by Nora Flite
Me, I thought, climbing into the car with great effort.
I was the one who'd changed him.
- Chapter Thirteen -
Drezden
When the car came back for me twenty minutes later, my anger had faded into something less volatile. Dropping the last of my third cigarette to the ground, I crushed it under my heel. I had no idea when the last time I'd smoked so much was.
The sidewalks leading up to the Fillmore were packed with wandering people. The show would be starting soon, the place was about to get swarmed. And all because of me, I mused silently.
Normally I'd be getting amped up right now—thinking about the energy of the crowd, the way my teeth would vibrate as the speakers roared with my voice. But I couldn't focus; my mind was elsewhere.
Pushing my cheek onto the window, my breath fogged up the glass. Idly, I pressed my finger there and dragged it to create a single letter:
L.
Lola Cooper.
I'd been miserable back in my hotel room. Knowing that Lola was right nearby, right in the opposite room, had been maddening. I'd paced in a circle, finally deciding to try and shake off my unspent energy by warming up my vocals for the shows.
And then I'd heard her guitar.
That sound had taken away my ability to sing; just for a second, but that was ages to me. Lola could have stayed silent. Instead, she'd joined me with her music, our song entwining into one with only a simple wall between us.
Always a wall of some kind.
I wanted to tear every fucking wall down with my bare hands.
Shaking off the memory, I stepped out of the parked car. The crowds outside of the blocked off lot screamed at the sight of me. Bending my head low, I followed the throng of gigantic men in Security shirts through the back of the building.
Drums thumped in the halls, a bass rocking the air with its low ripples—Porter and Colt were doing sound check. The trail of music guided me behind a dark curtain, bodies murmuring and stomping as they ran around to get everything ready backstage.
Then I saw her.
Lola was poking her guitar, not noticing my arrival. Her hair swept over part of her temple; I buzzed with my desire to close our distance and brush those strands behind her ear.
A hand came down on my shoulder. “Drezden! There you are!” Brenda huffed, blowing her bangs from her eyes. “You almost missed sound check.”
“Almost,” I agreed. My brief moment of invisibility was over, everyone had noticed me. There were several other bands prepping in the area, as well as some fans sporting special VIP passes. I flashed a lazy smile at all of them. “Sorry for the wait. I'm here, let's get this done.”
Lola shot me a quick look—was she relieved? —before she went back to tweaking at her guitar. Porter nodded knowingly, while Colt flipped a drum-stick and rolled his eyes. He was probably thinking that, even now, I was stealing the show.
The girls with their special passes giggled at me, doing their best to look both casual and interested. Scanning the group, I started towards my mic stand—then I stopped. Someone else was here that I should have expected, but in my distracted state, hadn't. He was standing off to the side, his intense eyes pulling me in among the sea of faces.
Sean Cooper.
He was hovering near some guys that I assumed were from Barbed Fire. I didn't know for sure, I didn't give a lot of thought to the other bands on the tour. As it was, I'd rarely seen any of them backstage before a show. In a set up like ours, with my band headlining, it was rare for anyone but us to get a chance to do sound check.
I guess they got a chance tonight because of how late I was.
Ignoring him, I scooped up my microphone. Glancing upwards, I spotted the guy who would help test the speakers and make sure that I—that we—sounded perfect. He dipped his chin, wordlessly understanding that I was ready.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Lola watching me again. There were so many things I wanted to say to her. A thousand words that would never explain the conflict inside of me.
So I said nothing.
And neither did she.
****
The Fillmore was a mosaic of faces and bodies. They shoved and shouted and begged for the show to go on. Barbed Fire had finished their first song, they were opening for us and they were killing it.
I watched from backstage as Sean Cooper scratched his guitar. He tore it to pieces, like it was an enemy he wanted to maim. The guy was good—better than he'd been two years ago. Hearing his sound, his style, I knew Lola had learned from him.
My mouth twisted perversely at one fact:
Lola was better.
I wonder if he knows. Staring at his broad back, shoulders rippling with effort, I fought down a wicked grin. If he didn't know yet, he'd learn tonight.
I gave the band credit, though. They'd warmed the crowd up for us. Their singer, a guy named Thomas, stopped their set long enough to welcome everyone to the Fillmore. He said what he was contracted to, mentioning all the bands that were playing on the tour. And, especially, highlighting Four and a Half Headstones.
There were still plenty of people rushing around backstage. Standing off to the side, I didn't think anyone would notice me. A gentle cough proved me wrong.
Lola was wearing dark, ripped skinny jeans and a top that strained over her chest. It was similar to the outfit she'd worn in the promo photos. No question, Brenda had dressed her intentionally. My manager was doing her best to burn Lola into everyone's heads.
“Hey,” she mouthed, the music drowning her out. Her extra-tall boot kicked at the floor. Could she walk in those? Before I could say anything back, her blue eyes abandoned me, leaving a hole in me as they did.
She stared out at the brightly lit stage, absorbing her brother's performance as intensely as I had been doing. Leaning down, I spoke right in her ear; the way she gasped gave me a thrill. “They're playing really good.”
Lola's nose nearly touched mine when she twisted towards me. “They always play really good! You've been on the tour with them, haven't you heard them before?”
A hot flash crept up my neck. Normally I did sound check, then vanished until it was time for me to play. The other bands were just blurry noise in the background. I should have paid more attention. It didn't matter.
The only band that I needed to focus on was mine.
“Sure,” I said quickly. “Listen. We go on after the next group, come get some air with me.”
Brushing back her thick curls, she peeked longingly out at the stage. Barbed Fire had one more song left. I knew her answer before she spoke. “Not yet.”
Drums crashed, muffling my words. “You've heard them a million times. Why do you need to be here for this, too?”
A crisp frost inched along her lips. It stuck them into an immovable frown. “Because I want to be.”
Without a counter argument in my pocket, I just shrugged. “Fine.” My fingers touched my empty pack of cigarettes. “That's fine. I'll just—fine.” Even the small denials from Lola drove me insane.
Shoving around her, I hurried towards the side door that led to a small, walled off patio outside, a place for the crew to take their breaks. With a band on stage, the area was empty.
Slumping to the cold ground, I pursed my lips. My breath swirled, the closest thing to smoke that I had. I should have saved one damn cigarette. Fuck. I'm smoking too much. It was so hard to hold back. Lola was my new addiction, but when she wouldn't allow me to have a hit, tobacco was all that remained. It paled next to her.
Scratching my hair vigorously, I sighed. I'd told Lola that I didn't get scared before shows anymore. I wished I was scared, though. Feeling anything but starvation for a woman who kept resisting me would have been easier to handle.
Palming my forehead, I gazed up at the burning orange sky. An early moon dangled in the corner. The laugh that escaped me was unsettling. What the hell is this? What do I do with this fucking itch?
I'd have ripped my flesh from my bone
s if it allowed me to feel normal again.
Through the thick walls, the music died. Cheers replaced it; Barbed Fire had finished. It meant Lola would be celebrating with her brother. We'll be playing in front of that audience soon. In a short time, everyone would see Lola. Really see her. They'd bask in her fucking music, longing to celebrate with her when it was all done. I was going to lose her in a sea of eager fans.
Shutting my eyes, I thought about the elevator. Her lips had been so eager—I hadn't expected her to stop me. Buzzing with energy, I'd started to sing in my room afterwards. Together, we'd played a private show blindly through our hotel walls.
The music was one thing, but knowing she was there... I'd called out to her. I'd placed my forehead on the cool plaster, imagined touching her, grinding the wall down and holding her close.
Crushing my head in my hands, I hung it between my knees and laughed again. I kicked Johnny out of the band so he wouldn't drag us all down. I brought Lola on to save us. Now, I'll be dragged into hell by her instead.
Lola had wrecked me. There was no coming back from this. The only way to get some control was to sate this damn need I had for her. I knew that if I couldn't taste her—hold her... Fuck her... I'd go insane. I couldn't take being so close to her all the time. How could my band survive if I was busy losing my mind?
"Drez!" Brenda shouted, both before and after she kicked the patio door open. "There you are! I knew you'd be out here getting a smoke. Come on, the show is about to start!" When she looked at my face, she stopped. "Are you okay?"
Nope, I thought dryly. Filling my chest, I climbed to my feet. "I'm ready. Let's do this."
I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready for Lola.
But she was about to debut in front of the entire world.
I wouldn't miss being part of that for anything.
****
The crowd was screaming for blood.
Luckily, I was ready to empty my veins.
Everyone in the Fillmore was at peak levels. They'd been waiting for us: Four and a Half Headstones. We walked onto the stage one by one, and each time, the screams grew wilder.
Looking out over the ocean of blurry faces, I glimpsed signs toting our names... even Lola's. Some of the giant pieces of cardboard demanded we bring back Johnny. Our fans were ready to judge our decision. To judge her.
A flicker of worry stalled my heart.
If Lola played poorly they would not be kind. She stood to the side, purple Stratocaster at the ready. It was her armor. Lola looked at me, a silent cry for help or strength or maybe that I just wake her up from this dream.
All I could do was smile and hope it inspired confidence in her.
I wanted us to please our fans. I also didn't want to lose Lola to them. It was a conflicting knot of emotions. I grabbed the microphone, throttled it like it was my wandering brain. “Hey there, Denver.” My voice was sugar and velvet. As I expected, the crowd exploded in a roar. It was unadulterated energy, a drug that ruled me.
I needed more.
“You know,” I said, walking across the wide stage. “This is our first time playing at the Fillmore.” More noise, I waited for them to calm down. “But it isn't the first time I've been here.” Curiosity and excitement rolled over the sea of people.
It was exactly what I wanted.
Turning, I found Lola watching me. I'd never seen her eyes so big. “I came when I was a kid. And you know, back then? All I could think about was that someday, maybe I'd make it here.” My stare wandered over the arena. “Maybe I'd get to play.” One, two, let them breathe. The strained patience was overwhelming, but this wasn't my first rodeo.
Timing was everything.
I shook my head and said, “Well. Here I am. Guess it's time to do what I wished to back then...” With a giant smile that flashed all my teeth, I winked. “Bring this place to its fucking knees.”
That was it. The crowd was done.
In the canvas of the stage—my stage—clean drum taps signaled the beginning of our set. Colt primed the air for our art, silencing the audience to a low rumble. My mouth tasted like adrenaline mixed with cotton candy; everything tingled.
This was my first love: music. Lola stood at the ready, stroking her strings. This. This will replace the void she's created.
She smiled at me, and I knew that wasn't true.
Into the mic, I roared as only a man falling to pieces could. I was held together by determination; fragile and ghastly at the same time. Caught in my blast, the world would be destroyed. I'd revel and dance in the hot ashes.
Singing the words of Tuesday Left Behind, I showed the crowd who we were. Four and a Half Headstones had changed when we lost Johnny Muse. But not in a bad way. We sounded better than we had in months.
I should have kicked him out sooner.
If I had, would I have ever met Lola Cooper?
She clawed her guitar, eliciting notes that turned me inside out. The people felt it, too; they became nothing but tooth-filled mouths that begged for more. They wouldn't lynch her. They couldn't, not when they'd just learned what I recently had.
Lola was beyond amazing.
Every song merged together for me. They made a map that took the audience through a world of smoke, charcoal and rust. They tasted our enthusiasm, reveled in every lyric like I'd written it just for them. By our last song, I was panting. Sweat turned my skin bronze; shiny and new.
The back of my shirt was soaked through. The front, well... The eyes of every girl in the first row says it all. “Listen up,” I whispered into the mic. “This is our last song.” I let the cries of sadness die out. “It's my favorite. Maybe yours, too.”
Porter and Colt summoned the first notes that heralded No More Stars.
Bathing in the cheers, I stalked across the stage. Lola met my eyes. She was glowing, lips puckered. Everything in her face, her aura, made me think of sex. I wanted to grab her, kiss her harder than I had in the elevator.
The gravity between us tugged. I saw it, how her joy stumbled. She wasn't angry. It wasn't the cold wall of rejection. With the heat of our momentum—the music—sinking into both our souls...
Lola shivered with lust.
Fuck. Fucking hell.
Pouring that voracious need into my voice, I belted out the words to No More Stars. She followed me down, rampaging over her strings. Nothing could stop us; none of us.
Four and a Half Headstones was whole.
Once I had Lola...
I would be whole, too.
- Chapter Fourteen -
Lola
I'd never felt more alive.
Perspiration ran down my sternum, the backs of my knees were taut as elastics. I thought, if I tried, I could have jumped straight up and never come down.
This was what playing music was all about.
Laughing, crying, none of it mattered; none of it would have helped. I was a bundle of nerves ready to explode. Or, perhaps I had exploded. My ears were ringing, the powder keg of my mind leaving fragments that coated one word across the inside my skull.
Rock star.
I was a fucking rock star.
When I used to stand backstage or in a crowd during shows, I thought I knew what it would be like to play in front of so many people. I thought I understood.
I didn't have a clue.
Drezden pranced for them, he stormed and kicked and screamed. Veins stood out on his throat. The insides of his forearms became trails, his tattoos rippling while he strangled the microphone. In his element, he was more beautiful than ever.
I'd been worried I'd fumble, but something had changed; the concentrated essence of his voice wasn't aimed at me. Standing back where I was, I was spared his attack.
It was the crowd that took every hit.
The ending notes of No More Stars faded in my ears. No, not yet. I'm not done yet. On a whim, I tangled up my strings and extended the music. It was spontaneous, but the fans wailed for more. Next to me, Porter and Colt went silent. Abruptly, I was pe
rforming a guitar solo.
I met Drezden's gaze. Like that day, when I'd auditioned, I felt the pull from him. This was the man who turned me inside out. He felt his way into me with just his eyes. Drezden didn't need anything else to touch that place deep down in my core.
Quaking in my vinyl boots, I let my guitar go; it swung from its strap like a pendulum.
The dead silence was brief, swallowed up by the black hole of the Fillmore's crowd. It was as if every single person in there was making as much noise as they could.
They crowed for an encore, but someone was leading me off stage. Without thinking, I ripped my arm away. I didn't want to go anywhere! This was my home, my life, and every nerve begged to keep me standing in the worship of—
“Lola,” Sean said, teeth glinting. “Lola! Holy shit! You were amazing!”
I shoved him backwards with my hug. Together, we stumbled backstage, away from the blinding lights. “Sean! Sean, oh my gosh! Did you see? Did you see that?”
We were jumping, a mess of shouts that kept building with our excitement. What we said didn't matter. Only our feelings counted.
Gripping my shoulders, he gave me a shake that rattled my teeth. “How did you get so good?”
Feeling cocky, I let myself smirk. “I was always that good.”
Sean's forehead wrinkled. My gut said I'd gone too far, until I noticed he was looking just past me. Turning, I stepped aside and found Drezden within arm's reach. “She is really good,” the singer said. Reaching out, he offered his hand to my brother. “Long time no see.”
“Well,” Sean said, accepting the handshake. “Not exactly. I've seen you a bunch.”
The tightness in Drez's smile unnerved me. “These tours get busy for me, sorry I didn't come over before now.”
I didn't have time to get anxious from their tension. A crowd was forming, Brenda leading Porter and Colt our way. “Great job tonight, guys,” she said. She beamed at me, then spotted my brother. “You especially, Lola. Sean! Hey, good opening act.”
“Thanks.” Thumbing his ear, he looked over us all. “Getting packed back here. Lola, me and the guys are going to be partying at a place down the street. I'll text you if you want to show up for the afterparty, okay?”