by Wild, Nikki
“This is where Trent and company decompress after a show,” the tech told me. “Along with the other bands, of course.”
“Other bands?”
I’d actually forgotten all about that.
The tech looked at me funnily. “Yeah, the other performers. Whiplash is one of seven bands playing this venue. There’re one or two smaller outfits, but most of them are household names. Couple of veterans from the Eighties…”
While he droned on, I glanced around. It was easy to imagine several dozen rockers, splitting into their own little cliques, and surrounded by VIPs and groupies.
I wondered where Trent sat.
“…And if you’ll follow me,” the stagehand continued impatiently, “I’d like to take you to where you’ll be situated for the concert.”
“When are the guys playing?” I asked.
“Trent Masters and the Whiplash are the final performers tonight. You’ll be present for the entire concert, front to back.”
“Oh yeah?”
I hadn’t really signed up for all of that, but I guess it made sense to watch the other rockers too…even if I was really only there for his band.
“Right. So, if you’ll follow me…”
The tech waved goodbye and ducked out of sight, and I followed the stagehand down to the backstage area.
Well, more accurately, the side stage area.
He left me with a small group of other fans, each featuring the same sort of lanyard – but with different colors. Each one seemed to correspond to other bands – four for a group called Thunderspear, another called The Scoundrels, and so on.
I’d heard a few of these. The Scoundrels, in particular. They were these rock legends from the late Sixties, which only made it more impressive that Trent and his band were going to be on this stage.
As luck would have it, my arrival was timed to coincide with the opening band.
Not five minutes after I joined the group, the performers came out from the other side of the stage: four guys in their upper twenties, dressed less like powerful rockers and more like surf bums with surprisingly decent fashion sense.
The crowd went wild, and so did most of the people with me.
The lanky singer approached the mike, flashing a quick grin of acknowledgement and a thumbs-up our way before addressing the huge venue.
“Good evening, Alabama! We are The DeVitos! How are y’all doing tonight?”
The crowd surged with pleasure.
“Fan-fucking-tastic! The boys and I were thinking about maybe playing a few ditties for you now, is that alright?”
Cue the same reaction.
“Awesome! Jack, hit it!”
“ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!”
Guitars began riffing rapidly, each one waiting a few bars to add upon the building melody, while the drums chaotically blasted in the back. The singer was already head banging and hopping around stage, finally jumping back to the mike and bellowing out indecipherable punk lyrics.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard music like this.
It sounded insane.
It sounded wild.
It sounded fucking amazing.
And it was all thanks to Trent.
Chapter 11
Trent
I’d spent the entire afternoon resting my voice, occasionally poking my head out to watch the musicians before us play. We were usually too busy to enjoy the other performers, but since this was a repeat concert, I could spare some time for each set.
To my pleasure, Angel was standing over with the other backstage guests, higher up in the food chain than even the VIPs in the front.
She looked happy.
No, more than that.
She looked completely fucking thrilled.
I found myself wanting to walk over to her, to spend some time chatting with her. Maybe I could get her attention or send someone to pull her back here.
Maybe I could seduce her out of those pretty little clothes before the show even started. She sure looked pumped up.
I briefly imagined slamming her up against a wall in the bus, behind a locked door, and taking what was mine. Her nice, round lips would polish off my cock while she perched on her knees in front, worshipping me. At the moment of sweet release, I’d drain my heavy balls down the back of her throat.
Maybe instead, my fingers would clench into the sweet flesh of her ass-cheeks, slamming her down hard on my thick, steely erection. I’d make her yelp with pain but moan with satisfaction, craving every last inch of my rigid cock.
I shook my head.
Not yet.
I didn’t need the distraction.
Nor did I need the other fans swarming me.
I was supposed to be relaxing, chilling out with the band before our set while they idly strummed and drummed on their practice instruments, not stalking my own guest and undressing her with my eyes from over here.
But goddamn, did she look hot.
The clothes she picked were amusing punk threads – a tight band shirt, a ratty jumper over it, a miniskirt frayed along the edges, long striped socks, and a that pair of Converse again. It was an interesting ensemble – probably improvised at the last second – but it demonstrated that she cared enough to try and look the part.
The only way she could look any more punk to me was if she’d dyed her hair green and added a spiked choker.
But this?
I liked this.
I liked it a lot.
My twitching cock agreed.
Enough distractions, I thought to myself as I pulled my eyes away from her. Within the moment, I’d slipped back out of sight. Retreating towards the group, I walked in on Waylon and Terence, ribbing each other over their playing.
They loved taking the piss at each other.
Dylan, on the other hand, was practicing a few rolls and clashes against a drum kit. He ended each one with a symbol crash, quickly grabbing the edge to silence the ringing sound.
“Hey, how’s your little pet doin’?” Waylon sneered, a sly grin on his face. “She alright in the sidelines, yeah?”
“Told you to not call her that,” I retorted.
Waylon and Dylan shared a look.
Terence simply shrugged.
“Yeah, well, it’s not often that the big guy hands out a free pass to a nice piece of ass,” Waylon smiled, his eyes curious. “It’s just nice to see you with your head back in the game.”
“How do you figure?”
“Maaan, you have been moping hardcore these last few weeks. Turnin’ down ‘tang in a dozen cities. Good to have the fearless leader back is all I’m sayin’.”
I grunted, taking a step towards him. I wanted to smack that shit-eating grin straight off of his face…but I stopped myself.
Last thing I needed to do?
Smack around my guitarist before a show.
And I owed the fans, anyway. RipFest had been sold out for three months. Sure, the other bands were a major draw too, but I wasn’t about to cripple the end-game of the venue lineup because my asshole guitarist was talking shit about my girl.
My girl?
I stepped back outside to clear my head. Where the fuck did THAT come from? Because that wasn’t a possessive thought – it was a surprisingly tender one.
For a brief moment, I considered the idea of waking up beside her, reaching over and kissing her shoulder, and listening for her slight, sleepy murmurs. The picture was so vivid in my head that it made my chest slightly swell.
I bit down angrily, punching one hand into the other palm. I took a couple of deep breaths, and let the tension slip away.
No. I don’t need this right now.
She’s just a nice piece of ass that got yanked out from my grasp at the last second. That’s all she is – a gorgeous little scrap to pull into my bed.
My shoulders relaxed.
That’s right.
A small smile crossed my lips again. The last thing I needed to do was fall for some chick in the middle of fucking
nowhere, even if she was really cute…
Had to admit, thought.
That shotgun thing had been pretty awesome.
I turned my attention towards more important things. Specifically, I noticed that the night was winding down. Those old windbags from the olden days were rocking out – and goddamn if I didn’t respect them – but that just meant that we were following up veritable rock legends.
By the time I walked back into our private practice room, my convictions were clear. We were going to rock our goddamn hearts out tonight.
“Alright, fuckers…we’re on in an hour and a half. Let’s make some fucking music happen.”
Chapter 12
Angel
Just like with every other set change, the stage dimmed, technicians for the band quietly dismantled and retrieved instruments, and the next band’s crew came out to mirror the process in reverse.
With the entire stage cloaked in darkness, an impressive drum kit was assembled rapidly in the back while techs brought out amps, connected wires, and tuned guitars.
The crew adjusted the instruments, strummed basic chords, and paused to play with the amp settings. Meanwhile, the drum guy repeatedly ran drumrolls, clashing the symbols and tweaking everything to perfection.
They were silent, focused professionals.
As usual, it took about thirty minutes for the entire process to unfold. These guys worked fast, both the ones for the previous band doing the breakdown, and the ones for the next one doing the reassembly.
But I knew who was last.
Trent Masters and the Whiplash.
The entire crowd awaited with hushed breath as the crew worked in silence, barely acknowledging one another. They simply did their jobs and retreated when the time was right.
Finally, the stage was empty for a few minutes…
And then out they came.
I could barely make out Trent in the semi-darkness, sauntering towards the microphone as the rest of his band assumed their positions. When everyone was in place, the lights flickered back on, and the crowd went wild.
“Well, would you look at that?” Trent called out, addressing his band. “Looks like a hell of a crowd. Think we can bless them with some serious rock?”
The mob roared with excitement.
“I dunno, bruh,” the dreadlocked guitarist chuckled into his own microphone stand. “They don’t look all that pleased to see us…”
“Maybe we should just pack back up, eh?” The drummer laughed.
“You hear that, folks?” Trent told the audience smugly. “What a bunch of dicks, right? I believe in you, though…but I need some hands. Help me show these assholes that you give a shit!”
The crowd exploded with cheering.
“Fuck yeah! Now that’s what drags our tired asses out on stage!” Trent laughed. “Alright boys, looks like these fuckers aren’t exhausted yet. Ready to give ‘em a show?”
The band immediately launched into song.
The guitarist and bassist began rapidly strumming out a furious tune as the drummer beat his kit with a rhythmic fury. Trent, meanwhile, stood tall at the microphone, throwing his hand out towards the band.
“Helloooo, Alabama! I am Trent Masters, and THIS is the Whiplash!”
Even this late, well past midnight, the crowd remained as energetic as ever. I could see them seriously getting into the music as the melody kicked into gear and the band performed their hearts out.
As Trent began singing his lyrics, he dominated the stage with presence that none of the previous singers had.
While some of them stood at the mike and let their belting vocals do the work, and others bounced around or paraded across the stage, Trent owned that space. His sheer charisma and personality overwhelmed the crowd, and every movement – every little swagger of his step or twirl of the microphone – came from a place of improvised purpose.
It was clear how he was so popular.
He was handsome.
His voice was incredible.
And with every cocky ounce that he had in him, he was perfectly in his element in front of a major crowd.
When he sang for me the previous night, he sang tenderly but purposefully. Those same traits were here now, although he was more forceful, belting out the rich baritones and swapping octaves at the right times to take a scowling line of fury to a quiet, sincere one.
And the choruses of his songs were powerful. The other musicians worked well together, complementing each other against the soundscape of his lyrics.
“You try to run or try to hide / From all this emptiness inside / It’s all so clear when out of sight / But your darkness defines your light…”
The rest of my little group of side-stage spectators were clearly getting into the music. Every once in a while, Trent would turn to flash a quick, powerful smile our way…
But I knew it was always for me.
And I could feel my cold exterior melting away under the heat of that grin.
His cockiness translated well onstage. His effortless strutting and natural arrogance only fueled his performance, even when he opened up briefly to belt out a strikingly powerful lyric.
The entire set was over far too quickly. They had performed the same length of time as the others – somewhere around the forty-five minute to hour mark – but they blazed through the songs with a tenacity that wrapped up out of nowhere.
Oddly, they didn’t perform their main single.
With a swift bow, the band descended backstage amid the constant screams of Encore! Encore! Encore!
The lights dimmed, and nobody returned.
Undaunted, the mob continued to chant…
Until they all returned, picking up their instruments. This close, I could see that they were going through the motions – there was no improvisation here.
But they also looked a little tired.
They really did want to stop for the night.
“Wow, these Alabama fuckers are plenty greedy, aren’t they?” Trent joked over the mike to his band. “What do you guys think? Think we should cut ‘em off here, or give ‘em what they want?”
What they want! The crowd bellowed. What they want! What they want!
“You don’t get a fucking vote!” Trent shouted out over the sound system to them. “But props to that organization, that shit happened fast! What, did you guys form a union while we were hydrating back there?”
The crowd continued to chant, and the band pretended to deliberate together over the microphones.
“I dunno, dude, I just put a pizza on…”
“They seem like a good bunch of folks…”
“I’m gonna miss my Jeopardy! re-runs, man…”
Trent finally turned back to the crowd.
“Alright! ONE more song! IF you’re good! That means, you take the goddamn song and you like it! Is that clear? We good?”
The crowd was ecstatic.
“Fantastic. Alright, you might have heard this one a couple of times. Maybe not out here, I hear you fuckers have shit radio reception. Anyway, it’s a little piece we like to call Wicked Wilds…”
Predictably, the entire mob went ballistic, and the entire band shared a satisfied grin amongst themselves as they began to perform.
Their sheer stage performance – particularly that of their arrogant, mighty front-man – took a fantastic song and only made it better.
“My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin’ / Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I’ve lost the feelin’…”
Trent continued along the refrain, choosing to skip the chorus the first time to let the guitarists show off. Meanwhile, he head-banged in place along to the tune of their riffs. Eventually, he jumped over to dreadlock guy to mimic his furious strumming for several moments, clearly enjoying himself.
I couldn’t believe that someone this commanding, this indisputably famous, had even given me the time of day – let alone fought four bikers to a standstill to protect me.
<
br /> It filled my head with strange feelings.