Rock Chick Reckoning
Page 56
“Couldn’t miss tonight,” he said, lifting a copy of USA Today I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Rock ‘n’ rol in the face of certain danger. I figured it’d be good but shit. Gotta tel you, Stel a, you and your boys delivered beyond expectation. Your set list is inspired.”
Then Dixon snapped the paper open and turned a page to face me.
On the page was a grainy photo of me and Mace making out last night onstage. I didn’t look at the caption; I was too busy staring at the photo. I, of course, had never seen myself kissing Mace (or anyone) and I was weirdly fascinated.
The photo was probably taken by a cel phone camera. It didn’t look great but it didn’t look bad either. In fact, the way I was bent over Mace’s arm, the drums in the background, Mace’s fist wrapped around the neck of my guitar, my hands clutching his broad shoulders, our lips locked, it looked hot.
Smokin’ hot.
Shitsofuckit!
“Holy crap,” Indy whispered.
“USA Today?” Jet breathed.
“I didn’t see that one,” Daisy muttered.
“Great f**kin’ picture,” Al y observed.
I took a step forward, my hand coming out to take the paper but I didn’t make it. Vance got there before me, tagged the paper and took a step back.
“You need to focus on the show,” Vance said to me, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm.
I stared at him, shocked. So did Dixon Jones. The Rock Chicks al looked at each other and they did it knowingly.
Not good.
Something was up.
I turned to Vance. “What are you? My manager?” Vance looked at his watch then back to me. “For the next two minutes, yeah.”
“Are not,” I snapped.
“Focus, Stel a,” Vance shot back.
“We need to talk,” Hector said to Dixon and I turned angry, confused eyes to Hector.
Dixon was also looking confused.
I looked back at Hector and read his intent.
Oh no.
This was not going to happen!
“Don’t talk to him,” I said to Dixon.
Now Dixon was looking at me and he stil appeared confused.
The Rock Chicks huddled closer except Shirleen. She approached Dixon.
“Yeah, Hector and me and you, we all got to talk,” Shirleen said to Dixon.
Oh dear.
This was getting worse.
“And me!” Daisy pressed forward.
Oh no!
Even worse!
“No!” I shouted, trying to move but for some reason Al y and Ava had me in a death grip.
Dixon swung his gaze from me to Daisy to Shirleen.
“Who’re you?” he asked Shirleen.
He asked Shirleen but Daisy answered.
“Managers. We all manage The Gypsies. Just like any real good, smokin’ hot rock band, they’re a handful, comprende?”
“They’re not my managers,” I told Dixon.
Shirleen had her fingers curled around Dixon’s upper arm and was leading him to the door. She leaned in toward his ear and lied, “She says that three times a day.” I looked to the ceiling and silently said a short, pointed prayer.
My prayer went ignored and, with a bemused glance over his shoulder at me, Dixon Jones disappeared behind the door.
I turned woodenly and looked at Al y. “What just happened?”
“Ask me no questions, I’l tel you no lies,” Al y replied.
My eyes narrowed and I could actual y feel my pulse beating in my throat.
Then I shouted, “What the ef does that mean?”
“That means,” Jet materialized in front of me, “you have to trust us.”
This was not good.
Not good at al .
They were up to something.
And I was pretty certain I knew what it was and I didn’t like it.
I shook my head at Jet. “Not with a scout I don’t.”
“Trust us,” Indy said, coming to stand by Jet.
Ef that!
“You al are f**king nuts. Everyone is f**king nuts! The world is f**king nuts!” I yel ed just as the door opened and Mace walked in.
Completely oblivious to my tantrum, Mace looked at me with stil angry eyes and announced, “Time for your last set and, Stel a, if there’s one f**kin’ song about death or guns, I’m gonna shoot you.”
Effing… bloody… hell.
* * * * *
We were scorching through our gig-ending “Ghostriders” when it happened. I’d managed to put everything to the back of my head and the last set, if possible, was better than the first three.
We’d started the set easing the crowd into the vibe by doing America’s “Ventura Boulevard”. We could burn the house down with chest-thumping rock ‘n’ rol but between Floyd, Buzz, Leo and me, we could also sing a powerful harmony and, even if I said so myself, our “Ventura Boulevard” was sweet.
We fol owed that with two more of Buzz and Leo’s new songs. When I introduced the songs the crowd shouted their approval so loud, they missed the first thirty seconds of the first song because their cheers were drowning out the music.
I got a warm fuzzy feeling watching the crowd’s approval wash over Buzz and Leo. My two boys glanced at each other, their faces an obvious mixture of the panic and thril I’d been feeling al day. But, with them, I could see the thril part was definitely winning.
Then we were done messing around. It was time to rock and we slid back into the theme of the night (Mace was just going to have to shoot me) with REO Speedwagon’s
“Ridin’ the Storm Out”, Mol y Hatchett’s “Flirtin’ with Disaster”, The Doobie Brothers’ “Dangerous” and final y
“Ghostriders”.
We were closing out the song. The crowd knew it and they were frenzied, hands up in the air, bodies swaying, catcal s piercing the air.
And it was then, riding the high of a great show, heart racing, blood pumping (thankful y), skin tingling, lips in a permanent happy grin, that I saw him.
A scruffy man wearing a beat-up army jacket over a tshirt, hair a mess, hands in the pockets of his jacket, he was making his way with determination toward Jet.
Through my buzz, two things hit me.
It was a warm end of May evening and jackets weren’t al owed.
Effing Monk!
Duke was again working the front of the stage but he didn’t see the guy and he had his back to me so I couldn’t catch his eye.
There were Hot Bunch men in range, in fact, the guy pushed right by Vance who was looking in the opposite direction.
Like last night, Lee was on the stage with the band. I kept playing but twisted my torso to look at Lee. I tried to catch his eye but he was on alert, not paying attention to me, his eyes were scanning the crowd.
Then Dixon snapped the paper open and turned a page to face me.
On the page was a grainy photo of me and Mace making out last night onstage. I didn’t look at the caption; I was too busy staring at the photo. I, of course, had never seen myself kissing Mace (or anyone) and I was weirdly fascinated.
The photo was probably taken by a cel phone camera. It didn’t look great but it didn’t look bad either. In fact, the way I was bent over Mace’s arm, the drums in the background, Mace’s fist wrapped around the neck of my guitar, my hands clutching his broad shoulders, our lips locked, it looked hot.
Smokin’ hot.
Shitsofuckit!
“Holy crap,” Indy whispered.
“USA Today?” Jet breathed.
“I didn’t see that one,” Daisy muttered.
“Great f**kin’ picture,” Al y observed.
I took a step forward, my hand coming out to take the paper but I didn’t make it. Vance got there before me, tagged the paper and took a step back.
“You need to focus on the show,” Vance said to me, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm.
I stared at him, shocked. So did Dixon Jones. The Rock Chicks al looked at each other and they did it knowingly.
Not good.
Something was up.
I turned to Vance. “What are you? My manager?” Vance looked at his watch then back to me. “For the next two minutes, yeah.”
“Are not,” I snapped.
“Focus, Stel a,” Vance shot back.
“We need to talk,” Hector said to Dixon and I turned angry, confused eyes to Hector.
Dixon was also looking confused.
I looked back at Hector and read his intent.
Oh no.
This was not going to happen!
“Don’t talk to him,” I said to Dixon.
Now Dixon was looking at me and he stil appeared confused.
The Rock Chicks huddled closer except Shirleen. She approached Dixon.
“Yeah, Hector and me and you, we all got to talk,” Shirleen said to Dixon.
Oh dear.
This was getting worse.
“And me!” Daisy pressed forward.
Oh no!
Even worse!
“No!” I shouted, trying to move but for some reason Al y and Ava had me in a death grip.
Dixon swung his gaze from me to Daisy to Shirleen.
“Who’re you?” he asked Shirleen.
He asked Shirleen but Daisy answered.
“Managers. We all manage The Gypsies. Just like any real good, smokin’ hot rock band, they’re a handful, comprende?”
“They’re not my managers,” I told Dixon.
Shirleen had her fingers curled around Dixon’s upper arm and was leading him to the door. She leaned in toward his ear and lied, “She says that three times a day.” I looked to the ceiling and silently said a short, pointed prayer.
My prayer went ignored and, with a bemused glance over his shoulder at me, Dixon Jones disappeared behind the door.
I turned woodenly and looked at Al y. “What just happened?”
“Ask me no questions, I’l tel you no lies,” Al y replied.
My eyes narrowed and I could actual y feel my pulse beating in my throat.
Then I shouted, “What the ef does that mean?”
“That means,” Jet materialized in front of me, “you have to trust us.”
This was not good.
Not good at al .
They were up to something.
And I was pretty certain I knew what it was and I didn’t like it.
I shook my head at Jet. “Not with a scout I don’t.”
“Trust us,” Indy said, coming to stand by Jet.
Ef that!
“You al are f**king nuts. Everyone is f**king nuts! The world is f**king nuts!” I yel ed just as the door opened and Mace walked in.
Completely oblivious to my tantrum, Mace looked at me with stil angry eyes and announced, “Time for your last set and, Stel a, if there’s one f**kin’ song about death or guns, I’m gonna shoot you.”
Effing… bloody… hell.
* * * * *
We were scorching through our gig-ending “Ghostriders” when it happened. I’d managed to put everything to the back of my head and the last set, if possible, was better than the first three.
We’d started the set easing the crowd into the vibe by doing America’s “Ventura Boulevard”. We could burn the house down with chest-thumping rock ‘n’ rol but between Floyd, Buzz, Leo and me, we could also sing a powerful harmony and, even if I said so myself, our “Ventura Boulevard” was sweet.
We fol owed that with two more of Buzz and Leo’s new songs. When I introduced the songs the crowd shouted their approval so loud, they missed the first thirty seconds of the first song because their cheers were drowning out the music.
I got a warm fuzzy feeling watching the crowd’s approval wash over Buzz and Leo. My two boys glanced at each other, their faces an obvious mixture of the panic and thril I’d been feeling al day. But, with them, I could see the thril part was definitely winning.
Then we were done messing around. It was time to rock and we slid back into the theme of the night (Mace was just going to have to shoot me) with REO Speedwagon’s
“Ridin’ the Storm Out”, Mol y Hatchett’s “Flirtin’ with Disaster”, The Doobie Brothers’ “Dangerous” and final y
“Ghostriders”.
We were closing out the song. The crowd knew it and they were frenzied, hands up in the air, bodies swaying, catcal s piercing the air.
And it was then, riding the high of a great show, heart racing, blood pumping (thankful y), skin tingling, lips in a permanent happy grin, that I saw him.
A scruffy man wearing a beat-up army jacket over a tshirt, hair a mess, hands in the pockets of his jacket, he was making his way with determination toward Jet.
Through my buzz, two things hit me.
It was a warm end of May evening and jackets weren’t al owed.
Effing Monk!
Duke was again working the front of the stage but he didn’t see the guy and he had his back to me so I couldn’t catch his eye.
There were Hot Bunch men in range, in fact, the guy pushed right by Vance who was looking in the opposite direction.
Like last night, Lee was on the stage with the band. I kept playing but twisted my torso to look at Lee. I tried to catch his eye but he was on alert, not paying attention to me, his eyes were scanning the crowd.
