I stood and murmured my thanks, my eyes on the scout. My eyes being on the scout had the added benefit of allowing me to avoid Hector, Vance, Monk and the Rock Chicks.
I took a pull from my beer, swallowed and asked, “And you are?”
“Dixon Jones. A&R. Black Fat Records,” he answered.
Oh.
Wow.
I’d heard of Black Fat Records even though they hadn’t been around very long. They were small and they were choosy. They found good talent, they took good care of them and they had a killer marketing department.
If I’d ever wanted The Gypsies to be signed, it would be with an outfit like Black Fat Records.
“Enjoying the show?” I asked like I didn’t care, which I didn’t. Not really.
But then again, I did.
What the ef was wrong with me?
Dixon Jones smiled at me, it was genuine and it threw me.
“You write the new material?” he asked and this threw me too.
I shook my head. “That’s Buzz, my bass player. He writes the music. And Leo, my rhythm guitar. He writes the lyrics.”
“Those songs were tight. It’s good to see you branching out of covers,” Dixon commented and this threw me most of all.
“You catch a gig before?” I asked, doing my damnedest to stay outwardly calm.
“Anytime I’m in Denver, The Gypsies are playing, I come,” Dixon replied.
Oh my Lord!
“So why haven’t you ever met my girl here?” Monk pushed in and clapped Dixon on the back. It gave me the creepy-crawlies to be referred to as Monk’s girl, so much so, even though I tried to stop it, my lip curled.
Dixon looked down his nose at Monk and replied, “Except when they’re playing The Palladium. I usually avoid The Palladium.”
Monk got a little pale and stepped back.
I couldn’t help myself, I smirked at Dixon Jones. All of a sudden, I liked him.
“Couldn’t miss tonight,” he said, lifting a copy of USA Today I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Rock ‘n’ roll in the face of certain danger. I figured it’d be good but shit. Gotta tell you, Stella, you and your boys delivered beyond expectation. Your set list is inspired.”
Then Dixon snapped the paper open and turned a page to face me.
On the page was a grainy photo of me and Mace making out last night onstage. I didn’t look at the caption; I was too busy staring at the photo. I, of course, had never seen myself kissing Mace (or anyone) and I was weirdly fascinated.
The photo was probably taken by a cell phone camera. It didn’t look great but it didn’t look bad either. In fact, the way I was bent over Mace’s arm, the drums in the background, Mace’s fist wrapped around the neck of my guitar, my hands clutching his broad shoulders, our lips locked, it looked hot.
Smokin’ hot.
Shitsofuckit!
“Holy crap,” Indy whispered.
“USA Today?” Jet breathed.
“I didn’t see that one,” Daisy muttered.
“Great fuckin’ picture,” Ally observed.
I took a step forward, my hand coming out to take the paper but I didn’t make it. Vance got there before me, tagged the paper and took a step back.
“You need to focus on the show,” Vance said to me, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm.
I stared at him, shocked. So did Dixon Jones. The Rock Chicks all looked at each other and they did it knowingly.
Not good.
Something was up.
I turned to Vance. “What are you? My manager?”
Vance looked at his watch then back to me. “For the next two minutes, yeah.”
“Are not,” I snapped.
“Focus, Stella,” Vance shot back.
“We need to talk,” Hector said to Dixon and I turned angry, confused eyes to Hector.
Dixon was also looking confused.
I looked back at Hector and read his intent.
Oh no.
This was not going to happen!
“Don’t talk to him,” I said to Dixon.
Now Dixon was looking at me and he still appeared confused.
The Rock Chicks huddled closer except Shirleen. She approached Dixon.
“Yeah, Hector and me and you, we all got to talk,” Shirleen said to Dixon.
Oh dear.
This was getting worse.
“And me!” Daisy pressed forward.
Oh no!
Even worse!
“No!” I shouted, trying to move but for some reason Ally and Ava had me in a death grip.
Dixon swung his gaze from me to Daisy to Shirleen.
“Who’re you?” he asked Shirleen.
He asked Shirleen but Daisy answered.
“Managers. We all manage The Gypsies. Just like any real good, smokin’ hot rock band, they’re a handful, comprende?”
“They’re not my managers,” I told Dixon.
Shirleen had her fingers curled around Dixon’s upper arm and was leading him to the door. She leaned in toward his ear and lied, “She says that three times a day.”
I looked to the ceiling and silently said a short, pointed prayer.
My prayer went ignored and, with a bemused glance over his shoulder at me, Dixon Jones disappeared behind the door.
I turned woodenly and looked at Ally. “What just happened?”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” Ally replied.
My eyes narrowed and I could actually feel my pulse beating in my throat.
Then I shouted, “What the ef does that mean?”
“That means,” Jet materialized in front of me, “you have to trust us.”
This was not good.
Not good at all.
They were up to something.
And I was pretty certain I knew what it was and I didn’t like it.
I shook my head at Jet. “Not with a scout I don’t.”
“Trust us,” Indy said, coming to stand by Jet.
Ef that!
“You all are fucking nuts. Everyone is fucking nuts! The world is fucking nuts!” I yelled just as the door opened and Mace walked in.
Completely oblivious to my tantrum, Mace looked at me with still angry eyes and announced, “Time for your last set and, Stella, if there’s one fuckin’ song about death or guns, I’m gonna shoot you.”
Effing… bloody… hell.
* * * * *
We were scorching through our gig-ending “Ghostriders” when it happened.
I’d managed to put everything to the back of my head and the last set, if possible, was better than the first three. We’d started the set easing the crowd into the vibe by doing America’s “Ventura Boulevard”. We could burn the house down with chest-thumping rock ‘n’ roll but between Floyd, Buzz, Leo and me, we could also sing a powerful harmony and, even if I said so myself, our “Ventura Boulevard” was sweet.
We followed that with two more of Buzz and Leo’s new songs. When I introduced the songs the crowd shouted their approval so loud, they missed the first thirty seconds of the first song because their cheers were drowning out the music.
I got a warm fuzzy feeling watching the crowd’s approval wash over Buzz and Leo. My two boys glanced at each other, their faces an obvious mixture of the panic and thrill I’d been feeling all day. But, with them, I could see the thrill part was definitely winning.
Then we were done messing around. It was time to rock and we slid back into the theme of the night (Mace was just going to have to shoot me) with REO Speedwagon’s “Ridin’ the Storm Out”, Molly Hatchett’s “Flirtin’ with Disaster”, The Doobie Brothers’ “Dangerous” and finally “Ghostriders”.
We were closing out the song. The crowd knew it and they were frenzied, hands up in the air, bodies swaying, catcalls piercing the air.
And it was then, riding the high of a great show, heart racing, blood pumping (thankfully), skin tingling, lips in a permanent happy grin, that I saw him.
A scruffy man
wearing a beat-up army jacket over a t-shirt, hair a mess, hands in the pockets of his jacket, he was making his way with determination toward Jet.
Through my buzz, two things hit me.
It was a warm end of May evening and jackets weren’t allowed.
Effing Monk!
Duke was again working the front of the stage but he didn’t see the guy and he had his back to me so I couldn’t catch his eye.
There were Hot Bunch men in range, in fact, the guy pushed right by Vance who was looking in the opposite direction.
Like last night, Lee was on the stage with the band. I kept playing but twisted my torso to look at Lee. I tried to catch his eye but he was on alert, not paying attention to me, his eyes were scanning the crowd.
Getting desperate, I twisted back around and tried to get Vance’s attention but, for some reason, he turned and pushed in the other direction, away from the Rock Chicks.
Ef it, there was nothing for it.
My eyes glued on the guy, I went to the mic and tried to offer a warning by saying “Jet…” but just as I uttered her name, I watched in horror as a pocket of people opened behind Jet.
The guy had easy access.
Effing, holy, hell!
He made it to Jet in a couple of steps, his hand started to come out of his pocket and it was then I freaked.
“Jet!” I screamed into the mic.
Her eyes were already on me but there was no time to warn her, the man was right behind her.
I whipped the guitar off, dropped it to the stage with a loud crash of the strings, ran to the edge and executed a stage dive, jumping off and aiming my body at the bad guy.
I vaguely heard the crowd give a shout of approval at my stage dive just as I hit the guy, full body.
“What the –?” he shouted, caught unaware, with one hand out, one hand still in his jacket. His free arm went around me, he staggered when my weight hit him, one two, three steps and then we both went down, him on his back, me on top.
Unfortunately, we careened into others and they went down with us.
It was all arms and legs and bodies and what seemed like a million feet, most of them kicking, as we rolled into others and took them all down.
I stayed focused and struggled with the guy, trying to get a firm hold on his wrists. He was strong and he was wiry and, even though not exactly young, he still was a guy, so I found this a difficult task.
I heard Floyd’s voice asking for calm but I ignored it, too busy grunting and wrestling with the bad guy.
“Jesus, girl, what the fuck’s the matter with you?” he asked, on the defense, wrestling back and also grunting.
For some reason, I shouted, “You’re wearing a jacket!”
“So?” he shouted back.
“Jackets… are… not… allowed!” I yelled right before an arm sliced around my waist and lifted me clean off him.
I struggled, twisting around to see Vance had hold of me. He set me on my feet in front of his body but he kept me close with the arm around my waist.
Since he was a member of the Hot Bunch, I quit struggling, pointed at the guy still on the floor and shouted, “Get him!”
Vance’s eyebrows went up and he asked, “Get who?”
“The guy with the jacket,” I yelled.
Vance’s gaze shifted to the guy on the floor and mine went with it. I saw Luke was now there, hand extended to the guy, he pulled him to his feet.
“You okay, Ray?” Luke asked and my body froze.
“She’s fuckin’ loco,” “Ray” answered, brushing off his jeans and straightening his jacket, his eyes on me.
I stared, noting distractedly the Rock Chicks had arrived and with them a goodly number of the crowd all were pressing in and watching.
“You know him?” I asked Luke.
“He’s my Dad,” Jet answered.
Oh dear.
“Oh,” I mumbled, feeling stupid.
“You okay, Dad?” Jet asked, moving toward him.
“Yeah, but it’s a miracle,” he replied to Jet and then glared at me. “What’s the matter with you? You jumped on me! From the stage!”
I felt the need to defend myself. “You’re wearing a jacket!”
“What’s the fuckin’ deal with the jacket?” Ray snapped at Luke who had his eyes on Vance behind me and his mouth cocked in a sexy half-grin.
Then Luke’s eyes dropped to mine. “Since Ray’s not likely to murder his own daughter, or any of her friends, we figured it was okay to let him in with his jacket.”
“Oh,” I repeated and looked at Ray. “Um, sorry about that,” I muttered.
“You’re loco,” Ray told me, I bit my lip and sliced an apologetic look to Jet who, thankfully, appeared to be fighting a grin.
“Can’t be too safe,” Vance said from behind me but I could swear he sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
I twisted in his arm and watched his mouth twitch.
Shitsofuckit!
My eyes caught on Shirleen and Daisy, who were sandwiching Dixon Jones, all of them on the edge of the crowd, all of them looking at me. Shirleen and Daisy were smiling. Dixon Jones again looked confused.
My effing stupid shitty luck!
“I’m not usually like this,” I told Dixon.
Dixon’s body lurched like he was in a trance and my words snapped him out of it.
I noticed the band pushing in close, Vance’s arm dropped from around my waist and I took a step away.
“Holy shit, Stella Bella. We’re calling you Ramba from now on! You the wo-man!” Pong yelled.
“Guess we don’t need Mace as muscle anymore,” Leo noted. “We got Stella.”
“Next time, pick a girl to jump on,” Hugo advised.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.
“One thing you can say, Stella Gunn,” Dixon remarked, now his mouth was twitching. “You’re pure, fuckin’ rock ‘n’ roll.”
I didn’t know if that was good, or bad.
Since pure rock ‘n’ roll, to me, was a positive thing, I decided to take that as good.
I tossed my hair and smiled at him.
His eyes shifted to my hair and watched it move then they came back to mine and he lost the fight with his smile and it went wide.
“Show’s over,” Mace, all of a sudden there, announced.
“Fuckin’ A but what a show!” Tex boomed, also all of a sudden there. He got close to me and dropped a huge hand to top of my head. “Girl, you are the shit! You can burn through Molly Hatchett and take care of business. Fuckin’ A!” he repeated, taking his hand from my head then, not done, boomed, “God damn!” Then, obviously in the throes of a Rock Moment, he turned to the crowd and shouted, “Do we love The Gypsies?”
The crowd, mostly watching in bewilderment (I’d never done a stage dive to end a show so they were uncertain at the state of affairs), gave a feeble cheer.
“Fuck that!” Tex roared, throwing his arm up to punch the air. “Do we love The Gypsies?”
Catching on, the crowd cheered back, stronger now. There was some scattered applause that started to grow then grow some more, a few shouted “Yippee kay yay” and then the chants of “Gypsies” began.
Oh dear.
“Awesome,” Pong breathed from beside me, his eyes moving over the chanting crowd.
Mace’s hand tagged mine. I looked up at him and knew in an instant he was done.
“We’re outta here,” he declared, proving me right and started shoving his way through the crowd, pulling me along with him.
As we went, people pressed in. Wound up by the show, its bizarre ending and Tex, they were in a tizzy. So much so, I felt hands on me. People were grabbing at my t-shirt, trying to tag my belt loops, I felt fingers slide through my hair and I watched the same thing happening to Mace.
They were closing in, caught in the moment, making it hard for even Mace to shove his way through.
I felt fear begin to seize me, scared silly at a new threat. My fans, rocked by the show, rea
ding the papers, knowing the danger, wound up by Tex, all of that pushing them to the brink. I feared they’d tear us to shreds.
Mace stopped, turned, bent, put his shoulder in my belly and then I was going up. I ended bent double over his shoulder, his arm wrapped around the backs of my thighs. Using his other arm and shoulder to push his way through the crowd, people went flying as I saw the flash of cameras coming one right after the other.
Beautiful.
I wondered if those pictures would make front page too.
Luke, Lee, Vance, Hector, Eddie and Duke all moved in to flank us and Mace didn’t stop until we hit the backstage door. With my head lifted, I watched the Hot Bunch close ranks behind us, stopping the crowd, right before the door closed behind Mace and me.
That was how we made our dramatic exit.
Mace put me down in front of the backdoor to the club and shoved it open. Darius materialized from the shadows, did a chin lift, a scan of the area and vaporized into the shadows again.
Mace pushed me in the passenger seat of one of the four black Explorers parked in the alley. He got in the driver’s side and we took off.
I held myself stiff, wondering at his mood which, figuring this was Mace, was probably not happy.
I glanced to the side and saw he was smiling full on, white teeth and all.
“Why are you smiling?” I asked.
He looked at me then back at the road, his smile not wavering.
Then he answered, “I’ve decided I like your set list, Kitten.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” he said then expanded on his answer. “Not one fuckin’ song you played tonight had anything to do with the word ‘black’.”
Shitsofuckit!
I totally forgot!
Chapter Thirteen
You Want In Here?
Stella
The minute we got back to my place, Mace took Juno out for a bathroom break.
I took the fastest shower in history.
I did not need to be naked with Mace in the house.
Further, Mace and I needed to talk.
It was time. No more effing around.
It was three o’clock in the morning and I was exhausted, coasting on fumes from the high of the gig not to mention my ridiculous, gig-ending stage dive, a memory which I knew would be cringe-worthy for the rest of my effing life.
Rock Chick Reckoning Page 21