do? What do you mean?”
“Well, I was thinking about what you said about Doland — about his worshiping the devil and stuff. Doesn’t that worry you?”
Mike sighed and looked off into the distance. “Well, I used to think it was an act with Doland . . . but not anymore. Sometimes it doesn’t bother me at all. Other times . . .”
“What?” she prodded.
“Well, sometimes, like when everyone makes a big fuss over us . . . sometimes that bothers me.”
“Why? I mean, you’ve worked hard for it.”
“Yeah, we’re pretty good. But there are lots of good bands. Sometimes I just . . . I guess I feel funny about the band’s success, because I’m not sure where it came from.”
Becka gulped. She had a hunch where this was going.
Mike continued, “In the beginning, the black magic and devil stuff were more of a gimmick than anything we believed in. We even used to make fun of it. But it kept growing somehow. And then . . . it just got out of control, especially with Doland. Now it’s like the band isn’t even in charge anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Mike shrugged, looking uncomfortable as the limo pulled into the beach parking lot. “I don’t know. I’m probably just superstitious. All the guys say I am.”
“That’s just because you believe in something — ” Becka stopped in midsentence, not sure if this was the right thing to say — “or . . . at least you did believe in something . . . at one time.”
Mike laughed. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way of putting it.”
Two minutes later, they were sitting on the hood of the limo, watching the sun sink into the ocean. Becka could not have asked for a better day. A great lunch, a tour of L.A. in a limo, and now a perfect sunset beside a great guy.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “This is so beautiful,” she said. “I always try to take time to watch the sunsets at home.”
“I bet it’s even prettier where you live,” Mike said.
“I don’t know. It all depends on where you are at the moment.”
Mike turned and looked into her eyes. “And who you’re seeing it with?”
Becka felt her stomach flip-flop. A warmth rushed to her cheeks. “Yeah . . . that too.”
He hesitated a moment longer before leaning toward her. She leaned forward too, certain that he wanted to kiss her. Then at the last second she blurted out, “So, are you going to tell me what you meant when you said that the band wasn’t in charge anymore?”
Mike stopped and looked at her. “You sure have a strange way of communicating sometimes, Rebecca Williams.”
She smiled nervously.
Mike turned to stare at the sunset again. “All I meant was that sometimes things feel so out of control that it’s like . . . it’s as if someone, or something, else is calling the shots. I don’t know . . . I think Doland is into some pretty weird stuff and . . . somehow that affects all of us.”
“Then why don’t you quit?”
Mike laughed. “Are you serious?”
Becka nodded. “Sure, if it’s the only way you’ll be free of Doland.”
“Quit the band?!” Mike’s voice carried an edge of irritation. “No way! I worked my whole life for this. I’m never quitting the band.”
Becka felt miserable. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that . . . well . . . I’ve seen people fool around with demonic stuff . . . and it can get pretty dangerous. I mean, something awful could happen . . . and I . . .”
He was looking at her again. For a moment she forgot what she was saying. She tried again. “ . . . I don’t want anything . . .”
He leaned toward her.
“ . . . awful to happen to . . .”
His lips found hers. For an instant, Becka melted. She kissed him back. Mike’s arms came around her, holding her close. Becka knew she should pull away. For an instant, she thought of Ryan back home. How would she feel if he kissed another girl? Then came the thought of a promise she had once made to Mom about never letting herself get into a compromising situation with a boy.
Yet, in spite of all that, she let the kiss continue. It grew in intensity until all she could think of was Mike, Mike, Mike . . .
Then another thought came to mind: The devil knows our weaknesses and uses them against us.
She suddenly stiffened. Mustering all of her will, she pulled away.
Mike looked at her, confused. She could also tell that he seemed a little hurt.
She wanted to explain herself but didn’t know if she could. The attraction between them had been surprisingly strong. Was this the weakness Z had warned her about — something the enemy would use against her? Part of her knew that when a person dealt with the supernatural, things were rarely what they seemed.
She let out a small breath of air. “I . . . uh . . . I need to get back,” she finally managed. “Mom will be worrying.”
Mike slowly exhaled. “Sure . . . I probably need to check in with the guys anyway. We’ve gotta iron out the final plans for tomorrow’s telecast. It’s the biggest thing for us yet . . . a national broadcast . . . It’s gonna be a real blast.”
Becka nodded. But as they slid off the hood and climbed back into the limo, all she could think about was her dream from the night before — the one with the cannon exploding — and Mike’s words: “It’s gonna be a real blast.”
7
The next morning Becka tried to contact Z again. She wanted Scott to join her, but he was too busy listening to the latest Scream CD through his headphones. “If I’m gonna be part of the band, I need to be more familiar with their music!” he shouted.
“You’re not part of the band!” Becka shouted back. “You’re just helping them set up for one show!”
Scott removed the headphones. “That’s all you know. First of all, when we in showbiz refer to the ‘band,’ we mean the entire organization that makes the thing happen. The agents, producers, label execs, manager, road manager, and crew. That last part includes me. As for this being my only show, Billy already said that he wished he had someone like me around all the time.”
Becka shrugged. “So?”
“So that’s exactly the kind of thing they say before they offer you a regular gig.”
Becka tried not to laugh. “A regular gig? Don’t you think you ought to finish high school first?”
Scott pointed his index finge
r at Becka and then flipped his hand over in a quick gesture.
“What does that mean?” she said. “Or do I want to know?”
“It means, ‘Have it your way, burger brain.’ It’s a band thing.
Billy does it whenever the hall manager or the security guys hassle him. I think it’s pretty cool.”
Becka sighed. “I think it’s pretty stupid. You’ve only been working for them one day, and you’re already all caught up in this . . . band stuff.”
“You’re so uncool, Becka.”
“And you’re even more of an idiot than usual.”
“I am not more of an idiot!” Scott snapped as he put the headphones back on. “I’m just the same as I’ve always been!”
Becka shook her head in amusement as she turned back to the computer. She wanted to talk with Z, to tell him that he’d been right about the enemy using her weaknesses against her. She was falling for the guy she was supposed to be helping. And instead of making things better, she was afraid she was only making matters worse.
Then there was Scott. He was getting caught up in the glamour of the band’s fame — all the glitz and the hype. Yessir, there was definitely a battle going on. It was one they’d never fought before. Instead of in-your-face warfare, everything seemed cool and glamorous. In fact, when she thought about it that way, she realized that the weapons being used against them in this encounter were actually more dangerous than in some of the other fights they had faced. In this encounter, all of the enemy’s weapons were things they wanted.
As the email symbol on the laptop flashed, Becka clicked on it, then opened up the incoming message. But it wasn’t from Z. It was from Ryan.
Hey, Beck! Hope you guys are doing okay. I miss you a lot, but I guess I have to learn to put my needs aside when you’re doing important stuff like this. Who knows what good effect this kind of thing can have on others. I guess that’s the great thing about being a Christian. All we have to do is say yes to God, and he does the rest. All you and Scott had to do was be willing to go to L.A., now God’s leading you step-by-step the rest of the way. I just wanted to let you know that I’m praying for you guys, and I can’t wait until you get back — ESPECIALLY YOU, BECK. Love, Ryan
It was all Becka could do to swallow the lump in her throat. Ryan was the closest thing to a boyfriend she had ever had. And though she still didn’t feel comfortable with that term, he had always treated her wonderfully. Now here he was, trying to encourage her to let God use her to help others. She had practically dumped him for some guy she hardly even knew! If she had felt bad about kissing Mike before, she felt terrible about it now.
And it was these exact feelings that helped her decide what to do next. “Scott,” she called, “I want to go to rehearsal with you today.” But Scott was in his own world with the headphones on and his eyes closed.
“He can’t hear you with those things on,” Mom said as she passed by. “You’ll have to get his attention.”
Becka agreed. Seeing a pencil eraser on the table nearby, she grabbed it and threw it at him, hitting him square in the forehead.
Scott’s eyes popped open. He glared at her. “Hey! What was that for?” he demanded, jerking off his headphones.
“I was just trying to get your attention.”
“Why didn’t you just use a club?”
“I couldn’t find one,” she countered. “Listen, I want to go to rehearsal with you today.”
“We’re not rehearsing. We’re recording,” Scott replied. “You’ll just get in the way.”
Becka shook her head. “I’m going, because I need to talk to Mike. What time are they sending the car?”
“Two o’clock,” Scott replied. “But you’d better not bother Mike when he’s recording.”
“He won’t get mad at me,” Becka said confidently.
“It’s not Mike I’m worried about. Doland’s the one who’ll get upset. He doesn’t like distractions.”
Becka paused, and for the briefest second she considered not going. Her stomach was already churning. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation with Doland. In fact, she dreaded seeing Doland at all.
But she had to go.
The band had left earlier, so Scott and Becka were the only ones in the limo that afternoon.
Scott wore his best torn T-shirt and torn jeans. In fact, they were new torn jeans.
“Scott, are those your new jeans?” Becka asked incredulously. “Tell me you didn’t tear holes in your new jeans.”
“Don’t tell Mom, okay?”
“I won’t have to. She’ll figure that out for herself. Don’t you think you’re taking this band thing a little too far?”
Scott scowled and looked out the window. Even though they teased each other constantly, they had always been close. They had to be after all they’d been through together. But something was happening to Becka’s little brother. In the past forty-eight hours he had begun to slip away — growing more and more distant, more and more into himself. She knew that the change in his behavior was because of the band’s influence — and the subtle deception he was buying into. She also knew that if she brought it up, he wouldn’t listen.
There was, however, Someone who would listen.
God, please remind Scotty of your truth, she prayed. I know he believes in you. But sometimes, others influence him . . . And Lord, please protect us. It feels like we’re in over our heads with this assignment. I know you told us in the Bible that when we’re weak, you’re strong. Well, we’ve sure got plenty of weaknesses this time! Please be there for us. Show us what to do. Amen.
As soon as they climbed out of the car, the limo drove off, leaving them standing outside a plain-looking brick building. “Are you sure this is the place?” Becka asked. “It looks like a warehouse.”
“This is the address Billy gave me,” Scott said. “I think they like to keep it low-key on the outside so people won’t know about all the expensive equipment inside.”
The door was locked, and a small sign said Ring Buzzer. Becka pushed the buzzer. Nothing happened.
“Maybe we should’ve called first,” Scott said after a minute.
Suddenly they heard a whirring sound. Looking up, they saw a small camera tucked away under the awning. As it slowly turned, the lens moved.
“Wow. That’s a pretty high-tech security camera,” Becka said. “They’re checking us out. Wonder who’s on the other end.”
“Probably some jerk,” Scott said.
Then a voice from out of nowhere said, “Watch who you’re calling a jerk, jerk!”
Scott blushed. “They can hear us!”
The voice spoke again. “Right you are, loser. Lucky I know you’re smarter than you look.”
“It’s Billy!” Scott exclaimed.
“Right again,” the voice said. “Come on in.”
With that he buzzed the door open. Inside, the place was completely different than it looked from the outside. They entered a large reception area with walls of sleek black marble and a thick, plush black carpet. The walls were covered with silver and platinum records in black metal frames. On them were names like Pearl Jam, Aerosmith, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Metallica.
“Wow!” Scott said. “Look at this. All these people recorded here!”
Becka was also impressed. “Hey, here’s Jars of Clay. I love that band.”
In the center of the room was a large black marble reception desk. To the left of the desk, three monitors displayed images from the security cameras at the three entrances to the building. A fancy phone system and an expensive-looking PC perched on the desk to the right. And behind all of this expensive, high-tech equipment sat the scraggly Billy Phelps.
“Howdy.” Billy grinned. “Pretty cool place, eh?”
“I’ll say,” Scott replied. “Where are the guys?”
Billy pointed down the hallway. “Studio B. They’re doing overdubs. But I brought some of your work with me.”
“Work?” Scott asked.
B
illy pointed toward a large tub of empty whiskey bottles and a couple of plastic jugs full of an amber liquid. Scott nodded.
Becka cleared her throat. “Excuse me . . . I came to see Mike.”
Billy nodded. “I figured. You’re Rebecca, right? They’re in the middle of a take right now, but I’ll get word to them in a minute that you’re here.”
Becka thanked him and crossed to where Scott filled the empty bottles. “What are you doing?”
“Yesterday Billy had me wash out these whiskey bottles.
Today he wants me to fill them.”
“Is that whiskey?” Becka interrupted, pointing to the plastic jugs from which Scott was filling the bottles.
“No,” Scott replied. “That’s just it. It’s iced tea.”
“Iced tea? Why would they want . . . ? Oh, I get it.”
Scott waited, but Becka said nothing. Finally, he sighed, “Well, then, explain it to me, will you?”
Becka shook her head in sad amusement. “Don’t you get it? They want to strut around onstage, guzzling from these whiskey bottles like it doesn’t bother them . . . which it doesn’t, since the bottles are really just full of iced tea.”
“Can’t give a good performance when you’re drunk,” Billy Phelps said, walking up behind them. “You can go in now, Rebecca. Right down the hall. Only make sure you don’t enter when the red light is on.”
As Becka headed down the hall, Scott turned to Billy. “I still don’t get this whiskey thing,” he said. “Why do the guys want people to think they’re drinking a lot when they’re not?”
“Part of the image, kid. The crowd expects that from a heavy-metal band. Part of the whole heavy-metal mystique.”
“What about the kids out there who think they should be imitating them by guzzling down booze?”
“Oh, well.” Billy grinned.
Scott frowned. He didn’t much like the answer.
“This stuff is big business, kid. Too much money on the line to blow something because of a few drinks.”
“Doesn’t sound very real to me,” Scott said.
“It’s not about real, Scott,” Billy said. “It’s about money.”