Victory RUN 1

by Devon Hartford

  I shudder as I stare at Suit Guy.

  I don’t want to think about it.

  I make my way back to my side of the stage.

  During the next song, I notice Brown Eyes resting his muscled arms on my monitor, bobbing his head with the music. I find myself suddenly mesmerized by the sight of his arms. They’re like body builder arms and covered in tattoos. I’m suddenly aware of the fact that Scott’s arms are toothpicks by comparison. What would it be like to have Brown Eyes powerful arms wrapped around me?

  What the hell am I thinking?

  I shake myself out of my onstage daydream. How long was I staring at those ink covered arms? I have no idea, but I’m punched with sudden dread when I see Scott strut up to the monitor Brown Eyes leans against.

  Scott stomps his boot down hard, aiming for Brown Eyes’ hands.

  I gasp but Brown Eyes is quick to react, and all Scott stomps is the edge of the monitor.

  A second later I’m at Scott’s side and I growl into his ear, “What are you doing? Those are our fans!”

  This is all my fault.

  Scott glares at me while I continue to play guitar, “What are you doing, Vic?”

  Before I can respond, he’s back at the front of the stage, ignoring me. I really wish he’d stop calling me Vic. It drives me nuts. He usually only does it when something is wrong. But he’s been calling me Vic since before I saw Brown Eyes.

  Am I missing something?

  I shake my head. I can’t worry about it now. I’m on stage. I should be concentrating on the show, not Scott’s issues.

  And not Brown Eyes.

  For the next three songs, I pretend Brown Eyes doesn’t exist. It’s a good thing, because on our last two songs, Scott repeats the choruses over my guitar solo once again. Rex and Bobby play along like we always do it this way, but we don’t.

  Rather than look stupid, I skip my solo and play the chorus riffs. We need to present a united front to our audience, so I suck it up. Rex and Bobby seem not to notice when I shoot them questioning looks.

  Are they ignoring me? This is really strange behavior for them. Scott, not so much. But Rex and Bobby? We never fall out of sync. What the hell is going on? The band really should’ve said something to me about changing things up so much before the show.

  I’m suddenly nervous but don’t know why.

  A few minutes later, we’re wrapping up our final song.

  Bobby hammers every single drum and cymbal in his kit, all four limbs flailing to make maximum noise.

  Rex is at the front of the stage, strumming his bass above a group of girls reaching for his legs.

  Scott is balancing on the front monitors above the reaching hands, wailing into his mic with a long drawn out gravelly scream:

  “Yeeeeaaaaahhhhhh!!!”

  I stand at the front of stage right and Brown Eyes is back, smiling up at me. He’s clapping his hands over his head. Then he sticks his thumb and index finger in his mouth and blows a shrill whistle.

  “We’re Skin Trade!” Scott shouts into the mic. “See you next time!”

  The band makes noise for another ten seconds. Then we all watch Scott jump back off the monitors and onto the stage. When his feet touch down, Rex, Bobby and me hit our final notes and the stage lights go dark.

  The crowd roars.

  Despite all the strangeness I felt on stage, we rocked the house.

  Chapter 11

  VICTORY

  We make our way down the stairs backstage.

  The stage manager is right there, clapping, “Awesome show, you guys. Unbelievable.” His smile is genuine and ecstatic.

  The band files down the hallway that leads to our green room. All the stage hands and backstage fans are cheering and patting us on the backs and shoulders. The women are practically fainting at the sight of Scott, Rex, and Bobby.

  Plenty of the men paw at me. I’m used to it. People always want to touch you when you’ve given a great performance. They want to be a part of it somehow, closer than everyone else. That’s when you know you’ve made a lasting impression.

  Everyone chatters at us:

  “You guys rocked!”

  “That set killed!”

  “Fucking incredible!”

  “Skin Trade is the best fucking band ever!”

  “No one has ever rocked The Cobra like you guys just did!”

  I take it all with a grain of salt. They might forget our names by tomorrow or throw shit at us the next time we play. You never know.

  Scott, on the other hand, seems confident. He sucks up the praise like it’s a given, like his superstardom is now secured.

  Two girls wearing Skin Slave t-shirts suddenly rush us in the crowded hallway, bumping past people to get to Scott. One of them holds out a Sharpie pen and gushes, “Sign my boobs!” She lifts her t-shirt, exposing bulging cleavage practically popping out of a black satin bra.

  Scott signs with obvious enjoyment.

  The other Skin Slave holds out her wrist and squeals, “I’m going straight to a tattoo parlor so I can ink it into my skin permanently!”

  Scott is loving it.

  Eventually, the four of us arrive at the green room door. We’re all sweaty and amped, and the boys are raucous. But I’m not.

  Because I see Suit Guy leaning against the door.

  Scott stops short.

  I’m not liking this.

  Scott turns to Rex, Bobby, and me, and says, “Can you guys give me a minute?”

  Bobby and Rex both nod, “Yeah, sure.”

  I blurt, “What’s going on?”

  “This’ll just take a second,” Scott says firmly. He opens the door and follows Suit Guy inside the green room.

  I’m confused when I say to Rex and Bobby, “Do you know that guy?”

  Rex raises his eyebrows, his face slack, “Never seen him before.”

  “Me neither,” Bobby says.

  I step toward the door, about to knock on it forcefully, but stop my knuckles an inch from the wood. I turn back to Bobby and Rex, “He’s not one of Scott’s dealers, is he?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bobby reiterates.

  It’s not like Bobby is watching Scott around the clock. He’s too busy with his head between the legs of his four girlfriends. Scott could’ve changed dealers at any point.

  We wait for several more minutes in silence. I’m about to knock again when the door whips open.

  Scott holds the doorknob firmly, like he expects me to try to push past him. He asks, “Can you guys give us five more minutes?”

  “What’s going on, Scott,” I demand.

  “Five more minutes,” he says.

  I search his eyes, but they mirror everything back at me.

  “Five minutes,” he repeats, then pulls the door shut.

  It latches with an ominous click.

  Bobby and Rex shrug, as lost as I am.

  Scott and odd behavior are besties, so all we can do is wait. While we do, more people pass by and compliment us on our show.

  The good energy is catching and I’m swept away by everyone’s enthusiasm.

  At one point, the stage manager walks up and says, “Got word from the owner. He wants you guys back in two weeks.”

  “What!” I smile big.

  “Hells yeah!” Rex grins.

  “We’re on our way, guys!” Bobby cheers.

  The stage manager smiles back at us, “See you then!” He walks off, talking into his headset.

  “Can you believe it?” I say to Rex and Bobby.

  Rex, as confident as ever, rubs his palm across his shirtless abs and says, “Of course. We’re Skin Trade.”

  Bobby nods agreement.

  Joking, I say, “Bobby, does this mean you need to add more ladies to your stable?”

  Bobby holds up a pair of black lace panties.

  “Where’d you get those?” I ask.

  “An ignorant slut threw them at me.”

  Rex grabs at the panties, “She meant them for me!”


  Bobby yanks them out of his reach, “She’s my ignorant slut, dude!”

  Rex grabs again but misses.

  I laugh, “You guys are the ignorant sluts. Don’t you two have enough girls already?”

  They both chuckle, “No!”

  All the weirdness I felt onstage between me and Rex and Bobby is now completely gone. For a second I consider mentioning it. But it obviously doesn’t matter anymore. We had a great show. I don’t know why I got all worried.

  Scott opens the door and says, “Hey, guys, uh, can I talk to you for a second?”

  Suddenly miffed again, I ask, “Aren’t you done with whatever you’re doing that’s so secret, Scott?”

  “Not really,” he says. “Guys? Come on in.”

  Rex and Bobby walk through the green room door and I follow. Scott stops me with a halting palm, “Just Bobby and Rex.”

  I’m instantly furious, “What’s going on Scott? If this is a band meeting, I’m part of it.”

  He arches his eyebrows and his face screws up in a weird way I’ve never seen before, but he doesn’t say anything.

  I go on the offensive, “And what was that shit onstage with you singing over my solos? Did it ever occur to you to tell me and the band before the show that you were going to cut my solos?”

  The only answer I get from Scott is his weird bent look.

  He pushes the door closed in my face.

  “Scott!” I shout.

  The door latches before I have time to react. I can’t believe he closed the door in my face. When I grab the doorknob, it’s locked.

  What the hell is happening?

  I suddenly go cold.

  Something has gone way wrong.

  Chapter 12

  KELLAN

  The calm sea of bodies surrounding me is sweaty and lethargic. Everyone spent their energy on the band. It’s like a post sex drowsiness now that Skin Trade is off the stage. I plow through the noisy crowd as quickly and politely as possible. Since I was on the rail the whole show, I’ll be the last to leave if I don’t make headway, which I need to do. I’ve got a date with Destiny, or whatever the hell Guitar Goddess’ name is.

  I’m going to find her and introduce myself before she leaves the club.

  I squeeze past the five Skin Slave babes who I flirted with earlier. They look like they’re waiting for someone. The lead singer of Skin Trade?

  Two of them call out, “Hey, Kellan!”

  Nope. I smile to myself. They were waiting for me.

  I don’t care.

  I’m wound up to find the guitar goddess.

  Unfortunately, the sluggish crowd is bottle necking at the front doors. All I can do is be patient.

  Normally, I’m a laid back dude. I’ve learned all I have to do in life is lie back and wait for stuff to come to me. The good stuff always does. Especially women.

  My whole life, women come to me.

  But tonight, I’m in a hurry.

  Me, Kellan Burns. In a hurry.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  It’s all the fault of the Guitar Goddess. First, she’s smoking hot. I mean, seventy foot billboard, swimsuit issue hot. Choice meat, triple A, triple X, triple whatever the fuck. She’s all of those things. But I’ve been with loads of top shelf tail. Only thing is, top shelf tail doesn’t know how to play guitar like Jimi Hendrix or George Lynch.

  That’s why I’m desperate to talk to this Guitar Goddess. Talk to her. About guitar. It’ll be a marathon twenty hour rap session about the instrument we both know better than the backs of our hands.

  Talk about verbal foreplay.

  It’s freaking me out.

  In a good way.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” a gravelly voice whispers in my ear, blowing hot rank breath across my face.

  It’s not the Guitar Goddess.

  It’s that Bull Locomotive dickhead from the mosh pit.

  I’d forgotten all about him.

  He growls in my ear, “You and me need to have a little talk.”

  Chapter 13

  VICTORY

  I feel like an idiot standing outside the green room with my guitar over my shoulder while my band is inside with some strange guy in a gray suit.

  Cold chills still tingle across my skin.

  I tell myself it’s because I’m cooling down now that I’m off stage and my adrenalin has run out. Plus, they have the A/C on backstage, and there’s not hundreds of thrashing bodies heating up the hallway like in the main room.

  The random people around me are a welcome distraction from my unease. They stop to compliment me, recount their favorite parts of our show, tell me how awesome I am. Several ask for my number. Some are dudes who are obviously trying to get into my pants. They get fake phone numbers or the brush off, whichever is faster. Others, some of whom are women, ask if I give guitar lessons. I tell them to look me up on Facebook. The serious ones will get back to me.

  Eventually, I take my guitar off and rest it on the floor, balancing it on its butt. I hold the headstock with one hand like I’m posing for a photo shoot. I tell myself it looks less dumb if I pose while I wait outside the green room, but I don’t quite believe me.

  Whatever.

  Twenty minutes later, I remember that my band is sitting behind a locked door with Suit Guy and I’m not invited to the party.

  I picture them holding huge bags of blow and swinging them at each other like they’re having a huge cocaine pillow fight. The air is filled with a misty white haze, bringing new meaning to the concept of contact high, which I can say from experience is bullshit. You can sit in a hot box with a bunch of stoners smoking cigar sized spliffs and not get high.

  But I’ve never been in the middle of a cocaine pillow fight, so maybe I’m wrong. I snicker to myself. When Skin Trade sells a million albums and we’re huge rockstars, we can have one, just to find out.

  I slump against the green room door and examine my nails like I’m waiting for the bus, still holding my guitar with one hand.

  I’m tired of waiting. I consider knocking on the door. Screw them. They can come find me when they’re ready.

  I walk outside for some fresh air, holding my guitar, still in my sweaty stage costume. I need to change out of it and take a shower.

  This is lame.

  Chapter 14

  KELLAN

  Lucky for me, Bull Locomotive, who I’m now thinking of as Bull Breath because he smells like shit, isn’t stupid enough to start up with me while we’re boxed in with the rest of the slowly departing ticket holders. At the very least, he’d never make it past the bouncers without getting nabbed.

  Not that I’m worried.

  I do my best to ignore him, but he keeps jabbing elbows into my kidneys or stepping on my steel toed boots. I don’t think he’s figured out they’re steel toed, and he grinds away with his combat boots like it’s hurting me.

  “Dude, would you knock it off?” I ask, irritated. I would do something more aggressive, but half the people around us are women, and I’d like to avoid throwing Bull Breath into one of them or having him swing at me and inevitably miss, but end up breaking some poor girl’s nose instead. I’ve seen it happen. Fighting in close quarters like this is not the way to go.

  “I’ll knock it off,” he sneers, “Soon as we get outside.”

  I shake my head and sigh, “Have you not noticed I’m bigger than you, bro?”

  “You’re taller, but I’m solid muscle. I’ve knocked out guys twice as tall as you.”

  “But you haven’t knocked me out,” I chuckle.

  “Yet,” he grunts.

  I sigh. The truth is, I don’t want to get all banged up teaching this guy a lesson. I want to meet that Guitar Goddess. I know most chicks usually love a guy who can fight, but there’s too many cops outside on Sunset this time of night. I don’t want to get cuffed and stuffed and miss a chance to chat up the guitar goddess.

  So I ignore Bull Locomotive and continue waddling behi
nd a few hundred people as we inch toward the door.

  What seems like an hour later, I’m finally passing through the front doors. Tony is there with two other bouncers, keeping an eye out for bad behavior.

  I wonder if Bull Breath is going to follow me around the corner or start shit in front of the bouncers. If he starts up in front of Tony and the boys, he’s stupider than I thought. Or he’s having second thoughts about fighting me and he’s hoping the bouncers will jump in before he gets hurt.

  Who knows.

  When I say goodnight to Tony, Bull Breath doesn’t do anything.

  I know if I hang with Tony for awhile, he will be happy to chat, and Bull Breath might get the message and wander off. But then I might miss the Guitar Goddess. For all I know, she’s climbing into some limo right now. Or the band’s van. It’s not like they’re The Rolling Stones.

  Fuck it. I keep walking and head around the side of the building for the back doors.

  And Bull Breath follows.

  Fine. But we’ll have to make it quick.

  Chapter 15

  KELLAN

  “Kick his ass!” someone yells from the crowd of Skin Trade fans circled around me in the alley behind The Cobra Lounge as I dance out of range of Bull Breath’s flying fists.

  The gloomy alley glows orange from all the city lights bouncing off the moisture hanging in the air. One thing about L.A., the only time you ever see stars is when they’re walking the Red Carpet.

  Bull Breath swings on me about twenty times, but every blow misses because I’m dodging with sidewinder steps or deflecting the guy’s meaty hands with carefully timed open-hand blocks.

  No matter what he does, he can’t lay a finger on me.

  I haven’t swung on him once. After half a dozen misdemeanor lock ups for brawling when I was younger, I avoid fights at all costs. My music career is way more important. If the cops show up now, I won’t have a single offensive wound on my hands.