Tulsa

by S. L. Scott

  “The Resistance has hired a studio player to hit the stage with us. Jagger will be traveling back and forth to LA until he’s done with an album he’s working for a big singer.”

  “Dave joined us after the album but before the tour. We’ve had time to work with him, so he knows the songs like they’re his own. And he’s a damn good guitarist anyway.”

  He downs some of his beer and sets it down. “This guy is cool. I heard he’s done this before.”

  Two drinks become three.

  “Those guys were wild as fuck when they started out,” Tommy says, referring to the guys in The Resistance.

  I ask, “What changed?”

  “They did,” he says, chuckling.

  Rivers tips the waitress for the drinks and takes a gulp before asking, “Why did they change?”

  Tommy leans back in his chair after accepting another beer that’s just been delivered. “Women. They have a way of changing us before we realize it’s even happened.”

  Scrolling through an app on my phone, I mutter, “Not me.” I don’t realize they heard me until the silence draws my attention. “What?”

  Jet laughs. “Tulsa still thinks he’s invincible to commitment and responsibility.”

  Tommy taps his glass against mine. “Good luck with that. Like women, age has a way of changing us.”

  Resting his elbows on the table, Shane leans forward. “If you could give one word of advice before we kick off this tour, what would it be?”

  “Thinking back, I’d advise you to be careful who you allow into your life on the road. Groupies can be fun, but there are some crazy people out there. I’m not saying you have to be a saint, because where’s the fun in that? But if you do find yourself in a mess, it becomes a mess for all of us. No one is untouchable, and everyone is replaceable. I don’t give a shit if you wrote the fucking songs. Put this tour at risk and you’re gone.”

  Scrubbing his hands over his face, Rivers says, “I’m ready to go. Anyone else want to catch a cab back?”

  Tommy nods. “I will. Drinks are on me. You guys are lightweights.”

  When he leaves to close the tab, Jet hits my chest. “I’m leaving. Are you staying?”

  “Yeah. Laird? Shane? You stayin’?”

  “I’m staying,” Laird replies, tipping his glass back and finishing another beer.

  Jet adds, “Wear a condom.”

  “I always do.”

  Three drinks become four.

  Fuck. I dip my head down. “I’m fucking drunk.”

  Laird knocks into me. “How drunk? There are two chicks I’m thinking might want more of our time.”

  “How hot are they?”

  “I’ve had four beers and fszoy shots,” he slurs. I don’t even know what he said, but he adds, “Does it matter anymore?”

  His logic is as drunk as he is. I look up and lock eyes on two hot-as-a-summer-night women who are not shy about where their eyes linger. “Shane?”

  “What?”

  Closing one eye, I attempt to narrow my eyes to see more clearly through my liquor goggles. “Two o’clock. Hot or not?”

  “Damn hot.”

  Laird says, “Come on before they find some other fuckers to fuck around with.”

  Sauntering over to them with Laird on my tail, I give them my best. “Sorry to bother your ladies’ night, but I was wondering if you could settle a bet for us?”

  By all appearances, this chick’s not low maintenance. Long, black hair and cat eyes with heavy makeup. Tight jeans. High heels. Fake tits huddle under a tight knit leopard print top.

  She’s not like the girls back home in Austin who have an innocence about them. She’s no saint. She might just eat me alive, but it’s just one night, not marriage. When she asks what the bet is, she giggles and taps her friend’s knee. Laird swoops in on the lie and replies, “Do you think it’s better to go home with a guitarist or a drummer?”

  Her friend says, “Give us one of each.”

  Laird says, “Guitarists do it faster with their fingers.”

  “Drummers do it with rhythm,” I add, resting my hand on the bar behind her. “What do you like—faster or—”

  “Are you a drummer?”

  “I sure am, sweetheart.”

  “Drummer.” She runs her fingers down my neck and pops the collar of my shirt. “Definitely, drummer.”

  Her friend says, “Good thing I have a weakness for guitarists.”

  “I think I win,” Laird says and then kisses her. “Wanna get out of here?”

  She hops off her barstool. “Absolutely.”

  I look her friend up and down before licking my lips. “Tulsa Crow. What’s your name?” I ask. I may sleep with a lot of women, but I always get their name first.

  “Miracle.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miracle. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I think we can skip the niceties and get down to business. That’s my roommate. We’ll ride with her.”

  The next morning, I step off the elevator onto the floor of my hotel room but hold the door open. Laird holds his fist out, and I bump it. “See you at the arena.”

  “No doubt,” he says. “I need some sleep after that night.”

  “You’re telling me. Your girl screamed a lot.”

  “Only when she was coming.”

  I laugh. “Fair deuce.” Stepping back, I say, “You’re going to be trouble for me if you like to party that hard.”

  “Nah. It was just a good way to kick off the tour.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Fuck, who am I kidding?” He jabs the button to his floor again. “Maybe again tonight. You in?”

  “Fuck yeah, I’m in.”

  We’re led to the stage five minutes before taking it. When we found out Laird and Shane’s band had been added to the tour as an opener for us, we flipped out. I mean, we were already lucky enough to be opening for The Resistance, but then to be bumped to a better lineup position was insanity.

  The guys in Faris Wheel are cool, and it was good to party with them last night. As an indie band like us, we get to go through this experience together. We’re just one step ahead since we’ve just released our record. They still landed the tour, though.

  Their band frequents the music festival scene, which is different than our journey. But they have built a solid fan base. With their different sound, I’m told they bring a new element to the tour. I look forward to hearing them play.

  Johnny, Dex, Derrick, Kaz, and Tommy—the whole Resistance gang—will watch us perform tonight. Our band has never played in front of an audience of this magnitude, but I know we’ll kill it.

  With a hot album still on the charts, this tour will be much bigger. Well, technically, it’s The Resistance’s tour, but we’re billed with them.

  Holding my sticks, I stretch my arms down, and then twist my torso around. I need to be loose. Drums are becoming second nature over the guitar these days, but I’m still working through it.

  Dex bumps into me. When I look back, he nods to the side. I follow him, away from the others. “You’ve got this, Tulsa. This is the reward, the fun part. You’ve worked hard. Go out there and play harder.”

  “I got this. I’m ready.” I have no idea if I’m ready or not, but it’s happening, so no use worrying about it. Out of need, I moved from guitar to drums last year. I’d drummed for years just for fun as a distraction once my mom died. I needed the escape. Loud. Aggressive. Freeing. I could wipe my mind of the anger I felt, the grief that burrowed into my heart, and just play. My body knew the rhythm. I hit the kit with pure adrenaline and anger, which was something I couldn’t do on the guitar.

  A guitar is a whole helluva lot easier to carry around and pack up, though. Here I am, after months of working paradiddles, pumping weights, running for endurance, and hitting the drums any chance I had. I’m ready for this. Dex worked with me, showed me how to perform behind the drum kit, how to keep my emotions intact so I could feel the beat, taking blow by blow
, and make magic.

  This isn’t about losing myself in something to forget the pain. This is about losing myself in something to celebrate. It’s about finding myself in the music.

  I’m ready.

  I tap the sticks against my leg while listening to Faris Wheel on stage. “That’s a girl singing.” Not a question, though I look at Rivers for an answer.

  He nods. “She sounds good and plays guitar.”

  Kaz says, “The band’s incredible. From SoCal. Built-in audience, diehard fans. They started out playing Ska and then morphed into a more indie rock sound. When Johnny heard them, he had to sign them.”

  We’ve played and toured with a lot of bands over the years. Even though I hadn’t bothered to listen to the Faris Wheel songs Tommy sent us, they sound badass live.

  Johnny is standing on the steps that lead to the stage with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s an intense guy. Music isn’t just business to him. It’s art. He stuck his neck out to sign us and to help us succeed. Seeing him up there supporting the other band, I realize this is who he is. This is important to him. We’re important to him. He’s all about the music, the performance, and the entertainment. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t even be here until it was time for his band to go on. We scored more than a record deal when we signed with him.

  Tommy squeezes my shoulder. “The stage change will only take ten, fifteen minutes tops. We used the same setup as your album’s tour. This time, the lights will stay down until your first strike. Get out there and make sure it’s set up the way you want. Our roadies are the best, but they’re still learning what you need. We can make any changes you need.”

  Jet says, “We’re ready. We’ve done a million shows.” Glancing at me and then at Rivers, he smiles. “It’s nice not to do the grunt work, huh?”

  With his strap wrapped around his torso and the bass guitar hanging from his back, Rivers holds his hand out to Jet. We’ve done the same handshake since I was four. “Very nice.”

  When Rivers turns to me, we do two slow slides, three fist bumps, and a quick chest hit before I repeat it with Jet. From my shoulder, Jet says, “Just another night on Sixth Street in Austin.”

  “Just another night,” I repeat. It’s easier to think it’s a crowd of five hundred, more or less, than to think about twenty K.

  Tommy asks, “You guys ready?”

  This is it.

  Johnny comes down the stage steps and says, “Give ’em hell, guys.”

  Dex adds, “Just play your music. That’s all you’ve got to do.”

  He makes it sound so easy. Don’t overthink this. Just another night in Austin.

  We watch as the other band comes off the stage, following in Johnny’s steps. They’re not our competition. They’re allies in this surreal moment in time. We’re on this tour together. Jet asks, “How is it out there?”

  Shane has a mop of crazy brown hair and drumsticks in his hands. “I think I need a cigarette after that.”

  Laughing, Rivers asks, “That good?”

  Laird says, “Better. The best high of my life.”

  Silence falls as from the darkened stage comes an angel in a white dress that hits midthigh on tan legs, feet sporting scuffed, red Converse sneakers. A light from backstage highlights her long, golden hair that hangs over her shoulder. I’ve tugged a few braids in my day in sexual situations. Chicks love it.

  Dark lashes almost touch her sweet pink cheeks as she walks down from the stage, stumbling but catching herself before she falls. When she looks up, big blue eyes find me in the shadows of my brothers as the smell of something fruity fills the air.

  Cherry. Holy fuck. That’s their lead singer?

  She passes me, and says, “Break a leg.”

  I’d break two for her. “Shit. I think I’m in lust.”

  First, my chest is whacked by Jet, and then Rivers smacks the back of my head and says, “Don’t even think about it.”

  “How can I not? Did you see her?”

  Dex is shaking his head, and Tommy is laughing. Kaz left with Johnny to join Faris Wheel, but Derrick says, “It’s not a good idea. The drummer is her cousin, and the guitarist is her brother. Words of wisdom: Don’t fuck up the tour, or you’ll be miserable for the next two months.”

  Tommy hits my chest when he walks by. “Remember what I told you last night. Don’t risk the tour.”

  It’s good advice, but when I look over my shoulder and catch her looking back at me, I know there’s no way in hell I’m not fucking this up.

  2

  Tulsa

  Roadies scramble around the dark stage, breaking down the last band’s drum kit and swapping out everything from microphones to racks of guitars, which are rolled out from dark corners. A large screen descends at the back of the stage, and I spin my sticks nervously between my fingers.

  Everything we’ve ever wanted is within our grasp. Every dream we’ve ever had is about to come true.

  Don’t fuck this up.

  “You won’t,” Jet says, sensing my anxiety. I look beside me. Jet is to my left, and Rivers is on my right; the three of us strong together; my brothers, my best friends, my biggest supporters. “This is nothing but a good time.”

  Rivers says, “Nothing but a good time.”

  I repeat, “Nothing but a good time.”

  We separate, each of us going to our place on the stage. The roadie testing my kit stands. “Sounds good, but try it yourself.”

  He did an awesome job during sound check, but I sit on the stool and have a go anyway, mainly so I can get comfortable. I have a feeling that’s not going to happen until we’re leaving the stage. I can hear the audience, though I can’t see them. I kick in the bass and do a quick testing beat that has me hitting everything from my snare drum to my cymbals.

  Resting my sticks across the tops of my legs, my eyes adjust to the shadows. Rivers bends toward the amp, strumming a few chords on the bass guitar while Jet taps his pedal, runs his fingers along the fretboard, and leans toward the microphone. Dave hangs back with his hands in place, ready to rock his guitar.

  “Standby,” a roadie shouts from somewhere off to the side. “Lights in one.”

  Jet turns around. “We’ve got this, guys.”

  “Just doin’ what we love,” Rivers adds.

  Jet takes a few steps closer and says, “Count us in. The lights come on when you hit one.”

  “Got it.”

  The countdown begins off to my left side. I pick up my sticks and take a deep breath. Lowering my hands, I do a low drumroll on the cymbal. The stadium goes quiet, and I snap my arms up and hit my sticks above my head. “Four. Three. Two. One.”

  The spotlight hits me, but I block it out, letting the music take over. Ten seconds in and my bandmates are at the forefront, showcasing their talent as they start to play.

  And then the lights drift over the audience, the beams flashing, synced to our song. Holy fuck!

  I never miss a beat. Never miss a cue. I don’t miss a second of what this is—the best fucking moment of my life.

  This beats the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had.

  This is church, the audience our disciples. As we preach, they pray.

  I hit with power; the sounds swimming in my head as if they’re a part of me.

  Time flies too quickly. The set is almost over, and I try to absorb this feeling, this high I’m riding, to keep me satisfied until next time.

  My brothers stepped back to connect with me at different points during the show, and now, Jet rips the riffs on his black guitar with perfection. Rivers tears up the bass. We’ve never sounded better.

  Slamming the last beats of the final song, I stand to make a show of it. Jet, Dave, and Rivers unplug and head for the steps. I run toward the audience and throw my sticks as far as I can before passing the guys and heading offstage.

  Johnny, Tommy, and Dex are there waiting. Johnny says, “Great fucking show.” He shakes our hands and then walks away.

  Tommy says, �
�Welcome to the big time.”

  Dex is smiling like his cub has made him proud. He has a big fucking ego. I like him. He says, “I knew you could do it. Next time, don’t throw your sticks. The lawsuits aren’t worth the gimmick.”

  I laugh. “Advice taken.” When they walk off, I turn to my bandmates, who are huddled together. “What a fucking high.”

  Jet adds, “We did it. We’ve made it.”

  “I can’t believe I just played in front that audience,” Dave says.

  Rivers chuckles and tightens his arms around us. “They knew the songs. They fucking knew our songs.”

  We don’t need words. What we experienced out there was surreal. I don’t think I’ll ever forget this night. Fucking amazing.

  Jet pops me in the arm. “You rocked that kit, man.”

  “Thanks.” We need to move out of the way of the roadies, so I step to the side, needing a minute more to soak in this moment before it’s gone. My gaze wanders in the direction of The Resistance’s dressing rooms. Bodyguards surround the guys as they head that way, exposing some of the illusion of what fame means. Those guys can’t go anywhere, not even backstage, without the possibility of a threat being present.

  But I’m distracted by blue eyes, a short skirt, great tits, long, blond hair, and a kickass singing voice—the perfect woman.

  When she catches me ogling her, I don’t look away. That’s not my style. I own everything about the interaction, wanting her to know exactly what I think about her.

  The impact comes from out of nowhere, sending me stumbling to the right. Rivers is laughing, but not as hard as Jet. “Fuck you, Jet.” Him bumping into me didn’t hurt, but I still rub my arm for dramatics.

  “Don’t let your dick fuck up this opportunity. We get one shot at this. If we fail, we’re stuck fighting our way back to the top, and I really like where we are.”

  “What if I’m in love?”

  “It’s called lust,” Rivers says. “She’s hot, but listen to your brothers.”

  Waving a hand in front of my face, Jet says, “It’s like he doesn’t even hear us.”