Ranger Trent (Shifter Nation: Werebears Of Acadia Book 2)

by Meg Ripley

  We’re on at 8. Think you can make it here? Neely said you can use his kit, since we’re already loaded in. It wasn’t ideal, of course; I preferred my own kit. But it would make sense to use Neely’s kit if I was playing with Bent Bridges, and anyway it would save time if I didn’t have to break down my spare kit and load it into my car. If I left in the next hour, I could get to Tampa by five, and work things out with the other members of the band with enough time to play the set. I took a deep breath; there’d probably be some bitching from the rest of the band, but I didn’t really care that much. We had another two days off, so I could play the festival, maybe stay to catch day two, and be back home before anyone would notice. It’d be in the New Times and maybe a few other places, but by then, I’d have time to explain it to the other guys.

  I’ll be there by 5. I put my phone down after sending the text and went into my bedroom. I was only going to be gone for a day--two at most--and I’d have Neely’s drum kit to play, but there were a few things that I always brought with me when I played a show, especially an out-of-town show, and I wasn’t about to leave without them, just because it was an emergency. I grabbed my tour backpack out of my closet and checked that I still had a clean pair of boxers and a clean tee shirt in it; I did. I went from my bedroom to my bathroom and back again, throwing in my deodorant, a pair of shorts, a pair of jeans, my toothbrush, and other items I didn’t want to go a day without. I zipped it all up, grabbed my keys, my phone and my charging cable, and fired off a quick text to Dan and Nick telling them I was going to be up in Tampa.

  I had to get gas in the car--it was a long fucking drive, after all--but I was on the road headed north and west within forty-five minutes. I blasted OK Go all the way, actually enjoying the sight of swampy, scrubby Florida woods as I followed the Turnpike, singing along to each of the songs. It struck me when I took a quick break to piss and grab a coffee for myself about halfway through that it should probably alarm me more that I was this fucking excited to be hauling ass up to Tampa to play for a band that wasn’t my band on such short notice; but I pushed the thought out of my head before I could really examine how important it was. I was happy, I had something to do, and that was enough for me.

  I thought about Bent Bridges a bit on the drive--traffic was better than usual, so I had enough bandwidth, mentally, to do something other than react to all the stupid drivers around me. Neely was probably totally appalled that he’d managed to break a bone the morning of a major festival date; I know I would have been. Big Noisy Fest was in its third year, and getting bigger; Bent Bridges’ slot wasn’t a headliner spot, but they were on just before the big headliner for the night, and I remembered they were slated to play the side stage the next day; they might back out of it, considering that they probably wouldn’t want to rely on a substitute drummer for too many dates, but if they were up for going on the next day, I wasn’t about to pass on the chance.

  Bent Bridges had been together for maybe two years; like most of the bands in the local scene, they’d come about as a result of the death of two other local bands: Jai Alai Inferno and Hunger Strike. Bent Bridges was dope, and I’d seen their first show since I’d gone to high school with Nate and Brant; I’d learned all their songs as soon as they came out with them, and I’d talked about them whenever someone asked me about influences. There was a point--back when Molly Riot was going off the rails--when I’d thought about seeing if Nate or Brant wanted to do something on the side, but I’d held off.

  It took me a moment of frantic Googling to find the festival site, which I probably should have checked on before I left the apartment; but once I was straight on where it was, it was easy enough for me to get there from downtown. I’d texted Nate from the rest stop to remind him to tell security to let me park in the area for the talent, and to give me a pass so I could get into the backstage area; otherwise I’d have driven fucking hours for no reason. But when I pulled up to the artists’ entrance, the guard there had my name on the clipboard, checked my ID to confirm who I was, and waved me past without so much as a word of complaint. I got the feeling that the festival wasn’t going exactly smoothly--the guards looked like they’d rather get the day over with and start over.

  I found somewhere to park and grabbed what I thought I was likely to need for the next few hours from the car: my backpack, a spare pack of smokes, the bag I kept spare drum sticks in, and a couple of odds and ends. I probably should have been more concerned by how excited I was at the prospect of playing substitute drummer for a festival gig, but I didn’t care; it was a big change from what I’d been doing for months. I was hundreds of miles away from the rest of my own band, and I didn’t have to think about the stupid shit we were going through for a solid day or two. That was enough for me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Yo! Hail the conquering hero and all that shit,” Nate said, smirking as I appeared in the green room the venue had set aside for Bent Bridges. It wasn’t as good as some of the places Molly Riot had been able to get since Alex had had his run-in with the South Florida drug industry, but it was decent enough: a couple of coolers with beers, a broken-down couch, and a room full of decent guys. I gave Nate and then Brant a quick hug, and spotted Neely on the couch, his arm in a cast and a sling, looking morose.

  “Bummer, dude,” I said, shaking my head in sympathy. “That shit blows.”

  “You’re telling me,” he said, managing a little smile. “On the bright side, they gave me Vicodin, so at least I can buzz out while you’re fucking up all my brilliant beats.” I snickered.

  “You’re just worried Nate and Brant are going to want to kick you out in favor of me once they see how much better I play,” I told him. Neely rolled his eyes and sipped his beer.

  “I’m going to be out of commission a couple of months with this dumb-shit thing,” he said, carefully raising his broken arm in the sling. He shook his head. “Fucking bullshit, man.”

  “What happened?” I looked from Neely to Nate, who looked like he was about to bust at the seams from holding in laughter.

  “He fell out of the van,” Brant said. “We were loading in and he went to go grab something--what was it, Neel?”

  “Nate’s fucking iPad,” Neely said bitterly.

  “The iPad survived,” Nate told me, pressing his lips together.

  “Came in handy while we were waiting in the hospital,” Brant added. “Anyway, a couple of hours and an x-ray later, our comrade here has both bones in his forearm broken just past the wrist, so he’ll still be useful once he heals up, but until then…” Brant shrugged.

  “Want a beer? They’ve stocked us with Dogfish Head and Due South,” Nate told me.

  “Grab me whatever,” I told him with a shrug. We started to get into actual business, going over the set list, and I got out my sticks and a practice pad and ran through some of Neely’s parts with him carefully watching and giving me pointers. Obviously, I wasn’t going to be able to play it exactly the same way that he did; it was going to sound just a little different from me simply because I was a different drummer. But I could get close, and I could stay on the beat and pull off most of the fills that he did at least enough for the crowd to recognize it and the band to be able to keep up with it.

  After that we had about an hour and a half to kill, and I wandered around the backstage area a bit, checking on some of the other local guys I knew; of course, everyone asked what I was doing at the festival when Molly Riot was in the studio, and I had to explain I was subbing for Neely. Apparently, everyone had heard about Neely’s incident, but no one had known what the band was going to do to deal with it, at least for the festival. I couldn’t say anything in terms of what Bent Bridges’ long-term solution was going to be, but I kept myself on a tight leash when talking about Molly Riot and what we were up to.

  More than half the scene had heard that there were issues in the band, and even though I figured I could probably trust most of the guys and gals I was talking to, I also knew that there were journalists
all around; not a good thing to be spreading gossip where someone could write it down. So, I stuck to the same official story we’d given the label, since it was at least safe: we were reworking the album, figuring out where we were going with our sound. Jack was definitely on board with what we were doing, encouraging us all the way, but it was taking time.

  “I’m just jealous you guys can spend this long in the studio,” Frank from Howler told me, shaking his head; his band had been one of the first acts of the day to take the stage, and he was halfway to being trashed on beer and pot and probably a pill or two. “What was your budget? Like a fucking million dollars?”

  “Half million,” I said with a shrug. “We’re having to negotiate to make sure the label doesn’t try to fuck us since we’re taking so long.”

  “I heard it started over a girl,” one of the journalists said, off to the side. I grinned at her.

  “I heard you don’t do rumors over at Anti-Spin,” I said, when I’d caught the badge she had on for the magazine she wrote for.

  “Everything is rumors,” she said with a shrug.

  “All I can say is that it’s fucking complicated to be in a band, and Molly Riot is still together, everything is good--we’re just taking our time,” I told the girl. “We’ve rushed into every damned tour and every damned album we’ve done and it’s been great, but we’re not getting any younger out there on the road--we wanted to take a little more time this time around.”

  I wandered away from Howler’s green room and the journalists packed into it as soon as I could; I had to get ready for the gig, and the last thing I wanted was to spend any more time around members of the press than I had to. Nick and Dan had texted me back; neither of them was super into the idea of me being out of town for a couple of days, but since we didn’t have sessions booked, they couldn’t bitch at me too hard--especially when they were both all wrapped up with their sweeties for the break.

  I walked back towards where the guys in Bent Bridges would be waiting for me, getting ready to go out on the stage, thinking about the fact that I almost never found myself in the position to speak for the band. Normally it was either Alex or Jules that took over that job, though Nick occasionally liked to chip in. Dan and I had always sort of kept a back seat on those responsibilities since neither of us were into the idea of dealing with people from the press whose entire job it was to get a scoop, and who’d do whatever it took to get it. It still surprised me that Nick had ended up dating a reporter--but I had to admit that if I was going to date someone from a magazine, Olivia was a good choice.

  I was thinking about that when a flash went off in my face. I turned around, glaring even as the afterimage made it impossible to see. “What the fuck? Warn someone before you blind them,” I called out, trying to find the stupid-ass photographer who’d snapped me.

  “Sorry! I really am sorry, you just looked so perfect.” The voice was feminine and part of me was somehow both irritated and intrigued at the same time. “I didn’t realize I’d forgotten to turn down the flash,” the girl continued. After a moment, the spots in front of my eyes cleared and I could see the woman who’d blinded me.

  She was maybe a handful of inches shorter than me, with thick, long blonde hair, pulled out of her face with a messy tied scarf. She was exactly the kind of girl you expect to see on the beach in West Palm or Boca or maybe Broward--not stacked and plastic-enhanced, but with a freckled tan and muscles that showed she actually walked the beach, actually swam in the ocean. I thought to myself that she probably snorkeled, took pictures of what she saw. She had her camera in her hands still, the strap around her neck, but for her it looked less like a tool of a profession and more like part of her actual body, like she’d fused with it somehow. She was wearing jean shorts and a tee shirt--the approved Florida Festival Uniform--and she had a badge pinned over her right breast that proclaimed her to be a photographer, officially sanctioned by Big Noisy Fest.

  “It’s no big deal,” I said, resisting the urge to look her over again. “Just took me by surprise.”

  “I probably should have warned you, but you just…” The woman shook her head. “If I’d warned you, it would be a totally different picture from the one I just got, and the one I just got was perfect.” I raised an eyebrow at that, still smiling; it was kind of amazing how my mood could turn a corner when the person who’d annoyed me turned out to be a cute girl.

  “You’ll have to let me see that picture, judge for myself,” I told her. “Unless--are you one of those hipsters that only shoots on film?” The girl shook her head.

  “I couldn’t afford to work if I only shot film,” she told me. “I can show you the picture, but I need your name first.”

  “Mark,” I said. The woman smiled.

  “Which band are you in?” I grinned.

  “Molly Riot,” I told her. The girl frowned in confusion.

  “I didn’t see you guys on the lineup for this festival,” she said.

  “We’re not. I’m subbing in for Neely from Bent Bridges. He broke his arm today.” The girl’s eyes widened. “You know, not exactly polite to demand my name but not give me yours.”

  “Allie,” she said, smiling. “Allie Havers.” She reached into her pocket and took out a business card. I glanced at it long enough to confirm that it had the same name, and to see that she was a freelancer.

  “Why don’t you come to the green room with me, Allie Havers?” I slipped her card in my pocket. “You can cheer Neely up by taking perfect pictures of him.” Allie chuckled and shrugged.

  “I’m game,” she said. I gestured for Allie to follow me towards the green room. Checking my phone, I noticed it was about thirty minutes before the band was supposed to go on; with any luck, I could get Allie to hang out for a bit, and then maybe take a few pictures of the band from the wings, and flirt with her a bit after the set. Not a bad twist to the day, I thought to myself as I led her into the room.

  “Gents, this is Allie Havers, who just nearly blinded me in the hallway. But apparently, she’s a dope photographer, so she can capture this auspicious moment in Neely’s career with Bent Bridges.” Nate and Brant laughed, and Neely managed a chuckle.

  “You’d better start getting ready,” Brant told me. “We’re on in about twenty-five.”

  Allie introduced herself in more detail to the guys while I went to the practice pads, running through some of the more complicated fills that Neely had walked me through before. I played through the songs on the set list a few times, double-time, getting through them as fast as possible to make sure I had them down before we had to go out to the stage.

  “Time to head out, Bent Bridges,” the call came over the PA. I looked around the room; Allie was still around.

  “Come watch us,” I suggested. “Hell--maybe you’ll get a perfect picture of me owning Neely’s drum parts.” I grinned at my injured comrade.

  “Or one of him totally fucking it up,” Neely countered.

  “Really? I’d love to,” Allie said. I gathered up my bag of sticks and followed Brant and Nate out of the green room, with Allie and Neely hot on our heels. Neely of course was going to hang out in the wings; Nate was going to trot him out to explain why there was a replacement drummer and to get sympathy from the crowd. For a second, I wondered if Neely was into Allie--but then, I reminded myself, there was that girl Neely was seeing, off and on; Sheila, or Sara, something like that. He wouldn’t want to burn that bridge. I was safe.

  We waited on the side of the stage as the techs finished setting up the stage, testing the instruments and sound. The crowd was pretty big, from what I could see from the sidelines; they seemed to be pretty rowdy too, and I was pretty sure it’d be a decent set. This is what it’s all about. This is what you’ve been missing. I shook the thought out of my head; I wasn’t going to think about Molly Riot when I needed to be focusing on Bent Bridges, at least for a few hours.

  “And now, coming to the stage, Bent Bridges!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

&nbs
p; It felt weird to sit at Neely’s kit, my own drumsticks in my hand; but the crowd in front of the stage was more than ready for Bent Bridges, and it felt good at the same time to look out over a screaming mass of people. Nate looked back at me with a grin, and I glanced at the set list to confirm that I knew the song he and Brant wanted to play first.

  I counted in, and on the first beat, Brant and Nate were right there with me. It felt the same way that it had the last time I’d played live with Molly Riot: electric, as if we were bigger than the crowd, bigger than the entire fucking world. I pounded the drums in time with the beat, playing from memory, letting my muscles do the work, not even completely thinking about the song anymore--just hearing it in my head, listening for any shift in the other two guys’ playing. It was like magic. I felt myself grinning as we finished the first song, and I looked over at the side of the stage. Allie was still there, and Neely was watching as well.

  The set became just short of a blur after that, with Brant or Nate occasionally talking to the audience between songs, but otherwise hammering through each number with me. At one point, they did bring Neely out to get the crowd’s sympathy for him, and got cheers for me as the substitute drummer. I felt like I could keep playing for hours, but of course for a festival--and since we weren’t headlining--our set was just over an hour long. I was right there with Nate and Brant, playing my heart out, and it seemed like I hadn’t felt this way--this good, this positive, this amazing--in months.

  Off to the side, I could see Allie taking pictures; mostly just from the flash on her camera, but soon I lost count of how many she’d snapped by the time we went into the last song of the set together. I threw everything I had into the song, pounding the beat, going into the jam section with the other two guys, coming out of it to finish everything off as hard and explosively as possible. Nate let the feedback from his guitar signal the very end of the set, and then we were walking off the stage, all three of us together.