“Bryan Jackson,” Sam replied offhandedly, looking down as her phone pinged. “Oops. I gotta go. I need to make sure the lighting board gets hooked up properly.” She stood. “I’ll see y’all later.”
“Ok,” Avery said distractedly.
Marcus crossed his arms and frowned up at the Tempest guitarist.
Avery stood and placed a restraining hand on his tense forearm just as the music started. Her attention shifted to the stage. King was laying down a hard beat. Sager kicked in with a chugging bass line.
Bryan layered in power chords, his eyes never moving from Avery’s face.
Her foot immediately started tapping. They were good. Wicked good.
Uh-oh. Without turning her head, Avery could feel Marcus staring at her, too. The back of her neck started heating up.
War stepped up to the mic. “Do what you gotta do,” he spat. “I told you… bitch, we’re through.” His voice was raw and angry. He let out a primal yell that made goose bumps break out on her arms. The scream must have been Bryan’s cue because he immediately launched into a solo, balancing the body of his guitar on his right knee. He deftly navigated the neck of the guitar, weaving a complex blend of hammer ons, slides, bends, and pull offs. Totally focused on his hands, Avery took a step toward him, her fingers twitching. She couldn’t wait to try to duplicate it herself.
Bryan’s guitar solo faded into a short dramatic pause. Then Bullet and Sager shifted into punk mode, completely transforming the tune.
“Cool,” Avery mumbled under her breath.
War pulled the lead mic out of the stand and crossed to Bryan.
“Time to go now. Time to go now,” War and Bryan chanted into the mic together while Bryan continued to play. When the punk break was over, War brought it back around to the opening lyrics and chorus, before Ty closed the song out with a flurry on his drums.
Immediately, Avery stuck her fingers in her mouth to produce a shrill whistle and clapped her hands enthusiastically.
“Thank you. Thank you,” War said into the mic with a dramatic bow, gesturing at her. “To our new number one fan, Avery Jones. Thank you.”
She grinned, eyes sparkling, totally caught up in the band’s engaging performance. When she turned to Marcus to ask what he thought, he was scowling. Not at her. At War and Bryan. She returned her attention to the stage. The Tempest front man and his guitarist were engaged in a low but obviously heated discussion.
“Stop it, man.” War gave Bryan a shove.
With heavy hooded eyes, Bryan peered down at her as if trying to communicate something. Then he swung back around in War’s direction. “Fuck off!” He threw his guitar pick at War and stalked off the stage.
Marcus gave Avery a quick shuttered glance as he stormed into the cluttered dressing room. They weren’t even past the first stop on the tour and already there were problems.
Bryan Jackson.
Shit.
Just about what he had expected, though. Avery was young and beautiful, and that alone was enough to make guys like Jackson gun for her. Add in her talent and rock star status, and it was going to be a full time job keeping her his.
He tossed his cell onto the makeup counter before turning back to face her. His visage was dark.
“What’s wrong?” Avery took a step back. “Are you ok?”
“Effing fantastic. Just great.”
Someone banged on the door. Trevor stuck his head in the room. “Ten minutes, guys.”
“Ok,” Avery acknowledged with a tense nod. “We’ll be there in a minute.”
“He’s just a local guy, Marcus.” Trevor paused, mouth twisting into a grimace. “He has very few followers. He’s not worth worrying about.”
“I know!” Marcus cut him off. “You told me already.” He worked to level his tone. “I don’t want to discuss it anymore. I’ve got a show to put on.” His gaze flicked to Avery. “I need a minute to regroup, but I can tell you I feel less than enthusiastic about going out there right now.”
“He’s just one of those guys trying to make a name for himself by trashing someone else.” Trevor continued while taking off his wire rimmed glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Haters like him only bring themselves down.”
“Marcus, what happened?” Avery asked.
“Nothing,” he lied and pulled off his t-shirt.
“Ok. You tell me then,” she said turning to Trevor, worry pinching the outer corners of her eyes.
“Just a music blogger being a real asshole. Asking Marcus some real asinine questions, insinuating that he was just using you to revive a stalled career. Outrageous crap, clearly designed to make Marcus lose his temper.”
She frowned.
Trevor’s phone beeped. “Sorry, I gotta go get JR and Dwight. You two have three minutes,” he warned before leaving.
Avery turned back toward him as he was fastening the last two buttons on his shirt. She took a seat on the worn vinyl sofa beside him. She threaded both her arms around him and laid her head on his chest.
“I’m sorry about the interview,” she said softly.
He knew he should take the comfort she was offering, stroke her silky hair, maybe even run a finger along the top edge of the teal kimono top that barely covered the swell of her shapely breasts, but he was just too mad. The thought of anyone doubting how much he loved Avery pissed him off.
“It’s time.” Trevor stuck his head back in the room.
“Let’s go.” He untangled her arms from around his waist and stood.
“Alright,” she whispered, giving him a worried side glance as they exited the dressing room and followed Trevor. They moved quickly, winding their way through the throngs of people moving up and down the busy corridor. Dwight, Sam, and JR were already waiting for them when they reached the stage.
“Finally.” Dwight gave a relieved sigh.
“Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?” JR quipped with tawny brows raised.
Marcus gave him the finger.
“Don’t let that stupid blogger get under your skin, little brother.” Dwight clapped him on the back. “It’s just the same old bullshit every time. Tear someone else down to build yourself up.”
“I know. I know,” Marcus growled. “I’m trying to get it out of my head, but everyone keeps wanting to bring it up again.” He stretched his arm back for Avery’s hand, but she wasn’t there. Where he finally spotted her didn’t do anything to improve his mood. She was standing next to a stack of back up amps conversing with that blasted Tempest guitarist. To add insult to injury the dude was shirtless, wearing leather pants that hung so low that his hip bones stuck out.
When Jackson leaned in and touched one of Avery’s silver chandelier earrings, Marcus’ jaw clenched. He was gonna kill the bastard.
“Marcus,” Dwight said firmly, putting a hand on his shoulder and glancing over at Bryan. “I don’t think the guy means anything by it.” He gestured toward a line of scantily clad women that were milling around backstage. “Tempest’s got a slew of groupies waiting on them. And even if he did want Avery, it’d be a one sided deal. She’s totally into you. Just look at her. Even while she’s over there talking to him, her eyes are on you.”
Marcus grunted in response.
“Nice of you to come join us,” he said, when Avery returned, words writhing with sarcasm.
Her brow puckered.
At that moment, the entire arena grew quiet.
“How are you doing tonight, Seattle,” Trevor asked, speaking into the mic from onstage. The audience responded by whistling and clapping their enthusiasm at an ear splitting decibel level.
“Shit!” Marcus cursed. There wasn’t time for the group’s ritualistic huddle. “We’re on.” He made a quick cursory examination of the group, frowning when his gaze stopped on Avery. “Where the hell’s your guitar?” he bellowed.
Avery spun around, almost tripping over the guitar tech that stood there. He handed over the black Ibanez. “Thanks,” she muttered, her w
ounded expression making Marcus feel like a total douche.
She moved past him without another word.
Crap, Marcus thought. He stepped up behind her and gave her shoulder an apologetic squeeze, but she didn’t acknowledge it.
From her position behind a backstage column, Avery peeked out at the audience. Her stomach turned a summersault. The KeyArena was flooded with a sea of screaming people, all standing on their feet and waving their hands in the air. A large mass of fans pressed forward against the saw horse barricades directly in front of the stage. Somber faced men, wearing bright yellow security t-shirts, arms crossed over their brawny chests held them back with their steely stares. Across the venue, periodic flashes from cell phone cameras twinkled on and off like Christmas lights on flasher mode.
Avery took a deep breath and then jogged out to center stage as they’d practiced in Vancouver. She waved a hand in the air and backpedaled to her assigned spot facing Marcus, who crossed the stage behind her. She started laying down the opening chords to “Anthem.” Recognizing the former number one hit, the maximum capacity crowd of sixteen thousand cheered even louder.
Holy Crap. The Grammy nomination audience had been sedate in comparison. The energy was unfreakingbelievable. It was a heady feeling to be on the receiving end. One she could easily get addicted to.
Avery adjusted her ear piece and looked to Marcus to begin the lyrics.
He. Missed. His. Cue.
Marcus’ lids closed, briefly hiding his sky blue eyes from view. Almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head toward her. She replayed the introduction, exhaling with relief when he came in where he should have before.
Her knees shook. She’d never seen him miss an intro.
Dwight’s worried gaze met hers. He appeared just as shaken as she did. And since Brutal Strength invariably followed the lead of their front man, the band’s performance took a nose dive, a fast replicating flub up virus infecting each member.
The next song called for Marcus to play rhythm guitar. He moved to the back of the stage to get his Les Paul from its stand. On the way back to the front, he tripped on a power cord and knocked the center mic stand over. It fell with a crash, ear piercing feedback spreading out across the arena. Band members and fans instinctively covered their ears.
“Shit!” Marcus exclaimed.
A roadie in a black BS tour shirt rushed out, righted the stand, and put the mic back in. Looking offstage, Avery noticed Sam frantically waving her hands while speaking into her headset. The roadie put his walkie- talkie back in his pocket, pulled a roll of black tape out of his back pocket, and immediately began to secure the loose cord.
As the guy worked, Marcus sauntered up to the mic and made a joke about being too old to see the cord, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Avery could tell he was furious, and she wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable tirade that was sure to follow after the band exited the stage.
Misfortune struck Dwight next in the form of a short in his bass during “Brothers.” Thinking quickly, Avery improvised, duplicating Dwight’s key elements using an effects pedal. She had to alternate back and forth in order to play his and her part of the song, but it actually came out sounding pretty cool. The crowd went nuts for it. Sweat dripping down her spine, Avery turned toward Marcus as he joined her at the chorus.
Oh Brother why’re you always bossing me?
Think you know what’s best for me
Brothers love, brothers fight
Brothers take years to get it right
After switching bass instruments, Dwight returned, gave her an encouraging smile, and they were able to finish the song together.
The next couple of songs went off without a hitch. The band seemed to have finally found its groove. Dwight’s bass was pumping, JR’s staccato beat thrummed on the snares, and Marcus’ voice was smooth and soulful. Avery felt good. She started to relax and enjoy herself. Strutting forward to the front edge of the stage, she lifted her guitar behind her head, the cool silk of her cutaway sleeves fluttering across her bared arms. Time for a little stage theatrics. She picked out the complicated riff blindly, a la Stevie Ray.
“A-ver-y.” The crowd started chanting her name in three syllables.
Then, too soon, it was time for her to sing lead. Roadies brought two wooden stools to center stage. Marcus slid a guitar strap over his shoulder and clipped on an acoustic. Avery took a mic and sat down. Sitting across from her, Marcus started picking out the intro to “Mother’s Gift.” Avery bent her head, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began singing:
Ages since I saw your face
My tears fill the empty space
She looked into Marcus’ blue eyes and everything around her receded. She thought about her mom, her dad, and the dream she’d had just that morning. Emotion seeped into every word she sang. When she finished the last verse, Marcus popped off his stool, pushed his guitar over his shoulder, and came up behind her. He wrapped his long arms completely around her body and squeezed her tight. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
“You owned it, Ace,” he whispered, his warm breath in her ear sending chills down her spine despite the intense heat of the spotlight. Then he stepped backward, giving her a moment all alone to accept the appreciation of the crowd.
Through blurry eyes, she squinted into the bright lights, the applause ringing in her ears. Sorrow pierced her heart. She wished her mom could have been here to share this moment.
Marcus took his place beside her, and reached for her hand. He kissed it before lifting it up in the air. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Avery Jones,” he said into his mic. The crowd roared, and they took a bow hand in hand.
Avery swiped away her tears while giving him a tremulous smile.
“Ok, Seattle,” Marcus began. “We’re gonna close with another tune off the new album. It’s called ‘Siren’s Call.’ We hope you like it.” He glanced over his shoulder, giving JR the cue to start.
By the time the band exited the stage after performing “Love Evolution” as their encore, Avery was stoked. She bounded off to the side stage and into Trevor.
He slapped her on the back. “Way to go,” he praised. “I knew you were gonna be a big star the first time I ever saw you.” He pulled her aside. “I have someone who wants to meet you.”
A man with close cropped grey haired in a well cut suit stepped forward. He held out his hand. “Charles Morris, Zenith Productions.” He smiled a warm smile. “That was quite an impressive performance on your part. I’d like you to have my card.”
She studied the business card with the lightning bolt for the Z in Zenith.
“If things don’t work out with Black Cat, I want you to give me a call. That’s my personal number.”
“Thank you, I…” She trailed off as the sound of Marcus’ raised, angry voice scalded her ears.
“I appreciate that you’re sorry, but that was a real serious, amateurish mistake. A dangerous one.” Standing in front of Sam, his arms crossed over his chest, Marcus’ eyes blazed blue fire. “You’d better get your crap together before the next show!”
“Back the hell off!” JR warned, moving to stand protectively in front of Sam.
Avery excused herself from Trevor and Charles and hurried over, sure her help would be needed to defuse the escalating situation.
“Stay out of it, Stepchild!” Marcus shouted, shoving JR in the chest. “I know she’s your girl, but that doesn’t exempt her from the fallout when she screws up.”
JR’s eyes narrowed to icy green slits as he took a menacing step closer to Marcus. “Sam knows she messed up, but you can’t yell at her, man.” He blew out a breath. “We all know the real reason you’re so mad is because we sucked out there tonight.” He shot a quick glance at her. “Except for Avery.”
Everyone was silent for a moment, allowing heightened emotions to settle.
“I’m sorry, Sam.” The tightly coiled muscles in Marcus’ biceps relaxed as he unfolded his arms. “I shouldn’t have yelled at
you.”
“Apology accepted,” the petite beauty said after a visible swallow. She took a brave step forward. “I’m responsible for stage set up, and I take full responsibility for the incident. I’ll make sure that it never happens again.”
Marcus nodded and turned away.
“Marcus!” Avery called, rushing to catch up with him.
He swiveled around. “Avery.” He ran his long fingers through his dark shoulder length hair. “I need some air. Give me a little fucking space, alright?”
“Sure,” she replied in a hurt whisper.
Marcus peeled the coated paper off a stick of gum. He scanned the packed room at the Encore Club, the designated meet and greet location on the top level of the arena. The glitterati of Seattle decked out in diamonds and designer watches mixed and mingled with the press and band members from Brutal Strength and Tempest. Drink glasses, the unofficial accessory, adorned the hands of the attendees, and he suspected white powder was probably being liberally dispensed and snorted like appetizers in adjoining bathroom stalls.
Avery stood near the bar, a beautiful unblemished red rose. She far outclassed the lanyard laced butt-kissing dandelions that surrounded her. His gaze raked over her form. He frowned, not approving of her post concert attire. The little black dress barely covered her ass. Sure it made her long legs look sexier than hell, but if she bent over…Well, she better not. Unless it was for him, later on, and in private.
Watching all the men ogling her made him clench his jaw so tight that one of his muscles started to twitch. Then she lifted her glass of sparkling water to her full lips. Holy shit! Instead of sleeves the dress had long slashes, allowing anyone who was watching a scintillating view of the side of her naked breast. Crossing the room, he silently cursed Samantha, whom he suspected was influencing Avery’s clothing choices more and more.
Avery glanced up when he got near. “Marcus.” Her lips curved up, giving him an intimate smile.
“Avery,” he acknowledged.
“Feeling better, now?” she asked uncertainty in her eyes.
Love Resolution (Black Cat Records series) Page 9