Shit!
The sound of my fuck up is noticeable.
Scott shoots me a frown like I’m losing my mind. Maybe I did. Maybe Brown Eyes knocked it right out of my head and it’s spinning on the stage floor like a dropped quarter.
Fortunately, I know our songs so well, it only takes half a second for me to fall back into sync with the band.
Scott shakes his head and sings the third verse of the song.
While I play, all I can think about is Brown Eyes. And the overwhelming sense of guilt washing over me. I haven’t been this attracted to a guy. Ever. Sure, Scott is handsome and hot, and in the past, he had that same mystic pull on me that he has over his groupies tonight.
But Brown Eyes makes me feel something entirely different. Something profound and extremely rare. This is a big deal. Like tectonic plates are shifting inside me for the first time. Like some ancient sealed doorway to my heart that I never knew was there has been cracked open and the light of truth is pouring out of me for the first time.
I struggle to hold myself together and keep playing as the band winds up the song.
Bobby hammers on the drums like he does at the end of most of our songs.
Rex plants one boot on the drum riser. His back arches and he stares up at the colored stage lights overhead, aiming his bass guitar at the ceiling while his fingers rattle the strings.
Usually when we’re getting ready to hit the final note of a song, Rex and I both hold our guitars up high beforehand and wait to swing them downward in time with Bobby’s last smash on the drums. Right now, my guitar hangs from my shoulder in its usual relaxed position because I’m in la-la land thinking about Brown Eyes.
I’m going to miss my cue.
Scott bumps his shoulder into mine, “What the fuck are you doing, Vic?!”
I look at him, my eyes deer in headlights wide, convinced he’s reading my mind. Although Scott is the jealous type, he usually forgets I exist when a crowd full of women are screaming at him and begging him to make them his Skin Slaves. But the rest of the time, you’d think his jealous nature was the frontman of the Jealousy Band.
That Scott is noticing me right now tells me I’ve gone too far. The worried look distorting his face is proof that he’s reading my mind.
I guiltily twirl around so I’m facing the drum riser like Rex, and manage to lift my guitar up and swing it down in time with him and Bobby.
When the band goes silent, the crowd explodes with applause and cheers.
Normally, Scott greets the crowd at this point and flirts with the audience. Instead, he wraps an arm around my waist and clutches at my bare stomach with hooked fingers. In a hissing voice, he snarls, “Don’t fuck the show up tonight, Vic! There are a bunch of record people in the audience.”
“Ow!” I shout, “Scott, you’re hurting me!” The crowd is so loud, no one in the audience can hear us, but Bobby and Rex notice. They’re both surprised and not sure what to do.
Scott relaxes his hand, but yanks me into his side again. He hisses into my ear, “What’s gotten into you, Vic?”
“Stop calling me Vic!” I pull away and glare at him wide eyed. I can feel where his fingers dug into my exposed stomach. I bet he left red marks. Jerk. But if I say anything now, I’m going to incriminate myself by sounding guilty and probably piss Scott off even more.
I take a deep breath to calm myself while Scott drills me with his silver eyes over the top of his mirrored shades.
Scott and I haven’t exactly been the picture of perfection in the relationship department lately. We haven’t had sex in over a month, which is the longest we’ve ever gone without. Not because I haven’t wanted to. But Scott has become increasingly distant. In the beginning he was the one initiating sex multiple times a day. Lately I’ve been the one doing it, but he always shuts me down. Yeah, I’ve started wondering what happened to our passion. Is it the drugs? Or the groupies? Is he seeing one of them? Or four like Bobby? Or forty? Who knows. It’s not a ridiculous assumption. Newsflash: Rock singer sleeps around! That’s such a cliché it’s not even interesting.
“We love you, Scott!!!” several girls in Skin Slave shirts scream from the foot of the stage.
Like I was saying.
Scott releases his hold on my waist and turns to engage his adoring fans.
He shouts into the mic. “Hello, my Hollywood Skin Slaves!” Then he goes to work flirting with every single one of them. The girls hang from his words like he’s speaking directly to them and only them. They’re all glassy eyed zombies starving for a bite of man candy.
Then again, so am I, because Brown Eyes is staring at me again like he’s witnessing a miracle.
Or my undoing.
Chapter 8
VICTORY
For the next two songs, it takes all of my concentration to ignore Brown Eyes.
In the middle of our fourth song, Bullet Proof, I’m about to start my guitar solo after the second chorus when Scott suddenly repeats the chorus, singing right over my solo. I’m instantly pissed.
I have no choice but to switch gears and play the riff for the chorus.
Scott bumps me with his hip and jams his mic in my face. What’s he doing now?
In my ear, he shouts, “SING IT, VIC!”
I’ve heard Scott sing the lyrics in rehearsal so many times I know them by heart. That doesn’t change the fact I’m not going to sing them.
Scott looks at me expectantly, jabbing the mic at my mouth. It may as well be a flaming torch based on how I flinch away from it.
I’m not going to sing.
(don’t sing)
It’s not that I can’t sing.
(never ever sing)
I don’t sing.
(never ever ever sing)
I won’t sing.
(sing)
Not ever.
(singsingsing)
Not after what happened
(Stop!!!)
when…WHAM! I slam the mental doors shut before I start thinking about it. Otherwise I’m going to crumple into a puddle of blubbering rubber and flood the stage with tears.
I’m never going to sing again.
And that’s that.
“COME ON, VIC!” Scott shouts.
My lips are clamped closed. I shake my head.
Scott drapes his arm around my shoulders and sings the first stanza himself, his face and mic an inch from mine,
“Bullet proof heart of stone
Make you need me to the bone”
Then he jabs the mic in my face again.
I wince.
(never ever sing)
Having Scott so close, trying to make me sing when he knows I don’t sing, on stage no less, makes me physically nauseous. He knows better. Why is he tormenting me like this?
I shoot him a harsh look, but it bounces off his mirrored sunglasses, which are once again covering his mirrored eyes. Not that there’s much difference.
Scott sings the second stanza, his arm still holding onto my shoulders,
“Cock my hammer, pull my trigger
Let it go, let me go”
I take a deep breath, trying to relax.
I remind myself that Scott doesn’t know. Sure, I’ve told him I don’t sing many times. But he doesn’t know why.
(Stop!!!)
Maybe Scott is just trying to push me out of my comfort zone? I huff a silent derisive laugh. He certainly managed that.
Then, as if for the first time, I take note of the content of Scott’s lyrics for Bullet Proof. How had I not noticed the innuendo before? Maybe I was unconsciously blocking it out. Scott is basically telling all his Skin Slaves that he wants to fuck them with his love gun. No wonder he has so many groupies. And he wants me to sing it with him? He’s lost his mind.
But none of that is nearly as painful as the fact that I’m never going to sing.
(never ever ever sing)
Scott will always have the spotlight. My only time to really shine is during my guitar solos. And now
Scott is preempting my solos like he did a minute ago? What’s his problem?
I feel so flustered right now, all I can do is stare at my feet.
Don’t think about singing Don’t think about singing Don’t think about singing
That’s not helping.
I wish Scott would let go of my shoulders. He’s making me uncomfortable.
My eyes are hot. I’m going to start crying. I need a good distraction or else I’m going to take my guitar off and throw it neck first through the nearest amplifier like a spear. Or wield it like a battle axe and chop Scott’s head off.
Scott.
Yuck.
I shake my head and smirk to myself and glance at the crowd. Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be playing a show. For them. Not indulging in an onstage pity party. Luckily I know Bullet Proof so well, I haven’t missed a beat.
Scott releases his hold on my shoulders and leaps on top of the two center monitors at the front of the stage. He sings the final lines of the chorus balanced with one leg on each monitor, thrusting his crotch at the audience,
“Baby, I’m your bullet proof
I lean into your groove
Between your legs, baby
I’m your bullet proof”
Now that Scott isn’t hanging all over me, I can snicker as I listen to his lyrics. I roll my eyes and shake my head.
Scott, Scott, Scott.
He’s so rock and roll.
I strut to the front of stage right and plant one platform heel on top of my own monitor. I can be rock and roll too.
Good thing I’m wearing pants and not a skirt because I suddenly notice Brown Eyes staring up at me from between my legs. He’s grinning and pointing a finger gun at me and pretends to shoot my crotch. I get the impression he’s mocking Scott’s lyrics. Ha! I break into a fit of little giggles.
The giggles get bigger as I saunter a few steps backward, breaking eye contact with Brown Eyes. If I don’t, I’m going to laugh so hard I won’t be able to play. I shake off the laughter as best I can, concentrating on my hands.
I take a deep cleansing breath and feel better immediately. I needed that.
Thank you, Brown Eyes.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to play my guitar solo now, or if we’re going to skip it? I make eye contact with Bobby and Rex. They transition straight into the final verse, and Scott sings the lyrics. I guess we’re skipping my solo.
Again.
I wish they’d given me the memo before the show.
The more I think about it, the more it irks me.
Whatever, boys. I’ll bring it up backstage.
I’ve never been afraid to call my bandmates out on their bullshit. In private, anyway. Never on stage. Scott really should’ve given me some warning.
I bury my irritation by focusing on my playing.
The verse riff is pretty basic, so my hands are totally on auto pilot. Next thing I know, I’m analyzing Scott’s Bullet Proof lyrics again.
What’s up with the bit about the heart of stone, and making you need him? My chest tightens and I suddenly wonder if that’s how Scott sees me? Does he view me as an adversary? That’s no way to build a relationship. Is it possible Scott is way more fucked up than I realized? Lead singer of a hard rock band?
Gee whiz, you think?
And what about the line, “Let it go, let me go?” Is Scott trying to tell me something through his lyrics he doesn’t have the balls to tell me to my face?
I shake my head and glance at the crowd, not liking where my mind is going. I need another distraction or I really will chop Scott’s head off with my guitar. In front of our biggest crowd ever. While that might generate a lot of buzz for the band, I won’t be able to reap the rewards if I’m stuck in prison for murder.
I notice Brown Eyes pointing his finger gun at me again. He’s smiling a mile wide.
I smile back at him.
This time, he squints one eye like he’s taking careful aim at my crotch. After he fires his finger gun, he blows pretend smoke from his index finger.
I throw my head back and outright laugh.
I laugh the entire time Scott sings the final chorus about how he’s bullet proof.
I laugh at Scott.
I laugh at his lyrics.
And I laugh because if I don’t, I’m going to cry over the fact I’m not singing on stage.
(never ever ever sing)
I’m never going to sing on stage.
(sing)
All I can do is laugh at my pain.
(singsingsing)
Chapter 9
KELLAN
The crowd on the rail batters my back, but I don’t care.
I’m 100% focused on this hot chick guitar goddess. I’m totally amused that I made her laugh at my stupid finger guns while she’s on stage.
For some reason, I feel like I’m in a movie scene and I’m playing the lone astronaut trapped on a desolate planet with no other people for twenty years. When the rescue rocket finally lands, the person who comes out of the rocket is the hottest, coolest babe in the history of hot babes. The fact that the astronaut hasn’t seen a single woman in twenty years makes the rocket babe a million times hotter. Right now, despite all the choice babes I’ve had in my life up to this point, I feel like that astronaut.
None of the women I’ve hooked up with have had a tenth of what the guitar goddess has in looks and talent. Even if she’s mute and can’t talk, we can spend the rest of our lives playing guitar together and never get bored. I can tell. The way she plays, she has substance and depth. She’s not just technically good. She plays with heart and guts. Her guitar is an extension of her voice and you can hear every emotion in the notes she plays.
Incredible.
And right now, I’m soaring like that stranded astronaut because me and this guitar goddess are connecting like crazy. Which is weird, because I can tell there’s a weird tension between her and her bandmates as they play through their set. She keeps frowning at them because things aren’t going as planned. But they shrug it off like it’s no big deal. It could just be regular band drama. Or something more serious?
Who knows.
All I really care about is my guitar goddess. Now that she’s seen me, she can’t keep her eyes off me. Every time we trade a look, she blushes and hides her face in her hair.
I still have a rager in my pants.
If I can find her outside the club after the show, I’m totally going to hook up with her. If she skates out of here, I’ll track her down and hook up with her later.
But I have to talk to this guitar goddess.
She starts her next solo. I air guitar along with her, mimicking her moves. I make sure to waggle my tongue a lot and cross my eyes. She giggles when I do. I don’t know why I’m acting so smitten. I never act goofy around girls. I don’t have to. I just nod and smile and that’s about all it takes.
But I’m entranced by Guitar Goddess’ virtuosity.
Am I turning into a fanboy at her feet?
Could be.
She doesn’t know it, but I can tell where she gets most of her licks. Jimi Hendrix, Ritchie Blackmore, tons of Yngwie, legato George Lynch moves, even some ultra melodic Vito Bratta and Joe Satriani. But she ties everything together with her own original approach.
Maybe me and her will stroll down to The Viper Room for drinks after the show and talk guitar until we close out the bar. Then we can go back to her place and hook up. Because she is incredibly hot. Her liquid leather pants leave nothing to the imagination. If her Strat wasn’t hanging between her legs, I’d be staring at her crotch half the time.
While the lead singer is singing to his adoring female fans, Guitar Goddess saunters right over to me for like the tenth time.
I shout up at her, “IS YOUR NAME JAMIE HENDRIX?”
She frowns and smiles. “WHAT?”
It’s so loud, she probably can’t hear me. “I SAID, IS YOUR NAME JAMIE HENDRIX!!!”
She shakes her head and points at her ear
s.
If I was anybody else, this would be the point where Guitar Goddess politely ignored me and went back to playing her set.
Lucky for me, nothing ever goes normally in my world.
I wave my hand at her, signaling for her to come closer. I’m slightly surprised when she leans down toward me.
Undeterred, I say, “IS YOUR NAME JAMIE HENDRIX?”
It takes her a moment, then a second later she expertly drops the melody riff from Purple Haze right into the middle of her band’s song, then continues like everything was normal.
We’ll definitely have to talk guitar over drinks now. Based on how she made a joke with the Purple Haze lick, this chick is fucking cool. I smile from ear to ear thinking about it.
Her bass player frowns at her because he noticed the Purple Haze lick. I’m sure no one in the audience noticed, but her band did. Whatever. I’m having a blast.
When the goddess plays her next guitar solo, I’m air guitaring along with her and cheering with the guys around me, making twice as much noise as any of them. I get so into it, I slap time with both my hands on the monitor speaker where she’s resting one of her spiked heels like we’re playing together.
She smiles at me and I’m in heaven.
The lead singer struts over to her side of the stage with his mic stand in both hands, swaying to the groove. Out of nowhere he hip checks her and she stumbles back, taking her foot off the monitor to maintain her balance.
She almost trips on her platform heels, but manages to recover.
What a dick move.
The singer points a finger gun at me and shoots it.
Then he flips me off.
Whoops.
Is he the boyfriend of the guitar goddess?
If he is, she needs a new boyfriend.
Me.
Chapter 10
VICTORY
I nearly break my ankle when Scott bumps me off the front monitor. “WHAT THE HELL!” I shout at him while still playing my guitar.
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