Rise (Rock God 1)

“Nuke.” She almost skips over to him. He takes a swig and hands the bottle to her. I swear I can smell the dark spice of licorice from where I’m standing. Nuke’s getting worse by the day, but I have my own demons and shit to deal with.

“Where the fuck are Ammo and Cash?” I grit.

“No idea where Ammo is, but Cash’s fucking Amanda. I saw his white ass on the way in.” He says all this as he starts fondling Misty.

BT finally rips the box of IEMs open. “Here, brother, I’m sending that faulty box back. Fucking pisses me off,” he grumbles. His hair is down to his ass and held in place by wires and two sets of headphones around his neck.

BT’s been with the band for years, so bitching at him goes in one ear and out the other. He’s either become immune to one of us being an ass or he just doesn’t care.

“Let’s go red for you, Granger.” He grins, shoving the custom tiny ear monitor at me. I take off my electric guitar and hand it to Dallas, my personal tuner.

“I hope to hell this one works. My ear is still ringing.” I put the tiny monitor in. BT’s voice instantly becomes clear, along with Nuke’s conversation with Misty.

“This one works,” I say dryly, clicking it off.

BT gives me a distracted nod, glances down at the box, and walks over to Nuke.

One of our equipment trucks slid off the road last night. The teamster didn’t see the black ice, and Nuke’s drums were on it, so they brought in a new set.

“You want to give her a try?” BT hands him his sticks, moving Misty behind him. I’d laugh if all this wasn’t so pathetic. Our head roadie is having to force us to do our jobs.

“Misty?” Nuke twirls his sticks, bringing them down in one hard, quick show-off solo.

“Yeah, Nuke?” she yells around BT’s large frame and lets out a laugh.

“You. Me. Blowjob.” He finishes off with a dramatic solo. Misty claps and BT shakes his head and hands him his IEM, telling him to focus.

“Cash. Get your cock out of Angela,” I bellow.

“Christ, Granger, I’m here, you angry fuck.” Cash walks out from backstage, zipping up his jeans. I don’t even respond to him. He’s right; I’m angry. His attitude isn’t helping, or the fact that Ammo decided not to even show up.

“Dallas, call Ammo to see what the fuck is happening.” Dallas stops tuning and reaches for his phone.

“And you got a cigarette, brother?” Misty’s loud laughter makes me grit my teeth.

“Yeah.” Dallas hands me his pack of cigarettes. He’s old-school rock ‘n’ roll. Not that he’s old, but he’s got the eighties’ Tommy Lee-look going on.

“I also got some serious hash if you need to chill out.” He waggles his eyebrows, then talks into the phone. “Hey, man, just checking in. Everyone is waiting…”

Snorting, I light up and block out Dallas’s conversation with Ammo so I can drink my Irish coffee and smoke in peace.

I should leave. I’m getting mean, and that’s gonna end up with one of us having a black eye. I’ve basically done my sound check. If they don’t give a fuck, why stick around?

Cash stretches his arms out and swings them back and forth, jumping up and down like he thinks he’s the shit. I fight the eye roll. His ego is out of control.

Cash has nothing to be arrogant about anymore. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, wears his hair in his eyes half the time, and has a wardrobe of stupid clothes.

Today he’s wearing a trendy red T-shirt held together by safety pins. I’d love to blame Cynthia for Cash’s clothes, but he probably picked that shirt out himself.

I met Cash back in high school. He went to Harvard-Westlake, one of the most expensive private schools in LA. How he started hanging out with all of us is anyone’s guess. I think it was David who found him. Anyway, his parents are big-time lawyers.

He had a BMW; I drove my mom’s old-ass Volvo that was held together by duct tape and prayers.

None of us cared that he was different. He could play the fucking bass like Flea from the Chili Peppers. Also, his parents were one-hundred percent believers in us. They bought all our earliest equipment. I think half our early gigs were favors to his dad.

He didn’t judge us. Even with half of us hanging out with bikers, it never fazed him. He was a cool kid who loved music and had big dreams.

That changed the moment we started to get popular. As soon as we made our first million, Cash started to distance himself. Suddenly, he was hanging out with other musicians, dating models, dressing like a douche.

“Okay, I’ll tell them.” Dallas’s voice brings me back to the loud stage.