Brawl? It was an ass kicking. Carter was handing it to me.
“Get your bridge out of my hip, Carter!”
“Say uncle.”
“Don’t do it, Coop,” Tate warned. “You’ll be his bitch the rest of your life.”
“I wasn’t planning to!”
“You’re going dooowwwwnnnn,” Carter said. “You’re gonna serve me breakfast, lunch and dinner in a bikini. You’re gonna wipe my ass when I take a shit. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna beg for mer—”
Grasping Carter’s face between my hands, I pressed my lips to his in a kiss that left him befuddled and motionless. Then I brought my knee up until it hugged his nuts, just enough to provide warning. It was then that Carter grasped the meaning behind the kiss.
“Damn Coop, why you always gotta go for the balls?” he asked, climbing off me. Unlike my flesh, his guitar looked none the worse for wear.
Following suit with alacrity, I climbed off the floor of the body bag. The guys regaled me with many tales of their past exploits and I’d rather not spend any more time there than possible. God knows what lurked in the piles of the once-beige Berber carpeting.
“Because it’s effective.”
“Your girlfriend kissed me,” Carter told Tate, as if he didn’t already know. “What are you gonna do about that, man? You gonna let her get away with that shit?”
“Yup.”
“Dude!”
Tate barely spared a glance from his tablet where he was editing his music. He had a program that he used to write notes and add lyrics. It was amazing. I, on the other hand, used a sheet of paper and a number two pencil. “She enjoyed it as much as I did.”
In the process of wiping the remainder of my smeared lip-gloss from my mouth, I unintentionally bolstered Tate’s claim.
Carter’s eyes narrowed. “You know—women line up around the block for what you’re wiping from your mouth.”
“I hate to tell you, Carter, but if you wear lip gloss, you better buy a better brand. Your lips are really dry.”
“They’re chapped from kissing your ass, Coop. But your kid’s not here right now, so I can curse all I fuckin’ want, so fuck you.”
“What a rebel.”
“Your pimp hand’s weak, Twat, real fucking weak. Someone needs to lay down the smackdown on her ass.”
“Jake,” Tate sighed, “hit him, would you?”
I promptly stepped aside as Jake laid the smackdown on Carter. It was all in good fun. Jake was a pretty boy, but he sure could tussle. And Carter, I was glad he didn’t pussyfoot around me. He acted like himself. I was just one of the guys. He made me feel normal.
In the back of the bus, Shane was toking up. Personally, I thought it was the least hazardous of drugs out there, but neither did I think it was the perfect environment for raising Levy. After a few deep drags, the whole bus began to stink like dope. I could’ve gotten high from the secondhand smoke. But then, I could get a contact high just being around Shane.
“It’s just pot,” Tate pointed out. “And Levy’s not here.”
“Maybe I was contemplating taking a hit.”
“You?”
“I’ve gotten high.” Dropping beside him on the sofa, I stole his beer, which was leaving sweat rings on the side table because he was busy writing instead of drinking it. But hey, I knew the feeling. When inspiration hit, you had to cede. As artists, we were at its disposal. God knows, that spark of brilliance could fade as fast as it flared. “Geez, Tate, I’m a mother, not a saint.”
Still absorbed in his writing, a small grin played at the edge of his lips. “And when do you do this smoking of illegal substances?”
“It’s been a while,” I admitted. “One of the girls at The Loft gave me a ride home one night after work when my car was in the shop. Levy was with Em. It had been a busy night. I knew it would help me wind down.”
“What else have you done?”
“You.” I smiled coquettishly, looking up from under my lashes. “You’re my drug of choice.” Unable to resist, Tate abandoned his writing, pulled me onto his lap, and pressed his lips to mine in a lengthy kiss. It was the first in several days that involved the use of tongue.
He clearly missed using his tongue.
So did I.
Breaking the kiss when Carter began to shred ‘Gone with the Wind’ with his guitar, Tate leaned in close to my ear. “Next week, we’re gonna test that piercing of yours.”
I felt a certain frisson over the thought, my voyeurism—as Tate called it—emerging. I couldn’t help it. I liked to observe Tate at work. There was something about watching his baser side take over. From that angle, I’d see all of him, all those corded muscles strained and…
“Sir, you are no gentlemen,” Carter pressed, “and you, Miss, are no lady.”
Tate rolled his eyes and glowered at his friend. “Fuck off, Carter.”
“I’m about to, watching you two eye-fuck each other.”
“Get your headstock out of my back, Carter,” I carped, batting at his guitar. “Why are you always poking me with your instrument? Is it a proxy for your undersized cock?”
Tate belted out a laugh, helping me up from his lap.
“You’re lucky I like you, Coop. Otherwise I’d shove my headstock up your tight little ass.”
“OOoohhh! Big words for such a wittle man.”
“Tate, better get control of your woman before I do it for you.”
“Cause you did so well the last time,” Tate replied. “Do yourself a favor, Carter; spare your balls, and leave my woman alone.”
“I remember when you used to have my back,” Carter accused of Tate. “But that’s ok. I see where your priorities lie. Wenches come first. Snatch before sidekick.”
Immersing himself back into his music, Tate just nodded his head. “Just so that we’re clear.”
“You’re pussy whipped, bro.”
“Take it from the top, Shane,” Tate prompted, ignoring him.
Twirling his Vic Firth’s like a pair of six-shooters, Shane began beating his drums. Carter jumped in on cue, and then Jake. Although half of them were playing on watered down versions of the real instruments, they sounded totally fucking amazing.
When Tate joined in on his guitar and began belting out lyrics, I seriously think I wet my panties. No kidding. I was in complete and utter awe. This was it, what I had always dreamed of. He was making music. I was witnessing Hautboy history, the birth of a rock song.
Suddenly, I understood Tate’s sexual assault the night I sang at The Loft. I had never been closer, yet felt so far from the object of my desire. He was out of my league. I wanted to drag him into the Gas Chamber and perform a sexual act of desperation, despite our audience, just to say that Tate Watkins was mine, even if only for a short while. How fucking sad.
“Cooper…ooper…ooper…ooper,” Carter echoed. “There she’s goes again, lost in la la land. You sure she didn’t take something earlier, Tate?”
“I heard you,” I replied. “I’m just…” I shook my head, “speechless.”
“Speechless good?” Jake inquired, “Or speechless bad?”
My eyebrows arched to a position that said ‘seriously?’ “You’re asking my opinion?”
“You are a musician, babe,” Tate pointed out. “Who better to ask?”
“A real musician. I sing twit songs.”
“We all sing twit songs at one time or another,” he dismissed. “Christ, Carter, how many times did we have to cover Seven Nation Army or About a Girl just to get in the door?”
They started droning the latter to drive home the point.
“Nooo!” I said in disbelief. Hautboy covering another band? I just couldn’t picture it. Still. “They’re not twit songs, they’re covers, and nobody’s expecting you to strip your shirt off while performing them.”
“Oh, I disagree,” Carter objected. “They ask us to take our shirts off all the time, and we usually comply without hesitation. You should try it nex
t time you take the stage.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. Just like that, my momentary bout of hysteria waned. Carter Strickland, Tate Watkins, Jake Whalen, Shane Richardson…they were all people like me.
“Well?” Tate pressed. “What do you think?”
“I can’t. I don’t want to compromise your style.”
“What the hell did you do earlier?” Carter scoffed. “You told me I needed to drop down a bar. Were you just agreeing with Twat?”
“No.”
“Well you have an opinion, don’t you?”
“You guys have ten years on me. Five of your seven albums have won Grammy Awards for best album. And you’re asking for my opinion?”
Carter looked at Tate. They both looked at Jake and then Shane, as if taking a consensus. I felt like such a dweeb, watching them all nod their heads with mocking conformity, all but Shane who shrugged indifferently.
“Yeah,” Tate said. “Yeah, we are.”
Pushing my hand through my hair, I blew out a breath. God, was I really going to open my mouth? Yeah, yeah I was, and I would probably stick my foot in it, too. “Strawberry Island, Flying High, Upside of Sanity, and Can’t Complain—four of your Grammy winning albums—started off with what?”
Carter beamed. “Bass intros.”
He was right, but I was trying at all costs to keep from ruffling feathers. Jake and Shane lived in the shadow of Tate and Carter. The last thing I wanted to do was point out the public’s constant disregard of their importance to the band.
“Close, provocative intros. No matter what instrument you start with, bass, drums, keyboards or vocals, it needs to make an impression. You’re telling a story. Your intro is the initial factor in winning your audience’s attention. Ninety percent of listeners will judge your song within the first ten seconds, which decides whether they turn the station or not. You might have a ten percent curve because of your fans.”
Carter broke his stare and turned to Tate. “Your girl thinks you need to rewrite, Tate.”
“She’s right,” Tate agreed. “The numbers speak for themselves. What the Doctor Ordered was the closest we came to our original material since Can’t Complain. Our last two albums were shit.”
Life happened. Shane overdosed and spent time in rehab. Later, he and Jake demanded to have their share of the spotlight. Tate accommodated them with generous solos. It didn’t work out. It compromised the style of music they were known for, and affected ratings.
Bending at the waist, Carter stared me in the eyes. I think he was expecting to find that I’d gone away to la la land again. He looked disappointed that I hadn’t. “You’re supposed to disagree there, Coop.”
“You asked for an opinion. Either you want the truth or you want me to make you feel better. I can’t give you both.” Insert foot into mouth now. “Look, all I’m saying is if someone wants Metallica, they’re going to listen to Metallica; if they want Mumford and Sons, they’re going to listen to Mumford and Sons. The same goes for Hautboy. You’re known for your amazing bass lines. It’s what works for you. Shut up Carter,” I said when he beamed a gloating smile. “Downplay the slapping for a more melodic bass line. Less is more.”
Carter’s smile fell.
“When someone says Hautboy, they expect bass and killer lyrics. It’s what you’re good at. It’s who you are. Keep it fresh, but give your fans what they want.”
Behind me, the flint sparked and a fresh cloud of pot smoke thickened the air. “Like she said, she’s just a kid,” Shane dismissed. “She don’t know jack about writing music.”
“She’s our target audience,” Tate disagreed, tolerantly. He didn’t sink to calling Shane a moron or deride him for his petty observations. Tate was essentially the head of the band, not just the lead singer. It was his job to keep the peace. “That in itself makes her opinion valid.”
“And she writes better shit than you ever have,” Carter added. “Oh, wait, you haven’t written any music. So shut the fuck up.”
By Shane’s expression, you’d think Carter’s words came from Tate’s own mouth. “You’re right, you know; his priorities have changed. It won’t be long before you’re in the same boat as Jake and me. You won’t be Hautboy’s bass player; you’ll be ‘Tate Watkins’ bass player.’”
“Fuck off, Shane.”
Moving past Tate, Shane drove his point home. “Man, you’re making a mistake, listening to her. She’s just another one of your countless strawberry girls. They come and go, but we’re your fucking band.”
Oh, wow.
To my surprise—and everyone else’s—Tate jumped off the sofa and grabbed Shane by the collar. His guitar fell to the floor, humming a discordant complaint over its abrupt upheaval.
“She’s not another fucking strawberry girl. She’s not a fucking whore or a fangirl. She’s my fucking girlfriend, ok? If I hear you call her anything but Cooper, I’ll knock out the rest of those rotted stumps you call teeth.”
Carter stepped forward before any fists could be thrown. Shane yanked his shirt from Tate’s grip and ambled to the front of the bus. Through the short confrontation, he hadn’t dropped his joint. I guess we all knew where his priorities lay.
“She’s coming on tour with me,” Tate stated, eyeing Carter and Shane. “Anyone have a problem with that?”
“Me,” I spoke up. “I never agreed.”
“Shane was just throwing a hissy fit,” Carter dismissed. “It’s not the first time. Don’t take anything he said personally.”
I gasped mockingly. “You mean Tate Watkins has fucked other women? My God, all this time I thought I was special. I was his only strawberry girl.”
“Excuse us,” said Tate, grasping my arm and dragging me to the back of the bus. It wasn’t a far walk, and the thin veneer door of the bedroom provided little privacy. I went on the defensive and crossed my arms over my chest.
“I don’t think I’d like you to call me that anymore.”
“I’ve never called anyone that but you.”
“Yeah, well, between Carter and Shane, the sentiment has soured.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I tried to ease the tension nagging me. “You know I don’t give a shit about your past.”
Shane was the elephant in the room.
“You let me worry about Shane.”
“I’m not coming between you and your band. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth to begin with. I knew it was a bad idea from the start.”
“It’s called constructive criticism. Shane never handled it well.” Sighing, Tate pushed a hand through his hair. “I’ve been holding back. I used to write shit that meant something. Now…now I’m just trying to make everyone happy. It’s not working. Everyone knows it.”
“So what—you used me to make a point?”
“No! Jesus. No. I wouldn’t do that.” Plopping down on the small built-in bed, Tate looked utterly defeated. “I wanted your opinion, a fresh perspective. I knew you would give it to me straight.”
“You want a fresh perspective: stop listening to everyone else and write what you want, write from your heart. Go back to the start.”
“I’m trying. Just What the Doctor Ordered is all my shit.”
“Minus the heart.”
“It’s just not there. I feel dried up, stale. I mean…the music used to come to me, but I haven’t felt it in a long time. Everything feels forced. At least it did up until two weeks ago.”
Oh, wow.
“You make me feel alive again, Cooper. You’re strong, smart, independent, even if it is to a fault—” Tate grinned widely when I scowled and swatted at him. He grasped my arm and pulled me onto the bed, somehow managing to maneuver me beneath him. “Everything about you is amazing. Don’t ever think that you’re not special to me.”
“Is that what you tell all your strawberry girls?” I was a sucker for sappy words, but I was still a woman. It was in my nature to make a man grovel whenever his past came up.
“You’re going to make me grovel?” Looking up from whe
re he was grazing along my jaw, his eyes bore into mine, smoky and dark. For a moment, I had second thoughts.
“You call me by the same name your best friend dubbed your fangirls.”
“Carter and I have two completely different definitions, babe,” he argued, setting back to work. Despite that Carter and Jake were only a few feet away, he resumed nibbling at my jawline. “He thinks of them as the many; I think of you as the one and only.”
“That’s it? That’s your excuse?”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Come on, Tate, you’re supposed to be a master with lyrics. I’m sure you can drum up something more romantic than that.”
“You’re not special. You’re my everything.” His breath rolled over my lips, warm and sweet. He had me mesmerized. I had to blink a few times to dispel the burgeoning lust.
“Warmer, you’re getting warmer.” Hot, he was fucking hot. His hand slipped beneath the hem of my jeans and inched between my thighs. With deft circles, he effectively ceased all train of thought. My mind became a blank slate, open to his persuasion.
“Marry me.”
“Sure,” I said, playing along.
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, we’ll fly to Vegas.”
“Obvious or unpretentious?”
“Depends what you’re talking about.”
“Diamonds, of course.”
“In that case, yes. Oh, fuck!” My body locked up in spasms, jerking uncontrollably as he persisted to stroke me past orgasm, the tendons in his arm standing out as I fought to escape his overt manipulations. Tate smiled shamelessly, drawing out a second peak.
“I plan to, strawberry girl.”
♪♫♪♫
With my arms crossed over my chest, I watched Tate’s interview from the greenroom of the radio station. The one Tate failed to mention that we were visiting before moving onto the Susquehanna Bank Center. I listened to WILD 105.4 every morning and night during my one-hour commute. I’d wanted to tour the place for forever, so I was a tiny bit enthralled.
Ok, I was completely enthralled.
Our host, Shannon Collins, toured us through the place before we started. Though I’m sure Tate had seen a million stations, he allowed me the dispensation, indulging my curiosity and barely-subdued enthusiasm.
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