by Mia Storm
Fuck, am I jealous of this kid?
I shake my head at myself and back toward the soundboard, but before I make the shadows, Lucky spins and sees me. I know she’s a pro when I catch the expression on her face, something straddling anger and surprise, but there’s no hitch in her voice or her guitar. I send her a salute and, now that I’ve been discovered, I cross my arms and lean against the scaffolding instead of tucking into the gloom.
For the rest of her set she shoots me furtive glances as she sings and my grin grows every fucking time. She’s feeling me. By the time she intros her final song, “More Than Nothing,” the house is nearly full. Some in the crowd are still finding seats, but when she hits the first guitar chords of the song I recognize from the tape I watched of The Voice finals, a roar goes up from the audience. The energy on the stage and in the arena turns electric, and where Lucky was killing it with the crap she was singing before, now she’s stepped it up to a whole new level. The place is wired and everyone’s moving. In about three seconds flat, she’s got eighteen thousand people on their feet. They may have come here for Roadkill, but she’s got them wrapped around her little finger.
I glance at her bass player, who’s actually almost doing this song justice for a change, and find him full-on glaring at me now. He sidles up to Lucky and she presses her back against his as they play. When he turns and dips his face into the hair on top of her head, I’m about an inch from going out there and ripping him off her. But she shrugs off him and starts moving toward the edge of the stage, playing to her audience.
Lucky. How did this girl get so deep under my skin in one day?
I think back to yesterday, what it was about her that caught my attention backstage. She was curled up on the sound crates, her forehead on her knees. I couldn’t even see her face, but something about her grabbed at my nuts.
Or was it my heart?
Do I even have one of those?
When she lifted her head, there was something in her expression…some mix of deep sadness and helplessness that is so opposite from every vibe she sends when she’s out in the world. All her insecurities were right there on the surface. She looked so fucking vulnerable.
I wanted to help her.
But then she started with the sass and my focus took a whole new direction—went straight to my dick.
But at the root, that’s what it is…the reason I feel so invested. There’s no fucking question I want her, but more, I want to protect her from this world.
My world.
Me. And all the assholes just like me. Which is every fucking guy in this business, from the frontline all the way down to the riggers.
When I was her age, I’d just left home. Not too long later, I was on the road with Grim, playing seedy bars and fucking seedy women. Grim’s a decent guy, but I was never anything other than an investment to him—the thing he thought was going to make him rich. The fact that he turned out to be right doesn’t change the other fact. He was never really looking out for me.
No one was.
In my rational mind, I know Lucky’s not alone, but does anyone really have her back? Her manager is looking out for her career, but that’s because Lucky is her meal ticket. I glare out at the stage. Her band wants to fuck her and her producers would fuck her over in a New York second if it’d make them a profit.
She’s like I was, wandering in the jungle without a gun. And, fuck, there were times I could have used a gun.
I take a deep breath and shove myself off the scaffolding. That’s what I’m going to be for Lucky: the gun I never had.
Now I just have to figure out a way to stop wanting to fuck her senseless.
They hit their final notes to a plume of smoke from the pyro canisters and a flurry of the colored stage lighting. The crowd roars as the stage goes dark. When the lights come up a few seconds later, Lucky is just standing there, staring at the ocean of people on their feet for her. Finally, she slams her guitar in the stand and takes a lap along the edge of the stage, waving to the cheering throng. People are tossing flowers and teddy bears, and she scoops a bouquet up as she jogs toward stage left, where I’m waiting for her. Just as she reaches the wings, but before she gets to me, the bass player grabs her by the waist and pulls her into a full body hug.
“You fucking slayed them!” he yells over the roar of applause that follows them offstage.
“Thanks. You were awesome.” She must know that’s a lie, but she gives him a hug and a smile anyway. He tries to plant one on her, but she turns her head and his mouth lands on her cheek. The house lights come up as the roadies start pushing past them onto the stage and Lucky pulls loose from his grasp. He’s slow to let her go.
“Come back to the bus and party with us,” he says, still holding her arm. There’s an air of desperation in his request that’s pretty obvious and totally pathetic.
“Billie’s got a car waiting for me,” she says, backing away. I bristle, wondering who Billie is, until I remember her manager introducing herself yesterday. I feel my bunched shoulders drop from around my ears…until Lucky adds, “But I’ll try to stop by for a minute.”
Her smile vanishes as she turns toward me.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her expression all suspicion.
Behind her, Max stands his ground for a minute, glaring me down, before the drummer chest bumps him and they both take off.
“Working,” I say with a smirk, echoing her response from yesterday.
Her eyes roll.
“Besides, wanted to hear what you got,” I confess with a nod at the stage.
“And?” A shadow of doubt passes over her face and it hits me: she actually cares what I think.
“I think the writing blows, but your performance saved it.”
“Not everyone can be the infallible Tro Gunnison,” she spits, her eyes narrowing, and I realize she didn’t take that as the compliment it was meant to be.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “I only meant that you’ve got something pretty incredible going on out there,” I say with a nudge of my chin at where the roadies are tearing down her band’s gear. “With the right material, you’re looking at world domination.”
Her face changes, softens a little, then pulls into a deep cringe as she lowers her gaze. “You’re right. It sucks.”
“All but that last piece.” I reach behind me and grab the two beers sitting on the crate there. I twist the cap off one and hand it to her—a peace offering.
She takes it and her eyes lift to mine again. “I’m screwed.”
I shake my head as I crack open my beer and take a long swallow. “Not if you find someone who can write.”
She throws her free hand in the air in frustration. “But that’s the thing! I have someone who can write. That last song, the one that won The Voice, was written by my best friend. I’ve got a whole bunch more of hers that they rejected.” She flings a scowl at the stage. “They gave me all that fluff instead.”
The second she says it, I get what’s going on. “You’re young and hot,” I say, and can’t help my eyes from roaming over that incredible body. “They’re trying to brand you pop because they think that’s your audience, but you’re really a rocker.”
She chugs half her beer and turns back to me. “So, what do I do?”
I take a deep breath. “You’re in a tough spot. What are your contract terms? Do they have you under contract for another studio album, or was that it?”
“Just that for now, but my manager’s negotiating for more.”
“Tell her to stop,” I say. “You need to find a label that’s on the same page creatively.”
She takes another sip of beer. “What if no one else wants to sign me?”
I give her a slow shake of my head. “That’s not going to happen.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can’t know that.”
“I can,” I say, draining my beer.
She gives me a skeptical raise of her eyebrows. “Really.”
“Really
.”
“How?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I know some people.”
Her gaze grows suspicious again, but before she can say anything, two immense hands come crashing down on my shoulders from behind.
“Gunner!” Jamie bellows, and the next second he’s climbing all up my back. “Introduce me.” Before I can get a word out of my mouth, he’s pushed past me and is sticking his hand out toward Lucky. “I’m Jamie Harris.”
Lucky stares up at him from over a foot below as his hand swallows hers. “Shiloh Luck.”
“Christ, I know!” he says, pumping her arm manically. “You crushed it on The Voice last fall.”
She squints at their hands, obviously a little uncomfortable that the handshake hasn’t ended yet. “You watched that?”
“Hell, yeah,” he says. “I fucking bought all your shit on iTunes so you’d get the vote bump.”
“Thanks,” she says, and I can see her wondering if she’s ever going to get her hand back.
“Hey, Jamie,” I interject into his fangirl moment. “I think you’re creeping Lucky out.”
His eyes grow wide and his grin wider as he stops shaking, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. “Sorry. Just love your shit.”
A full beer bottle cracks up against the side of Jamie’s head and seems to knock some sense into him. He lets Lucky go and looks over his shoulder.
Grim is standing there, extending an arm toward both of us, a beer in each hand. “Showtime, fuckers.”
I yank the beer out of his hand and glance toward the stage. The roadies are just clearing, which means we’re up.
“You staying?” I ask Lucky.
She gives a vague wave toward the backstage entrance. “Billie’s waiting for me.”
“And Max,” I say with more rancor than I intended.
Her eyes narrow.
Not sure whether that look means she’s not interested, or that it’s none of my business, and I don’t get a chance to ask because the sound guys scramble over to get Grim, Jamie, and I wired. I take a long swallow of my beer then thrust it into Lucky’s hand as the house and stage lights are doused and the crowd roars. Grim grabs Jamie and me by the scruff and huddles us up.
“You know what they’re fucking here for!” he shouts. “You know what they fucking want! So let’s go out there and fucking give it to them!”
We growl, then charge onto the stage.
The stage lights flash as Jamie’s drums lead us into our opening song—the title single off our new CD. The crowd roars, then everyone stands and sings along. When we wrap with a flash of pyrotechnics, I glance into the wings and see Lucky is still there.
There’s a crackle of electricity through my gut as my dick stirs. Despite my revelation in the wings earlier, my body hasn’t quite caught up to the new agenda. Even if it had, this is the stage. Free flowing testosterone. I never hold back here. My audience would know if I did.
“New York!” I shout into the mic.
There’s a deafening roar from the crowd in response.
I rip my shirt off and throw it into the pit. “We fucking love ya!”
It takes them fucking forever to quiet down.
“We’re kicking off our world tour here and I wouldn’t want it any other way. This is gonna be our best tour yet! And it only gets better because we’ve got a fucking opener that blows the fucking doors off! What’d y’all think of Lucky!” I shout, flinging an arm at stage left, where she’s standing behind the curtain.
Another roar.
“Did she make you wanna sing?” I yell.
“Yeah!” the crowd roars.
I jump up and down on the balls of his my feet. “Did she make you wanna dance?”
“Yeah!”
“Did she make you wanna party?” I shout with a fist pump in the air.
“Yeah!” they answer.
I look Lucky’s way as the stage rush crackles through me. “Did she make you wanna…” I grab my package and grind my hips in a circle as I growl into the mic. “I fucking know who I’m gonna be doing tonight!”
Her face goes slack in disbelief as screams of “Fuck me, Tro!” and “I love you!” erupt from the girls in the pit up front. As the disbelief in her expression slowly morphs to blind fury, I feel a twist in the deepest part of my chest, but I don’t back down. I’ve got a strategy. I started the ball rolling on national television with Jimmy yesterday, so I’m just giving in a shove to keep it moving. If every other prick out there thinks I’ve laid claim to Lucky, they’re more likely to back off.
“I’ve got something for you tonight that no one’s ever heard.” I strum my guitar with the chords I jotted down this morning, going totally off book.
When I’m writing, I know I’m onto something fucking amazing when I feel the buzz of current start to crackle through my chest. It builds as I write until I’m on fire with it. The first time I play the whole song out loud, it’s like the discharge of lightning, totally electric.
I don’t feel any of that now.
This isn’t amazing. This is me needing to fucking vent all this pent up frustration.
I turn to the wings and stare directly at Lucky. “There’s been this girl in my head and all up under my skin. While I was mid-fantasy last night, this little ditty came to me, so I wrote it down. Called ‘Getting Lucky.’ Only got the first coupla verses so far, but I hope you like it.”
Chapter 6
Shiloh
I realize he’s serious and this isn’t part of their set list when Grim and Jamie shoot each other a baffled look. Tro starts strumming out something with their signature hard downbeat. Jamie picks up the rhythm on the drum and Grim slides in with a simple bass line.
Tro shoots me a shit-eating grin and starts singing, but it’s rappier than anything else I’ve heard of theirs.
“Wouldn’t care if I could. I’m up to no good.
Taking what I want instead of what I should.
I’m made of pure greed. There’s shit that I need.
The mask is off and the demon’s freed.”
He stalks toward me slowly as he sings, and I listen to him tell the audience about all the depraved things he wants to do to me. When he reaches the edge of the stage, I expect him to stop, but he doesn’t. He keeps coming, playing and singing, but eating me alive with his eyes. I stumble backward when it becomes clear he’s not stopping until he’s on me, but only end up trapped in the crates. He moves slowly forward until he’s only inches from me and locks me in his gaze.
“I’m gonna get drunk.
I’m gonna get played.
I’m gonna get rich.
I’m gonna get laid.
And I’m gonna get Lucky.”
“Pull it together,” I hiss, shoving him away and glaring death at him.
He slowly backs toward the stage as he starts in on the second verse, but he hasn’t stopped fucking me with his eyes.
I shift deeper into the shadows, but I don’t leave, partly because I want to know what he wrote about me and partly because watching Tro out there is sort of like watching a slow motion train wreck. I can’t believe he’s doing this but I can’t look away. Finally, when he finishes, I cut him a glare and spin for the backstage exit. Just before I explode out the door, I hear him bellow, “Let’s tear this place down, New York!”
The walls shake as they hit the first note to their next song, and Tro’s voice follows me as I weave my way through the maze of hallways.
God, I hate him.
He could have plugged my music, or said something good about my performance, but instead, he basically just told the whole world how all I am to him is a tight piece of ass.
I’m not some stupid groupie he can fuck and throw away.
After a moment of panic that, in my blind rage, I’ve gotten myself totally lost, I finally stumble on the door I came in. In the lot out back, near the roadies’ buses, I find the driver who brought me here waiting at his big black car.
He opens the door and I�
�m just about to fling myself into the back when I look down the row of buses and remember I told Max I’d stop in.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell the driver, then work my way from bus to bus, trying to figure out which one belongs to my band mates. Our roadies are busy loading equipment into the bays of three of the seven buses, but inside most of them are quiet. Near the end, I hear muted music, and as I get closer, I see the lights are on and the whole bus is sort of rocking. The door is open, so I climb the stairs and find at least a dozen people, mostly girls, crammed into a lounge area and kitchen just behind the driver’s seat.
It’s a little awkward because I don’t really know any of these guys. Recording studio tracks isn’t how most people think. We never really played together as a band. The studio had us all lay down our tracks separately, so we only came together a few times near the end to tweak anything that wasn’t exactly right. The longest I’ve actually spent with the band was a few days last week at the rehearsal studio while the sound guys sorted out everything for the shows.
The first familiar face I see is a round, freckled one with a glowing carrot top. My drummer, Chipper.
“Hey! You made it.” Chipper flips open the cupboard above the kitchen sink. “What’s your beverage?”
There are rows of bottles, everything from Absolut to Jim Beam. I nod to the beer in his hand. “You got any more of those?”
“On it,” he says with a grin, turning for the fridge.
I don’t really know how old any of the guys are—somewhere in their twenties, if I had to guess—but I’m pretty sure Chipper is the oldest. He seems to know the ropes, like he’s done this before. He grabs a beer off the top shelf and hands it to me.
“Bottoms up!” he says, cracking his bottle against mine and drinking.
I crack open the bottle and take a long drink while I try to think of something to say.
“Thought everything went pretty well tonight,” he says, clearly feeling as awkward as me.