by B. B. Miller
“Service. Entrance.”
With the rest of my band already safely inside the radio station, Tucker weaved me through the throngs of fans, held back by a metal barrier after we dropped Adam and Sara off at their sprawling home. The fans were satisfied with a passing glimpse and a few waves as I ducked through the back door. My hearing, which has taken a beating from years of touring, however may not survive. Their high-pitched screams are ear shattering, and after almost fifteen years of doing this, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the reaction.
On impulse, I snapped a picture of the frenzied crowd, sending it to Abby, with a message: Were you thinking something like this for Parker? Maybe it will make her think twice about brushing me off.
Tucker tosses me a skeptical look while I blow across the top of the Styrofoam cup of cheap coffee. “I’ve got this. You know we always give good interviews. Stop worrying.”
“I know. It’s just you were pretty fucked up last night, man. I don’t know how any of you are upright.” His scowl is firmly in place as he takes in the rest of the band. Despite our collective haggard appearance this morning, I’m very lucky to have this talented, if not a little fucked-up group behind me. They’re loyal, something that is a rarity in this industry, and they’re the best in the business.
We’re not without our fair share of in-fighting, but that’s to be expected when you’ve logged a lifetime of hours together stuck on tour buses. There’s now a balance between us all, a camaraderie that only comes from touring.
As Tucker debates our ability to function, I take a much-needed sip of coffee, the caffeine slowly working its way into my system. Fuck that tastes awful. Awful, but necessary.
A cute, young woman peeks her head into the room, motioning for us to join her. She’s all flustered and wide-eyed, her gaze darting between each of us until she hones in on me and lowers the clipboard she clutches to her chest. She must be an intern. “We’re ready for you.” Her voice is timid and awestruck as she twirls a lock of her long dyed crimson hair, motioning for us to follow her.
I keep my eyes on the hot piece of ass sashaying in front of me as she leads us all down the hall to the broadcast booth. She’s wearing the typical short miniskirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, a tight shirt revealing just about everything she owns, and blood-red high heels attached to her wobbly, long legs. It looks like a newborn foal trying to walk for the first time. It’s amusing if nothing else.
Thoughts of Abby and her righteous indignation hit me hard. She’s in stark contrast to this intern . . . to most of the women who linger around the fringes of a rock-and-roll band. Maybe that’s why I can’t get her out of my head. She’s been there, haunting me, judging me, tempting me since we met at the Fairmont.
We wait in the hallway, and I try to focus on the interview. What I said to Tucker is true. I do eventually bounce back from a night of debauchery. It’s always been that way for me since I started drinking in high school, and it’s stuck with me.
Of course back then it was tame—a few shots of gin or rum stolen from my parents’ liquor cabinet. If we were really feeling defiant, a shared bottle of vodka before a school dance. Real rebels.
The door to the studio opens, and my gaze falls to the beautiful creature that is Honey Hill. Of course, that’s not her real name, but here at KICK-FM, one of the country’s most influential rock stations, she becomes someone else for a while.
Her eyes widen as she leans out the door. She’s gone casual today, her endlessly long legs encased in tight, dark-wash jeans a white blouse with the buttons open to her ample cleavage, her tousled highlighted hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She looks good enough to eat.
“Kennedy, you look . . .” She seems at a loss for words.
“Tired?” I help her out and grin as she opens the door to the studio wider, motioning for us to step through.
“Like shit,” she clarifies without missing a beat, causing me to pause in front of her.
“It was a late night.” The rest of the band mutters in agreement.
“Looks like you’ve had a few of those.” Her assessment hits me harder than it should. I try to push away the nagging criticism as we cram into the studio.
“Have a seat.” Turning to the sound of Honey’s voice, she motions to the chairs situated around the announcer’s table. “Are you guys okay to do this?”
“Of course we are. I may need more of this disgusting coffee, though,” Cameron Chapman, our rhythm guitarist says.
Cam and I have been playing together the longest. I moved to LA when I was twenty, and Cam found me, playing one night at a bar just off Sunset.
He’s probably the only person in the world who would’ve had the balls to join me on stage, unannounced and unrehearsed, but when he did, I knew I found my other musical half. Sometimes you get lucky in life; other times, fate has different plans.
Cameron comes from old Boston money. I’m talking private jets and a privileged upbringing. But, as soon as he picked up a guitar in music class and found his soul, that all took a backseat. Much to Mommy and Daddy’s shock, he rebelled like a lot of rich kids often do, and he sought out anything that would distance him from the upper class monotony he had grown up with.
Honey watches him settle in as she places her headphones on. “The coffee is pretty terrible.” She drops into her chair, rolling it to the desk that sits between us.
“So, you know the drill. We’re live with about a ten-second delay, so try to keep the profanities to a minimum.” Matt Logan, our bassist, can’t hold back his laugh.
Matt answered an ad Cam and I had put out after we decided to try to make a go of it. It only took one song to hear his powerful, metal influenced, uniquely melodic sound to know he was our man.
Matt doesn’t like to talk a lot about his past. But, on the bus during an overnight to some hick town in the middle of fucking nowhere Indiana, he came out with a bomb.
We knew he was adopted, but he said he didn’t know his biological father—had never met him, and that his mother had killed herself when he was twelve. “It’s an insult to the word ‘mother’ to use it for her.” That’s all we got, and we didn’t push him for more. I know all about not wanting to talk about nightmares from the past.
“Honey . . .” The disembodied voice from the production room floats through my headphones. “We’re back in twenty.”
“You’ve seen some of the questions we’ve received over the past couple of days, so I’ll ask you a few of those. By the way, the announcement you guys were coming here almost broke Twitter.”
Sean Murphy, our drummer, barks out a loud laugh. “Did it?”
Sean was last to join us. An import from England, he’s probably the most erratic of the bunch. He’s a whirlwind of energy and essential to us as a band, as gifted drummers are. He’s always playing around the edges of recklessness, but at the core, he’s smart and soulful.
Sean and his twin sister, Sydney, have one of those unique relationships you often hear about with twins—connected even when thousands of miles apart. He’s protective of her to a fault, and I know all about that feeling. Sean however, would never drive his sister away like I did.
Sean’s had a few rough rounds with coke that have sent him to rehab in the past. He learned early on you can stay up and party longer if a bit of cocaine is involved. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop at a bit.
My thoughts drift again to Abby. She’d have a field day with this bunch.
“So, we’ll talk about the album, I’ll do the true-false quiz, and if you’re okay with it, take a few calls.” The producer cues Honey and she adjusts the microphone.
“That was Guns N’ Roses with “Paradise City,” and you’re listing to Honey in the Hot Tub on 107.5 KICK-FM. And now, I know you’ve all been waiting for this. Over fifty million albums sold, seven Grammy awards, sold out concerts around the world, and finally back, after a two-year hiatus we’ve got Redfall up close and personal. Welcome to the studio, it’
s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to be seen. How’s the hot tub been treating you?” Cameron asks.
“I think it just got a little hotter.” We all laugh at her answer. “So, here we are on the eve of the release of your seventh studio album, Crash. I had a listen to it last night, and it’s, well . . . the best work you’ve done to date in my opinion, but much darker than your previous albums.”
I’m impressed by her assessment. Honey knows her music. It’s one of the reasons she has the number-one rated show in the country. “That’s a good way to look at it. Darker,” Matt agrees.
“You collaborated with quite a few legends in the business on Crash. Tell us about that.”
“It was an amazing experience, and we pushed the boundaries on this album. It brought a whole new flavor to our sound,” I answer.
“Did that change the way you approached recording?” Honey asks, turning to Matt.
“It took us to places we hadn’t really thought about. It’s challenging, but we had a lot of fun, too,” Matt replies, casting me a knowing glance. Some of our recording sessions this time around blew my mind. I think we all were a little star-struck at some point during the process.
“And we’re lucky that Lane has his own recording studio at his house,” Sean chimes in.
That studio cost me a small fortune, but I’ll never regret putting it in. “It’s pretty convenient,” I admit. “I can just roll out of bed and go down there. I did a lot of that with this album. I’d just go into the studio and stay there for hours. Got lost in the process. It’s what I needed to do.”
“Let’s talk about that a bit. Tell us about some of your early influences.”
“I grew up around music,” I start. “There was always a record player going in our house. My mom was a product of the sixties, you know? Hendrix, Joplin, The Who . . . Her and Dad would fight about it all the time. His taste is more along the lines of Chuck Berry and The Four Tops. I was lucky to have an eclectic mix of influences.”
“Kennedy, you’ve been hiding away on us save for the odd picture of you looking like you’re having . . . Well, let’s just say a really good time.”
“All work and no play . . . You know what they say? I do tend to keep to myself for the most part during recording.”
“I’ve got a copy of Star Life here.” Honey turns the gossip magazine around, pushing it in front of me. “This doesn’t look like you’re keeping to yourself. For our faithful listeners out there, I’m talking about a few pictures you might have seen. The members of Redfall living it up at the Pump House Bar a few weeks ago.”
I scan the photos. I look trashed, my clothes are disheveled, and I have a glass of whiskey in my hand. There’s an obligatory pair of groupies hanging off me in some dimly lit booth. It doesn’t paint a good picture. I can see why Abby was worried about bringing a sick kid around me. An unexpected pang of guilt fires through me, and I push the cheap magazine back to Honey.
“Don’t believe everything you see or read.”
“Would you say it’s getting harder to live in the limelight?” Honey settles her hand on the back of the mic.
“Lane has it worse than we do,” Sean replies. “Pretty boy that he is. But if there’s a negative about being successful, that’s it. You lose a bit of yourself.”
“Well, we have some questions that fans have been flooding us with.” Honey searches the computer screen in front of her before continuing. “Here’s one from Faller4Life on Twitter. Do you ever get nervous, and what’s your advice for people who are shy about performing?”
“Every time,” I answer. “But it’s a good kind of nerves—more excitement, adrenaline, wanting to put on the best show you possibly can. And advice? The thing is, you have to just get out there and do it, or you’ll never know. You don’t want to live with ‘what if.’ What if I had just taken that chance?”
“And being scared isn’t a bad thing,” Cam adds. “It’s good to scare yourself, push yourself out of your comfort zone. And you have to remember that in this industry, nothing comes easily. If it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”
“You’ve all been pretty outspoken in the past about streaming music. You always release vinyl versions of your albums a few weeks before they are available for streaming. Has that changed with this album? Will we ever see Redfall available online before you release on vinyl?”
Matt laughs at Honey’s question. “Listen, we never said we’re against streaming music. But the Internet is something that is both freeing and extremely dangerous. A blessing and a curse,” he replies.
“And by that you mean?”
“It gives people access to music that they may have never thought about listening to,” Matt continues. “But at the same time with piracy running rampant, you can get music for free. You tend not to value things you can get for free.”
“Okay, it’s time for the true or false questions.” She rubs her hands together, beyond excited.
Sean taps out a relentless beat against the table. “Hit me!”
“Sean, you once put Cameron’s head through a thirty-inch screen TV in a hotel room.”
Cam snorts. “False. I think it was like fifty or sixty inches.”
“Matt, you’re a loner.”
“False.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “You’re hardly ever seen with anyone outside of the band. You don’t seem to socialize much.”
Matt levels her with a dark look. “Not that you see. Not everything is for public consumption.”
Her smile falters as she reads the laptop screen, and she pauses before continuing. “Kennedy, we’re coming up to the two-year anniversary of the tragic accident that killed your sister, Robin. What kind of influence did that have on this album?”
Silence fills the airwaves as what’s left of my heart constricts and cracks. No radio station ever wants dead air, but she deserves it for asking me about something I have consistently said is off limits. “No comment.”
She turns from the laptop, glancing at the producer’s room. “Well, the phone lines have been lighting up all morning, so let’s take some calls.” She waits for the first call to click through to her. “You’re live on KICK-FM with Redfall.”
“Oh my God!” A shrill squeal pierces my ears, and I chuckle against the microphone as the caller practically hyperventilates. I may be pissed at Honey, but I won’t let that ruin the experience of interacting with a fan.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Sean asks.
“Tiffany! It’s Tiffany! Oh my God! He just asked my name,” she pants in a breathy voice to someone in the background who screams at the top of her lungs.
“Did you have a question, or did you just want to breathe heavily over the air?” Honey asks.
“Yes! Yes! I have a question. Kennedy, when did you get your first guitar? Like, how old were you?” Tiffany asks in a rush.
“Well, Tiffany, I was twelve, and it actually wasn’t my guitar. My parents gave it to my brother for his birthday in hopes it would channel some of his hyperactivity. But Adam didn’t give a sh . . .” I correct myself before I swear over the airwaves. “He didn’t care about it. He was always focused on cars.” I chuckle to myself. “So, he stuffed the guitar in his closet and never played it. Like any good younger brother would do, one day, I snuck into his room and stole it. It had an instruction tape and a book with it, so I took his ghetto blaster and went to the garage.”
“You have to remember, it was winter in Minnesota, and it was cold as witch’s t . . . Ah, it was feeling it all the way to your bones cold.” I close my eyes, letting the memory flash back to me. “I had no idea what I was doing at first. I froze my ass off for hours. My fingers were bleeding by the time I stopped. I played until I had gone through the book so many times I had it memorized. That’s where it started.” My voice trails and I twist in the chair, needing to fuel the energy that’s threatening to explode.
“That was a great question, Tiffany,” Honey says.
“We’re going to take a short break, but when we come back, we’ll all get to hear Redfall, live in the studio.”
Abigail
“Well, it’s about time you emerged from that office. I was about to send out the Marines.”
I turn to see my best friend standing at the end of the hallway. Our apartments are at the opposite ends of the same floor; mine looks out over Lafayette Park, while hers has a view of the Peace Pagoda. Frankly, I think I have the better view, but Maddie claims she can’t think of a more inspiring sight to see from her bedroom window than a giant phallic symbol. Based on the amount of action her bedroom sees compared to mine, she may be right.
“If they were cute Marines, I might let you,” I counter, a wry smirk on my face. She laughs, walking toward me.
“Are there any other kind?”
It’s my turn to laugh as I fumble with my keys in the lock. “Marines aren’t really my speed. Now, firemen on the other hand . . .”
“Ooh, I have just the guy!” she squeals as I finally get my door open. She trails behind me, babbling at full throttle. “His name is Wyatt, and he comes a couple of times a week, and orders a half-dozen tall Americanos for his shift. He’s stationed at the firehouse a block down on California, and he has abs you could scrub clothes on.”
I look at her sharply as I toss my bag and keys onto my small kitchen table. “When did you have the opportunity to see his abs?”
“He also happens to be Mr. July,” she says with a huge grin, and I hum appreciatively. She’d purchased both of us copies of this year’s San Francisco Firefighter Charity calendar, and we take turns salivating over the men-of-the-month. I don’t know how they select the models, but they had done a stellar job choosing this year’s crop.
“Well, if he looks as good in real life, I might consider it.” I kick off my heels.
She wanders into my kitchen and roots around in my cupboard for a couple of wine glasses. “I’ll get us set up while you change. Can’t relax while you’re looking like Corporate America.”