by Karina Halle
Jacob shot her a look over his shoulder. When his amber eyes narrowed, he looked positively avian. “You don’t call the shots, missy. You wanted to come along and along you came.”
She sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, looking out the window with annoyance. “Had I known it would take so long, I would have sent someone else to get the alcohol.”
I felt like I had to say something. “I’m sorry the flight was a bit late and—”
“And now,” she added, still not looking at me, “I have to watch what I say because some groupie is in the car.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I’m not a groupie!”
The cab driver and Jacob exchanged a look and the car roared off. I was thrown back a bit and I made sure I was fastened in properly.
Noelle rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.
“I’m a journalist,” I went on to say even though it didn’t seem like anyone was listening. Jacob was grinning like a madman from the front seat, like he was really enjoying himself.
“You’ll have to excuse Noelle here,” he finally explained, tucking away those big teeth. “She’s the girl of the group. You might be infringing on her territory a wee bit.”
I gave him a funny look. Well why the hell did he want me to come on the road with him if he thought it was going to be a problem?
Never mind, suck it up, I told myself. I was obviously a bundle of nerves and taking things the wrong way. I’d win Noelle over sooner or later. She was just one tiny piece of the band, albeit a fairly formidable one considering the chill she was giving off with her cold shoulder.
I took a deep breath and gave them both a smile I hoped was charming and understanding. “No worries, we have plenty of time to get to know each other. Tonight I guess is all about settling in.”
“Yeah, you have the easy part,” Noelle said to me out of the corner of her mouth. Her arms were still crossed. “This is the start of our tour. I…fuck, Jacob, how long till the store?”
Jacob patted the cabbie on the shoulder. “Pull over at the nearest establishment, good sir.”
The cabbie gave him an eye roll that rivaled Noelle’s but did as he asked. Soon we were rolling into a generic-looking liquor store, all pale blue paint and gold letters.
Noelle sighed, either annoyed or relieved, then put her palm flat out toward Jacob. He put a few bills in her hand. “This is part of the room and board,” he told me with a wink. “You’re included, Dawn. Go in with Noelle and pick your lot.”
I raised my brows at him. Noelle had closed her hand over the money and was out the door and walking fast toward the entrance.
“Go on,” he said, nodding at her. “Give her a hand. And make sure she doesn’t steal anything.”
He looked serious, so I couldn’t figure out if it was true or not. No matter, if the band tour manager wanted me to follow Noelle, bassist of Hybrid, into a liquor store, then that’s what I was going to do.
I walked into the store, the air conditioning smelling like ice, and went over to Noelle who was perusing the vodka section.
“Looking for something in particular?” I asked. Sometimes I sucked at small talk.
“Maybe.” She straightened up and glanced over at the cashier. His back was turned to us, arranging a display on the wall. She quickly unscrewed the cap off a bottle of Smirnoff and quickly chugged a mouthful. Then she wiped her lips, put it back on the shelf and grabbed the expensive vodka next to it. She repeated it all over again, keeping her eyes on the cashier but never looking the slightest bit chagrined or worried.
I was aware that my mouth was hanging open a little so I closed it. “Taste testing?”
She screwed the cap back on.
“Jacob never gives us enough money, and I heard half the fucking venues don’t even supply the kicks anymore. Fucking economy.”
After she had her third mouthful of vodka, a relaxed glaze had come over her eyes.
“Hey, wanna be of help to us?” she said lazily, scooping three bottles of Smirnoff into her arms. “You go get the beers. A case of Corona. A case of Carlsberg. A flat of Heineken.”
I was strong but if she thought I could carry all of that, she was crazy. And judging from the way she had moved on down the aisle and was putting mini bottles of booze into the tops of her boots, there was no disputing it.
Oh boy. What exactly had I got involved with here?
I made my way over to the beer fridges, aware that we could get totally busted at any moment and I would be guilty by association. I thought Mel could be a badass at times, but Noelle was taking the cake and enjoying every mouthful.
I took what I could to the counter where Noelle was waiting, seemingly impatient. She had the bottles of vodka, a bottle of Crown Royal, a bottle of Jameson, and two boxes of red wine. I hoped that was their booze for the week and not just the night. I knew Hybrid got in trouble sometimes for being disorderly, but I didn’t think it was this bad.
It took two trips to get the booze out to the car, with Jacob sitting in the car watching us the whole time. I wondered if he hoped it would be some sort of bonding experience between Noelle and I. I couldn’t tell you if it worked. As we drove off toward the amphitheater, which was a long drive out of the city, she went back to being quiet and sullen.
And I went back to overthinking things. As the realization that I was actually in a car with Hybrid’s bassist and manager began to sink in, I started focusing on another problem—one that I could see becoming a shadow over this whole tour. Just what the hell was I supposed to write about here?
When I had called Barry back and told him I was on board with the idea, he barely gave me any ideas for the piece. He said it could run on the cover, which was unbelievable, but it really depended on what I came up with, what it was going to be about. The last thing I wanted was a poor version of celebrity journalism, talking about the shoplifting habit of their bassist. I wanted it to be about the music and I hoped that’s where it was going to go.
I took in a deep breath and let my eyes drift over the mountain scenery as the cab drove towards the range. I needed advice but I didn’t have anyone to give it to me. Even if Ryan and I were still together, every time I mentioned writing, his eyes would glaze over. He loved the music part and loved sharing music with me, but I never had the impression he thought I was going to do anything great with it. My dad was a good listener when sober, but he wasn’t one for advice. Mel’s opinion would get me into trouble. Anything Jacob said would be biased, and Barry didn’t seem like someone you could bug. Besides, I wanted to come off stronger than I was. The only person I could think of would be the young music journalist Cameron Crowe. The kid was only sixteen and writing genius articles for Rolling Stone. But he was famous now and in a class of his own. Not my class, not by a long shot.
I needed a mentor. Maybe I should have had one all along.
And now, I realized, I had been thrown right into the deep end.
Alone.
Thank god I knew how to swim.
Four
It wasn’t long before the cab rolled up to the Red Rocks Amphitheatre. My heart went pitter-patter over the sight of the famous red rocks flanking the sides of the natural arena, a desert-like oasis. This was the place where The Beatles rocked in 1964, where Jethro Tull’s sold out show a few years ago led to the “Riot at Red Rocks” and a five-year ban on rock concerts. The ban was apparently still in place; the only way Hybrid was able to play was because they were the opener for Pretty Mary and both of them were playing “unplugged” or acoustic only.
Still, by the looks of the fans who had already begun to ascend on the venue, an acoustic show didn’t keep out the rockers. I had only heard about their acoustic only show on the ride over and I was totally intrigued by it. No wonder they had wanted me for the start of their tour; this was something that not many rock bands did, let alone one that gave Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin a run for their money.
The cab was only able to get so far before we were met wit
h the barricade that cut off the road from the backstage area. We climbed out of the car, armed to the neck with alcohol, and made our way toward the guard at the gate.
Jacob was talking to him, motioning his head in my direction.
“The other redhead is with us.”
“Where’s her pass?” asked the unsmiling guard. He was built like Andre the Giant, only Andre smiled a lot more.
Jacob sighed. “I don’t have it on me. It’s inside. I’ll come show you later, okay, mate?”
“She can’t come in without a pass. Rules.”
Noelle rolled her eyes at the hold-up and quickly flashed her badge from out of her purse. She pushed past the guard and disappeared into the darkening area behind the stage.
Jacob looked back at me and seemed to be thinking.
A cool breeze came rolling down the cliffsides and mussed up my hair. I felt disheveled and stupid standing there with my arms wrapped around two cases of beer, being told I couldn’t come inside like I wasn’t good enough.
Jacob came over, set the flat down on the dusty ground, and pulled his laminated pass over his head. He placed it around my own neck, giving me a look. “I’d go and get it but I’m afraid you’ll take off with everyone’s beer. And if Mickey doesn’t get his Carlsberg, he’s gonna be right pissed. Try to follow Noelle. The band should be in their dressing room, if not the bus. And tell someone to come get me, please.”
He gave me a little shove toward the guard. Shoving seemed to be his thing.
Suddenly I was full of panic. I couldn’t go in alone! I was already getting flack and I wasn’t even inside the venue yet.
“Who do I ask? Where do I go?”
“Are you deaf, woman? Get someone. Preferably from the band. You do remember what the band looks like, right?”
I nodded dumbly and found myself walking past the guard with Jacob’s pass around my neck. I shot Jacob a look through the chain link fence. He gave me a “bye bye” wave, before plucking a beer out of the flat and opening it with a satisfying crack.
I turned around and tried to get my bearings. I was behind the stage and it wasn’t at all like I pictured. The road continued off to the side, where two large buses sat. Along the rock faces, multiple doors disappeared into it, all guarded by different men, checking passes for everyone. At the stage area, a few lucky souls were lined up along the side, while sound technicians fiddled with the board and roadies ran about with instruments.
I looked down at the pass that was resting on top of the case of Carlsberg. It said ALL ACCESS across it. If I wasn’t so lost and nervous, I would have felt like doing a little kick of joy. All my passes before were either photo or media passes—I’d never had the coveted All Access Backstage Pass for anything before.
“Hey, those beers for me?”
I looked to my left to see a cute, smiling guy in a Sabbath t-shirt approaching me.
I smiled uneasily at him. “No, they’re for Hybrid, and apparently Mickey will be pissed if he doesn’t get his share soon.”
I hoped I sounded cool.
“Good point,” he said. He stood beside me and peered down at my pass. “Ooh, All Access. Aren’t you fancy?”
I took a quick glance at his pass and found it to be hanging off the side of his jeans. I guess that was the cool way to wear it.
“You’re apparently fancy, too.”
He grinned. He reminded me a bit of Robert Redford, if Redford had a slight beer belly, tattoos, shaggy black hair, and a mustache. He held out his hands.
“Well, here let me help you. I promise not to drink any.”
I let him take the Corona but kept the Carlsberg close to my chest.
“I’m Chip, by the way.”
“Dawn.”
“And so, Dawn,” he said, “might I ask why you have Mickey Brown and Sage Knightly’s beer?”
So the Corona was for Sage. Interesting. I think that was the most I knew about him.
And here went the spiel I’d have to repeat for the month of August.
“I’m a music journalist for Creem Magazine. I’m going on the road with the band for this tour, and hopefully if I write a good enough story, I can get the band on the cover.”
He raised his brow. “And are you a fan of the band?”
I grinned. “One of the biggest.”
He returned the smile. “Well aren’t they lucky. For once, they get a journalist who’s a fan and she ends up being a hot chick on top of it.”
That thing where I rarely blushed? It was happening again.
“I’m just hoping they won’t toss me out of the bus in the middle of Kansas,” I said, thinking of moody Noelle.
“No way. Anything goes with Hybrid, so as long as you keep the alcohol flowing and the coke powdered.”
Now it was my time to raise my brows.
He stroked his mustache and looked chagrined. “Ah, fuck. I guess I shouldn’t be telling you these things, should I? Hell, you’re going to be on the road with us, you’d find out sooner or later.”
“Us?” I repeated.
He nodded. “I’m the sound tech. I like to think I’m the best, but I’m really just the most loyal. Come on, let’s get those boys some beers.”
I looked back at Jacob on the other side of the fence. He was drinking his beer and talking to a few people.
“Jacob needs a pass too,” I told him. “He gave me his.”
Chip raised his hand in the air in dismissal and started walking toward the buses. “Jacob’s The Cob, man. He can take care of himself.”
I shot Jacob one last glance and then hurried after Chip, the bottles in the box rattling against each other.
He stopped in front of one of the buses, an aging forty foot behemoth of scuffed chrome and peeling green paint. The windows were tinted, but from the faint afternoon light coming in the other side, I could see movement inside and silhouettes. The vague drone of a stereo emanated from the closed doors.
“This is it. The Green Machine,” he said, looking up at the bus with pride. “She’s a piece of shit but we’ve decided to love her anyway.”
He gave me a coy glance over his shoulder.
“You ready to meet the band and your home for the next few weeks?”
My mouth went all dry and I couldn’t speak. I nodded slowly, my body caught in a net of apprehension. My fingers gripped the box of beer until it hurt, and I had the greatest urge to just run far, far away.
He let out a laugh, clearly amused by my attack of nerves, and pounded his fist on the bus door.
“Let me in, you fuckers!” he demanded.
The bus swayed back and forth slightly. The door proceeded to shudder and then eased open with a hiss of hydraulics.
He went up the first few steps, passing the beer to someone inside who I couldn’t see properly, and paused.
“Are you guys ready to meet Rusty?” he yelled into the bus.
Rusty? I was Rusty now?
“Who the fuck is Rusty?” someone hollered back.
“It’s that groupie chick,” I heard Noelle say from inside.
I nearly dropped the entire case of beer on my foot. My fingers clung on strong with anger instead of nerves.
“Well, I don’t think she’s a groupie, per se…” Chip trailed off. He looked over at me. “Well, get on over here and say hello.”
I took in a deep breath and willed my legs to move. Somehow my sneakers carried me to the bus door and I climbed up the stairs until I was at the top of them beside Chip.
I gave him an anxious smile then turned to face everyone in the smoke-filled bus.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, that feeling of having a band that you loved, the faces you gazed at in magazines, the ones who created life-changing music, staring back at you, and only you. It was almost too much to take in at once, but my brain did a commendable job of taking a snapshot of it as Bad Company’s “Rock Steady” provided the soundtrack.
Behind the empty bus driver’s seat was a table with two benc
hes on either side of it. Noelle and Mickey sat on one side facing me, Noelle in his lap. Her arms were draped all over her boyfriend, the quiet rhythm guitarist. He was of medium height, dressed in khaki green suede that was too big for him. I’d seen pictures of him with his shirt off and he was pretty thin and ripped with fine muscle. His eyes were dark and wary, his hair long, his beard and mustache adequately bushy.
Across from him and turning around in his seat to see me was Robbie Oliver. The Robbie Oliver. The Metal Monkey. The Spazz of the Stage. The Singing Seducer. And he looked just like I imagined he would. He wasn’t the tallest guy, maybe my height, but he had a gymnast’s body that he usually showed off in the tightest pants and undershirts. He had moves, he was flexible, and on stage he was a maniac. Off stage he had a reputation for being a lady-killer. From what I understood, he had a fiancé in California, but that didn’t stop the rumors from flying.
And how could they not? Robbie had three things going for him: one, his charm—he was a gregarious man, full of snappy one-liners and quick wit. He was never rude to the press or to fans, even when they got too nosy or extreme. Two, his looks. Robbie was twenty-eight like most of the band and had that wonderful boy meets man appeal. His hair was a shiny and thick chestnut, the kind you’d see in shampoo commercials. It fell blunt across his forehead and longer in the back and nicely framed his sparkling blue eyes and dimples. He was somehow cute and sexy at the same time, and the sexiness came from three—the fact that he could sing the panties off of anyone. Any woman, anyway, and I was sure any man. Robbie Oliver was the man Mel waxed on about when we were going through the rock stars we’d like to shag list (I should not have to point out that the list was her idea and my only contribution was to nod and listen to her). She didn’t like Hybrid’s downtuned guitars, but she did love Robbie’s soaring voice.
And here he was, shirtless except for an open sky blue vest that matched his eyes. And he was looking at me. Smiling.
It took all my energy to look away, and when I did, my eyes rested on Graham Freed. He was sitting at the front of a long couch, closest to me. Graham was an amazing drummer and one of the key aspects to Hybrid’s success (in my opinion, anyway) but he certainly wasn’t the most charismatic. Oh, he wasn’t bad looking by a long shot—none of the guys in the band were anyone you’d find fault with. He had shoulder-length black hair and a thin beard and was covered in tattoos and strange piercings that made him look like a tribesman. He loved to admit his fascination with the occult, never really refuted the fact that he had ties to a Satanic church, and was just a general oddball. Of course, everyone knew the whole thing was bunk and it was just for show, but his opinions made him annoying. To me, Graham was always the disgruntled drummer of the band constantly vying for attention.